At least it’s not raining, Eoppa thought to himself. He hated watch duty; there was nothing more boring than standing alone on top of this god-forsaken cliff with only Aelric for company. It was a necessary evil, though, that his village - and many others like it up and down the coast - had performed for well over two hundred years. Ever since the first long ships carrying the marauding Norsemen had arrived on their shores, ravaging and pillaging everywhere they went, they had taken to posting watchers on the cliffs to provide early warning of an attack. Many lives had been saved over the years as riders carried warnings from village to village allowing time for the inhabitants to seek shelter in the forests and hills and for the local lords to muster their men to defend their halls.
But it was slow work: long periods of inactivity with nothing but the birds for entertainment. If he were honest, though, they were marginally more interesting than his companion, Aelric. He was the dullest of all the men in their village and it was just Eoppa’s luck to draw the same duty as him. To help pass the time, Eoppa had feigned a stomach upset brought on, he claimed, by some the fish he’d eaten last evening. At least that gave him the excuse to wander off every now and then, ostensibly to take a shit, but really just to avoid his companion’s monotonous ramblings.
On the bright side, though, it would soon be evening. They could head home to the village and the warmth of the fireside and a good, hot meal. What’s more, he had his eye on Siward the farmer’s daughter and he was reasonably sure that she liked him too from the looks she had been giving him recently. An evening in the barn with Mildryth was definitely something to look forward to on a day as miserable as this. She had udders that rivalled many of her father’s cows and he longed to get his hands on them.
“Hey, Eoppa, look yonder!”
Aelric’s sudden shout broke rudely into his daydream. This had better be worth dragging me away from Mildryth’s teats, he swore under his breath. If this was just another one of those damned birds he likes, the ones with the colourful beaks …. he left the thought unfinished, though, as, following the line of his companion’s outstretched arm, he saw a sight that made his blood run cold. The entire horizon was slowly filling with ship after ship. The shape and form of the sails and the wooden hulls were unmistakeable: Norsemen, and thousands of them by the looks of it.
“How many ships?” Aelric shouted over the wind. He had rushed forward towards the very edge of the cliff to get a better view.
“Quiet, I’m trying to count.” Eoppa was one of the few men in the village who’d had a bit of learning, including the ability to do numbers, after a fashion. As the third son of a poor miller’s family, his father had hoped he would go into the church so as not to be an extra mouth to feed. He had started as a novice in the local abbey but found the rules too stringent for his liking and was kicked out after less than a year when he was caught with his hand under the skirts of one of the kitchen maids. Still, he smiled at the memory, at least he had managed to learn a thing or two in his time there.
“Way over two hundred, I’d say.” In truth, he had managed to count to one hundred and given up. He was fairly sure that the ones he had managed to count were fewer than half of the overall total.
“Quick, we must light the beacon.”
Aelric was right. They must give the warning. Earl Morcar, back in Eoforwic, needed to know of the danger as soon as possible. Dropping his spear and shield, he raced over to where the great pyre stood ready. He grabbed the nearby ceramic pot filled with pig fat and began to pour it over the kindling at the base, before working to create a spark with which to ignite the wood. With the fire thus started, he threw the remains of the pot into the centre of the pyre and watched with satisfaction as the flames shot up high into the sky.
Looking back out to sea, the ships were much closer now, driven on by the vicious wind. They were close enough for him to see the men on board. Each vessel was lined with dozens of shields slung over the edge of the bulwarks showing that these men were definitely not here to trade. To his horror, the fleet began to turn south to follow the coast. They were looking for the entrance to the Humber, the great river that would take them inland to Eoforwic.
Tearing his eyes away from the vast fleet, Eoppa scanned the western horizon, willing the next beacon to appear. What was taking them so long? They’d better not have fallen asleep or, worse still, deserted their post. Wait. Yes. There it was, a small red smudge on the next ridge of hills. He breathed a sigh of relief; their job was done. The message would reach Morcar before nightfall.
“Come on, Aelric. There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s ride south to track them.”
All thoughts of Mildryth’s charms now forgotten, he untied his horse from the branch and pulled himself up into the saddle. The Norsemen had returned to Northumbria once again.
***
Thurkill crested the ridge and smiled. The sight of their hall nestling in the valley below never failed to fill him with joy. The imposing, oak-framed building sat centre stage, surrounded by assorted dwellings, craft shops and out-houses all grouped together on either side of the stream that wound its way through the middle of it all. In truth, it had not long been in his family’s possession but, so happy was he here that it felt like it had been home all his life. Harold had gifted it to his father some six or so years ago, back when he was the Earl of Wessex, as reward for his years of loyal service. The previous lord had died of wounds received in battle with the Welsh. And with no heir to succeed him, it suited Harold to have a trusted thegn take his place as quickly as possible. The tenants needed protection from bandits, the giving of justice, but – above all – to pay their taxes.
