Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  If this book has piqued your interest in this

  fascinating period of our history, you could do worse than invest in The Norman Conquest by Marc Morris. I’ve read few better, more approachable works in all my years studying history. My description of King Harold’s demise was inspired by his research and references to primary sources such as the Carmen de Hastingae Proelio (Song of the Battle of Hastings). It deviates somewhat – and very realistically in my opinion – from the version of events we all learned in school. Arrow in the eye? I think not.

  Should you have enjoyed reading Thurkill’s Revenge, then please do leave a review. I would also welcome feedback direct to me on Twitter via @Paul_Bernardi or by email to pvbernardi@gmail.com.

  Thurkill will return for more adventures in Thurkill’s Battle.

  Paul Bernardi.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Julie, whose long-standing support and encouragement have given me the strength to follow my dreams of being an author of historical fiction. Her position as editor-in-chief is less secure, however, as she tends to become too caught up in the story to remember to spot all the typos and other errors, of which there are, no doubt, many.

  Thurkill’s Battle

  Paul Bernardi

  ONE

  Thurkill rushed through the gaping door of the king’s hall in Lundenburh. All around him, confusion reigned as men pushed and shoved each other in their eagerness to join the fight, funnelling towards the narrow wooden bridge that spanned the great river that separated the city from the smaller settlement of Suthweca. A steady drizzle had begun to fall from the leaden-dark sky which - whipped up by a stiff easterly breeze - stung his up-turned face like a thousand tiny pin pricks.

  As he ran, he looked left and right for his companions. Not only did he crave the safety of their familiar faces, but they had his war garb, including his axe – the same axe that King Harold had presented to him after the battle at the bridge by Stamford.

  Not for the first time, he wished his father, Scalpi, were there. He missed his calm, steadying voice by his side. In truth, he’d not yet accepted that he would never hear his voice or see his face again.

  “Lord. Lord. Over here.”

  Eahlmund, thank God. The lanky former farm-hand who’d saved his life after the battle at Senlac was standing to the side of the main thoroughfare along with the rest of his warband: the brothers Leofric and Leofgar and the three other lads, Copsig, Eopric and Eardwulf. Though not warriors by right, they were brave lads; the sort who could be relied upon not to run from a fight.

  Thurkill clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, greeting the others by name. “Best ready yourselves for a fight, boys. It seems the Normans are eager to make our acquaintance once again, and I for one would not deny them that pleasure. Are you with me?”

  “Aye, Lord,” they answered in unison. If they were scared, it did not show in their expressions. Taking his helmet from Eahlmund, Thurkill then slid his arm through the leather straps of his shield, taking comfort from its familiar feel. As he hefted it into place, he felt a sharp stab of pain lancing up his arm, a reminder of where a Norman sword had opened his flesh back on Senlac Ridge. It would not fail him, though, of that he was sure. Lastly, he took the war-axe, its blade so keen that it would have no trouble taking a man’s leg, arm or even head with a single blow.

  They joined the throng of warriors heading east, following the bend of the river towards the bridge. They passed through the city’s narrow streets, lined with shops and houses all shuttered and locked against the impending danger. Thurkill grew ever more tense with every step, his gut twisting with the all too familiar feeling of dread.

  “Where are the bastards?” Eahlmund’s question echoed his own thoughts.

  “They approach from the south, friend, bound for the bridge as it’s the only way across the river for miles around.”

  One final turn to the right brought them in sight of the river. Thurkill had half expected to see the enemy already on the northern bank, or at least on the bridge, but it seemed secure for now. The scouts had done their work well, bringing word of the Norman attack long enough in advance for them to marshal a defence.

  “Come on, lads. Push on to the bridge. We must cross if we are to defend the city.”

  All around them, warriors surged towards the tall wooden posts that marked the beginning of the bridge. But ahead of them, a great press of men blocked the entrance, preventing them from crossing. With no great lord to lead them, the scene was chaos. Thurkill knew that, were this not to be resolved soon, the Normans would slaughter them where they stood.

