Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  “It’s my own fault really,” he croaked. “Forgot the first rule of the shieldwall; keep your shield up at all times. Norman goat-shagger speared me in the guts.”

  Thurkill looked down. Despite the gloom within the small church, he could now see that the grey blanket that lay over Eadwig had a huge dark stain where the wound must be. No wonder he’s so pale, he thought. It’s amazing that he is still amongst the living. Surely, he wouldn’t hold on much longer, though? With a wound like that, there would be little or nothing that Wulfric could do other than give him what medicines he could to dull the pain.

  “Your bravery does you credit, Eadwig. Your honour and that of your family stands as an example to all.”

  Eadwig coughed, the effort of speaking clearly marked on his features. He was growing weaker by the moment, his life literally ebbing away through the hole that had been ripped in his stomach. He closed his eyes, as if summoning what little strength he had left to say a few last words. “I thank you, Lord, though little good it will do me, I fear. There is none that follows me; none to carry on my name.”

  “I will see it remembered in these parts for generations to come.” Thurkill saw no point in making any pretence. The farmer knew he was close to death and to suggest otherwise would be to insult him. It was bad enough that the man was dying in spite of the fact that he had not wanted to commit the village to the fight. It was a cruel irony that was not lost on Thurkill. Before he could say any more, however, Wulfric came and knelt by the farmer’s side.

  “Are you ready to confess your sins, my son? I must prepare you to meet your Maker before it’s too late.”

  “I am ready, Father. That I depart this life in God’s house is a comfort to me and I thank you for your prayers.”

  Thurkill reached down to clasp the farmer’s hand in gratitude. “Go with God, friend Eadwig. I wish this had not come to pass, but I will be forever in your debt for what you’ve done here today.” With that, he released the man’s hand and stepped back to allow Wulfric to say the last rites over him.

  ***

  As the sun began to slip down towards the western horizon, Thurkill gathered his men into the hall once more, along with Urri and those shield warriors who were not on watch duty. All around them, men and women slept, wrapped in their cloaks, taking advantage of the calm that had descended after the storm. There had been no sign of the Normans since the battle at the gate but Thurkill did not, for one moment, believe that they had gone. He knew they would be back; it was a question of when rather than if.

  The mood amongst the men, however, was buoyant, as though still drunk on their victory. They, a bunch of farmers, blacksmiths, tanners and millers - had seen off a small army of trained soldiers. It was the stuff of legend as far as they were concerned. The stuff that scops should write songs about. But Thurkill knew their joy would be short-lived; the Normans would return and when they did, they would not be taken by surprise again. They would be ruthless in their attack and, if they got in, they would spare no one. His twisted ankle still ached, the nagging pain adding to his foul temper.

  As if sensing his mood, which was in stark contrast to most of the others there present, Urri came over to his side, standing as tall as him, but almost twice as broad. “Are you not pleased with the day’s work, Lord?”

  Thurkill broke out of his reverie and smiled. “More than you could know, Urri. To see the result of those long hours of practice with spear and shield brings me great joy. And then there is the leadership you have shown. Without your strength and example, I doubt the shieldwall would have stood today. When that gate broke, you and your comrades saved the lives of everyone within the walls.”

  The blacksmith was not used to such lavish praise and knew not how to react, choosing to stare at his feet to deflect the embarrassment he felt. “Well,” he coughed, “I hear the gate has been repaired now, so we are safe once more.”

  “Indeed, it has. But I cannot claim we are safe, though, Urri. The Normans will come again and they will redouble their efforts.”

  “We’ll stop them again. They won’t breach our defences.”

  “God willing. But despite those we killed today, they are still many and I doubt they will make the same mistakes again.”

  Thurkill’s sour mood began to affect Urri. “What hope do we have then, Lord? Are we doomed to defeat and death? Why did we even start this fight if we did not believe we could win it?”