It was a moderate sized village that went by the name of Haslow. Home to just twenty or so families and set deep within the ancient kingdom of Kent, it was surrounded by fertile farmland that yielded a strong and plentiful crop each year. They also had some pigs, a handful of sheep and two dozen head of cattle that were set to graze on the surrounding slopes of the downs each summer before being brought back to the barns in winter to keep them safe from the wolves whose desperate search for food in the snows had seen them become more and more daring. In the worst of winters a generation or so back, the older villagers had told of a time when beasts had been seen prowling the tracks between the dwellings, scratching at the walls behind which the livestock sheltered. So one of Scalpi’s first acts had been to set the villagers to building a wooden palisade. Built from trees felled in the nearby woods, it stood higher than the tallest of men and had the added bonus of keeping out bandits as well as wolves. Set in the south facing section, a single gate remained open during the hours of daylight, after which it was closed and secured with a heavy, cross-beam that rested snugly within a pair of stout, iron brackets.
The lord’s hall which stood next to the small wooden church in the centre of the settlement was nothing like on the scale of the king’s great hall in Wintanceastre, of course, but it was a decent size nonetheless; more than enough for their modest needs. It was large enough for all the families of Haslow to assemble on feast days but it was also cosy enough for just Scalpi and his kin. The walls were sturdy, with well-shaped beams packed with plaster in between so that there was little or no room for the cold winter winds to penetrate. The fire pit set in the centre of the floor was large enough to ensure that the heat reached every corner. Behind the lord’s chair a thin screen separated the main room from the chamber where Scalpi and his family would retire to sleep, allowing them some privacy from the rest of the hall’s occupants.
The four Haslow men who had gone to join the fyrd – Wulfrid, Ubba, Halfdan and Aelfwine – had returned home with them, following Harold’s decision to disband the army. Reunited with their families, they were now hard at work in the fields beyond the wall, gathering the harvest before the autumn rains came. Thurkill could see them as he sat atop the ridge, no bigger than ants, labouring away in the late summer sunshine, cutting the stalks with sharp scythes and loading the c
rops into the nearby carts.
Thurkill turned in his saddle, shielding his eyes as he did so against the glare of the sun. He could hear his father labouring up the final stretch of the incline, followed closely by the two huntsmen who had accompanied them and who now carried between them a freshly killed stag slung by its bound legs from a thin willow branch. He grinned as he saw his father’s face red with exertion, sweat dripping from the end of his nose.
“Come on, father! I swear by almighty God that you get slower every day.”
Pausing to catch his breath, Scalpi blew out his cheeks but chuckled good-naturedly, all the same. “Less of your cheek, young lad. I could still give you a good thrashing if I had a mind to and don’t you forget it.”
At thirty-seven, Scalpi was well into his middle age, but he was still a strong man and one of the most renowned warriors in the king’s warband. A reputation that he had earned fighting for Harold in numerous battles over the last ten years or so against Gruffydd ap Llewellyn, king of the Waelesc. The fighting had been fierce and brutal and Scalpi had shown great skill, both as a warrior and as a leader of men. It was after the most recent rebellion, in which Gruffydd had been killed, that Harold had seen fit to reward Scalpi with the gift of this land.
Thurkill laughed. “That I would like to see, father. I would put you on your arse and you know it. The only reason I don’t is that it would not be right to embarrass the Lord of Haslow in front of his people.”
He loved spending time with his father. It was still something of a novelty for him as Scalpi had often been away on his lord’s business. And with no mother to care for him, he had been sent away for several years to learn the skills of the warrior in the household of one of Harold’s thegns. Now, several years later, he had few memories of his mother. No more than a vague pciture of a mass of blonde curls, a bright, round face that was always ready with a smile and a voice that was often singing. Scalpi would never speak of her and he did not have the courage to ask. Many times, he had seen his father alone, late at night and having drunk deeply from the mead barrel. He would sit, head in hands, weeping quietly while his shoulders heaved with emotion. He had never remarried, nor even shown interest in any other woman. It was as if he felt there could never be another to replace what he had lost.
By all accounts, his sister, Edith, was the very image of her mother. The same blonde curls, quick to laugh and always singing much like, he imagined, their mother would have done. She was tireless around the village, gladly helping everyone with all manner of tasks. Though her station should have precluded her from menial work, that was not her way. Whether it be bringing a lamb into the world in the middle of a cold spring night or gathering in the harvest as she was now, nothing was beneath her or too much trouble.
If he were honest with himself, Thurkill was in awe of his sister. The night before he had left to join the thegn’s household, he had sworn an oath to protect her from all danger for the rest of his life. He remembered it clearly as if it were yesterday, down by the river on a moonlit night. He had taken a knife to his palm and then gripped his sister’s hand as tight as he could, until she squealed with pain, while blood seeped through his fingers. He had sworn to the old gods and the new one that he would kill any who hurt her. Though he had been a foolish boy of no more than seven or eight summers, it was an oath to which he knew he would always hold true. He glanced down at this left hand; the angry red scar was still visible, a fitting reminder for all time of his solemnly sworn promise.