  Just then, a small group of horsemen burst into the throng, their iron-shod hooves sending sparks from the cobbled streets as the riders pulled back hard on their reins, scattering warriors in every direction.

  “Who commands here?” demanded a fierce looking hulk of a man. What was visible of his face behind a shaggy grey beard, bore witness to a long life of many battles.

  “No one, Lord.”

  “Then follow me, Aelfric, Lord of Huntendune. I stood with King Harold in the shieldwall at Senlac, alongside many of you, I’ll wager. We’ve faced these Norman whoresons before and we can do so again. With a few score stout shield-warriors at my back, we will carry the day.”

  Galvanised, men everywhere thrust their swords into the air and howled, eager to plunge their blades into enemy flesh. As Aelfric dismounted, Thurkill pushed his way over to be as close to him as possible. He didn’t recognise him from the battle, but saw that he was a man worth following. A man to be close to when the fighting was at its fiercest.

  Thurkill’s shield, much patched and repaired, still bore the red wyvern showing him to be a man of Wessex, a warrior from Harold’s household. As he drew close, Aelfric spotted the device, nodding in respectful appreciation. “Welcome, lad. You were with the king at Senlac?”

  “Aye, Lord. In the front rank, with my father, Scalpi, near the king’s banner. We were there to the end.”

  Aelfric laughed, his eyes sparkling with joy. “You’re Scalpi’s boy? I know the old goat-shagger well. How is he? Is he not here with you?”

  “No, Lord. He lost his life in defence of his king. I am Thurkill; the last of his line.” There was no grief in his words, though, just pride.

  Aelfric clamped a huge paw of a hand on Thurkill’s shoulder, fixing a steely gaze on the young Saxon. “It grieves me to hear that, lad. Would that we had more of his kind here today.” As if sensing a misstep, Aelfric’s face broke into a rueful grin, “though from what I can see, this particular acorn did not fall far from the old oak.

  “But enough talk, Thurkill. We shall we have our revenge for his death today, eh? Stand by me and help me gut as many of these bastards as dare to stand in front of us.”

  With that, Aelfric, Lord of Huntendune, strode onto the bridge. Thurkill kept pace with him while his warband followed just behind, walking alongside Aelfric’s men. Still there was no sign of the enemy and Thurkill began to wonder if it had been a false alarm. Surely the scouts had not been mistaken? Perhaps they had decided to abort the attack, deeming the city too strongly defended?

  But before they had even reached the half way point, he knew he was wrong as the far end of the bridge was suddenly filled with a teeming mass of humanity.

  “Shields!” Aelfric roared, hefting his own round, linden board into position. Thurkill and his men quickly followed suit, lifting their shields until they overlapped with each other. But it soon became clear this was not the enemy.

  The bridge was filled with rank upon rank of townspeople, scurrying for the safety of the city walls, weighed down by whatever belongings they had been able to rescue. As the refugees drew close, the warriors were forced to squeeze over to one side of the narrow span to allow room for the panicked masses to pass.

  Eventually, the flood thinned to a trickle, and they were able to complete the crossing. They spilled out into an open area in front of a sma
ll church. Ahead of them, the road split into two: the right fork leading off west towards Wintancester, while the left marked the old Roman road to Dover. According to their scouts, it was from the latter direction, that the enemy were expected to come.

  But still there was no sign of the enemy, no galloping Norman cavalry with its forest of deadly spear points. Just another wave of frightened villagers fleeing towards them. As he watched, a sudden fleeting glimpse caused his heart to tighten as if squeezed by an unseen hand. A mass of blond curls bobbing up and down as their owner ran. Surely it can’t be? He looked again but she was lost to him among the throng. Was his mind playing tricks on him? It can’t have been her. No, wait! There she is again.

