Despite his concern for Leofric, Thurkill laughed. The injury did not appear to be life-threatening, after all, though it remained to be seen whether he would be fit enough to continue the fight. Time was pressing; he needed to attack now before FitzGilbert had time to prepare his defences. With every hour that passed, his position grew weaker while that of his enemy grew stronger.
“Do what you can for him, Leofgar. If you can patch him up so that he can fight again, then so much the better.”
The young man nodded and turned back to his brother, who was now attempting to sit up. Although groggy and dazed from the blow, he conscious enough to call for a slug of ale. Leofgar hushed him while binding his head with another strip of cloth which served, for the time being at least, to staunch the flow of blood.
“Lord.” Eahlmund stood alongside him, his hand on his shoulder. “These men have asked that they be allowed to fight with you.” He pointed in the direction of the three men standing to one side, by the hedgerow. They had discarded the slaughtered game and stood alert and ready, eager to impress.
Thurkill beckoned them forward. “Well met, lads. You are most welcome here.” As they stepped up, he recognised them from the village. “Eopric, Copsig, Eardwulf. I know you all; good men every one of you. I would be glad to have you in my little war-band but this is not your fight; I cannot force you to put your lives at risk.”
Copsig took a step forward and bowed his head before his lord. “We have served your father and now we serve his son. It is the way of things. Your fight is our fight and if we are to die in its pursuit then so be it. We may not be warriors but rest assured we will give a good account of ourselves. Besides, you are not the only one to have a score to settle with those Norman whoresons.”
Thurkill nodded solemnly. “Then, let us all go to my father’s hall and finish this.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
28 October, Haslow
Dusk was falling when they arrived back at the village. They left Leofric in his home; still too groggy to stand unaided, let alone fight. It was a loss, Thurkill knew, as he was a good man, but the arrival of Copsig, Eopric and Eardwulf more than made up for it, even if they had neither swords, shields or armour. He now had eight in his war-band, stout fellows all, whatever their experience. That they were farmers and swineherds up against trained warriors did not matter. What was to come would be less about spears and shieldwalls and much more about cunning and stealth. If they could get in close, the seaxes they all carried – and learned to use from childhood -would come into their own.
At the outskirts of the village, Thurkill skidded to a halt, signalling to the others to do likewise. Even at this distance, Thurkill could tell something was wrong. Watch fires had been set all around the hall, casting their glare against the growing darkness; no one would be able to sneak up undetected with their light. From where he stood, no more than fifty paces from the hall, he could see a number of shadowy figures moving between the fires. As he had feared, the remaining Normans were ready for them. The escaping hunter had done his job well.
With five men now dead, there would be seven Normans up there, including scar-faced FitzGilbert. They would have had little time to prepare, but enough to don their mailshirts, to ready their weapons and to light these fires. This would be no easy fight, that much was clear. There was little they could do about it though; the die had been cast. There was no backing down now; for all he knew, his sister and aunt were at the hall and every hour that went by the more their lives were at risk.
No sooner had the thought entered his mind than his worst fears were confirmed. FitzGilbert, together with one of his captains, emerged from the hall, each leading a woman by a halter fastened around their neck. They dragged them to the space where the fires were brightest and stopped. The light of the flames lit up their faces, revealing their terrified expressions.
“Can you hear me, Saxon dog?” FitzGilbert shouted out into the gloom in his heavily accented English.
Thurkill kept his silence, unsure of what to do. By his side, he bunched his hands into fists, clenching and unclenching as he stood aghast at the scene before him. He had been afraid of something like this happening but had refused to accept it, hoping it might not come to pass. Now it was real, his mind raced to find a solution, but nothing was forthcoming.
“Answer me, Saxon. You are in no position to bargain. Do I need to spell out what I will do to your beloved sister and your dear aunt should you fail to surrender to me?”
