Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  Thurkill cried out in anguish but no sound came. He felt his eyes closing despite his straining every sinew to remain conscious. His king had been killed, mutilated, and he was powerless to avenge him. With his last conscious thought, he swore vengeance on the man who had so dishonourably defiled Harold. He swore he would find him and he would kill him for what he had done.

  NINETEEN

  15 October, Senlac Ridge

  Thurkill regained consciousness in complete darkness. Is this what heaven is like? was the first thought that entered his mind. It’s not like how Father Wulfric described it. He recalled how the local priest had talked of a bright and sunny garden with angels singing hymns and psalms. But this was different; this was dark, cold and decidedly damp. If it were not heaven, it could not be hell either as Wulfric had scared him with tales of insufferable heat from huge fires stoked by the devil’s minions while foul-smelling sulphur assailed the nostrils.

  As he recovered his senses, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. His head throbbed intensely; it felt as if his head was the anvil on which a blacksmith was hammering a piece of metal. Fighting the pain in his head for supremacy was a burning sensation from the side of his head and another from his left arm. Gingerly, he lifted his right hand to touch his face, confusion filling his mind until he recalled how the sword blow had severed his ear. He winced in pain; the wound was still raw but, from the feel of things, it was no longer bleeding. The surrounding skin was crusty where it had dried, cracking and flaking away under his probing finger tips.

  Next he reached for his forearm, fearful of what he might find. It was still wet to the touch, but appeared to be no more than seeping. He gave thanks to God the cut had not been deeper or he might already have died. Though his wounds did not seem too grievous, he knew they’d need treating soon. He’d seen many similar injuries succumb to evil humours that would penetrate exposed flesh, giving rise to a fever from which he might not recover. The same had happened to Aelfric last summer after he slashed his foot on a scythe that had been carelessly left lying in a field. He had laughed it off at the time, but within days his leg had swollen to twice its normal size and he was thrashing about, driven mad by the pain. The priest had been unable to help, blaming demonic possession, and Aelfric had died within the week.

  Putting such frightening thoughts to the back of his mind, he continued to probe his body as best he could, looking for any other cuts or injuries. As he did so, he began to recall the last moments of the battle. The knights who had led the final charge, the one who had cracked his head with his sword, putting paid to his ear in the process, and especially the truly evil scarred bastard who – he remembered with an involuntary sob – had attacked the king, slaughtering him in cold blood before hacking off his penis.

  Waves of sadness flooded over him, forcing torrents of tears from his eyes. A day ago they had awaited the dawn with quiet confidence, eager to put the Norman invaders to flight. Now all lay in ruins. Harold was dead; his army slain or routed. He had lost his father and he had no idea what had become of the fyrdsmen who had come with him from Haslow. Most likely they were all dead too. His body heaved with uncontrolled sobs, the tears tracing narrow tracks through the blood and grime encrusted on his face. He was grateful for the darkness so that none might see his shame. In his self-pity he longed to go back to the simpler times of his childhood, before the slaughter and horror of the previous day.

  Thoughts of home brought him back to the present. He could not lie here forever; there were others that had need of him. He had no idea where the Normans might go next, presumably to Lundenburh or Wintanceastre, or both. Either way, he did not doubt that they would be laying waste to everything in their path and that could very well mean his own village was in danger. His own? Well, he supposed it was his now, though there was no king to confirm the transfer of title. Nevertheless, it was now his duty as the new lord to protect the people of Haslow.

  He tried to move but yelped in pain, the sound immediately dying on his lips in terror. Through the black of the moonless night, he could see a number of torches illuminating the faces of several groups of men picking their way across the body-strewn field towards him. As they walked, they stopped every now and then to examine a body, after which an arm would thrust out, followed by a blood-chilling scream. God preserve me, Thurkill prayed fervently. They’re finishing off the wounded. If they find me here, I’m lost for sure.

  He could not risk moving, however. Despite the darkness, the nearest group were close enough that they’d spot him as soon as he did. There was nothing he could do but lie there, eyes staring blankly into the night, and hope that the blood and the dirt that covered his face was enough to convince them he was already dead. He did his best to slow his breathing, as difficult as that was with his heart pounded furiously in his chest. The sound of it filled his ears, making him feel certain that the Normans would hear it too. He yearned to cry out, to throw himself at them in cold fury. But he was so weak from pain and exhaustion that he knew it was hopeless.

  The nearest man was almost upon him. He had paused by a man two or three feet away from him, stabbing him in the throat for good measure. Thurkill had not even realised that he had been alive. With a sudden pang of fear, he wondered whether they were stabbing everyone – alive or dead – just to be certain. Every part of him screamed at him to move, to run far from that place, but he dare not, could not. His only hope was to remain still and trust in God to deliver him from evil.