  “Hild!” Oblivious to any danger, Thurkill sprinted forward, removing his helmet as he did so, so that she would more readily recognise him.

  “Thurkill. Thank the Lord and His angels.” She launched herself at him with an impact the equal of any he’d ever felt in the shieldwall.

  “I can’t believe I have found you.” She plastered kisses over every inch of his face.

  “What are you doing here?” He spluttered when she had at last released him. “Why are you not back in Brightling with Nothelm?”

  It was the wrong thing to say and he cursed himself for his lack of forethought as her eyes brimmed with tears, washing away the happiness that had been there mere moments before. “Father’s dead, Thurkill. The Normans killed him along with many of the other men in the village before taking our cattle and grain and setting fire to all the houses.

  “I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t stay and fight, for there were too many of them. Then a few of the others said we should come to Lundenburh as there is a new king with a new army, and that we’d be safe here. And then I remembered you saying you were coming here too, but I hadn’t hoped to find you so soon.”

  “I’m glad you did, my love, but you must cross the bridge as quickly as you can, for the Normans are not far behind you. You’ll be safe behind the city walls; I’ll come and find you as soon as I can.”

  Turning back to his men, Thurkill beckoned Copsig forward, the youngest and most inexperienced of his warband. “Take Hild back to the city. Guard her with your life until we return.”

  Thurkill could tell from Copsig’s face that he was disappointed not to have the chance to stand with the rest of them. But he wasted no time in taking Hild’s hand to guide her back whence they had come. Thurkill stared after her for a while, his emotions reeling at having to be parted from her again so soon. He wanted nothing more than to go with her, but duty to his king prevented it. With a sigh, he resumed his place in the shieldwall by Aelfric’s side.

  TWO

  The persistent drizzle had now hardened into a heavy, freezing rain from which there was little or no shelter. Thurkill shivered, the cold and wet penetrating his bones through his sodden clothing. As he stood waiting with the others, his mind was filled with images of Hild. Had he really found her again? Could they have a future together?

  “Here they come, lads. Stand fast for God and for Edgar.”

  Aelfric raised his sword high above his head and roared his defiance at the approaching horsemen. Several hundred voices followed his lead. It was a sound that struck fear into Thurkill’s heart, so God alone knew what it must have sounded like to the enemy. He tried to count the knights bearing down on them, but gave up when he reached a hundred.

  The sound of the horses pounding towards them across the hard-packed earth was now deafening, echoing off the houses that lined each side of the narrow main street. They had chosen their ground well, though. Hemmed in by the buildings, the horsemen were funnelled together, pressed in on each other with little or no room to manoeuvre. Faced by a solid, immovable wall of shields, they were like lambs to the slaughter.

  But, despite their disadvantage, the Normans did not lack for courage. They forced their mounts forward, searching for a way through the impenetrable line of defence. But just as had been the case at Senlac, the knights could find no way through. As long as the Saxons held their ground, they could not be broken. Those at the back, unable to engage with shieldwall, launched missile after missile at the Saxons, while those in the front thrust their long spears into the gaps between the shields, hoping to find the smallest amount of exposed flesh. Here and there they met with success. Those warriors - the young, less experienced lads – who carelessly looked out from behind their shield rather than stay hidden, fell prey to a spear point. But their place was soon taken by others who were not so quick to make the same mistake.

  The shieldwall was unbending. Even though they had only managed to muster a few hundred men, their ranks were five deep or more, with each side securely anchored against the walls of the flanking buildings. Row after row of horsemen - formed up in small conrois of five to ten men - futilely spent their strength against the wall of wood and iron, like so many impotent waves exhausting themselves against a cliff face.

  Thurkill lost count of the number of times his shield shook from the impact of a spear, thrown or thrust, but not once did he fear for his life. They weathered the storm, making no attempt to fight back, content to soak up the pressure of the attack until its force was spent. With heads hidden behind their shields, they encouraged each other with manic grins, a few jokes and the occasional insult thrown at their foe.