  Thurkill realised he had let his emotions get the better of him, and not for the first time. Urri was right. All was not yet lost. Perhaps FitzGilbert would skulk off, not willing to risk further bloodshed. Surely, he could not have expected such fierce resistance? He must have assumed that as soon as the battering ram had done its work, his knights would simply ride down any that stood in his way. A wall of shields held by staunch, unmoving villagers holding them at bay must have come as a huge surprise to him and would have certainly given him pause for thought. That said, he knew it was just as likely that the Norman would merely send for reinforcements. If that happened, they truly would be dead. That thought, though, stuck in his mind.

  “Reinforcements, that’s what we need. If we had as many men again, we could deal with the Norman bastard... By God, I wish Aelfric were here.” He had not realised he had said this last out loud until Haegmund spoke up from the back of the hall.

  “I hear he has returned from Normandy, Lord.”

  Thurkill stopped dead in his tracks, unsure if he had heard correctly. “He’s back, you say? Since when?”

  “Two days since, I believe. He arrived in Huntendune at about midday, the day before yesterday.”

  “How do you know this? Come on, man, speak.”

  Haegmund looked unsure of himself, aware that every set of eyes in the hall had turned toward him. There was no sound other than that of the flames crackling in the hearth, the gentle snoring of the sleeping forms and the growling of two dogs as they squabbled over a bone left over from the previous night’s meal.

  “Well, I have not seen him with my own eyes, but Alwig’s man, Sochi – he who drives the cart to collect grain for the mills in Huntendune – he was here just after dawn yesterday and he told me.”

  “This news changes everything.”

  “How so, Lord?” Urri’s brow was furrowed in thought. “We’re stuck here behind our walls, Aelfric’s a two-hour march away. He doesn’t know our plight, how could he?”

  “If we could get a messenger to him then all that could change.”

  Eahlmund then voiced the concern that was also in Thurkill’s own mind. “We have no idea where the Normans are. They could be anywhere in the woods around us. Who would be willing to risk their life by leaving the village? Not I for one. They’re sure to be watching the gate anyway.”

  The hall lapsed into silence as each man pondered these words. Thurkill was willing to go himself but he knew that his place was here in Gudmundcestre, leading the people in their defence against the Normans. He could not leave them. On top of which, he doubted his ankle would be strong enough to take the punishment of a forced march to Huntendune. Just then, a small voice spoke.

  “I’ll do it, Lord.”

  “Who speaks? Step forward so that I may see you.”

  The men in front of Thurkill parted, allowing young Agbert to step into the space in front of Thurkill’s chair. He looked frightened out of his wits but his voice was steady as he spoke.

  “I have never thanked you properly for saving me after my father was killed by the brigands. Perhaps by doing this I may repay that debt?”

  “My thanks, Agbert, but you have no need to prove yourself. You are young yet and there are others here who may be better placed than you for such a task.”

  “I want to do it, Lord. Moreover, I am small and quick; I’m sure I can pass unnoticed.”

  Thurkill thought for a while. It was true that someone small and light on their feet would have a better chance of success, but he was still only a boy with no hairs on his fac
e yet. His mother, Ella, had not long since lost her husband and had come close to losing her eldest son too when he had been taken by the same bandits. And now the boy wanted to risk his life all over again?

  “You realise the dangers? If they catch you, they will kill you without a second thought.”

  “I know, but we need to get word to Lord Aelfric to send help and someone has to do it. So why not me? I am not big enough or strong enough to stand in the shieldwall, so why not this? In this way at least I can be useful.”

  Thurkill held up his hands in surrender. He could see the boy was fiercely adamant and he could not help but admire his courage.

  “If there is no one else that would go in your place, then I will not stand in your way, Agbert. But know that you do this not to repay me but because you have courage of your own and you know that with this action, you might yet save the village. If you succeed, we will all be indebted to you. As a sign of my own gratitude, I give you this ring.” With that, Thurkill removed the small gold ring that he wore on the little finger of his left hand and passed it to the boy who received it with a mix of awe and reverence. It was doubtful he had ever held, let alone owned, a piece of gold jewellery, nor would he have ever believed he would be able to. Closing his small fist around it tightly, he knelt before Thurkill and swore to do his bidding.

