Yet despite his father’s example, the bravery and strength of the defenders was not enough as, one by one, they were being cut down by the merciless blades of the rampaging knights. The Normans were getting ever closer to the banner and showed no signs of slowing their relentless attack. Not one Saxon fell without taking at least one foe with him before he died, but there were always many other willing horsemen to take their place. Eventually, there was no one but Scalpi left between them and the banner of Wessex. Although the Normans had lost well over half their number in the attack there were still far too many of them for the old Saxon warrior to resist alone.
But still the old huscarl did not panic; the first man to make a lunge for the banner was dispatched with calm efficiency, his sword thrust taking him in the armpit where the mail shirt offered no protection, just as he was in the act of reaching out to grab the shaft from which the banner still fluttered. The man fell screaming to the ground, writhing in agony and clasping his opposite hand to the wound in a vain effort to stem the flow of blood. The next two met similar fates, unable to learn from or better the experience of their comrade. Those behind, however, were not so foolhardy. They pressed in, attacking Scalpi on all sides, prodding at him with their spears, swarming him so that he could not defend against them all and was unable to wield his sword to any real effect. He fought desperately against the odds but it was hopeless. One more fell, then another, but fate was inescapable. In the act of lunging to kill the fifth man, Scalpi was caught from both sides on the savage points of two Norman spears. The blades bit deep into his flesh, tearing his internal organs to shreds as they lanced through him. He sank to his knees, unable to stay on his feet for a moment longer, coming face to face with his son who remained unable to stand.
Time stood still for Thurkill as he stared into his Scalpi’s eyes, grief stricken at the sight of his father’s face contorted with pain. His whole world shrank until he could see nothing else, blocking out all other sights and sounds. His ears were filled with a whooshing noise that drowned the noise of the battle. He was helpless; there was nothing he could do now to help; nothing he could say to comfort him as his father’s life ebbed away before him. Images of his childhood flashed through his head: days spent hunting in the forests, long hours spent learning to be a warrior, his father laughing at his first clumsy efforts to hold a shield. The thoughts and pictures jumbled together in an addled mess that overwhelmed his mind.
Scalpi slumped forward, his head hitting the soft earth with a sickening thud. He was just moments away from starting his journey to the afterlife, but in his final moments he reached out to grab his son’s hand. Gripping it with what strength remained to him, he pulled Thurkill close to him so he could speak and be heard. The words, when they came, were nothing more than a whisper.
“Save your king.”
***
“No!” Tears blinded Thurkill’s eyes as he lurched painfully to his feet, finally galvanised into action. Both his sword and shield had been forced from his hands in the fall but he did not care. He had no thoughts of defence now, only to kill. Kill those who had taken his father from him. The great battle-axe, the one that Harold had given him after the battle at the bridge, the same one the Viking warrior had used to kill so many brave warriors on that day, was all he had, strapped to his back. It would serve his purpose well enough. The leading Norman knight had now reached the banner, a look of triumph on his face as he prepared to grab it. His expression quickly changed to one of confusion and pain, though, as Thurkill swung the axe with both hands, using all the strength he could muster from the exhausted muscles of his shoulders and back. The immense power and momentum brought the heavy blade down on the knight’s forearm so hard that the limb was severed clean in two. The stricken knight could do no more than stare aghast as his amputated arm fell to the ground, blood spurting from the stump where once it had been. Thurkill left him no time to react, continuing his attack by ducking his head and using his bull-like strength to butt the man in the face with the point of his conical helmet.
Away from the confines of the shieldwall, Thurkill felt an incredible freedom that had been denied him all day. His body ached dreadfully from where the horse had smashed into him and his muscles screamed in protest as he continued to swing the axe in wide, sweeping arcs. But his mind paid no heed. Either he would rest later, or he would be dead anyway. At that moment, it mattered not to him either way. Even his father’s last words, even the thought of his sister, could not break through. His rage was as blinding as the low sun on a bright winter’s morning.
