Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  “Still here, Lord, and showing no signs of leaving just yet, if I’m any judge.”

  Thurkill raged inside. This was his village by rights; to have it infested with these foul scum was beyond the pale. “What makes you say that, Osfric?”

  “Well, they’ve made themselves at home, that’s for sure. Kicked your aunt and sister out of their hall and installed themselves in there instead. Doing their best to eat their way through all your stores as well. In fact, I’ve been sent out here to bring in yet another of my herd for tonight’s feast, if you please. And I doubt they’ll pay me for it either.”

  “Has no one tried to stop them?” Thurkill could feel his ire rising once again. This was his land and he was not going to stand by and allow it to be pillaged by these Norman whoresons.

  Osfric looked hurt, as if the challenge had been directed at him personally. “If you could suggest how a bunch of farmhands and shepherds are supposed to stand up to a dozen heavily armed warriors, I’d be all ears.” He paused… “No offence intended, Lord, but we can do no more; to do so would be to invite death and we all have families that depend on us. A few of us already have bumps and bruises to show for our pains.” He pointed at his leg which he proceeded to rub tenderly for good measure.

  “My apologies, Osfric. I did not mean to suggest a lack of honour or courage on your part. It is the situation that angers me, not you. If my father were here, I’m sure he would have a plan all figured out by now.” Thurkill sat down heavily on the log, next to Osfric, resting his chin on his palm as he did so.

  Eventually, Thurkill lifted his head. “Wait. You said that my kin had been kicked out of the hall?” Osfric nodded. “Where are they now?”

  “They have taken up lodging with old Swifhilda in her hut on the edge of these woods. She lives on her own and had room to spare for them.”

  “I will go there now. It’s getting dark and we need a place to bed down for the night. My thanks, Osfric.” Thurkill stood, clapping the swineherd on the shoulder as he rose.

  ***

  It was a short walk to Swifhilda’s hut. The door had seen better days and was in need of replacement. Through the gaps where it no longer fitted snugly within its frame, he could see a shimmering light. He shivered in anticipation; both of the warmth of the fire that burned within and with the thought of seeing his kin again for the first time since he had left to go north with Harold to face the Vikings. It seemed like an age ago now; so much had happened in between.

  The sound of a dog barking inside the hut brought him back to the moment. It was whining and scrabbling at the door, as if desperate to be released.

  “Who’s there?” His aunt’s voice, although tremulous still retained a shadow of its familiar strength. Nevertheless, Thurkill was shocked to hear the change in her; she had once been so confident and commanding, sure of her position. All that had changed.

  Without waiting to be invited, Thurkill pushed open the door and strode in, followed closely by Eahlmund. In unison, the three women within shrieked in response to his war-like appearance. At the same time, the dog bounded over and launched himself head first into his midriff, before proceeding to jump up at him repeatedly.

  “Eric”, he beamed, pleased to be reunited with his hound. “Down!” he roared more in jest than anger, trying fruitlessly to push the daft mutt away from him. But it was no good, Eric was not to be put off. Accepting the inevitable, Thurkill sank to his knees, allowing the dog to place his front paws on his shoulders and slobber his face with great sloppy licks of his huge, rough tongue.

  In the meantime, Aga and Edith stared dumbly at him, open-mouthed in shock. “What?” he laughed, pushing the dog away as he rose to his feet. “Is your favourite nephew and brother not worthy of a hug to welcome him home?” Then with pretend peevishness, he added, “At least Eric is pleased to see me.”

  The spell was broken. As one, the two women threw themselves forward, wrapping Thurkill in their arms, crying and laughing in equal measure. It was Aga who recovered first.

  “Thank the good Lord that you live, nephew. When you didn’t return from Senlac we feared the worst, especially…what with your father,” she hesitated over this last, suddenly fearful that he might not yet know.

  Thurkill nodded solemnly. “I was there with him at the end. Rest assured he died bravely, sword in hand, giving his life to defend his king.”

