When they reached the front of the queue, they were greeted by two Normans who barred the entrance with their crossed spears.
“State your business, Saxons.”
Thurkill froze, cursing himself for not having given a moment’s thought to what he might say if challenged. He was on the verge of panic when Eahlmund came to his rescue.
“We’re scouts with news of Lundenburh.”
Satisfied, the Norman nodded, stepping to one side to wave them through. Thank God Eahlmund’s wits are sharper than mine.
As soon as they were beyond earshot, Thurkill whispered from the corner of his mouth. “Good work, friend. You may just have saved our skins there. Though it was a novel idea to actually tell the truth. I hadn’t considered that.”
“Well, I didn’t say whose scouts we were, so I suppose no one can call me liar. My conscience before God remains clear.”
Thurkill grinned. “Now, let’s see if we can stretch our luck a little more by being allowed into the hall itself.”
This time they were met by a Saxon, a man by the name of Hartha, who immediately apologised for the presence of Normans. “I wish it were not so but Lord Wigod, has made his peace with Duke William and there is nothing I can do about it. Anyway, you’re scouts you say? With news from Lundenburh? How goes things there? Is it true a new king has been acclaimed? Someone from the old line of King Alfred no less?”
“Aye. ‘Tis so, Hartha. The boy, Edgar, sits on the throne now, with Earls Eadwine and Morcar at his side. Even now, they gather men to stand against this Bastard of Normandy.” Thurkill tried to sound more confident than he felt; though whether it was to scare Hartha or give him hope was hard to tell. The man certainly seemed to be conflicted between the wishes of his lord and what lay in his own heart.
“Still, there’s no point you telling me, lads. We’d best have you inside to see Wigod. Leave your weapons here, and I’ll usher you within.”
Before they could move, however, a great commotion broke out behind them. Fearing their identity had somehow been uncovered, Thurkill swung round in alarm to see a group of a dozen or so heavily armed knights marching through the palisade gate through which they’d come, shoving aside any who blocked their way. Eahlmund and he were directly in their path and a confrontation seemed almost inevitable until Hartha grabbed each of them by the sleeve and pulled them out of the way.
It was as well that Hartha intervened as they were rooted to the spot, staring open-mouthed at the lead knight. Turning to look at each other, no words were exchanged but their expressions said it all. The same shock of dark hair, the same thick eyebrows which almost met in the middle and the same slightly hooked nose. All that was missing was the scar. It was as if the ghost of Richard FitzGilbert walked among them.
EIGHT
“Who was that?” Thurkill tried to keep his voice neutral, though his pulse was racing.
Hartha looked up at the knight who was now barging his way into the hall, closely followed by the rest of his escort. “Who? Him? I’ve heard him called Robert Fitz-something. I can’t get my tongue round some of these Norman names. A thoroughly unpleasant fellow by all accounts, though. It’s said his brother was murdered over in Kent not long back. He has sworn to kill whomever was responsible.”
I know his name, Thurkill thought. FitzGilbert. Richard must have had a brother. It seems I am not yet done with this family.
Thurkill and Eahlmund exchanged glances once more, the latter snorting in a derisory manner. “Well I wouldn’t like to be in that poor sod’s boots when Robert Fitz-whatsit catches up with him. You’d die of fright just looking at his ugly face before he laid a hand on you. I’ve seen better looking pigs, slept with a few too when I was younger.”
Hartha threw his head back and laughed uproariously. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He has a temper on him that one. I’m sure he would be happy to add you to his list of Saxons to be killed. I say whoever did it did us all a favour, though. Imagine having two of the bastards roaming around.”
Thurkill risked one more question, hoping not to invite suspicion. “Does he know where to find the culprit?”
“He doesn’t know the name, just that it was a young huscarl who fought with Harold at Senlac. Beyond that, I can’t say. Though… having said that…” He paused, as if remembering some half-forgotten detail.
“Said what?” Thurkill’s heart began to beat faster once more.