In the absence of a wife, management of the lord’s hall had become the responsibility of Scalpi’s younger sister, Aga. She had come to live with them when her husband had been killed in battle three winters ago. It seemed that she, too, was content to be on her own, throwing herself instead into the business of running the estate, not to mention keeping Scalpi and Thurkill in order. She was a plump, red-faced, joyful woman and Thurkill loved her as much as if she had been his own mother. True, she was strict with him, never slow to give him a clip him round the ear if he should forget his chores or be late to the dinner table, even nowadays when he towered over her. But she was also fair and generous and could never stay angry with him for long.
As they ambled down the slope towards the village, Thurkill could see Aga waiting for them. Word of their arrival must have preceded them for she had come out of the hall to greet them. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands and forearms bloodied, where she had been preparing a slaughtered pig for the evening meal. The thought of it made his stomach rumble; he’d had nothing to eat all day save a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese several hours past. She’d have more work to do now, he grinned, skinning and gutting the stag before hanging it in the storeroom to bleed dry.
Edith had also noticed their arrival, for she was now running back from the fields towards the hall. She seemed to look older, more womanly, every time he saw her. At times, and now was no different, he felt a deep sadness within his soul as he knew that, sooner or later, he would lose her to a husband. A few of Harold’s thegns had already approached Scalpi to press a claim to her hand in marriage, but he had turned them all down, citing her youthfulness. The truth was, however, that even though Edith was old enough to be wed, she reminded her father so much of his wife that he could not yet bear the thought of her leaving him as well. Doubtless, he hoped to put the moment off as long as possible, while knowing all along that he could not resist the inevitable forever.
As they drew closer, Thurkill could see that Aga was waving her arms at them, urging them to hurry.
“What does the old hag want now?” Scalpi shouted, not unkindly, but loudly enough to ensure his sister would hear him. All the same, he did as he was bid and dug his heels into his mount’s flank to force it into a trot. Thurkill said nothing but fell into line behind his father, a sense of anxiety and dread spreading through his body.
As they pulled up by the hall, Aga bustled forward to grab the reins of Scalpi’s horse as he vaulted out of the saddle. “Thanks be to God you’re back, brother. Where have you been for so long? I’ve sent men out to look for you but to no avail.”
“Out hunting in the south woods as I said I would be. But never mind that now, woman, what is it? Speak.” The slightly irritated tone of his voice showed that Scalpi had become infected with the same sense of apprehension as his son.
“A messenger has come from the king.”
“Well, show me to him. Where is he?”
“He had no time to wait for you to return, you oaf. He had many more people to reach before sundown. But he left a message.”
Scalpi could not contain himself any longer. “Well tell me then, woman,” he yelled. “For the sake of our Lord, Jesus Christ, piss or get off the pot.”
Red-faced, Aga bit back on the insult that had formed in her lips. “The Norsemen have come. You and the fyrdsmen are to assemble in Lundenburh before dawn.”
“What? They’ve actually come? So late in the season too?” Scalpi was incredulous. “But wait. Why do we assemble in Lundenburh if the Normans have come? Surely, we should be heading to the coast, south of here?”
Thurkill interjected, excitedly hopping from foot to foot. “Age dulls your hearing, father. Aunt Aga said Norsemen. The Danes have landed, somewhere to the north, no doubt. All summer we have looked to Normandy for the coming of the Bastard only for the hammer to fall elsewhere while our back was turned.”
“My God!” Scalpi turned back to his sister. “Did the messenger say where or how many?”
“Only that they have landed not far from Eoforwic, and even now the brother earls, Morcar and Eadwine, are riding out to confront them.”
Thurkill gave a shout. “Yes! They are good men with many thousands of brave warriors to call on. I’ll wager we’ll have no need to fight for those lads will see them off long before we arrive.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure too soon, son. Many’s the chicken that fails to hatch from the egg. The Norse are a dread foe not easily dealt with and we underest
imate them at our peril. It may be that Harold has more news of the size of their army; perhaps the brothers are outnumbered. Either way, it is prudent that Harold takes an army north to deal with them. Come, let’s gather our gear; we must be away within the hour.”
Thurkill realised with a thrill, but also a pang of disappointment, that he would be going with his father. Having spent much of the summer away from Haslow, he had been looking forward to time at home with Aga and Edith. He had missed them both, especially Aga’s cooking. As variable as it could be, her portions were legendary and, doubtless, a significant factor in his great stature. She was forever fussing over him, urging him to eat, lest he waste away. Swallowing his emotion, he went forward to embrace his sister.
“I am sorry, little chicken. I would have liked to stay a little longer to tell you all about Harold’s court and the great lords and ladies I saw there.”
Edith buried her head in his shoulder as she returned his hug. Her face was wet when she pulled away. “Hurry back, Killi, I would hear those stories before you forget them.”
Aga then grabbed him and pulled him tight to her ample bosom, all the while shouting after Scalpi who was already away to see to the horses and gather the men. “You keep him safe, brother, do you hear? Or you’ll have me to answer to. And make sure he eats properly. You know what he’s like when he gets hungry.”
Scalpi threw up his arms in mock outrage. “Leave off him, woman. He’s big enough and ugly enough to look after himself. Come on, boy, we need to be going. As long as you can drag yourself away from your aunt’s skirts, that is.”
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 2