  Aga sniffed, her eyes welling with tears of pride and sorrow. “It pleases me to know that he did his duty until death.” She gathered herself with a visible effort. “Anyway, look at the state of you. When was the last time your face saw water, it’s filthy! And – good God – what’s happened to your ear? I let you out of my sight for a few days and this is what happens?” She had to stand on tip toe to push his hair away to get a better look.

  “Ach, don’t fuss, woman,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “’Tis no more than a scratch. This, on the other hand, was much worse.” With an evil grin, he pulled back the sleeve of his tunic to reveal the long, jagged scar which ran half the length of his forearm from his wrist. “That almost did for me, I don’t mind telling you” he said with boyish pride, with one eye on Edith to see her reaction. “But for the work of an old healer at Eahlmund’s village, I would have died, I’m sure.”

  “Eahlmund? Is that the poor boy stood behind you whom you have, ‘til now, failed to introduce?” she scolded.

  Thurkill bowed respectfully, though his words dripped with playful sarcasm. “My sincerest apologies, dearest aunt and honoured sister. This,” he waved his arm theatrically in the direction of his friend, “is Eahlmund, son of Ealdric, from the village of Brightling which stands three days’ march to the south and west of here and but a mere stone’s throw from the site of the battle. Eahlmund,” he turned to face him, “This is my aunt, Aga, sister of my noble father, Scalpi and this is my sister, Edith, daughter of Scalpi.”

  With the introductions made, Thurkill went on to explain all that had happened at Senlac and beyond, while Swifhilda and Edith busied themselves preparing a simple meal of bread, cheese and apples. As they ate, Thurkill turned the conversation round to Aga and what had happened in the village.

  “Why do I find you here, Aunt, lodging with Swifhilda, for which,” he nodded to her, “you have my everlasting gratitude, instead of in my father’s hall where you belong?”

  Aga looked down at the table, shame-faced. “There was nothing I could do, Killi. We were powerless to stop them. There may only be a dozen of them but they are warriors all and not afraid of a few farm-hands, women and old men. Though we are many, we are no match for them. They’ve already killed poor Aethelnoth.”

  Thurkill had not known this and he fought to control his emotions with difficulty. As a boy, he had trained with him with spear and shield on many occasions and had considered him a friend, a brother almost. “In God’s name, why? What sort of threat was he to them?”

  “He took exception to our eviction from the hall. Perhaps they were in a bad mood, or perhaps they wanted to make an example of him to the rest of us, but either way their leader simply drew his sword and cleaved him almost in two after he dared to stand up for us.” Tears came once again to Aga’s eyes as she called to mind what she had witnessed.

  Thurkill hugged her reassuringly then released her. “Tell me more about their leader. What sort of man is he?”

  Aga shuddered involuntarily at the thought. “As cruel a man in looks and deeds I never did see. He introduced himself as Richard, eldest son of the Count of Gilbert, though whoever or wherever that is I couldn’t tell you.

  “He is a dark-haired man, not as tall as you by any means, but thick-set. There’s something about the way he looks at you that sends shivers down your spine. He doesn’t have to raise his voice; it is the look in his eyes that pierces you and stops you cold; it’s enough to make you do his bidding without question. The worst thing, however, is that scar. Long it is, all the way from the corner of his mouth to his ear, almost. When he speaks, it�
�s like it’s alive, dancing up and down across his face in time with his words.”

  Aga stopped, seeing the look on her nephew’s face. “Do you know him, Killi?”

  “I know of him, if it is the same man. He came to Lundenburh carrying a banner from the Pope, with a monk who demanded that Harold give up his throne. He was also the one who mutilated Harold’s body without care or mercy. An evil bastard without any redeeming features.”

  Aga tutted absent-mindedly at the language, more out of habit than anything, causing Thurkill to laugh. “Aunt, I am not a boy to be molly-coddled any longer. Those days have passed. What’s more I am now lord of this village with a duty to defend and protect those that live here. If I am to do that, I will have to do far worse than utter a few choice words.”