Having dispatched one, he swung round to face the others, standing squarely in front of the banner, shouting insults, spitting at them, daring them to come and take it. Two of them immediately obliged, kicking their heels into the flanks of their mounts, urging them forward. They had lost their spears but both were still armed with long, deadly swords whose blades were streaked with the blood of his comrades.
Without hesitation, he buried his axe in the skull of the first horse. Its legs gave way instantly, throwing its rider who landed heavily on his back. Thurkill took a step forward, stamping down hard on the man’s balls to disable him while he focussed on the next assailant. He ducked just in time as the knight’s sword swished through the air, glancing off his helmet with a loud metallic clang. As the knight swept past him, Thurkill rose up, twisted on his heels and launched the axe blade in a horizontal arc, catching the rider squarely in the back, snapping his spine in an instant. The rest of the party, just three of the original twenty, including the dark-haired knight with the papal banner, had seen enough. As one, they pulled on their reins to turn their mounts’ heads round and spurred them down the hill, away from the berserk, axe-wielding fiend. As a parting gesture, the scar-faced knight stood up in his stirrups, pointing his sword at Thurkill, as if promising him a future encounter. The young Saxon had no energy to respond, however; Instead he sank to his knees, exhausted by the fight and the maelstrom of emotions that flooded his brain.
EIGHTEEN
Evening, 14 October, Senlac Ridge
Thurkill had lost track of time. He knew it must be getting late as the sun had dipped low in the sky, the shadows around him lengthening all the time. Still they held out on the ridge; still they resisted the furious onslaughts of the Norman horsemen. Since repelling the last of the raiders who had so nearly seized control of the wyvern banner, the Saxon line had once again been shored up, though it was weaker now than it had ever been. More men of the fyrd stood in the front rank, filling the gaps left by fallen huscarls, and there were fewer ranks behind with which to make good any further losses. The fyrdsmen were brave enough but they did not have the same skills or strength as the trained warriors who made up the elite of the Saxon host.
Thurkill leaned on his heavily pitted shield, taking advantage of another lull in the fighting; another pause in which both sides attempted to recover their strength and regroup. He was blowing hard, his cheeks puffed out as he sucked much needed air into his lungs. He had no idea how he was still standing as exhaustion had long since crept into every muscle and sinew. He glanced at the horizon, willing the sun to go down, willing an end to the day. It was clear now they could not win this fight. Their numbers were too few and their strength too depleted to have any hope of success. All that remained was to steal away in the darkness, back into the woods behind them, whence they had come. This was the only path to salvation, to the chance to fight again another day when the northern fyrd would be available to them. They had the whole country to fall back on, whereas the Bastard of Normandy had only those men who had sailed with him and who stood with him on this field. His strength was surely nothing compared to the resources that Harold could muster. If only they could survive the last hours until the sun went down.
“Here they come again.” Everywhere, captains shouted orders, jostling and cajoling weary warriors to prepare themselves once more. Thurkill hefted his shield back into place, its weight pulling hard on tired s
houlder muscles. One more time, he told himself, just hold them off one more time.
The horsemen charged up the slope once again, hurling javelins as they came within range. It was the same pattern as before, the same threat that they had endured all afternoon. They could survive this, he thought, just as they had survived all the others before.
“Ware! Ware! Arrows.”
Thurkill glanced quickly up to the sky, a cold finger of fear running down his spine. Sure enough, the air was once again filled with hundreds more of the deadly shafts arcing towards them. Unbeknown to them, the archers had followed the cavalry up the hill unseen, in one last desperate attempt to turn the tide. From that closer range the missiles could be deadly to friend and foe alike, as closely packed together as they were. William must have decided that he needed to gamble to gain his victory; he had to try something different to make the breakthrough he craved before nightfall.
The desperate defenders were now caught between two devils. Before them, the horsemen thrust viciously at the front rank, aiming to bludgeon gaps in the shieldwall through which they could pour. Above them, death rained from the skies. Those in the ranks behind did their best to protect themselves and those in front with their shields, but they could not completely stem the tide of devastation that now fell upon them. Hearing the screams of the dying all around him, Thurkill knew it was all over. They had withstood attack after attack all day but there was little they could now do but to die with honour.
