Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  Hild nodded, pensive, before skipping ahead. “Come on; my bag is full of mushrooms now and you need to catch some rabbits in case anyone wonders what you’ve been up to. Can’t have the mighty warrior going back empty-handed – what would people think of you and your fearsome weapon?”

  He saw the sparkle in her eye and realised she was thinking back to the river. “Why you little…” He roared in mock anger as she scampered away, half screaming half laughing, with him bounding after her.

  TWENTY-TWO

  23 October, Brightling

  They were still some way from the village when they heard the sound of screaming, shouting and many feet crashing through the undergrowth. Moments later, Thurkill spied the first villagers running towards them, darting in and out of the tree trunks as they fled. Any concerns about being spotted with Hild were forgotten immediately; something was horribly wrong.

  “What’s happening?” The fear in Hild’s voice echoed his own.

  Thurkill’s jaw was set in a grimace for he feared the worst. “I don’t know for sure, but I’ll wager it has something to do with our new neighbours.” Without his mail shirt and axe he was next to useless, but at least he had a bow and spear. But, then he was just one man and who knew what awaited them in the village?

  Just then, he recognised one of the men rushing towards them; one of the lads he had worked the fields with not two days since. “Hey! Brithnoth. What news?”

  But Brithnoth showed no signs of slowing let alone stopping. Fleeing Brightling was all that was on his mind, until Thurkill stepped into his path to grab his arm, almost wrenching it from its socket in the process.

  “Unhand me, you fool. The Normans are right behind us. You’d run too if you knew what was good for you.”

  “I’ll let you go when you tell me what’s happening and not before.”

  Brithnoth struggled to free himself but Thurkill’s grip was too tight. He seemed to think about throwing a punch, but then, perhaps wisely, thought better of it. He was not about to fight someone far taller and bigger than him, Normans or no Normans. Instead, his shoulders slumped. “A group of about five horsemen rode into the village a short while back. Armed to the teeth they were.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know but they have taken Eahlmund. Perhaps they are looking for fugitives from the battle. Men like you,” he spat contemptuously to one side as if blaming Thurkill for their predicament.

  With his friend’s safety at stake, anxiety took hold of Thurkill’s mind. “What have they done to him?”

  “Not much as far as I could tell. Well, not up to the point where we all ran for it anyway.”

  “What do you mean, man? Piss or get off the pot for God’s sake.”

  In his eagerness to be away, Brithnoth gabbled his words. “First, they roughed him up a bit, gave him a slap or two. Then they accused him of having fought against them and of helping some of Harold’s own men to escape. Well, then his old dad, Ealdric, tried to intervene. He was having none of it, you see? So, he rushed at them with nothing more than a scythe.”

  “By almighty God, what was he thinking, the fool! Is he dead?”

  “He managed to put one on his arse – stabbed him in the leg, you see - but the others put an end to it. It was quick but it was gruesome all the same. As soon as folk saw that, they ran for it. All except Estrith and your father, Hild.”

  Thurkill hadn’t known Ealdric for long but he felt a stab of grief at his death all the same. The old man had been kind to him when he had arrived and now he had paid the price for his hospitality. He also felt sorry for his friend. He knew what it was like to watch your father die in front of you and be unable to stop it. This time, however, perhaps he could do something to help.

  “My thanks, Brithnoth. I have one more favour to ask you, however. Will you come back with me now to help Eahlmund? We can’t leave your friend to the mercy of these scum.”

  Brithnoth looked miserable. Torn between a desperation to run and fear of this hulking warrior with reputation to match who towered over him. Then there was Hild. She was looking at him in that way she always did, the way that all the men in the hamlet found impossible to resist. He blushed and looked down at his feet, unable to look either of them in the eye.

  “But, I have no weapon.”

  “That’s soon sorted; you can have my spear. You know how to use one, right? You have trained with the fyrd in the past, I assume, even if you were not called to fight this time?”