“I’m sure it’s nonsense. Forget it.”
“Out with it, man. Piss or get off the pot.” Eahlmund’s impatience had worn thin.
Hartha shrugged. “Well. I’ve heard that the man he looks for has but one ear.”
It took a monumental effort of will to stop himself from touching the side of his head. Instead, Thurkill bunched his hands into fists by his side, praying that this face did not betray him. Richard’s brother had come to England to seek vengeance against the killer of his kin. Fault or blame were not material; this was a matter of honour. Thurkill would have no option but to kill this man or be killed by him.
“Anyway, I think it’s about time we saw you into the hall to deliver your news.” Thankfully, Hartha had not noticed anything untoward. But, FitzGilbert’s arrival had cast new doubt in Thurkill’s mind. Did he really want to risk standing in front of the man who’d sworn to kill him?
“Will they not be too busy now that this Robert has arrived? My news can wait until later.”
“Nonsense, they will be keen to hear talk of this Edgar. Now then, what did you say your name was, so I may introduce you?”
***
Hartha pushed open the door of the hall and the two men followed him inside. Thurkill’s nose and eyes were immediately assailed with the acrid sting of smoke rising from the huge fire that burned in the central hearth. His heart was thumping so hard, he feared it would burst forth from the confines of his chest. For all he knew, his life hung in the balance; not only was he about to go before Duke William - King Harold’s killer - but he would do so in the presence of the man whose brother he had slaughtered only a few days ago. What had seemed like a clever ruse now felt like the height of stupidity.
“Lord Wigod, may I present to you Assa, recently returned from Lundenburh with tidings.” Thurkill felt the flat of Hartha’s hand in the small of his back, gently propelling him forward. He adjusted his hair for probably the fourth time since he had entered the hall, making sure that the unsightly wound was fully covered.
“You are welcome, Assa. I fear I know you not, though. Who is your lord?” Wigod was a fat, balding man, close to his forties. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead while the armpits of his tunic bore dark stains. As he spoke, his fleshy jowls wobbled in a way that made Thurkill feel queasy.
Thurkill bowed before offering an apologetic shrug. “I have no master, Lord. Not since Senlac.”
The fat man nodded. “Many good men were lost that day, and all for what? To fight for a king who broke a solemn oath, sworn not two years previously on the holiest of relics, to support the claim of my good friend here, Duke William. Many might yet live were it not for his avarice. But enough of the past, what news do you bring of the present, Assa. Has Edgar come to his senses and decided to submit?”
As he spoke, Wigod gestured to the man sat to his right who Thurkill realised must be William. Though similar in age, the Duke was an altogether more imposing figure; broad of shoulder and taller than most. Muscular, too, by the looks of it, but perhaps carrying a little more weight around the middle than he would have in his youth. Like all of his kind, William wore his hair in the Norman fashion; shaved back and sides, with a thick thatch of dark hair on top. He was dressed in a luxuriant red tunic with a green and gold cloak draped over his shoulders to keep out the chill. Everything about him spoke of power and authority; from the piercing green eyes that even now bore into Thurkill’s soul, to the way he sat, leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand as he weighed the man who stood in front of him. It was nothing short of intimidat
ing.
Beyond the Duke, Thurkill could see FitzGilbert, slouched in his chair with one leg draped casually over the arm, booted foot swinging back and forth, apparently bored by everything that went on around him. The Devil’s spawn wasn’t even looking at him.
Taking his courage in both hands, he spoke with a clear voice, praying that his fear would not be visible. “Would you, Lord? Would any of us? Edgar may still be young but he is proud. He comes from a long line of Saxon kings, right back to Aethelstan and his grandfather, Alfred, before him.”
“All that you say is true, Assa, but the boy should accept the truth. Harold - the best war-leader that England had - lies dead along with many of his greatest lords and warriors. For how long can Edgar hope to resist? He should welcome our Norman cousins with open arms as we have. You’ve seen the market? Our traders prosper. To do otherwise is to invite destruction. The people of England will not thank him for his stubbornness.”
