Duke William had heard of his reputation and was only too pleased to welcome men of his calibre to his cause. “I want you in my flag-ship, FitzGilbert, with the papal flag streaming from the stern alongside mine. I want all to see that we sail under God’s own banner, that God himself supports our claim. I also want you near my person when the fighting starts. A man of your capabilities will come in useful when the time comes to cross swords with our Saxon cousins.”
“My sword is yours, Lord.” FitzGilbert’s reply was short and to the point. It mirrored his fighting style: economic in effort but with maximum effectiveness. He was not a tall man, nor was he particularly broad-shouldered, but his menacing demeanour more than made up for his lack of stature. He carried a sense of foreboding that made most others want to avoid him at all costs.
As was the Norman fashion, he was clean shaven and wore his dark hair short, gathered in a wavy mop on the top of his head. His jaw was firm and jutted forward as if constantly spoiling for a fight. His black eyebrows were thickly thatched, almost to the point that there was no gap between them, and sat on a forehead that overhung his face. Set beneath it and deep within its shadow, his eyes were piercingly blue and fixed in a permanent glare. Even when he was pleased, which was rare, the smile never reached as far as his eyes.
He was not what might be called classically handsome, and what looks he did possess had been ruined by an ugly red scar that ran from the corner of his mouth, across his cheek and up to his ear, the result of a dagger slashed across his face during a vicious brawl over a game of dice in southern Italy some years ago. Although he had been wounded, the other fellow had not lived to regret his accusation of cheating, even though it had been true. The gash had healed well enough, and he had done well to avoid any infection, but he would never be rid of the reminder. He had long become accustomed to it, even coming to enjoy the effect it had on people. If fear and revulsion were their first impressions, then that was no bad thing in his eyes.
William understood the unspoken meaning and chuckled. He had seen many of this type in his time. “As long as the pay is good, eh? Don’t worry, FitzGilbert, play your part as well as your reputation suggests you might and I will see you well rewarded. A man like you will be looking to settle down with a nice bit of land eventually, I’m sure. I hear that this realm of England is carpeted with fertile fields, ideal for raising crops and livestock alike. There is much coin to be made there, I’m told. Something in the south, close enough to get back to Normandy at any time would suit you, would it not?”
“My fighting days are not yet done, Lord, but I confess I have always yearned to have estates to call my own one day; estates that have been denied me by accident of birth and no more.”
“To England then and let’s see what fortune and God’s will brings.”
ELEVEN
02 October, Eoforwic
The door of the barn crashed open, kicked so hard that it splintered away from its hinges. In a heartbeat, Thurkill was on his feet, reaching for his sword which he had left propped against the wall by his head. The serving girl screamed beside him, frantically pulling her dress around her to protect her modesty.
“What is the meaning of this?” he yelled, more in fright than anger. Visions of Norsemen rampaging through the city, murdering and raping as they went, filled his mind.
“Put your blade away, son, you’ll do yourself an injury standing there naked like that!”
Suddenly embarrassed, Thurkill dropped his sword and reached for his trews. As he struggled to pull them on, he asked. “What’s happening, father?”
“Well first of all, it’s past midday and you’ve been in here with this young lady,” he smiled politely at her, “for far too long. And secondly, and perhaps more importantly, a rider has just arrived to report that William the Bastard of Normandy has landed on our south coast four days ago, with a fleet numbering over five hundred ships.”
“By God, what devilry is this? Surely it’s too late in the season to launch such an attack?”
“There’s many a wiser man than you or I who has made that very point to Harold this morning. But the fact is they are in Pevensey and, what’s worse, we are not. The whole of the south of England, Wintanceastre, Lundenburh, all of it, is unprotected. The timing could not be worse.”
Thurkill stopped for a moment, mid-way through lacing his trews tight around his waist. “So, we must go. We must march south as quickly as possible.”
Scalpi slapped his hand against his forehead in mock surprise. “You’re right! Wait here while I inform the king. For God’s sake, Thurkill, do you not think we have thought of that? The men are ready to leave and we’re just wasting time rounding up stragglers like you. Say your goodbyes and get out here now.”
Before Thurkill could say another word, Scalpi had stomped off, leaving him red-faced and wondering what he should say to the woman whose name he could not even remember. As he stood there, his head bowed in shame, the woman resolved the issue for him. Still as bare as the day she was born, she walked over to where he stood and wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing her body against his, so tightly that he felt the first stirrings of arousal once again. She kissed him full and hard on the lips before pulling back and looking him straight in the eyes.
“Go now, Thurkill. May God keep you safe from harm.”
“My thanks, lady. I will not forget you or the time we spent together.”
She said nothing, but smiled enigmatically, as if suggesting she thought he would forget her as soon as he lay with another woman. Instead, she turned to gather up her dress from the ground. As he stood looking at her back, Thurkill was seized by the desire to grab her and pull her back down into the hay. With a rueful smile and a shrug, though, he forced himself to turn away from the heavenly sight before him, striding out the door to find his father.