  As he stared glassily upwards, his vision filled with the huge, dark form of the Norman soldier. By the light of his torch’s flame, Thurkill could see the man was staring down at him. He was grim-faced with wide, cruel eyes either side of an immense, hooked nose. Would he pass him by and leave him unmolested? He seemed to be lingering forever; why does he not move on? Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, Thurkill thought, he thinks I’m alive. That’s the end of me! He did not even dare reach for his seax.

  Just then, a shout from the next group a few paces away caused the Norman to turn his head. A second, more urgent shout had him running along with all the others who were within earshot. The soldiers gathered at a spot about twenty paces away, forming a ring of torches to shed more light on whatever it was that had caught their attention, yelling and gesticulating wildly.

  With a jolt, Thurkill realised they must have found Harold’s body; a great prize which no doubt promised great reward for the men that conveyed the fallen king to Duke William. As he lay there helpless, he was struck by the irony of the moment. Where he had failed to save Harold’s life, his king had now just spared his. Even in death, Harold had saved him. The discovery of Harold’s body meant that the remaining wounded were now forgotten – at least for the time being – as the Normans squabbled with each other to decide who should be the one to gain the glory of presenting the prize to the duke.

  As the sound of the soldiers receded into the distance, Thurkill knew he had to take advantage of the precious time he had been given. Who knew when they might return? Shutting out the pain in his arm as best he could, he rolled over on to his side, slowly and carefully, so as to make as little noise as possible. When he was sure there was no one in earshot, he pushed himself up on to his hands and knees. In doing so, he could not prevent a gasp as he felt the gash in his arm split further and blood begin to flow freely once more. He knew had to get help soon or he could bleed to death.

  He rested for a moment on his haunches, squeezing his arm tightly to try to stem the flow. He felt himself sway, as if he were a new born foal trying to take its first steps, until he put a hand down to steady himself. He had little idea of his bearings; there was no moonlight to help orient him. He knew he was still on the ridge and he thought he could feel the ground sloping away in front of him; but much more than that was impossible to discern. As he contemplated his next move, he became aware of a faint glow on the horizon, off to his left. Were more Normans coming with torches? No, it couldn’t be. The light was spreading all the
way across the skyline now. It was the dawn of the new day. This told him two things: he was facing south as the sun was rising on his left; and he must move now before the growing light left him caught him in the open.

  Clamping his lips together to stifle any further cries of pain, he rose to his feet. Turning so that the dawn’s light was on his right, he set off north, crouching as low as he could. After a few paces he stooped to grab his war-axe, marvelling at his luck in finding it once more. He still had his seax tucked into his belt but he felt better gripping the worn wooden shaft. He doubted he had the strength to use it in anger, but it might at least give pause to anyone he might encounter.

  After a short while, he became aware of dark shapes looming up ahead of him. He allowed himself a brief smile; his sense of direction had not let him down. It was the forest through which the army had emerged on to Senlac ridge the previous morning. Reaching the first tree, he leaned against the gnarled bark of its ancient trunk to catch his breath. He hadn’t gone far but the effort had weakened him still further. He knew he could not wait here, however. He had to keep going, to put distance between him and the battlefield. He pressed on, aware also of a growing hunger and thirst. Food would have to wait, but hopefully he would happen upon a stream sooner or later.

  After stumbling and shuffling his way through undergrowth and leaves for a few hundred paces, he knew he could go no further. The sky had lightened considerably now, though it remained gloomy under the thick canopy of trees. He would have to take a chance; he had to rest. The pain from his arm was excruciating. A short way in front of him he spotted a slight hollow by a couple of huge oak trees. He staggered over and sank gratefully to the ground, careful to keep the weight off his arm as much as possible. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the thick carpet of leaves.

  ***

  He woke with a start and immediately made a grab for his seax, wincing in pain as the sudden movement reawakened the tortured nerves in his left arm. Before he could reach the hilt, though, a powerful hand pinned his wrist hard against his body while another clamped tightly over his mouth. He could feel hot breath on his cheeks, but could not tell whether the face that was poised just inches from his own belonged to friend or foe.

  He wanted to struggle, to fight off his assailant, but he was too weak. Every inch of him ached. His arm was agony once more. To make matters worse, his body cried out for food while his mouth was as dry as the hay barn on a summer’s day. Only his eyes retained any strength of character.

  “Quiet, you whoreson!” the mouth hissed into his ear.

  Thanks be to God, he’s English! Thurkill let his body slump back into the earth. His throat was not about to be slit; well, not yet a while.

  “There’s Norman scum everywhere. I am amazed they have not found you, lying out here in the open without a care in the world.”

  Slowly, the hand was pulled away from his mouth and then the other eased off his wrist. The man then slumped down next to Thurkill with a thud and a great exhalation of breath. Thurkill turned his head to stare at the newcomer. He was not much older than him and, by the looks of him, he too had been in the thick of the battle. His face and neck were streaked with blood, with even more matted in his straggly blond hair; none of it seemed to be his, though, from what he could tell. Two green eyes shone out from the shadow of a heavy brow, still betraying the horror and pain of the previous day. He wore a padded leather jerkin in place of a byrnie, suggesting he was a man of the fyrd, but he did carry a sword at his waist. Whether it was his or whether he had plundered it from the field, Thurkill could not say.