“This is all very interesting, Wigod, but I want to hear what Assa has to say about Edgar’s plans. How many men does he have? What are his dispositions? What can we expect him to do next?”
Thurkill had anticipated the Duke’s question, yet it still filled him with dread. How to answer without betraying himself or his king? “Edgar has summoned the fyrd and waits for it to assemble in Lundenburh.”
“Whence come the men, though? How many are left to fight after Stamford and Senlac?”
“The army which faced you at Senlac was but a portion of the forces that England can call upon. There are those who say that, had Harold but waited another week, he would have faced you with twice as many men.”
The Duke’s brow furrowed. “I had hoped that England had been stripped of its best warriors. Are they not but old men and children that remain?”
“No, Lord. The Earls Eadwine and Morcar will have many men under their banners, and there are other shires north of the city who have not yet been called upon.”
“What does it matter?” FitzGilbert yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. “Whoever turns up will be no match for us. We will destroy them once again.”
The Duke rounded on him. “Do not presume to instruct me in matters of war and strategy, FitzGilbert. What do you know of the Saxons? You did not face them at Senlac. It was a closer affair than you think. They are staunch warriors; I doubt I have ever faced braver men in battle.”
The knight was sullen but respectful in the face of the all too public rebuke. “Your pardon, Lord. I meant no offence. I am simply impatient to see you take your rightful place as king of these people. Tell us what you would have us do? Surely, we should bring them to battle before they become too strong.”
“I know your mind, man, however much you try to hide it. Your only goal is to hunt down whoever killed your brother. Though, if you ask me, I think he brought his fate upon himself. Still, it’s your business and I’ll not stand in your way – but not until we have secured our victory. Understood?”
FitzGilbert bowed his head in obeisance, though Thurkill could see the man still smarted. There was much of the brother in this man, the same insolence, arrogance and, doubtless, the same harsh cruelty. Thurkill knew there would be no end to it until one of them lay dead at the other’s feet. Thurkill swore to himself that it would not be him that was found wanting.
“But to your point, FitzGilbert, what to do indeed? We are seemingly no closer to our goal. I had hoped that Edgar would fold like a house built on sand, but it appears he has stronger foundations than I thought. In fact, if we are to believe our friend, Assa, here, the Saxons grow bolder and stronger each day. We must make our point a little more loudly in case we cannot be heard from this far away.”
“What do you propose, Lord?”
“What I suggest, my dear Wigod, is that we send a message to this Edgar that it does not do to stand against me. FitzGilbert, take horsemen to ravage to the west and south of here. There are rich pickings to be had between here and Wintancaester. You must take that city too for it has great meaning to this line of kings and its loss will not go unnoticed. On your return, we will march on Lundenburh, burning and harrying as we go. Edgar will reap the rewards of defiance; his people will suffer, their homes will be razed to the ground, their livestock taken from them and their ploughs destroyed. I mean to hear my coronation mass in Edward’s Abbey at Westminster before the year is out.”
NINE
It did not take long for the Duke’s plan to bear fruit. The first significant move of the pieces on the game board happened when Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, arrived at Warengeforte to swear fealty to William, having not long since acclaimed Edgar. Thurkill could barely conceal his contempt as the churchman passed through the market, surrounded by a small army of monks and other retainers on his way up to Wigod’s hall. At a time when Edgar needed all the help he could find, one of the foremost lords of England, the head of the English church in fact, had abandoned him. Thurkill wondered what he had been promised in return?
Thurkill decided to dwell on it no further. He needed to report back to Edgar and his council. They were about to leave when Thurkill saw Hartha heading towards them. Something in his expression told him that all was not well. Turning back to the others he whispered. “Be ready, lads. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“Ah, Assa, there you are.”
“Well met, Hartha. You are lucky to find us. We were just on our way.”
“Fortunate indeed, but I am not sure for whom. The strangest thing just happened and I thought you should know soonest.”