  Brithnoth nodded slowly. His face had now turned very pale; he looked as if he were about to vomit, which Thurkill considered quite likely in the circumstances. So as not to give the poor man any further time to object, he took control of the situation

  “Right, that settles it, then. The three of us will head back to the village and see what we can do about rescuing Eahlmund, Nothelm and anyone else that they might have there.”

  ***

  By the time they arrived at the edge of the treeline, close to the first of the houses, Brithnoth was shaking with fear. Thurkill seriously doubted how much use he would be if it came to a fight, but at least he might look like he was a threat and distract some of the soldiers away from him for a short while.

  On a more positive note, he did have Hild. She had already grabbed the bow off him, claiming to possess some skill in its use. Her father had been denied the son he’d always wanted, she said, and so he had been determined to teach his daughter to use a bow, both for hunting and for self-defence. She swore, with no small amount of pride, that she could take down a squirrel from fifty paces nine times out of ten. Even so, it was not the most powerful bow he had ever seen and he doubted it would be much use against mail, but she might get lucky. More encouraging, though, was her demeanour; her fierce determination was about the only thing holding Brithnoth’s resolve in place. Thurkill could not have been more impressed to find that her fair exterior masked a warrior heart that matched his own.

  Hild had guided them to the point nearest to Eahlmund’s house. Having given away the spear and bow, Thurkill now only had his seax which was too short to be much use in a hand to hand fight against trained warriors. He needed his war-axe and that meant getting into the barn next door to retrieve it from the rafters where he had hidden it the day after his arrival. Only then would the odds be tipped a little more in his favour. He just hoped his strength had returned sufficiently to enable him to make a decent fist of what was to come.

  From his vantage point, he had a good view of what was happening in the village. But for the five Norman soldiers and Eahlmund, the place looked deserted. His friend looked terrible, though. He was kneeling in the middle of the village square, his head bowed and his face bloodied from what looked to have been a savage beating. Not far from him lay the prostrate form of his father, a dark patch spreading away from his chest where the fatal wound had struck him. The only other person in sight was the village headman. Nothelm was standing on a small barrel that had been positioned beneath the roof beams of the church, from which a rope dangled, the end of which had been looped around his neck. Thurkill glanced sideways at Hild to see she had also noticed her father’s predicament. Though her eyes burned with hatred, she showed no other signs of reacting.

  Nodding empathetically, Thurkill turned back to assess the strength of the enemy. One of them seemed to be out of action. Sitting with his back against the church wall, his leg bound with bloodstained strips of cloth, he looked pale and listless as if not long for this world. Thurkill allowed himself a wry smile; at least the old boy had not died in vain.

  His survey complete, he whispered his instructions to his companions. “We need to move quickly. There’s no telling how long we have until they decide to bring matters to an end. But first I need you to wait here while I get my axe. Then, when I give the signal, we attack.”

  “What will be the signal? How will we know?” Brithnoth’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  “You’ll know, my friend. Trust me.”
He put a steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder, fixing him with a firm glare. As he did so, he noted with no little satisfaction that the farmhand seemed to calm himself a little. Confronted with the sight of Eahlmund, he had found a hitherto unknown reserve of courage. Whatever the reason for it, Thurkill was grateful, feeling his own spirits rise as a result. Perhaps they did have some small chance of success after all.

  As he watched, however, things took a turn for the worse. At a word from the man who seemed to be in charge, two of the soldiers strode over to the blacksmith’s house, where each of them grabbed a burning log from the forge. Holding the firebrands at arm’s length, they headed towards the far end of the village where they proceeded to set fire to the thatch. Even though the straw was damp from recent autumnal showers, it did not take long to burst into flames.

  “That changes things,” Thurkill sighed. “But at the same time, it might help. Now, two of the bastards are otherwise engaged and may take a moment or two to react. Let’s delay no longer. Be ready for the signal.”

