“That’s odd.”
Thurkill barely lifted his head; he was too tired to care, too tired to sense danger any more. “What is?”
“I know it’s nearly dark but you’d think someone would be around. There’s usually still folk wandering about at this time. I can’t see any light coming from any of the houses either.”
“Maybe everyone’s had an early night?” Thurkill was wishing for nothing more for himself at that moment, and was not happy at the thought of anything get in the way of it.
Eahlmund snorted, disbelievingly. “Come on. I’ll take you to my parents’ house. They will know what’s happening.”
Eahlmund led them to the second house on the left beyond the church. He pushed against the door but found it to be barred. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow in Thurkill’s direction, he tapped quietly against the wooden slats. There was no reply. Eahlmund tapped again, louder this time, nervously looking around him as if worried someone would hear him. Eventually, a quiet querulous voice answered.
“Who’s there?”
“Father. For the sake of our Lord, let me in.”
They heard some stifled muttering followed by the sound of something being dragged across the floor. Moments later the door opened a crack to reveal Eahlmund’s father. He was shorter than his son by some margin, but was broad-chested with powerful limbs; the result of a lifetime of toil in the fields. His eyes were nervous, though, darting around either side of his son, as if checking to see who else might be outside. When he caught sight of Thurkill, he gasped with fear. The sight of the huge bloodied warrior still in his full armour took his breath away. From behind him, though, a woman’s voice hissed at him.
“For pity’s sake, Ealdric, let him in and get that door closed!”
Accustomed to following his wife’s instructions, Ealdric wasted no time in pulling the door open wide enough to let the two men in. “Alright, Estrith, give a man a chance eh?”
Eahlmund pushed his way over the threshold and led Thurkill over to a straw mattress in the corner where he helped him lie down. All the while, his mother fussed and flitted around him, clucking like a hen, overjoyed to have her son safely back under her roof.
“Thank God you’re alive, Eahlmund. We heard the battle had been lost and we feared the worst. There’s been soldiers on horseback riding through the village on and off all day, looking for fugitives no doubt. When you didn’t come home, we assumed you must be dead.” An involuntary sob escaped her as she pronounced this word. Her eyes, already red from a day spent crying, quickly filled with tears once more.
Ignoring his mother’s distress, however, Eahlmund froze at the mention of soldiers. “How long ago was the last time you saw them, mother?”
Estrith sniffed and wiped her sleeve across her face. “Oh I don’t know; a couple of hours now, I think. The last lot were heading south back down towards the coast. Either way, we were taking no chances. Half the villagers have already fled into the forest, while the rest of us decided to sit it out. So we barricaded our door and put our faith in God. We’ve got nothing for them to take anyway, unless they want our scythes or ploughshares.”
“Or old Bebba the pony.”
Estrith rounded irritably on her husband. “And what, pray tell, would they want with old Bebba? She’s barely got the strength to pull a cart these days, let alone carry a man into battle.”
“I don’t know, Estrith, I just thought…”
“Thought you say? Well I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
The bickering was making Thurkill’s head hurt even more and before he could stop himself he groaned out loud.
The noise was enough to remind Estrith that she had a guest in her house. “And who’s this fellow? One of ours by the looks of him.”
“Mother, this is Thurkill, son of Scalpi, huscarl of the house of Wessex. He was at the battle, defending our king to the end. He has wounds that need care and he needs time to rest and recover his strength. It is the least we can do to offer this brave warrior our help in his time of need.”
“I don’t much care if he is brave or otherwise, if the Normans find him here they’ll kill the lot of us.” She paused, as if considering further. “He can stay the night but tomorrow I want him gone.”
“But, mother, he’s in no fit state to travel.”
“That’s as may be but I want him out of my house tomorrow and that’s an end to it.”
“Whose house is this that you speak of, woman?”
Eahlmund turned to Ealdric in surprise. His father was normally such a timid man, often cowed by his far more intimidating wife. In fact, he could not recall him ever standing up to his mother before.
“Last time I looked, I was head of this house; it is our duty to offer hospitality to our guest, Normans or no. It is a tradition that goes back to the earliest times and I will not be the first of my line to abandon it. The boy stays as long as he needs to and you will be civil to him while he is here, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
Estrith was shocked to silence. Rather than be angry, however, Thurkill could have sworn he saw a playful smile flit across her features as she turned away. Perhaps her husband’s uncharacteristic display of strength had pleased her in some way.
Emboldened, Ealdric took control of the situation. “Son, rouse Switha; see that she brings her healing bag with her. Wife, fetch up a bowl of that broth we had earlier and some bread for our guest. I’ll wager he needs a good feed after the day he’s had.”
Thurkill was gratefully mopping the last of the vegetable soup out of a deep, wooden bowl with his hunk of bread when Switha arrived. The bread was a little stale but it softened wonderfully in the thick soup. It might not have matched the quality of the king’s own cooks but it was far and away the best meal he’d had for a long time. He was keenly aware that these were poor folk; they would not have a lot to spare so for them to share their food with him, willingly or otherwise, was a great sacrifice.
