Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  “Urgh. Why does it taste so good the night before and then hurt so much the next day?”

  At that moment, Osfric came in with his son and two other men. “Ha! You young ‘uns never learn to hold your drink. That kind of skill takes maturity and wisdom far beyond your years.”

  Thurkill grinned ruefully. “I’ll be alright once I’ve broken my fast. But tell me, who’s this with you?”

  The taller of the two men stepped forward stiffly. “Lord, I am Leofric, and this is my brother, Leofgar, sons of Aelfgar, your father’s loyal tenant who has tilled these lands these past many years. We are sorry for your loss; Scalpi was a fair and wise lord. To honour his memory, we have come to fight for his son so that he may take back what is rightfully his.”

  Thurkill nodded solemnly. “You are welcome at my side, Leofric, as are you, Leofgar. I remember your father well, though I am surprised not to see him here with you. I trust he is in good health?”

  Leofric sniffed. “He is well indeed, Lord, and remains loyal to you. He wanted to come but our mother forbade it, saying he would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

  Thurkill clapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly and laughed. “I meant no slight on his honour. I was just fearful that he must have passed on as I remember him to be a stout fellow who would not willingly shy away from a fight.”

  “’Twas ever thus, Lord. The only fight he has ever been known to avoid is one with our mother. He knows that is a battle he can never win no matter how hard he were to fight.”

  Behind them, the door opened again. Standing there was a grinning Eahlmund, holding his arms wide with a freshly caught rabbit in each outstretched hand. “Breakfast.”

  As they ate, Thurkill turned his mind to the matter in hand. “So, what to do now with our little army? I cannot pretend it will be easy and we must not throw our lives away unnecessarily. There are still twice as many of them as there are of us; it would be foolhardy to try and take them on man to man.”

  “It would be best if we could even the odds in some way. We can’t take them all on at the same time.”

  Thurkill grabbed another rabbit leg from the wooden platter in the centre of table, ripping the meat from the bone and allowing the juices to flow unhindered down his chin. “A fine point, Eahlmund, but how do we achieve that? We cannot simply ask them nicely if they would oblige us.”

  “We won’t have to, Lord. Not if we use the brains that God saw fit to give us.”

  “How so, Osfric?”

  “Most days, a few of the soldiers head off into the woods to hunt boar and deer. I suppose it stops them getting bored, puts meat on the table and they get to practise their horse-work at the same time.”

  “A few? I need more details, man. How many?”

  “I would say it varies. Never seen more than six, but never fewer than four either.”

  Thurkill took a moment to ponder the information, tearing the last remnant of meat off of the bone before tossing it carelessly into a corner where it was immediately devoured by Osfric’s huge lurcher dog. “That sounds promising. Four should be alright, but six would be a challenge. But with surprise on our side, we might just be able to carry the day. It will not be easy, though, and we may pay dearly for our efforts. Speak now if you would not be part of this; I will not think badly of you were you to do so.”

  He held their gaze one by one, trying to delve into their minds to divine their true feelings. Not one of them moved or spoke, though. Not one eye failed to hold his gaze. After a few moments he smiled broadly; they were steadfast fellows. What they lacked in skill, they more than made up for with courage.

  ***

  They spent the next few hours preparing their weapons and discussing the plan. Osfric found a local boy and sent him out with instructions to keep watch on the hall and to report back as soon as he saw any Normans leaving to go hunting. Thurkill didn’t know how long they would have to wait or even if any of them would venture out that day, at all. It was cold but dry so there was no reason not to go, as far as the weather was concerned. A mist was starting to form, clinging to the low ground in places, but not enough to hamper a hunting party. This might even work in our favour, Thurkill thought, if it helps to obscure our true intent for that little bit longer.

  They did not have long to wait. No more than two hours after he had been dispatched, the boy breathlessly burst into the house gabbling that six soldiers had ridden off westwards into the woods, accompanied by three men from the village and a pair of hunting dogs.