***
Back on the road south, Thurkill’s mood had turned sour; matching the taste in his mouth, a legacy of having drunk too much ale these last several days. He had already emptied his water skin but to little or no effect; his thirst was still raging. With him and Scalpi were barely five hundred men, though all mounted; a far smaller number than had marched north to Eoforwic a few short days ago.
“Father, do we know how many men Duke William has brought to our shores?”
Scalpi jerked his head in his son’s direction, having been lost in his own thoughts. “Eh? Um, I’m not sure. The messenger mentioned a fleet of well over five hundred ships carrying men, horses and supplies, but I doubt we know how many of each were in every ship. But we should expect a host of several thousand men; to bring any fewer would be foolhardy to say the least.”
“Look around us, though. We do not have the numbers to match that. Why have so few come south with us?”
“Don’t worry, son. The Duke may have forced our hand, but we will not go into battle with so few. We had to leave a good number in the north to replenish the garrison, while many others were too weak to travel after the battle. Then there were those who would have had to walk; we simply don’t have time to wait for them. We must reach Lundenburh fast so we can stop William before he has the chance to do too much damage.”
“But where will we find the numbers we need to make a stand? Huscarls may be worth at least two of any fyrdsman but even so there are too few of us to be anything other than an annoying bee that William will merely swat out of his way.”
“True, but Harold has already sent riders ahead with orders to go with all haste to the counties to the south. They will call upon every lord to muster their men and bring them to the city. There, Harold will assemble the fyrd and march out to meet the Norman bastard. Those men will be fresh and ready for a fight, having not been involved up here in the north.”
“But will it be enough?”
“If we wait long enough for the host to gather in full it will, but I fear that Harold will want to attack as soon as possible. Either way, whatever he decides, it will have to be enough, son.
It will have to be.”
All around them, as the horses trudged south, mile after long mile, the mood was sombre. Gone was the elation of defeating the Norsemen; the songs of glory and honour had died in their throats. The battle at the bridge had almost been forgotten now that a new threat had arisen; one that was felt more keenly by these huscarls whose lands and families were in the south. It was the same for Thurkill. Though he knew that Pevensey was some way from where their village lay, who was to say where the Normans had gone since? It was not much more than a day or two’s ride from the coast to the Weald which spread across the ancient kingdom of Kent. Furthermore, their hall was on a direct line from Pevensey to the city of Canterbury, a site that could easily be a target for the Normans as the centre of the English church.
***
They arrived in Lundenburh on the sixth day of October. They had ridden for long hours each day, setting off before the sun was up and stopping only when it had dropped below the horizon. Horses and men alike were exhausted but the prospect of a few days’ rest in the city’s taverns helped to restore morale a little. They had been joined by a number of lords and their followers in the last day or two – lifting their spirits still further – and many more were expected to arrive in the coming days. But from the reports coming back from the messengers, it would be at least a week before they had an army big enough to take on the Normans without fear.
Thurkill hoped to visit Haslow while the rest of the army rested. They were fewer than two days’ ride from the family home and he longed to go and see his sister and aunt. Perhaps he could even persuade them to move to the city, away from the danger? But Scalpi would not hear of it. They could not risk being absent when the order to march was given. Instead, his father had agreed to send a rider to Aga, urging her to go north of the Thames to where their cousin lived.
“Fat lot of use it will do anyway,” Scalpi had snorted as the rider clattered over the bridge to Suthweca to begin his journey south.
Thurkill had looked at him quizzically.
“Well, have you ever known your aunt to be anything other than a stubborn old mule? I promise you now, she will ignore my instructions and stay to protect my lands in some misguided sense of duty. Does she not realise that walls can be rebuilt, livestock replaced, crops replanted? Whereas, her and Edith cannot.” With that, he had walked away, shaking his head sorrowfully.
Meanwhile, Harold was desperate to confront the Normans. Every day his forces grew in size but were still too few to risk a pitched battle. How much longer could they wait? How long could they allow William and his army to ravage the southlands – Harold’s own lands – unchecked?
Scouts came and went by the hour, with news of the movements of the enemy host. The Normans had stayed in Pevensey long enough only to pillage the town and surrounding area for supplies, but - soon after – they had moved east, a few miles up the coast towards the larger port town of Hastings.
Now, according to the latest reports, the Normans appeared to have settled, spending their time constructing a solid base from which to plan their next move. But with every day that passed, Harold became more and more agitated. Hastings and the surrounding area were Godwine lands and many of the nearby villages and manors had already been ransacked by Norman soldiers looking for supplies. Many houses had been burned down already, women and children thrown out to fend for themselves in the woods and several of the men slaughtered.
As the former Earl of Wessex, Harold fretted for his people. Kicking his heels in Lundenburh waiting for the fyrd to assemble, he was powerless to prevent the deprivations being visited upon them. He was failing in his first duty to protect his people from attack or injustice. It must have cut him to the quick to have to stand idle while they suffered. With every day that passed, his patience wore a little thinner until it was as threadbare as the most ancient of rugs.
