Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  “What news, friend?”

  “The whoresons are attacking in force. It’s too dark to see exactly what they’re doing but we can hear them all right. Must be at least a dozen of them out there. A few have tried to climb the wall but we put a stop to it.”

  Thurkill grabbed the man nearest to them. “Fetch torches. We need light. We have to see what’s happening.” The man scurried off, grabbing a couple of others as he went.

  Turning back to Eahlmund, he gave voice to the concern that was eating away at his gut. “Are they just here or do they try to hit us at any other point?”

  “I know not, Lord. I have heard no other alarms raised. But they have more men than this, I’d swear, so who knows what they’re up to.”

  Thurkill peered out carefully but could see nothing. The cloud had thickened since they had sent Agbert on his way, so that now no moonlight could be seen at all. But he could definitely hear movement and it was getting louder. Another body of men was approaching the wall. What is keeping them with those torches? Impatiently, he twisted his head to one side, staring off to the east. He looked in hope for the first glimmer of dawn, the first sign that the sky might be brightening where it met the tree line, but there was nothing. It would be some hours yet before they saw daybreak.

  But wait, was there a faint orange glow after all? Had he misjudged the hour? Was it closer to dawn than he’d thought? It took just a few moments for his hopes to be cruelly and disastrously dashed. Before he could even speak, a half dozen arrows - each one aflame - arced high over the wall from the far side of the village. They hung in the air before beginning their downward descent, spiralling their way inexorably towards the thatched rooves of the many wooden buildings. Bastards, Thurkill cursed. Once again, he had been taken by surprise by the cunning of the FitzGilbert brothers.

  “Fire!” He roared. “Fetch buckets. Anyone who does not carry spear or shield must form a line from the stream. Put those fires out before they catch and spread.”

  Even before the first villagers began to move, a second volley of arrows had followed the first. Six more firebrands seeking out their targets. The Saxons had been lucky with the first salvo. All but one had landed on the ground between buildings where they could do no damage. The sixth had buried itself amongst the roof straws of Urri’s smithy, which were constantly kept damp to guard against wayward sparks jumping from the forge. The fire had thus failed to take hold and had soon fizzled out to just a thin stream of smoke. They were not so fortunate, however, with the next. Four of these arrows found thatched rooves and immediately ignited the dry straw. Within moments, flames were leaping high into the air, fanned by the breeze that blew from behind the archers’ position.

  Thurkill’s heart sank. Despite the villagers’ best efforts, he knew there would be no way they could put out all the fires. Even now, more arrows were in flight. He could see Hild in the middle of the village, outside the hall, directing and cajoling all those around her. Already she had a line organised, equipped with as many pails and other containers as could be found, running from the stream to the worst affected houses. Bucket after bucket of water was thrown over the flames, but no sooner had one fire been extinguished than another two had sprung up in its place. It was useless. They also had to contend with the risk of injury from those arrows that missed the rooves. Thurkill could already see one woman who was being helped, screaming, towards the church, a smoking arrow protruding from her thigh.

  For the moment, however, Thurkill was caught in a moment of indecision. Should he stay where he was, where he expected an assault on the wall? But then what was the purpose of these fire arrows if not to presage the start of a second assault elsewhere? Turning his back on the chaotic scenes behind him, Thurkill once again leaned out over the wall, listening, looking for signs of the Normans. Silence. Where had they gone? He was certain he’d heard a body of men moving towards the wall shortly before the arrows began to fly. What was going on? He needed to know. The answer came almost immediately.

  “The Normans are in the village. Run!”

  Turning to face the sound of the voice, Thurkill scanned the scene, his eyes already beginning to smart from the acrid smoke that billowed from the burgeoning conflagration. The voice had come from the other side of the village, away from where the majority of the buildings were now burning. Of course. Setting the buildings alight on one side had been a diversion; a ruse to draw as many people away from the far side where the Normans appeared to have now launched their attack. But how had they got in? And how many were there?

  He had no time to debate the answers to these questions. The fate of Gudmundcestre hung in the balance.

  “Eahlmund, Leofric. Grab what spearmen you can find and follow me to the hall.” His two trusted companions ran off in opposite directions to follow his orders. They met up with Thurkill a few moments later; a dozen men including all of Thurkill’s war band and several other of the staunchest warriors. There was no time for long speeches; the Normans could be upon them at any moment.

  “It’s time to trust in God and the man next to you. If the Normans are truly within the walls, then now is the hour in which we shall be judged by our actions. Now is when we stand and fight for what is ours. If we lose, then you must know that our women and children will be put to the sword or worse. If you would spare them that fate, follow me and let’s make them pay dearly for every one of us that they kill.”

  The roar that met his words was terrifying in its intensity. Anguish and hatred masked their fears so that they had no goal but to kill the intruders. Without waiting to see if they followed, Thurkill set off towards where he believed the enemy to be, knowing by instinct alone that they were with him.