  ***

  Night had fallen when Thurkill stood with Agbert, Eahlmund and a few others by the north wall, at the point where the narrow stream flowed under the wooden posts. They had been careful, when building the wall, to make sure that there was little or no room for an enemy to enter the village through the gap but, nevertheless, they had taken care to post a sentry nearby to guard against just such an eventuality. The gap was so small that it was doubtful whether a fully-grown man – with or without armour – would be able to negotiate its passage, but a skinny lad such as Agbert should have no such problems.

  Thurkill placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder to offer a few last words of encouragement. “Stay low and go slowly at first, until you are sure you are well beyond the Norman lines. Follow the course of the stream as the sloping banks will give you cover from any that may happen to look in your direction. Do both of these things and there is little chance that you will be seen. Understood?”

  Agbert nodded, his face, illuminated by torchlight, a picture of focussed determination. Thurkill could see the fear in his eyes; he knew that luck would play a big part in whether the boy lived or died in the next hour, but he also knew that the lad’s odds would improve if he stayed calm and moved with care. The boy stood there shivering, despite the dark hooded cloak he wore. It was one of Hild’s; she had gladly given it to Agbert along with a kiss on his cheek for luck. It would help mask the shape of his form in the darkness and even, if he stayed still long enough, make him look like a boulder or a lump in the ground if he needed to hide. Thick clouds were scudding across the sky, blown by a stiff breeze from the east, meaning that he would need to be careful not to move when the crescent moon was uncovered. Its light might be weak but it could be enough to reveal his presence to the enemy.

  “When you know you are clear – after three hundred paces or so, I’d say – then run. Run as quickly as you can and rouse Lord Aelfric. Explain our situation, using the words I’ve told you, and have him bring his warriors here just as quickly as he can. Our survival depends on it.”

  Thurkill held the lad by his shoulders and fixed his eyes directly on to Agbert’s. “Are you ready, boy? Then, go with God and may the angels guide you to Huntendune like an arrow flies swiftly to its target.”

  “Yes, Lord. Look for me at dawn. I will not fail you.” With that, Agbert stepped into the stream. Though the water only came up to just below his knees, he could not prevent an involuntary gasp escaping his lips as the shocking cold sensation shot up his legs. He gathered himself for a moment, summoning the courage to take the next step. Thurkill was about to urge him to proceed, when the boy suddenly knelt and then lowered himself flat, face first into the water. It was the only way he would be able to pass under the wall, so narrow was the gap. Pulling himself forward, Agbert’s head, followed by the rest of his body, slowly disappeared through the gap until he was gone.

  Thurkill clambered up the palisade’s slope so that he could follow the boy’s progress. In the dark, it was hard to make him out, even at this close range, giving Thurkill hope that he might pass undetected. But then he spotted him. He was out of the water and crouching by the edge of the stream, taking a moment to gather his wits about him. Thurkill nodded and smiled to himself. The lad had a strong temperament and good control over his fear. His heart must be pounding in his chest, like a woodpecker building a nest in a beech tree, but still he crouched, not moving, making sure that all was quiet and still around him.

  Then he was off, staying low as he had been told, and moving in slow, measured steps. He knew that sudden, jerky movements might attract the eyes of any watchers so the more cautiously he went the better, though every instinct must have been telling him to run.

  Thurkill watched Agbert until he was lost to sight and then waited some more, listening with his good ear directed towards the north. As he waited, he prayed to God that the boy would be steered through the Norman lines like a ghost that casts no shadow and makes no sound. Their lives now depended on this young boy being able to pass, unmolested, through the Norman lines.

  Eventually, Thurkill could stay and listen no more. There had been no sound, no shouts of alarm, no screams in the dark. He did not know for certain but he could dare to hope that the lad had made it through safely. With luck, the morning would come and with it the sight of hardy Saxon warriors under Aelfric’s banner. It would be good to see the old goat once again, Thurkill mused, but even better if he comes at the head of a hundred spearmen.