TWELVE
10 October, Lundenburh
The atmosphere within the great hall at Harold’s palace at Westminster was subdued. The great lords and ladies were gathered with the king to celebrate the saint’s day of Bishop Paulinus but few, if any, were in the mood for celebration. At any other time, such a day would have seen great merriment, gluttony and drunkenness, but there was little in the way of good cheer in the hall. Lords, ladies and warriors sat side by side in almost total silence, picking at their food or taking small sips from their cups. No one seemed in the mood for levity or boisterousness, afraid that they might somehow offend the king. Serving girls went about their business carrying food and drink, keeping their heads bowed as if sensing the mood and being afraid to attract attention.
Earlier that day, after Stigand – the dour and joyless Archbishop of Canterbury – had performed a lengthy service to celebrate the saint’s life in the nearby abbey, prayers for victory over the Normans had been offered. Afterwards they had processed the short journey from the abbey to the king’s hall, following Stigand and his retinue of monks. Walking just behind the bishop, Harold’s face was like thunder. All attempts to engage him in conversation had been met with monosyllabic grunts so that no one now dared to try to break into his mood for fear of rebuke. Even Gyrth and Leofwine left him to his own thoughts, conversing quietly between themselves instead, a few paces behind their brother.
The reason for Harold’s foul mood was apparent to all; the mustering of the fyrd was taking far longer than he had hoped. Although their numbers had swelled to almost seven thousand now, by most reckonings this was still too few to risk battle with William. Scouts had numbered the enemy host at around a similar size, perhaps closer to eight thousand, but the difference was they were fresh and rested. But every day they waited was a day wasted as far as Harold was concerned. The enemy was despoiling his lands, abusing his people and yet all he could do sit impotent within the city walls, feasting the memory of some long-dead saint about whom few outside the church cared or could even remember.
Now, up at the top table, Harold was drinking heavily but eating little of the food on his platter. In turn, those around him did little more than pick at their food, unwilling to be seen to gorge themselves while the king did not. Even Harold’s wife, sat to his right, could not rouse him from his torpor. Instead, she sat sullenly by his side, as if waiting for the whole sorry affair to be over.
Thurkill, however, had long since decided to ignore everyone else; the food was of a quality and variety that was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Even though his father commanded reasonable wealth, enabling them to eat as well as any lord, this was on a different level altogether. There were swans from the great river, whole pigs stuffed with all manner of forest fruits and great hunks of hot, fresh bread with which to mop up the juices from the meat. To wash everything down there were wines from Burgundy, brought over by the many merchants who plied their wares in the markets of Lundenburh. He remembered having had wine only once before – a rich red liquid with which they had celebrated the day of Christ’s birth the previous year – but it was expensive and not readily available outside of the city. Not knowing better, he had gulped it down as if it were ale, and had been sick not long after. Looking around him now, however, he saw that most people took small sips rather than huge draughts, and he sought to emulate them as if he had been drinking wine every day for years. Something else I can tell Edith, he smiled to himself, she will be so jealous!
The sound of a commotion behind him – somewhere towards the rear of the hall – dragged his thoughts back to the present. Twisting round on the bench, he saw that a group of five newcomers had entered, surrounded by several huscarls who had been standing guard outside. The leader of the group appeared to be an older man, dressed in the simple, brown habit of a monk pulled in at his generous waist by a wound piece of cord. His head was shaved in the familiar tonsure, leaving wisps of silvery grey hair sprouting around his ears and the back of his head. The fact he was a portly man, Thurkill noted, suggested he was not a devotee of any strict fasting regime.
Alongside
him stood a knight; a great lord by the looks of his cloak and the way he conducted himself. In his right hand he carried a long pole from the end of which hung a pale blue banner emblazoned with a golden cross, either side of which the symbols X and R had been stitched. The knight stood still, unblinking, apparently unfazed by his surroundings. He was not tall but he carried an indescribable air of menace. From where Thurkill sat near the head table, he could see a wicked-looking scar running across his cheek, giving him an even greater sense of dread. This was not a man to be taken lightly, Thurkill thought to himself. As he stared, the knight became aware of his gaze and half turned his head to face the young Saxon warrior. Taking no more than a moment to appraise the boy, he smirked disdainfully, as if unimpressed by what he saw, before turning back to face the king.
Thurkill felt shame and anger in equal measure. He started to rise to his feet, but felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, holding him down. Turning towards him in frustration, he saw Scalpi silently shake his head, mouthing the words “Let it go, son.”
Having witnessed the exchange, the knight’s smirk turned into a mocking grin, causing his scar to stretch, the damaged red flesh look even more angry than before. Thurkill reddened still further, his burning cheeks merely adding to his shame. He swore to himself that the Norman would one day pay for his humiliation. Ignorant of his thoughts, the Norman dismissed the young Saxon, advancing alongside the monk towards the dais. As they walked, so a low growl arose from the assembled lords and thegns; they were in no doubt as to who these men were.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 9