  Rounding the side of the church, he came face to face with the enemy. At least a dozen men – each armed with shield and sword – were inside the walls and already starting to move methodically from home to home looking for people to kill. He could already see two or three bodies on the ground where they’d been dragged from their homes and murdered in cold blood. Innocent, defenceless villagers who had committed no crime other than to live under his lordship.

  Behind them, yet more men were climbing over the wall and dropping down to join their comrades. He could only assume they had used the time since the failed attack to fashion ladders in the woods and then waited until dark to put their plan into action.

  What had been a burning anger before, now threatened to engulf his emotions. His people were dying and all because of him. The guilt he had felt ever since FitzGilbert had arrived was replaced by a visceral rage, a primordial urge to wreak carnage on each and every one of the Norman bastards. In the dark and with their helmets on, it was impossible to tell which one was FitzGilbert; hell, he might not even be there among them at all. No matter, the enemy was in front of him and he knew no other way than to attack them. Howling hysterically, ignoring the pain from his ankle, he threw himself forward into the midst of the enemy.

  The sight of this huge Saxon warrior charging towards them was enough to give the Normans pause, but only for a moment. It was long enough, however, for Thurkill to reach them. He crashed into them like a stampeding bull, shoving his shield boss squarely into the face of the first man, the impact sending him sprawling to the ground. With him out of the way, he then swung his sword with all the strength he could muster, taking the next man at the base of his neck. The man’s scream died on his lips as his head was all but severed from his shoulders, such was the power Thurkill had unleashed.

  By now, however, the Normans had recovered from their initial shock. A series of short, sharp orders had been barked into the night and already those that remained were forming up into a solid mass. Men who had been ransacking houses ran back to join their comrades, adding depth and bulk to their formation. While those who were still making their way over the wall began to reinforce them from behind. None of this bothered Thurkill, though, he was lost in a rage the likes of which he had not experienced before, not even at S
enlac when they came for Harold.

  He no longer cared for himself, his sole purpose was to inflict pain and destruction on those who would hurt his people. Though he had not been their lord for long, he felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for their safety, a duty in which he had already failed as the cruelly maimed and broken bodies on the ground reminded him.

  Standing over the dead body of the almost decapitated soldier, Thurkill spread his arms wide, lifted his face and yelled up at the night sky. “Come on, you sheep-shagging whoresons. It’s me you’ve come for. Come and take me if you can!”

  Emboldened by their increased numbers, the Normans advanced to meet him. He immediately found himself facing two attackers and pressed on all sides. Offering his shield to block the thrust of the man on his left, he parried the cutting stroke of the man on his right. He felt a surge of energy flowing through his limbs, easing his muscles and dulling the pain in his ankle. Wild-eyed and grinning inanely, he feinted to strike to his right and, when the Norman moved his own sword wide to block the anticipated move, he reversed his thrust catching the man deep in his groin. He laughed mercilessly as the man doubled over, clutching at his ruined manhood, the blood pouring through the gaps between his fingers.

  His joy was short-lived, however, as the man’s place was immediately taken by two more. At this rate, it would not be long before he was overwhelmed. Sure enough, the numbers began to tell, and Thurkill felt himself being pushed back, step by step. Blow after blow landed on his shield causing him to turn his face away in case any splinters should find his eyes.

  Just when he thought he could stand no more, he became aware of men appearing at his shoulder on either side of him. From his left, a shield pushed forward to overlap with his and, without thinking, he immediately did the same for the one to his right. Just in time, the rest of his men had arrived, joining with him in his hour of need.

  He laughed to hear the familiar and comforting sound of Urri, over in his usual place on the left, shouting at the others, threatening them with all manner of foul deeds should they not stand firm. It was brave but it was also foolhardy. Deep down, he had been hoping that they would have used his crazed attack as the opportunity to escape from the village with their families before it was too late but, at the same time, he had also known that they would never do that. They would not abandon him to his fate. As suicidal as it was, Thurkill felt a surge of pride to have these men alongside him. Despite their lack of experience, to him each one was worth two of the scum they now faced. At least he could now die in the company of men he was proud to call his friends.

  It was not long, however, before they began to give ground once more as the ever increasing number of Normans pressed hard against their little shieldwall. They had twice as many men as the Saxons, so it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened. As they retreated, Thurkill could also begin to feel a growing heat at his back. Despite the villagers’ best efforts, the flames had well and truly taken hold now with more than half the buildings ablaze. Although the archers had stopped their deadly volleys, it brought no relief as the fires raged so fiercely that the wind was able to help them leap the short distance from roof to roof. Whatever the result of the fight, Thurkill knew there would be little or nothing left of Gudmundcestre come the dawn.