As the arrows thudded into shield and flesh on all sides, Thurkill hoped that the end, when it came, would be swift. He had seen enough men lying wounded, bleeding out slowly in agony, to know that it was a fate best avoided. Better a clean thrust from a sword or spear than an arrow that failed to finish him. Despite the imminent inevitability of his own demise, however, he was surprisingly calm. He knew he would be reunited with his father soon and the excoriating pain of his loss would be expunged. In fact, his only burning regret was that his sister and aunt would no longer have their protection. With luck, though, Edith would soon marry a good Saxon man who could take on the village and look after her, Aga and the land. He hoped she would never forget him but she would be alright, he told himself; she would be well cared for. It was the way of things; life would go on. There was no need to be concerned; he could die in peace.
“The king. The king!”
The panicked tone of the voice ripped into his thoughts. Ignoring the horsemen in front of him, he spun round to try to see what was happening. Unable to see clearly past the heaving melee, despite his height, he began pushing his way through the ranks to where Harold’s banner stood. The sight that greeted him filled his soul with terror. The king lay on the ground, propped up on one elbow. The shaft of an arrow protruded from the place where neck met shoulder. Less than half of its full length was visible, though, indicating that the rest of it was buried deep within his flesh. Though there was blood, it was no great amount. Perhaps the wound was not as bad as he first feared? Harold seemed dazed but otherwise alert and aware of what was going on. His teeth were bared in a grimace that betrayed the pain he felt, yet he did not cry out.
As Thurkill drew closer, one of those surrounding the king knelt by his head and took hold of the shaft, preparing to draw it from his neck.
“Hold!” Another warrior rushed forward and took a grip of the man’s shoulder.
“Why? We need to remove the arrow to treat the wound.”
“I have knowledge of wounds such as these. If you pull the shaft out, you could release his life blood, killing him in moments. I have seen men survive with an arrow in the neck for some time, but if you pull it out now without the proper care, he may bleed to death before our eyes.”
“Well we can’t leave him here,” Thurkill shouted. “We have to get him away to safety.”
The thegn who had been prepared to remove the shaft rounded on him immediately. “If you can manage that, boy, then you are a better man than me. Perhaps you might ask the Normans to stop shooting arrows at us for a moment while we carry him off the field?”
Thurkill felt his face redden, conscious of his youth and the fact that he no longer had his father around for support. “Well, we have to do something.”
The man nodded, more sympathetically now. “We don’t have many options left to us, lad. But all of us here know there is nothing more honourable than dying in defence of one’s lord. I suggest we all prepare ourselves to do just that. Perhaps the Normans will spare the king in the end. But before they have the chance, we must make them pay dearly for every one of us that stands between them and Harold.”
Several grunts of approval greeted the thegn’s words. In his heart, Thurkill knew the man was right. There was no hope now. There was nothing to do other than to defend the king, giving their lives in the process if need be. There was no finer death that a huscarl could wish for. As he stood there, with the fury of battle still raging around him, he was comforted by the thought that their names would live on in song; celebrated as those that had stood by Harold to the very end. The thought gave him courage; it lent strength to his sword arm and it helped keep the fear of death at bay.
Still the arrows kept falling. Still they kept picking men off at random. One minute the man next to you was hacking at a Norman horseman, the next he was spiralling downwards, stuck like a pig by one or more arrow shafts. Soon there would be too few of them to form a solid shieldwall. When that moment came it would all be over. Yet there was no thought of retreat; no thought of surrender. The sight of Harold lying wounded a few steps to their rear gave them purpose; a reason to keep on fighting. Four of Harold’s personal guard had stayed close to him; they crouched around his prostrate form, holding their shields above him to protect him from the arrow storm. Still he would not moan or complain of the pain but, rather, he bore the wound with a grace and stoicism that Thurkill found inspiring. Those huscarls that remained, with Thurkill among them, formed up in front, ready to make their last stand.