Switha swept into the one-roomed house with bustling efficiency, directing Estrith to clear the table and Ealdric to build up the fire. Thurkill couldn’t help but stare; he wasn’t sure he had ever seen anyone as old as her. Her hair was completely white and was, in places, thinning to the extent that patches of her scalp were visible, shiny in the light of the fire. Her face was so lined that she seemed to have wrinkles on top of her wrinkles. Despite her age, however, she stood proud and strong and spoke with a forceful, assertive voice; one that was used to giving orders. Age had most definitely not dimmed her vitality. Thurkill relaxed back in his chair. He felt safe in her hands, safe for the first time since before the battle.
Switha dealt with his wounds with a calm authority. She quickly identified that the wound to his ear was superficial, in need of nothing more than to be cleaned and wrapped in a strip of cloth to ‘keep dirt and creepy crawlies out’, as she put it. She also pronounced that the wound had already begun to close of its own accord and would give him no more trouble. With a cheeky smile, she recommended he keep his hair long to hide what she called the unsightly blemish, in case it were to spoil his chances of finding a bride in future. Thurkill blushed but merely nodded, dumbly, in agreement.
She was more concerned by his arm. It was a nasty cut and, although it had finally stopped bleeding – thanks to Eahlmund’s bandage, she said – it had, however, been exposed to all manner of harmful things over the last several hours. There was a chance that fever might set in, she said, and that he might die as a result. She spoke matter-of-factly, talking about him as if he were a lamb or calf, oblivious to his feelings or worries.
In a state of some nervousness, Thurkill’s voice wavered. “You can help me, though?”
“I will do what I can; I can promise no more than that. After that you will have to trust in the gods.”
“The gods?” Thurkill was incredulous; surely no one still clung to the old ways? Before he could say any more, however, he caught Eahlmund’s eye. He was standing behind her, ho
lding his hands up and shaking his head as if to say ‘Let it be’. My God, Thurkill thought to himself, I’m in the hands of one of the old people. She still holds to pagan ways. He’d heard his father talk about such people before and it was always with a sense of warning and distrust. Some said that they were in league with the devil, that their healing magic could only come from him. Still, he had no choice; there’d be no other healer for miles around. He would have to put his fears to one side and let her do her work and trust that God would forgive him when judgement day came.
The old woman worked quietly, her nimble fingers dancing like a spider around his arm. She used a cloth soaked in hot water to clean the wound and, although she was not overly rough in her actions, Thurkill still winced at the touch of the material around his savaged forearm. Switha merely shook her head, tutted as if he were some particularly pathetic child, and continued with her work. Shamefaced, he resolved to grit his teeth and make no further sound.
Having finished her cleansing, she then inspected his arm more closely, frowning as she did so. Then she leaned in so closely that he could have sworn she was actually now sniffing his flesh, her nose almost touching the broken skin.
“Well, it seems clean enough and there is no smell of pestilence as yet. With luck you will not lose the arm.”
“What?” Embarrassed, Thurkill realised he had shouted.
Switha smiled as if she had seen it all before. “Calm yourself, dear. I only say that it is a possibility. I have seen wounds like these before. The worst ones start to smell, worse than a rotting, dead cow on a hot summer’s day. Then they go green and swell up, filled with all manner of evil, foul-smelling demons. If that happens you will die if left to your own devices. Or if you come to me, you might survive, but only if we cut off the limb before the demons make their way to the rest of your body.”
Thurkill found he was shaking with fear again. “Without my arm, I am nothing. I only know how to fight and if I can’t hold a shield then even that will be taken from me.”
“Well, there is a good chance you won’t lose it so stop bleating about what you can’t control. In all my years I’ve never heard such whining; you’re worse than an infant. As I say, there is no smell as yet, but we’ll know more in a few days. Until then you must rest and regain your strength. The best healer I know is the body itself, if you give it a chance. I am certain you will live to do more killing,” the disdain in her voice showed what she thought of the practice, “though I do not know who you will fight for, as I hear our king is dead. Perhaps you will fight for this new one from overseas?”
“Never!” Thurkill had shouted again. “I would give my life to kill the Norman Bastard, just as soon as I have made sure that my kin are safe back home in Kent.”
Switha chuckled. “Well, you’re going nowhere for a while, dear boy. Not with this arm.” With that she set about her work, dipping into her sack to draw out a mixing bowl and handfuls of various types of herbs and other plants. With a practised hand she worked them into a paste, using more of the warm water and other, unknown substances. When it was ready, she took a handful of the pungent mixture and carefully smeared and pressed it over the open wound before binding it as tight as she could with more strips of cloth.
Thurkill forgot his earlier promise to himself and yelped as she pulled hard on the cloth, as she wrapped it around his arm several times. “Does it have to be quite so tight? It feels like my arm will drop off by itself.”
“Ach. All this fuss over a little cut. It has to be thus,” she explained patiently, “so that the two sides may be pulled together to help the wound to close properly. You can’t go around with half your arm hanging out now, can you?
“There,” she said, packing the bowl and leftover herbs back into her bag, “I will come back in two or three days to check the wound and put a new poultice on. Try to keep out of mischief until then and don’t get in Estrith’s way.” With that she strode from the house, laughing at her own joke as she went.