With no apparent option, Thurkill’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He took a step forward, only for Eahlmund – by his side – to grab his arm, stopping him from going any further. “Don’t go, Lord. He’ll kill you as soon as look at you.”
He turned to face his friend. “But what choice do I have? If I don’t, he will kill them. You know what a bastard he is; he won’t even hesitate. I am sworn to protect them; I cannot allow them to die whilst I still have some power to prevent it.”
“I’m waiting, Saxon. You have killed five of my men. That is a crime in any land and you must answer for it before my Lord, William of Normandy. Did you expect to be able to get away with it?”
Eahlmund still held him back, hissing in his ear. “We could take them. There’s enough of us. Look around you.”
Thurkill glanced back to see the faces of those who stood with him, every one of them set in grim determination. Each of them gripped whatever weapon they had to hand, ready to play their part. He knew he just had to give the order and they would willingly go forward to their deaths. It was too much to bear.
He shook his head. “I can’t risk it, my friend. Quite apart from the number of men we might lose, as soon as we broke cover he would slit their throats, just to have them out of the way. I know his type, killing two innocent women wouldn’t give him a moment’s pause. If I thought we could reach them in time to stop it, I would gladly give the order.”
“You have had long enough. I can’t wait all day.” FitzGilbert pulled Edith towards him, drawing his knife from his belt as he did so. Holding the wicked blade against her throat, he turned back towards where he knew the Saxons to be. To her credit, Edith stood silent, resigned to her fate, but Aga could not prevent a shrill scream of terror bursting from her lips.
“Well? This is growing tiresome.”
Thurkill shook himself free of his friend’s grasp as he stepped into the light. “Wait.”
The Norman nodded in apparent satisfaction. “I am glad that you have seen sense, boy. You had no other option if you wanted to spare their lives.” Turning to one of his soldiers he issued orders for Thurkill to be bound by the wrists, and for his weapons to be removed.
Thurkill winced as the soldier lashed two lengths of cord around his forearms, the fibres digging in painfully as he pulled the ends tight together. As the knots were tied off, Thurkill bowed his head, unable to meet the petrified gaze of his kin. He had done what he must to protect them; it was not cowardice, he told himself. At least this way, they would live and he could find a way to save them another day.
“You have me now, Norman dog. Let my family go as promised.”
FitzGilbert looked at him, a quizzical look in his eyes. “I recall no such promise. Far from it. There is a price to be paid for killing five of my men in cold blood. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, as I think our God teaches us.”
A terrible realisation dawned on Thurkill. FitzGilbert’s face took on a look that was nothing short of diabolical, his scar seeming even more red and angry looking in the light of the flames. He turned and spoke to the soldier holding Aga. Thurkill had no idea what he said but the accompanying gesture of drawing his thumb across his throat was unmistakeable.
Stepping behind Aga, the Norman yanked her forehead back, baring her throat and slowly drew the blade of his knife across the exposed flesh. Aga bore her fate with stoic defiance; fixing her nephew with a gaze that bore into his soul; pleading with him, not for herself as her time was over, but for his sister.
He knew that the vision of her face as she slipped lifelessly to the ground would never leave him for as long as he lived. The look in her eyes would be forever burned into his mind’s eye. He knew he could not allow Edith to suffer the same fate.
Stung into action, Thurkill rammed his shoulder into the guard to his left sending him sprawling to the ground. In an instant he was rushing towards Edith, desperate to reach her before she could be murdered as well. He had no idea what he could do as his wrists were still bound, but he did not care. He had to do something; he had to stop them somehow. As he drew closer, he put his head down ready to butt, like he’d so often seen the stags do in the hills around Haslow as they fought for supremacy in rutting season. With his arms unavailable to him, his forehead was all he had left. His aunt had often said it was as hard as stone, impervious to even the most basic thought, and he prayed she was right. He was now but a pace or two from the soldier holding Edith.