  “My mother’s mother would do better, and she’s been dead these ten years.”

  Thurkill doubted whether Leofric’s jibe would be understood by their intended target but they had the desired effect on those within earshot. Roars of laughter mixed with foul curses gave heart to the younger lads, stiffening their resolve to send the enemy back whence they’d come.

  Suddenly, Aelfric gave the order to advance. He had noticed that the attack’s momentum had waned, and he chose that moment to hit them. The shieldwall moved forward in close order before halting again after five paces. Those in the second and third ranks, finally released from their defensive duties, raised their spears and stabbed them forward into the confused, wheeling mass of horse and human flesh.

  The killing was indiscriminate; man and beast alike were gutted as the rain hammered down, washing the blood away. Hooves and feet combined to churn the ground into glutinous mud. Thurkill did not care for the wounded men but the screams of the dying horses were horrendous to his ears.

  As horse after horse fell, the sight, sound and smell of their deaths wrought panic among the rest. Frightened beasts reared up, whinnying pitifully, nostrils flared and eyes bulging in fear. Knights fell to the ground only to find themselves trampled by flailing hooves, pounded to death and splattered with blood and shit.

  With so little room to spare, there was no escaping the slaughter, no way to pull back out of range of the killing blades. The ground was now slick with mud, blood and gore, so much so that their next advance was almost their undoing. Several warriors lost their footing trying to pick their way through the stricken bodies of man and beast that had spilled their slimy, stinking guts in their path. The stench of blood mixed with human and animal excrement was overpowering, but Thurkill was inured to it, so intent was he now on the conflict. From behind his left shoulder, Eopric’s spear blade shot forward, catching the Norman to Thurkill’s front in the armpit, just as he had raised his sword to smash down on his head. Screaming in pain, he dropped the sword and bent over his horse’s neck in a futile effort to protect himself. Taking a step forward, Thurkill swung his two-handed axe, bringing its edge down a couple of fingers’ breadth below the rim of his helmet. A great fountain of blood spurted from the ruined stump where, just moments before, his head had been.

  And then it was over. Those horsemen that had somehow survived the carnage were now clattering their way back down the Dover road, stampeding their way through the ranks of their companions who had been too far back to be able to join the fight. A few Saxons broke ranks to pursue them until they were called back by Aelfric.

  “We’ll need every warr
ior in the days to come. I can’t risk a few hotheads getting themselves killed in these alleys.”

  Sullenly, they trudged back to their comrades, their blood lust unsated. But even so, their mood was not dampened for long. The exhilaration of the fight, together with the sight of the fleeing enemy, combined to give men cheer in place of what had been doom and gloom not one hour before. Everywhere, men laughed and joked, shaking hands or slapping each other on the back. Others compared kills, each boast becoming more fanciful than the last as the relief of the victory and survival flooded through them.

  The retreating Normans had left a scene of devastation behind them. Thurkill estimated there were at least twenty dead soldiers strewn across the road, with a similar number injured. Already, small groups were moving among them, slitting the throats of the wounded. As they carried out their grim work, they also dealt with the animals. It was a blessing to have an end to their needless suffering, but Thurkill knew that their screams would haunt his sleep for days to come. He hated that they were made to endure man’s cruelty to each other; they had done nothing to deserve such barbarism.

  To distract himself, Thurkill turned his attention to his warband. Mercifully, none had been injured other than a slight graze sustained by Eardwulf. To add insult to injury it had been Eopric who had given him the wound, being a little too eager with his spear when standing behind him. He laughed along with the rest as Eardwulf berated his friend for being more dangerous to his health than the Normans.

  With the danger passed, his thoughts returned to Hild. He felt as if a gap in his life had been filled, a gap that has opened like a chasm in his soul since the murder of his aunt and sister. Perhaps he could put the memory of FitzGilbert behind him and find new purpose with her instead?