TWENTY-ONE
22 October, Brightling
In the week that followed, Thurkill could feel himself improving with every day that passed. As promised, Switha had come back after three days to redress his wounds. She had removed the cloth strips from around his head altogether, content that no more need be done as far as that wound was concerned. It was still sore, and he could not yet lie down to sleep on that side at night, but other than that it was no more than a minor irritation.
She’d been far more worried about his arm, carefully unwrapping the bindings before gently wiping away the remains of the herb poultice. Thurkill had steeled himself for the worst. The wound had been throbbing almost incessantly, so much so that he had convinced himself that it must be diseased and would have to be removed. After a couple of sleepless nights, he had begun to resign himself to a life with just one arm, assuming – of course – he survived its removal. He knew not what he would do, but he was determined he would not let it be the end of his life, whatever happened.
As soon as the bindings had been removed, he could not help but sniff the air, as Switha herself had done that first night, trying to assess whether he could smell putrefaction. The old woman had smiled kindly, understanding his fear. Taking his arm gently in her hands, she’d raised it to her nose and inhaled deeply. Watching her face intently, he’d searched for a sign – good or bad – in her expression, but to no avail. Just when he’d been about to demand answers, she had let go of his arm and pronounced curtly: “ There’s no decay.”
Thurkill had let out a huge sigh of relief. He would remain whole after all; he would not surrender his shield arm just yet. All those thoughts of what would become of him had faded into the back of his mind. Closing his eyes, he’d raised his face to the heavens and prayed aloud: “Thank you, Lord, for my deliverance”.
Switha had chuckled but said nothing, causing Thurkill to blush, remembering her supposed lack of faith in the Christian God. Still, she had not seemed offended. No harm done, he’d told himself with a grin. Switha, meanwhile, had continued to inspect his arm. The wound was healing well; the skin already starting to knit together to close over the wound and some of the swelling had reduced. The flesh around the wound was still an angry pink and painful to the touch, but at least it looked healthy to his untrained eye. Indeed, Switha had soon pronounced herself satisfied with the results of her work and had finished off by applying a new poultice and re-binding the wound with fresh, clean strips of cloth.
Soon after, Thurkill felt strong enough to venture outside for the first time. Since his arrival he had been confined to a bed, hastily thrown together by Estrith, in the opposite corner of the room from the rest of the family. He had been acutely aware of the fact that Eahlmund’s mother would rather he were not there, not least because he was rapidly eating her out of hearth and home now that his appetite was back with a vengeance. It was another sign that he was on the mend, and his huge frame needed a lot of food to fuel it. He’d gladly given them what few coins he had in his pouch but he knew it was not enough compared to what they were doing for him.
Eahlmund lent him some of his clothes; his own had been beyond the pale, being blood-stained and ripped beyond repair. Estrith had taken them off him without a word, before burning them without ceremony behind the house. His mail shirt, axe and shield, however, he had carefully hidden, wrapped in the remains of his cloak, in the rafters of the hamlet’s communal barn just behind the church. He felt sure he would be needing them again before too long.
It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air once again. It also meant he could finally contribute towards his keep, though his arm was not yet strong enough to allow him to do anything other than the least manual jobs. But it felt good to be part of a community once more. The last few weeks and months had been a time of turmoil and upheaval as they had waited for an invasion that they knew would come sooner or later. Now he was back doing what he had grown up with and it felt very much like home. The memories of the horrors of
battle, the loss of his father, were receding bit by bit as he rediscovered the joys of working the land. The villagers had welcomed him with little hesitation; there was always work to be found for another willing pair of hands especially since only Eahlmund and one other had returned from Senlac. The fact that he had stood with the king ‘til the end lent him a status and measure of respect that he felt he ill-deserved. Nonetheless, there was no doubt it had helped his acceptance.
One in particular seemed more pleased than most at his arrival; a girl of roughly the same age who went by the name of Hild. He hadn’t noticed her at first, and only became aware of her a day or two later when they were working in one of the barley fields. Eahlmund had nudged him a little too sharply in the ribs, smirked and nodded, directing him to look over to his left. Glancing over, he found himself looking at a girl with flowing blonde locks that framed a face as round and as bright as the sun. His mouth formed an involuntary O shape as he stared for her beauty was striking. She was standing in the middle of a group of three other girls and it was immediately obvious that they were talking about him as they were throwing what they took to be secretive looks in his direction, giggling and whispering behind their hands.
Thurkill blushed furiously and immediately jerked his head back to his front. Focusing on his work, he dared to hope that she’d not seen him looking at her, but to no avail. The four girls burst into peals of laughter before scampering off back to the hamlet. He had stood dumbfounded for a moment, the fleeting image of her face etched indelibly in his mind like the bright sun burns its image in your mind when you close your eyes. As nonchalantly as possible, he had resumed the back-breaking work of tying down the remaining stems of the recently harvested crop. If he had thought he was going to get away with it, however, he had been sadly mistaken.
“I think she likes you, my friend.” Eahlmund laughed, unable to conceal his delight at his friend’s obvious embarrassment, laughter that was echoed around them by every other farmhand in earshot.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 16