  “They’ll be out for the rest of the day now,” Osfric asserted confidently. “That should give us plenty of time to prepare.”

  Thurkill nodded. “We need to use the time and the land to our advantage. We’re evenly matched for numbers but they’ll be on horseback and are all trained soldiers. Anything we can do to push the odds in our favour will help.”

  “I think I know a place, Lord.”

  “Speak, Osfrith. Let’s hear your idea.”

  “If they have gone west, then I know that area well. I used to hunt rabbits and squirrels there as a boy. On the way back to the village there is a sunken path that is bordered on both sides by ancient hedgerows. It’s narrow and I doubt there’s room for any more than two men on horseback to walk abreast. And you can’t go around it as the woods are dense on either side.”

  Thurkill nodded. “I like the sound of that. In fact, I think I recall the place you mean. If it is the lane I’m thinking of then it will serve our purpose well. Take us there now.”

  As soon as he saw it, Thurkill knew it was perfect for an ambush. The path between the impenetrable hawthorns was a good two hundred paces long. So dense was the thicket that Thurkill doubted anything bigger than a rabbit or fox could get through. Once the trap was sprung there could be no escape that way.

  He smiled approvingly at the young swineherd. “You have done well, my friend. I could not have chosen better. Now, to spring the trap I propose that four of us,” he nodded at Eahlmund and the two brothers, “hold the line here at the front. We’ll form a shieldwall here across the path. If we stand strong, they’ll not be able to pass.”

  Leofric and Leofgar looked doubtful but nodded all the same, perhaps anxious at the prospect of facing mounted warriors for the first time.

  Eahlmund saw the look on the faces and tried to bolster their courage. “Don’t worry, lads. I was in the shieldwall at Senlac. The Norman bastards could not break us, not until we were undone by their trickery. Horse or no horse they shall not pass.”

  Thurkill smiled, grateful for the support of his friend. “That’s right. We stay close together and they won’t get through. Keep the shields overlapped and use your spears to stab at the horses, if you can’t reach the men. If we bring down but one of their mounts, it will cause confusion and fear and give us the edge for sure.”

  Osfric was almost beside himself with anticipation, literally hopping from foot to foot, belying his age. “What of us, Lord? What would you have us do?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll not miss out. I want you and your son to hide at the far end of the lane. With them focussed on us, they won’t be expecting an attack from behind. Use your spears to deal whoever’s at the back and that will sow panic amongst the rest. But be careful if they have some of our villagers with them. Be sure to let them get away safely.”

  With arrangements made, the two groups split up to position themselves to wait for the return of the soldiers. Thurkill took the time to wander off away from the others to gather his thoughts. He sat down by the edge of the lane, his back leaning against a gnarled beech trunk. He wondered, idly, if FitzGilbert would be with them. The boy hadn’t known for certain one way or the other and, if he were honest, Thurkill was not sure whether he hoped he was or not. It might make things easier to kill him today and have done with it, but what would that mean for Edith, Aga and Haslow as a whole? At the very least, though, they could even the odds now so that he was better placed to bargain with the Norman. Perhap
s with his strength halved, FitzGilbert would be more inclined to leave?

  His thoughts turned to the struggle ahead. He knew Eahlmund could fight but his faith in the rest of them was less sure. True, Leofric and Leofgar had been trained to fight in a shieldwall, but had they ever been tested against men who were trying to kill them? Who knew how a man might react until the moment was thrust upon him? At least he and Eahlmund would be there to keep them steady. Osfric and Osfrith were hunters, well used to the art of killing, although neither had ever had cause to kill another man. From their position at the back they would be less exposed to danger, though, and that was probably the best and safest place for them to be.

  Thurkill realised he was starting to become anxious. He could not help but feel protective towards these men. One or more of them might well be killed today – fighting for him – and he would have to carry that on his conscience for ever. The weight of responsibility hung heavy over him as he sat there waiting. He supposed it must have been the same for his father but that did not make it any easier to bear. He knew when his time came he would have to answer to God for the lives of men that had been lost because of him; to be able to justify their death in pursuit of a worthy cause. He offered up a silent prayer that the tally did not begin today, no matter how just the conflict.