  “You were there, right?” Thurkill spoke with a low voice to avoid the sound carrying far.

  The man did not speak, but merely nodded, as if unwilling to speak further of the horrors that he had seen.

  “Who was your lord?”

  “I stood with the men of Sussex under ealdorman Aelfwin. Not one week ago I was bringing in the harvest with my fellow villagers. Now they all lie dead, slain by my side.” His voice cracked with emotion as he spoke, his body shaking with barely supressed sobs.

  Thurkill smiled empathetically. “It was your first time?”

  “Can anyone ever do that twice?”

  “It was my second battle; it doesn’t become any easier. I was with Harold at Stamford, near Eoforwic, not three weeks since.”

  The man scoffed in surprise. “You don’t look old enough for one battle, let alone two.”

  Despite his weakness, Thurkill bridled at the perceived slight. “Don’t be confused by the lack of beard, friend. I know how to handle a sword and shield better than most!”

  Something in Thurkill’s voice and demeanour gave his companion pause. “I beg for your pardon. I had not meant to suggest…” His voice tailed off, as if embarrassed and unsure how to proceed. Aiming for firmer ground, he continued. “Who did you stand with?”

  “I fought with my father, Scalpi, who was himself one of Harold’s own huscarls. I saw my father cut down and was with the king to the end.”

  “Harold’s dead?”

  “Aye. He was wounded by an arrow in the final attack, so that he could no longer defend himself. We tried our best to protect him but the enemy were too strong by then and there were too few of us left. I was knocked unconscious but the last thing I saw was a group of the murdering bastards hacking at him like a piece of meat. There was no honour in it.”

  There was a silence between them for a few moments as each considered the import of Thurkill’s words. Eventually the man spoke once again.

  “My name is Eahlmund, son of Ealdric, and I am sorry for your loss.”

  “And I am Thurkill, son of Scalpi and I, too, am sorry for yours. Now that is done, we must be away. We cannot lie here all day, as comfortable as it may be.”

  Eahlmund chuckled, pleased for the mood to have lightened somewhat. “Well, there I can be of some small service, I think. My village is no more than a day’s walk north of here. There’s a woman there who has some skill as a healer. She will have your arm as good as new in no time.”

  TWENTY

  15 October, Brightling

  It was almost dark when Thurkill and Eahlmund arrived at his village. It was a modest affair: a small wooden church at its centre, around which were grouped about a dozen thatched houses of varying shapes, sizes and states of repair. It was situated at the junction of two roads, one heading roughly east to west and the other branching off to the south, whence they had come. Although the distance from Senlac had not been great, the going had been slow, partly because of Thurkill’s wounds, but also because they had shunned the main paths and roads, to reduce the risk of discovery.

  For Thurkill’s part, although he could walk unaided, he had so little strength that Eahlmund had to help him as best he could, allowing him to drape his uninjured arm round the farmhand’s broad frame. Eahlmund was half a head shorter than him so his shoulder acted as a crutch, nestling into Thurkill’s armpit, helping to support his weight. His left arm was bound up with a strip of cloth cut from a cloak they had found discarded a short distance from their resting place. From the blood stains it looked as though its former owner had met a sorry end, but it was the best they could find. Using a cleaner part of the garment, Eahlmund had managed to fashion a sling to hold Thurkill’s arm firmly in place against his chest, bent up at the elbow so that the blood flow was lessened somewhat.

  As they walked, Thurkill had told him about the battle in the north; the forced march which had caught the Vikings off guard and the slaughter that had followed. He left off the part about the lone axe-man on the bridge as memory of it still brought him some embarrassment, both from the gifts that Harold had bestowed on him and the dishonourable way in which he had killed the man. Nevertheless, Eahlmund had listened in awe to the stories, finding a new level of respect for his companion. He had even laughed out loud at the thought of the Norsemen going home in just two dozen ships, having come in more than two hundred. Thurkill had also told h
im about his sister and aunt, alone in their village in Kent, and how desperate he was to get there as soon as possible before the Normans could despoil the place, or worse.

  Eahlmund had shaken his head ruefully. “You’re no good to anyone in this condition, Thurkill. We need to get you mended first. Until you can hold a shield with that arm properly, you wouldn’t last a moment in a scrap.”

  By the time they arrived, Thurkill was almost dead on his feet. More and more he was having to lean on Eahlmund who, despite his continual moaning, showed no signs of flagging. He longed for a bed or even a barn filled with hay come to that; anywhere he could rest in some comfort and warmth. Since the sun had gone down, the air had turned cold once again; the clear skies providing no insulation to keep hold of the thin warmth of the autumn sun. The sight of the village appearing out of the gathering gloom as they broke through the tree line, though, lifted his spirits; he even managed to straighten up a little, relieving his new friend of some the burden.