  Aga gave him a look of pride mixed with fear and determination in equal measure. “Your father would be proud if he could see and hear you now, of that I am certain. But what are we to do? Haslow is in the hands of these thugs who have set up home in your father’s hall. We are forced to wait on them, to prepare feasts for them which they eat at your father’s table. What’s more,” Aga continued, lowering her voice so that Edith would not hear, “I have seen the way this Richard looks at your sister. The longer this goes on, the more I fear for her.”

  Blinded by rage, Thurkill strode over to the door and punched his hand into the frame, oblivious to the pain. “That foul foreign filth will pay with his life if he so much as looks at her the wrong way.”

  Aga waited until the outburst had blown itself out before responding. “Have a care, nephew. Using violence against such numbers would not be wise. But perhaps, now the rightful lord of Haslow is back, things may be different. We should try at least to reason with them. After all, the reason they came here at all was because they said we needed their protection with you and your father both believed to have been slain on the battlefield.”

  Slumping down in his chair once more, Thurkill grunted, though it wasn’t clear whether he was in agreement with Aga or not.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  27 October, Haslow

  Thurkill woke just as the first rays of watery autumn sunshine began to stream through the gaps in the walls of Swifhelda’s hut. The wind moved the tree branches back and forth making the light dance continually across his face, blinding his eyes every few moments, until he was unable to ignore it any longer.

  Sitting up he panicked a little when he noticed that neither Aga or Edith were there, until he remembered his aunt saying they would be gone before dawn to oversee the preparation of breakfast for FitzGilbert and his men in the lord’s hall. The knowledge that his kin were little more than slaves for the foreign invader in his own home did nothing to assuage his foul mood.

  Perhaps sensing the strained atmosphere, Eahlmund’s tone was overtly respectful. “God’s blessings this fine morning, Lord. I would know your pleasure for the day.”

  Despite himself, Thurkill could not help but chuckle at his friend’s awkward attempt at formal conversation; he was clearly unused to it. “There is no need for such ceremony between us, Eahlmund. Particularly when it is so clumsily done.”

  Eahlmund shrugged but smirked nonetheless, relieved at being excused such strictures. “Your pardon, Lord. I’m not used to talking to lords and all. Right then, so are we going to teach these Norman bastards some manners or what?”

  “I fear it may not be as simple as that, my friend. Our guests control the playing board; they have many more pieces than us and arranged against ours in the strongest positions. We will need no small amount of luck and subterfuge if we are to come through this with all our pieces intact. First of all, however, we wait; and while we do that, I see no reason not to set about this fine meal that has been left for us.”

  ***

  Not long after they had finished, Aga came into the hut and placed a large bundle on the ground. Straightening up, she pushed her hands into the small of her back, trying to ease the muscles that ached with the effort of having carried the heavy burden all the way from the hall.

  “I think that’s everything you wanted. Well, at least I hope it is as I don’t have time to fetch anything else. I need to get back before I am missed.”

  “My thanks, aunt. I will follow on shortly.”

  “You see that you tread carefully, Thurkill. I won’t lose a brother and a nephew all within the same moon.”

  “Fear not. I have no intention of being reunited with my father just yet. Besides, I have Eahlmund here to keep me out of trouble.”

  Eahlmund laughed. “Some chance I’d have of stopping you from being a fool.”

  With Aga gone, Thurkill squatted down to open the bundle. Inside he was pleased to find all that he had requested. His father’s best mail shirt which had been lovingly repaired and polished since it had been recovered, along with its owner’s body, from the battlefield. There were also two sets of clean clothes, the finest they possessed, including a new cloak with golden brooch and other of the finest accoutrements the family possessed. He intended to make an impression and he hoped that what he had available to him now would do just that.

  “Right, Eahlmund. You’re to play the part of my trusted captain. It will be a stretch, of course, but I need you to get out of your farmer’s rags and put on these nice clothes. On top of that you can wear my mailshirt and this new cloak here. I’ll take my father’s shirt.”