  Then, without warning, the man to his left crumpled to the ground. The spear point that took him in the neck was so sudden and so well-aimed that he did not even manage to utter a sound before he fell. The fighting was so intense that Thurkill, to his shame, had not even known who it was who stood next to him. He did not have time to check, though, as the Norman who had dealt the blow yelped in triumph and stepped forward into the hole left by the dying man. The danger was immediate; he had to close the gap before the enemy could exploit it. If he failed, it would mean the end of their valiant defence, for they had no second rank behind them. Risking everything, Thurkill turned slightly to his left, leaving his right side exposed, and lashed out with the point of his sword. He caught the Norman in the armpit as he raised his arm to strike another blow, forcing him to drop his sword and recoil in agony.

  “Close up! Close up!”

  But it was too late. Before the man to his right could react, he too was impaled on a spear point. His cry of pain cut the air, lancing Thurkill’s heart as he saw another of his villagers fall. It was all over now. The shieldwall had broken in two and it was only a matter of time before they were overrun and cut down. Yet still he would not run. He would not leave these people to the mercy of FitzGilbert and his thugs. It was him they wanted and it was him they would have to take.

  Turning to those around him, he yelled. “Get out. Get your families and go while you still can. There is nothing more we can do here.”

  A few of the remaining men looked at each other nervously, unsure what to do, none of them willing to make the first move. Eventually, Urri spoke, his words galvanising the others into action.

  “I have no wife to mourn me; my children are full grown. I will stay and fight with Lord Thurkill. You others, go and save your kin. Do not let our sacrifice be in vain. Go!”

  He roared this last word at the same time as he thrust his shield boss into the face of the Norman nearest to him, sending him careening back into the man behind him. In the few moments respite this gave, the other three surviving villagers turned and ran, rushing off through the narrow gap where the church and tavern stood on opposite sides of the main path through the village.

  The sight of them going gave Thurkill an idea. Turning to those that remained he ordered. “Quick, to the church. We’ll make our last stand there. We should be able to hold them long enough to let the others escape.”

  It made for the ideal location. Not only was the gap between church and hall narrow enough for just the seven of them to stand side by side, they were two of the only buildings that were, as yet, untouched by the flames. As quickly as they could, they disengaged from the Normans and ran backwards, never once taking their eyes off the enemy. Thurkill was surprised to see that the enemy let them go unmolested; he could only assume that they, too, welcomed the break in the fighting. If it had been him, however, he would have pressed home the attack to finish them. They were beaten, so why not end it now?

  He had no time to dwell on it, though, as the Normans had now reformed and were advancing menacingly on their position. Glancing either side of him, Thurkill could see all his friends were there, as they had always been. Loyal and courageous to the end: the brothers, Leofric and Leofgar; young Copsig who had grown up far quicker than he should have had to; staunch Eardwulf who said little, preferring to speak with actions; and his first companion, Eahlmund, who hadn’t left his side since finding him at Senlac, wounded and close to death. They, together with Urri the blacksmith, were now all that stood between the Normans and the rest of the villagers. They had to hold them long enough for the others to flee to the woods. Miraculously, none of them seemed to have been injured so far, but he knew their luck could not last.

  “Die with honour, lads. Let’s show these scum what it means to be a proud Saxon.”

  The Normans were now but ten paces away. Three times their number, they came on with malice in their expressions, determined to bring an end to the fight. But when they had covered no more than half the distance between them, they halted. What now? Thurkill thought. Come on, have you lost your courage?

  Then, the figure in the middle of the front rank, lifted his helmet; it was FitzGilbert, grinning widely safe in the knowledge that the fight was won. “You should have surrendered yourself to me when you had the chance, boy. Several of your precious people lie dead already and now these last few who foolishly stand with you will die as well. And all for what? For your stupid pride and no more. Will you, even now, save them by giving up your sword? No more need die.”

  Thurkill burned with shame and anger in equal measure. “My sword is here if you are man enough to take it from me, Norman pig. I will not speak for my men – they
have voices of their own – but I would rather die here fighting you than go meekly to my doom.” The roar that greeted his words from those who stood with him, told him all he needed to know. Their fate was sealed; they would stand together and die together.

  “So be it, then. You’re all fools and deserve your fate.” FitzGilbert raised his sword, bringing it down in a chopping motion in the direction of the little band of men that barred his way. “Forward!”

  As they came on, Thurkill found himself staring dumbly into space, completely detached from reality. He knew his time had come, but he felt no fear, no regret. Thoughts of Hild, babe in arms, flooded his brain causing huge feelings of loss for what might have been to wash over him. He hoped he’d done enough to give her and the others time to escape. Now, his last wish was to die well – with Norman blood on his blade. Soon he would see his father once again, he hoped he would be proud of him for all that he had done.

  Looking up at the sky, to where he supposed Scalpi might be looking down on him, he offered up a prayer. “Lord, watch over me and my brothers. Let us die with honour and speed our passage to Heaven that we may be reunited with our loved ones. See Hild and the others delivered from here to a place where they may be safe.”

  As he prayed, it occurred to him that the sky was no longer as black as it had been. At first, he presumed it was but the light from the fires that still raged around them, but no, this was a different, softer kind of light. Dawn had finally come. With luck, they would die with the sun on their face, a sword in their hand and joy in their heart.