  Thurkill had no idea how long they had been waiting before he heard the hoot of an owl, once and then repeated twice more. It was the signal Osfric had said he would use as soon as the swineherd sighted the returning hunting party. It was now late afternoon and the light was already fading as the sun began to slip towards the tree line. The temperature had fallen with it and the mist began to form once more, clinging to the low ground and making the lane look more eerie than ever.

  Turning to the others he sought to encourage any hearts that might yet be faint. “Here they come, lads; ready yourselves. Remember; they are not expecting trouble so we have surprise on our side. Stand firm, show no fear and victory will be ours. You have my word.” He looked to either side; to his left stood Eahlmund his jaw set and his knuckles showing white against the dark wood of his spear where his grip tightened. To his right Leofwine and Leofgar looked as calm as if this were the most natural thing in the world. One of them was even humming some kind of tune. Thurkill shook his head, non plussed. His fears for their courage were seemingly misplaced.

  “Forward, lads; steady now.” He directed them to take a few steps further down the lane to a point where a tree trunk encroached on the path. It served to narrow the lane yet further and would also secure their right flank, as if it were a fifth, immovable warrior. Once there, he craned his neck, trying to make out the advancing Normans. He could now hear the thud of their horses’ hooves interspersed with bursts of coarse laughter as the men made their way home, content with the day’s activity, unaware of what lay just ahead of them.

  As the boy had said, there were six of them, all on horseback, riding two abreast; the width of the lane would allow no more. A short distance behind them he could also make out three men on foot, men from the village who were burdened with the day’s haul, a couple of lurchers trotting dutifully at their heels. And then the Normans saw them; they reined in their mounts, apparently uncertain of what to make of the men who blocked their way. As far as Thurkill could tell, they wore no mailshirts. He had suspected that this would be the case but had not dared to hope. Without armour to protect them, the balance had swung that little bit further in their favour. Both he and Eahlmund wore mail and helmets while the two brothers were well protected with boiled leather jerkins and head gear.

  From where he waited, he could hear the Normans arguing. Voices were raised and one or two of them were gesticulating wildly in their direction. Thurkill supposed that at least one must be advocating retreat. The lack of shields and armour must have caused a certain amount of concern amongst them when faced with determined, armed men. Whereas others favoured a more aggressive response, perhaps confident in their superiority and their horses. It did not take long for a conclusion to be reached. Suddenly, the two horsemen in front heeled their mounts to urge them forward, readying their spears as they rode.

  “Steady, boys. Remember… Hold fast and they won’t break us. Get those shields up.”

  The four Saxons hoisted their shields into place and levelled their spears, pointing them slightly upwards to aim at the horses’ chests. At the same time, they turned slightly to the side and planted their right legs square behind them, ready to absorb the impact of the charge. Their shields, each one touching its neighbour, were thrust forward to form an impenetrable barrier. At the right-hand side of the line, Leofric’s shield butted directly against the protruding tree trunk, while on the left, Eahlmund was as close as he could be to the hedgerow without actually being in it.

  And then the Normans were upon them, riding their mounts as hard as they could against the shields. Although trained for battle, the horses still hesitated to confront a hedge of sharpened spear points. Their eyes were wide with fear, their nostrils flared as they whinnied with terror as they were compelled forward remorselessly.

  The wall buckled under the impact but did not break. Both Thurkill and Leofgar in the centre had to take a step back, ducking beneath the rim of their shields, but the others moved with them, preventing the wall from breaking. At the same time, Eahlmund and Leofric thrust their spears straight at the exposed chests of the horses. With a heart-breaking screams, both beasts stumbled to their knees, blood gushing from the gaping wounds left by the blades. The two riders were pitched forward, unable to keep their seat as the horses collapsed. Dropping his spear, Thurkill darted forward and stabbed down at the nearest man with his seax, plunging the long knife into his exposed chest. To his right, Leofgar followed his example, impervious to the supplications of his stricken foe. Within moments it was over; the first two soldiers were dead, and the two Saxons had recovered their spears and their place in the shieldwall.