Though the Normans could not know that Harold had been gravely injured, they could sense a change in the mood of the Saxon defenders, as if a great sadness had come over them. Their blood was up; they had the taste of victory on their tongues. The scent of glory was in their nostrils and so they strove yet harder for the final breakthrough.
It was too much for what remained of the Saxon host to bear. That one last great charge saw the shieldwall splinter at last. A huge phalanx of horsemen rode through the broken line, chopping down on all sides as they went, wreaking great swathes of destruction through the once proud and resilient army. With their defensive line destroyed, many of the fyrdsmen took flight, flinging away their shields and running for the safety of the woods, pursued closely by mounted warriors. Several did not make it, but those that did would not stop running until darkness fell, in their eagerness to be away from the slaughter.
But the huscarls did not flee. They stood their ground, clustered around the wyvern banner, still defiant, still cursing the enemy, daring them to come taste Saxon steel. Thurkill stared grimly at the carnage around him. Bodies were strewn all over the ridge, friend and foe mixed together in deadly embrace. He had had his fill of battle; death would be a welcome release now to put an end to the suffering and the misery that lay before him.
“Come on!” He yelled, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. “What are you waiting for? Come and finish the job. Kill me now so I may haunt you for eternity.” He did not care that they would not understand his harsh Saxon tongue; he did not even care if none of them heard him. It made him stronger; hardened his heart so that he was ready to meet his end. He squared his shoulders, thrust his chin forward and planted his feet firmly shoulder-width apart. He slung his shield, with three new arrow shafts embedded, over his left shoulder, freshened his grip on the shaft of his battle-axe – its blade now notched and blunted through use – and began to swing it slowly in ever widening arcs.
It did not take long for his challenge to be answered. Out of
the gathering gloom, another tight-knit party of horsemen charged straight towards him. With so many fallen and so many now running for their lives, Thurkill had no chance of stopping them, no chance of defending his king any further. All he could do was take as many of them with him as possible.
They came on at a fear-inducing pace, hammering across the churned up turf. They were confident of victory now, disdainful of what pitiful resistance remained. They came to bring the battle to a close and, for that, they needed to kill or capture the Saxon king. Lances pointing forward, the knights crouched low over the heads of their horses, their shields held high for the greatest protection. The first man swept past Thurkill, beyond his reach, but the second was heading straight for him. Just before the moment of impact, he took a step to the right and swung his great axe, using his last remaining strength to deliver as hard a blow as he could muster. The knight’s sword slashed down, uselessly hitting the spot where his head had been just moments before. But Thurkill’s axe connected with his leg, landing with a sickening, yet satisfying ,crunch as the bone shattered.
There was no time to admire his work, though, as the next wave was already upon him. Thurkill raised his axe once more, but he was too late. Fatigue had taken its toll, making him too slow to react. The sword caught the axe mid-way along its shaft, numbing his hands and causing him to drop the weapon. Before he could move, though, the next knight hacked at him. He felt an intense pain as a hand’s length gash appeared on his left forearm. His vision blurred as he stared dumbly at the blood welling up along the wound. Shaking his head to recover his senses, he cast around for a weapon. Exposed and defenceless as he was, he could do nothing to protect either himself or Harold.
As he scrabbled amidst the gore and debris, he failed to see the killing blow when it came. Reaching down to grab a discarded sword, his head exploded in pain. The sword caught him on the side of the head a finger’s breadth above the rim of his helmet, from where the blade then slid down, taking his ear. Only the fact that he had stooped at the precise moment of impact the saved his life. Had he been upright, it would have taken his head. Nevertheless, the weight of the blow, launched from a charging mount, knocked him off his feet. As he lay on the ground, unable to move or even speak, the last thing he saw was a group of dismounted knights, gathered around Harold, stabbing and hacking away at his already lifeless body. It might have been a trick of his addled brain, but he could have sworn that one of them bore a scar across his cheek. That same knight then reached down towards the king, his dagger gleaming in the last rays of the sun. Moments later, he rose once more, lifting his hand for all to see. Blood dripped down his forearm from his hand where he gripped the severed remains of England’s manhood.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 14