  With that he stole away, seax in hand, half crouching, half running behind the row of houses until he had reached the rear wall of the barn. There he stopped, holding his breath and listening for any sign of his having been detected. Hearing nothing, he allowed himself to exhale slowly, giving thanks to God that they had decided to fire the end of the village furthest from him.

  The door to the barn faced off to the main path through the village so there was no way he could use that entrance without being seen. On this side, however, there was a small window, just over half a man’s height up the wall. It would be tight but he was sure he could squeeze through without too much difficulty.

  Once on the inside, he ran to where he had left his weapon, up in the rafters wrapped in his torn and blood-stained cloak, the pungent smell of it bringing back painful memories of the battle. He grabbed hold of the shaft, feeling a new sense of strength and courage coursing through his veins, dispelling the torpor that had threatened to swamp him. He hefted the weapon, taking pleasure in its familiar weight and balance. He had not had a chance to sharpen it since the battle so it had lost some of its edge and still bore more than a few nicks and notches from where it had bitten iron, wood and bone. Nevertheless, he was confident it would still serve its deadly purpose.

  Next to it lay his battered shield, emblazoned with the tattered remnants of the Wessex wyvern and still with one or two arrow heads protruding from the battered boards. In truth, it was well beyond its useful life and would never see service in the shieldwall again, but needs must. It might yet block a blow or two. Twinges of pain shot up his forearm as he lifted the shield into position, but they soon faded. He flexed his grip on the leather strap, testing the strength and resilience of his arm. It had not been called upon since the battle for anything other than the most basic of tasks. To his delight, the newly knitted flesh held firm. Nor was his movement hindered in any way. The muscles seemed ready to go to work and the memory of long hours spent training with the heavy shield had not been forgotten. Though not at his best, he was stronger than he had dared hope.

  A series of shouts from without reminded him of the job ahead of him. By the sounds of it, the two other soldiers had taken once again to beating poor Eahlmund. Thurkill didn’t understand the language but the tone was enough to go by. Most likely they were demanding to know the whereabouts of other fugitives in the area. It did not really matter, though; they would pay dearly whatever the case.

  Standing by the door, Thurkill used the narrow gaps between the warped wall planks to peer outside. The wounded man had now slumped over to one side, unconscious at least, but quite probably dead. That’s one fewer to worry about, he smiled. Nevertheless, there were still four of them and he would have to work quickly if he were to survive. He had to act while they were still separated. Dispatch the two men by the church while the others were out of reach. To take on all four together, would surely see them all killed.

  There was no time for sophistication in his planning; surprise, speed and aggression would have to see him through. He just hoped Hild and Brithnoth were ready. He took one final look through the slats to fix the location of the two nearest soldiers precisely in his mind, and then took and held a deep breath.

  Then Thurkill raised his right foot and smashed it through the rickety barn door, splintering the wood with a noise that seemed to echo off the surrounding buildings. In the same instant he was out into the open and running towards the nearest Norman, screaming in rage. As he thundered over the packed earth, he saw two things happening; Brithnoth, the brave as he would henceforth be known, had leapt from cover and was charging towards the other man with his spear held out firmly in front of him. At the same time, Hild had taken up position to one side and was now nocking an arrow in place ready to draw. Confused by the sudden commotion, the two other soldiers, still busy firing the thatched rooves at the far end of the village, turned to stare in astonishment. Moments later, they started to run back, dropping their torches and dragging swords from scabbards as they came.

  The two nearest soldiers, however, were frozen to the spot, torn between the twin threats of the archer and spearman on one side and the death-bringing warrior charging out of the barn. Their indecision proved to be their undoing. With a huge lunge, Thurkill ploughed into his man, shoving his shield boss into his chest, and knocking aside his sword which he had managed to raise at the last minute to meet the threat. The force of the impact sent him sprawling backwards a full six feet. Before he could recover, Thurkill was on him, smashing the axe blade against his skull.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he spun round to face the second man. To his credit, Brithnoth’s had scored a hit on his upper thigh opening a wound which, if not immediately life threatening, was enough to hamper his movement. The two of them were now circling each other, the Norman trying to keep his damaged leg to the rear while using his sword to fend off Brithnoth’s jabs. Fifty or so paces away, he could see Hild, her bow drawn back to her chin, waiting for an opportunity to loose an arrow, but the Norman was no fool, deliberately keeping Brithnoth between him and her as much as possible.