  THIRTY-ONE

  No sooner had Thurkill lain down for some much-needed sleep, than it seemed he was being shaken awake once more. Was it dawn? Had Aelfric come already? He had left instructions with the leader of the watch to keep an eye to the north and to wake him as soon as the men of Huntendune were sighted. Perhaps their salvation was now at hand? Whatever hopes had been springing in his heart, though, were immediately dashed when he saw the look on the watchman’s face. “The Normans are attacking aren’t they?”

  “Aye, Lord. They’re trying to climb the walls and I fear we’re too few to stop them.”

  Thurkill’s shoulders slumped as he sat there. Exhaustion clawed at his eyes, urging him to succumb to sleep’s warm embrace once more. He was sorely tempted to give in, what more could he do after all? There were just too many of them and all he had at his disposal was a handful of well-meaning villagers. Startled at just how sorry for himself he was feeling, Thurkill physically slapped himself hard on his face. Bollocks, man! Remember your duty to these people.

  His cheek still stinging from the blow, he swung his legs off the bed, wincing as he tried to stand. He’d forgotten his damned ankle. It was sore and felt as if it might give way under his weight, but he had no choice but to force it to work for him. He could only it would ease with time. “Quick, man. Go rouse the rest of the spearmen and have them go to the walls. I’ll be with you presently.”

  The man disappeared like a wraith, his cloak billowing behind him in his haste. Turning to Hild, he shook her awake as gently as he could. “Wife, the Normans are attacking the walls. I need you to bind my ankle so that it can support me in the fight to come. Do it as quickly and as tightly as you can. Then gather the rest of the women and children and be ready to flee to the north.”

  Hild rose quietly and began to rip an old tunic into strips, using them to bind his ankle. Even in the half light, Thurkill could see that it was swollen to almost twice the size of its twin. The pain was still there, though not as bad as it had been, thankfully. With her small nimble hands, his wife made short work of the job, starting with his foot and then working the cloth round his ankle and up until it reached half way along his low
er leg. After each wind, she pulled the ends of the cloth tight, scoffing at his grunts of pain as she did so. “Well, you said you wanted it tight, husband.”

  “Aye, the tighter the better, Hild. Don’t worry about hurting me, it needs to be good enough to let me fight without hindrance.”

  As soon as she was done, Thurkill tested her work by pushing himself up to a standing position, using her shoulder for support at first. There wasn’t a lot of movement, but at least he could cope with the discomfort now it was strapped. Taking Hild in his arms, Thurkill hugged her close before kissing her forehead.

  “Now go and ready the women and children. I’ll not have you fall into the hands of the Normans, so you must be ready to run if it looks like we’re done for. Understand? And…” he paused, tears threatening to flood his eyes, “Don’t take any risks; you are to be the mother of our child.”

  He could see the conflict on her face. He knew she wanted more than anything to stand and fight by his side, but she also understood her responsibility to the people of Gudmundcestre, to say nothing of the unborn babe she carried. As the lord’s wife she had look after the other women and help them to stay safe in the fighting to come. “Yes, husband. I will play my part, but see you find your way back to us or I will come find your body and kill you all over again.”

  They laughed together, both aware of – but refusing to acknowledge – the fear that the other felt. There was nothing to be done about it, so there was little point dwelling on what might or might not be. With one final kiss, Thurkill was gone.

  Outside, chaos reigned. Men ran in all directions, unsure where they were needed, unsure where the threat was coming from. Thurkill knew he had to get a grip of the situation quickly. He did not think that the Normans had enough men to invest them from all sides, so the point of their attack must be coming from one, or perhaps two, places. But where? Moments later, he caught sight of Eahlmund, and it was a sight that gladdened his heart. He could see his friend up on the wall, directing those around him, gesturing over the wall into the blackness beyond. Thurkill made his way over to his friend as fast as his ankle would allow. He hobbled with sword and shield, having left his axe behind. If the Normans managed to breach the walls then he would need the greater agility and speed that the sword provided.