But before he could reach her, there was a blinding flash of light in his head, accompanied by a searing burst of pain. He felt his legs begin to buckle, powerless to prevent himself from crumpling in a heap. As he lay on the ground, he could feel himself drifting into a black void of unconsciousness, but not before he saw Edith’s screams cruelly cut short as the knife sliced her throat open almost from ear to ear. Unable to speak, unable to move, Thurkill lost his battle to stay conscious. The last image he saw was his precious sister slumped on the ground before him, her sightless eyes staring glassily at him as blood still pumped from the gaping wound in her neck.
TWENTY-EIGHT
29 October, Haslow
When Thurkill opened his eyes, it took him a few moments to work out where he was. At first he feared the blow to his head had made him blind as he could see nothing. To make matters worse, he couldn’t move either. What in God’s name…? Almost immediately though, his memory returned with sudden and blinding intensity. Aga! Edith! Murdered in front of him by that sick, grinning bastard of a Norman.
He had never felt more alone in his life. In the space of a few short weeks he had lost his father and now his aunt and beloved sister. His youthful oath to protect her to his dying day had been torn to pieces. Tears stung his eyes as he lay bereft in the solitude and darkness of his surroundings. He swore a new oath; for what remained of his life, he would dedicate himself to avenging his family. He would kill any and every Norman, beginning with – and most especially – the devil’s spawn who had slaughtered his kin.
Fuelled by new-found rage, he tried once again to move. He was lying on his side, that much was obvious, but his wrists and ankles had been bound so tightly together that he could hardly shift at all. His head was the only part of him that was free, but even that was restricted as he found when he banged his forehead painfully against some unseen object. As his senses slowly recovered, he realised he must be in the woodshed; the smell of freshly chopped logs was unmistakeable. He knew it to be a small building at the back of the hall, so small that it surprised him that there was room for him.
He began to wonder why he had not been killed. Why keep him alive? For what purpose? Whatever the reason, he fervently prayed that it would be a mistake that FitzGilbert would come to regret, and soon. He was not afraid of death: the priests promised an eternal life after death and he knew that he would be reunited with his family there. He had no intention to rush blindly to their embrace but, when the time came, he would welcome the release from this world.
To add to his misery, it was freezing lying there on the damp earth. He had been stripped of his mail and cloak so that he wore no more than his tunic and trews. He had no idea how long he had been lying there but it was long enough for the cold to have penetrated deep into his bones. He shivered uncontrollably as his muscles vainly attempted to generate some much-needed warmth.
Sometime later he became aware of a faint scratching sound. At first he thought it was merely his teeth chattering, but when he clamped his jaws together he could still hear it. Rats! That’s all I need, Thurkill thought. They could at least wait until I’m dead before they come to feast on me.
“Thurkill? Thurkill? Can you hear me?” Eahlmund’s whispered voice was unmistakeable. “Are you still alive in there?”
Despite his situation, Thurkill could not stop himself from smiling. Perhaps all was not lost. “Aye, you great pudding. Trussed up like a chicken ready to be roasted on a spit, but otherwise alright, I think. Nothing seems to be broken, at least. Though my head hurts like a bastard.”
“Thanks be to God. We feared the worst when we saw what they did to your family.”
His ire rising at the memory once again, Thurkill hissed. “God willing, FitzGilbert will pay dearly for that. I will not allow it to go unpunished. An eye for an eye, Eahlmund. An eye for an eye.”
For a moment, silence fell between them; Eahlmund having no words of comfort to offer. Eventually, Thurkill spoke, more wearily this time. “Are you still there, my friend?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Tell me, is it day or night? What is happening out there?”
“It is some time before dawn, already the sky begins to brighten in the east. They have set a guard on you but he prefers to stay closer to the hall, by the fire where he can keep warm. I think he is also fearful of an attack and does not want to be too far away from his comrades. Either way, I was able to sneak up here without being seen or overheard. Whilst we can talk, I can’t get you out of there; the walls are too sturdy and any attempt to free you would not go unnoticed.”