  Just four of the hated enemy remained. Angered by the fate of their comrades they strove to press home their attack, but found their way blocked by the fallen horses whose limbs still thrashed wildly in agony. The sounds and smells of the dying horses were enough to stop the next two beasts from stepping forward into the morass, despite the savage beating being meted out to them by their riders.

  Osfric and his son chose that moment to make their presence known. They charged forward from where they had been hiding, making as much noise as they could, striking fear and confusion into the hearts of the remaining Normans who, unable to turn their horses easily, had to twist in their saddles to see what new threat now assailed them. It was too late, though, as the two swineherds were already upon them. Together, they drove their spears into the unprotected backs of the two rearmost soldiers. Death was almost instantaneous as they fell to the ground.

  Glancing at each other, the two surviving horsemen made up their minds. With a roar they threw themselves forward, callously raking their heels as hard as they could down the flanks of their panicked mounts. They aimed directly for the gaps between the four waiting warriors, hoping to make good their escape.

  Amazingly, one managed to vault over the wall, between the two brothers, jumping higher than Thurkill had thought possible. The other was not so fortunate, however. His mount stumbled at the point of take-off, its front legs entangled in the slippery mess caused by the spilt blood and guts of the wounded beasts to its front. With a shout of triumph, Thurkill thrust his spear as hard as he could at the rider, grunting with satisfaction as he felt the point pierce the man’s unprotected torso. The strength of the impact lifted the Norman bodily from his saddle and threw him backwards, wrenching the spear shaft from Thurkill’s hands.

  Forgetting him, Thurkill turned to see what had happened to the last man. Miraculously, his horse had kept its footing after the jump and was even now hurtling up what remained of the lane as its rider continued to dig his heels into its sides, eager to put as much distance between him and the scene of carn
age behind him as possible.

  “Spear!” Thurkill grabbed Eahlmund’s proffered weapon and hurled it after the fast-disappearing Norman. His aim was true but at the last moment, the Norman ducked down alongside his horse’s neck. Whether or not he had heard and understood Thurkill’s shout or simply expected some kind of missile to be thrown, the move saved his life. The spear sailed harmlessly over his head, missing him by no more than a hand’s breadth.

  “Shit!” Thurkill yelled in frustration.

  Eahlmund clapped him on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear as the adrenaline of the fight still coursed through his veins. “Worry not, my friend. Five of his friends lie dead or dying behind us. Victory is ours.”

  Thurkill rounded on him angrily. “You fool! Don’t you realise he will warn the others? We needed to kill them all if we were to have any chance at all. Now they will be ready for us; our task just became ten-fold harder.” In his anger, he kicked out at one of the fallen men.

  Eahlmund said nothing but hung his head, abashed. Behind him the swineherd and his son went on with the gruesome business of slitting the throats of the two mortally wounded horses. “Brave animals, both, to charge a shieldwall like that; but at least there will be meat aplenty for many folk this winter.”

  A groan brought Thurkill out of his mood. He spun round, cursing himself for forgetting to check on the health of his men. He had a lot to learn yet about being a lord. Sprawled on the ground before him was Leofric, an ugly-looking gash to the side of his head. His brother knelt beside him, cradling his head in his lap and dabbing at the wound with a piece of cloth ripped from a dead man’s tunic.

  “How is he? What happened?” The worry in his voice was, however, real enough.

  “Hard to say, Lord, but I think he’ll survive. Stupid sod forgot to duck when that horse leapt at us. Caught him on the side of the head with one of its hooves. Hopefully it’s knocked some sense into him, though. God alone knows he didn’t have much to start with.”