  Eahlmund looked dubious, but began to remove his clothes all the same. “You know that if you put a pig in a dress, it’s still a pig?”

  Thurkill laughed. “Yes, I know few would ever believe you are of noble birth, but if you keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking then we should be alright. Just concentrate on looking as menacing as you can.”

  Although he was considerably larger in build than his father had been, Thurkill found that the mail shirt was a decent fit; a little snug under the armpits but not so much as to affect his agility too much. He wondered whether Aga had adjusted it in some way. With it on, he marvelled at how shiny it seemed in the light of the sun that streamed through the windows. The smell and touch of it brought a lump to his throat as it brought back memories of the day he and his father had set off to Lundenburh to join up with Harold’s army.

  Shaking his head to clear his mind, he got back to the task in hand. He buckled the leather belt around his middle, pulling it tight so that it helped take up some of the weight of the heavy mail. From the belt he hung his seax and axe, one on either side of his body. Then, reaching down, he picked up the cloak Hild had given him, throwing it round his shoulders before using the ornate golden clasp to fasten it at his left shoulder. To finish, he grabbed the bone comb that Swifhilda had left on the table and proceeded to force it through his unkempt mop of hair. Multiple curses and painful winces later, he gave up. It would have to do. Shrugging to himself, he turned to check on Eahlmund’s progress.

  He could not prevent a sharp intake of breath. “By God’s hairy scrotum, but you gave me a shock. I almost didn’t recognise you for a minute.” The transformation was nothing short of remarkable. Gone was the grubby farm worker and in his place stood, for all intents and purposes, a full-blown huscarl. Not as tall as Thurkill but no less imposing for that. Years spent working the land had left him with a frame that was as muscled as any warrior. The mailshirt fitted him like a second skin, and he was clearly relishing the feel of the fine clothes, never having worn anything so luxurious in all his life.

  The only thing that ruined the look was the fact that he stood there grinning like an idiot; like a new-born foal filled with wonder at its first steps into the world. Removing the sword from its sheath at his side – a weapon no one of his station could ever hope to afford, let alone use – he proceeded to swing it wildly around his head, making cuts and thrusts at an imaginary enemy, accompanied by challenges and insults shouted at the top of his voice.

  Thurkill laughed and clapped his hands appreciatively. “Well, there’s no faulting your enthusiasm, but y
our sword-skills could do with a bit of work.”

  “I think I could get used to this, my friend. Prancing around like a pretty peacock seems preferable to slaving away in a muddy field on a rainy day. Is this all that you noble boys do all day?”

  “That and stuff ourselves silly and drink ourselves insensible every night; it’s a great life, for sure. Right, it’s time we were going. Remember, leave the talking to me but keep your wits about you. I’ve no idea how this may turn out and we may need to be fleet of mind and foot if things go awry.”

  ***

  They were met at the door of the hall by two Norman soldiers. If the full impact of his situation hadn’t been apparent to Thurkill before, then this simple barrier brought it home beyond all doubt. He had not imagined to find the way into his own hall barred by the outstretched, mailed arm of a grim-faced soldier. The soldier barked some harsh words in his own tongue in a voice that exuded authority. Having no idea what had been said, Thurkill simply made as if to push past. “Out of my way, man. Would you dare stop me from entering my own hall?”

  The soldier took a step to his left, now fully blocking Thurkill’s path. Simultaneously, he placed his gloved hand squarely in his chest and gave a firm shove while repeating the same words, but even more aggressively than before. Taken by surprise, Thurkill was forced to take a couple of steps back to avoid losing his balance.

  He was momentarily confused, unsure how to react. He felt his cheeks colouring; anger mixed with the embarrassment of being treated in this way on his own land. To make matters worse, a number of villagers had stopped to watch the exchange, doubtless having recognised Scalpi’s son. He could not afford to lose face this early in proceedings, but he was equally aware that he must tread carefully. He was supposed to be the Lord of Haslow and he could not afford to act like a rampaging bull. Not just yet, at least.