  None of his skill and guile, however, could prevent an attack in the rear from Thurkill. There was no honour in it, but he had no choice. The man had to be put down before his two remaining comrades could reach them. Relying on brute force more than the axe’s blunted edge, he swung it as hard as he could in a horizontal arc, connecting with the side of the Norman’s helmetless head. It was like a tree being felled; his eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he collapsed on the spot, unconscious, his legs unable to support his weight.

  “Look out!” Hild’s urgent shout from behind alerted him to the imminent danger. Twisting round, he raised his shield more in hope than expectation, but his instincts were good. The onrushing Norman’s sword crashed heavily into its battered edge, severing a large segment of the wood in the process. It had done its job, though, saving his life one final time. In fury, he hurled what remained of it at his assailant’s face. It took him by surprise, forcing him to take a step back and to one side. Seizing the opportunity, Thurkill unleashed a wild flurry of vicious two-handed blows, driving his opponent back step by step as he hurriedly parried each strike.

  To his right, Brithnoth was now sorely pressed by the fourth soldier. The poor lad was not a warrior by any stretch and was fighting desperately for his life. He had done well to injure the first man, but had been helped by the initial surprise of the attack. It was surely only a matter of time before he fell victim to the more experienced and deadlier fighter. With his own fight on his hands, though, Thurkill was powerless to help him. He could only pray that he could hold out a while longer.

  Meanwhile, he wasn’t having it all his own way either. His opponent was blessed with an abundance of skill with the sword and – having withstood his frenzied attack with aplomb – he was now starting to assert himself. Thurkill took a moment to weigh up his options, deciding subterf
uge would be the best, albeit riskiest, option. He took a step or two back, as if trying to disengage from the fight. At the same time, he puffed out his cheeks blowing heavily through his mouth, taking great gulps of air as if struggling for breath. As he hoped, the Norman came on at him. Backing off still further, he offered no more than cursory blocks until he once again leaned over, resting his hands on his thighs for a moment.

  The ruse worked like a charm; grinning in triumph, the Norman closed in to finish Thurkill. But before his killing blow could land, the Saxon stepped neatly to the left and smashed the haft of his axe into the Norman’s face with every bit of strength he had. The thick wood shattered the man’s nose and mouth. Teeth flew in all directions while blood sprayed from his ruined nostrils. Amazingly, he did not fall; he was so dazed, however, that he swayed where he stood, tears of pain streaming uncontrollably from his eyes. Without mercy, Thurkill kneed him in the balls and then punched his seax hard into his gut as he was doubled over in agony. This time he went down and did not move.

  That left just one to deal with; he hoped he was not too late. Turning, he saw his worst fears were true. The Norman had Brithnoth at his mercy. The farmhand had lost his footing and had fallen back to land in a heap on his arse. But now Hild finally had the chance she had been waiting for and she let fly with her arrow. True to her word, her aim from fifty paces was good; the missile struck the soldier squarely in the chest as he raised his sword above his head ready to bear down on Brithnoth. Although it failed to penetrate his mail shirt, the punch it delivered was enough to make him stagger back. With surprising speed, Brithnoth was on his feet in an instant, running at the soldier, howling with emotion, fear and anger. He hit the soldier so hard that the blade punched its way through the mail shirt and out through his back. Pumping his legs hard, Brithnoth’s momentum carried the two men several more paces until they slammed into the wall of the church close by to where Hild’s father was still bound. The Norman clawed futilely at the spear, trying to free himself, but the damage was done. The blade had eviscerated his vital organs and it was just a matter of time until he bled out.