Thurkill grunted. The men of Haslow took pride in their work. Their buildings were strongly built so that they would not fall down in the first gales of winter. He never thought he would ever have cause to curse them for it.
“What’s more, FitzGilbert has sent a man off south.”
“For what purpose would he reduce his strength yet further?”
“I know not, though rumour has it that William the Bastard has yet to move far from Senlac. Word is that he has sent emissaries to Lundenburh, calling on the lords there to pay him homage as King of England and he awaits their response.”
“So, FitzGilbert’s man goes to William. What is his plan and how does it involve me, I wonder?”
Before Eahlmund could reply, there was a rattling of chains and the door of the hut was thrown open, casting him into the light of the braziers by the hall. Two soldiers stood in the doorway looking down at him with mocking eyes. The sudden rush of cold air caused Thurkill to shiver even more as leaves skittered across the uneven floor. He hoped they had not seen his body shaking or, if they had, that they did not take it for fear. With his family all dead, he had nothing left to fear. He did not care for his own life anymore. What pain they might inflict on him would be fleeting when compared to an eternity in heaven with his family. He gritted his teeth stared back with what he hoped was an expression of fierce contempt.
“Up!”
It might have been the only word of English that they knew but it made little difference. Thurkill could not move, let alone stand. In frustration the nearest of the two men strode into the enclosed space and dragged him out by the scruff of his tunic. Out in the open, he drew his dagger and bent over his captive. Thurkill steeled himself, half expecting the knife to be shoved into his ribs or throat, but he did no more than slice the bonds that held his ankles. With his legs now unencumbered, they could manhandle him to his feet, albeit unsteadily as it took a moment for the circulation to return to normal.
The two soldiers then bundled him across the short distance to the hall where they pushed him through the open doorway so forcefully that he was sent sprawling amongst the straw and detritus of the previous night’s meal, a dog yelping in protest as the bone on which it had been gnawing was sent skittling across the floor.
“Get up.” The order was barked from the lord’s table. Thurkill looked up but his view was obscured by the smoke rising from the hearth in the middle of the hall, where a churl was busy rekindling the embers of the previo
us night’s fire. Too slow to comply, he was hauled to his feet by two guards and roughly manhandled forward until he came once more face to face with FitzGilbert.
“Welcome, Saxon. I trust you slept well? Your accommodation was to your liking?” The evil leer on his face merely reinforced the malice with which the words were delivered.
Thurkill said nothing but, ignoring the pain, lifted his head so that he could stare directly at his oppressor, his piercing blue eyes burning with an intense hatred that caused the Norman to look away briefly, momentarily disconcerted.
FitzGilbert then cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “Perhaps it was too comfortable. Maybe the pigs will make better bed fellows tonight? Anyway, you are no doubt wondering why I have brought you before me, perhaps even why I have allowed you to live?” He did not wait for a reply. “Well, as you know, by the ancient right of conquest, William is now the rightful ruler of this accursed, rain-soaked country. Nevertheless, this fact seems to have escaped many of your countrymen. Envoys have been sent demanding the capitulation of those lords that still live after the battle, cowards that did not fight with you at Senlac in the main, but no response has yet been received.
“The Duke grows impatient; he will not wait forever. Sooner or later he will march to take the country by force if need be. Every day he grows stronger as more and more men and supplies cross from Normandy, making good the losses sustained in battle.”
Thurkill yawned, ignoring the pain in his bruised jaw. “All very interesting, Norman, but what does any of this have to do with me?”
“I would have hoped that was obvious, but it matters not. William has a desire to be seen to be performing his duties of a king, such as dispensing justice. You, my friend, will have the honour of being the first defendant to be brought before William, King of England, the first of that name. You will be tried for your crimes and, doubtless, sentenced to hang as a rebel against his royal authority. I hope you are suitably humbled by this great privilege that has been bestowed upon you?” He threw his head back and laughed uproariously at the prospect.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 23