“Your pardon, Hartha, but we are in a hurry.”
“It won’t take but a moment and it may be to your advantage.” The look in Hartha’s eyes told him all he needed to know. As he had suspected, the man was not a friend of the Normans, unlike his master.
“The Lord Archbishop Stigand of Canterbury has not long since arrived to bend the knee to Duke William.”
“Is that who that was? I thought he looked important.” Thurkill was determined keep up the pretence for a while longer, just to see on which side the dice fell. He had already begun to piece together the various pieces of the puzzle in his mind, though.
“Indeed. He swore that he had just seen one of Harold’s huscarls, and one who is now King Edgar’s sworn man, here in Warengeforte. And what’s more, he seems to be running a market stall selling cheese and apples.”
It all fell into place. Stigand had recognised him from when he had been standing close to Harold in Lundenburh, back before Senlac. He had never considered his remarkable size to be a disadvantage, but now it may just have sealed his doom.
Thurkill decided to take a risk, hoping he had judged the man correctly. The risk of capture followed by a slow and painful death at FitzGilbert’s hand was great but his need was greater.
“Hartha, you seem a stout fellow to me, and I’d like to think I can trust you. I am the man of whom Stigand speaks. I have come here at Edgar’s behest to learn what I can of William’s plans. To my shame, I had not thought the old bastard would recognise me. If I had kept my wits about me, I would have concealed myself as he passed by, but it is too late for that now. Now, I must place my life in your hands if I am to survive. Will you help me and my companions escape before it is too late?”
Hartha stood silent, expressionless, his eyes flickering from Thurkill to those around him, as if weighing the options. Would his duty to his lord outweigh his dislike of the Normans? Thurkill could only pray that the latter burned more fiercely than anything else. Eventually he reached a decision.
“I shall declare to Wigod that I was unable to find you. I shall cite witnesses who saw you go east across the bridge not one hour since. I presume your route will actually see you head south?”
Smiling, Thurkill clasped Hartha’s forearm. “If it is ever in my power, I shall see you well rewarded for your kindness. Your service to me will be made known to the king.”
“Do not trouble yourself on my part, Assa, or whomev
er you are. Although, I fear England’s fate may be already sealed, I am partial to a game of chance, so I would see the odds evened a little.”
“My thanks, friend. You have, at least, earned the right to know my name. I am Thurkill, son of Scalpi, proud huscarl in the service of the true King of England.”
Thurkill released Hartha’s arm from his grip and turned to the rest of his men. “Leave the cart, it will only slow us down. Make your way back to the farm as quickly as you can, and go singly for they will be looking for a group of us. Quick, go now. We must hurry for they’ll send horsemen after us both east and south despite what our friend here tells them.”
As he spoke, Thurkill lifted a sack containing their provisions over his shoulder. In doing so, the cloth brushed against the side of his face, sweeping the hair back. Irritated, he shook his head to untangle it, but not before Hartha saw.
“Your ear.”
There was no turning back now. “You are mistaken, my friend. There is no ear to be seen.”
***
Eahlmund was already in the barn saddling the horses, when Thurkill arrived. Straightaway, he lent him a hand; they could not afford to waste a moment. The Normans would be after them almost immediately, especially if news about his ear reached FitzGilbert. Several bystanders had witnessed his exchange with Hartha and, whilst he did not recall any of them being Norman, it was reasonable to assume that news of such an oddity would soon travel.
By the time all five horses were ready, Leofric, Leofgar and Eopric had also arrived, allowing Thurkill to breathe a sigh of relief. Quickly, they donned their mailshirts, strapped their sword belts around their waists and slung their shields over their shoulders. Then they were ready to begin the long trek back to Lundenburh. It was late afternoon, but the sky was clear and the weather, for once, calm and mild; they would make good progress.
“We need to put a good few miles between us and Warengeforte before nightfall. I’ve no doubt there will be men on our trail before the sun goes down, so let’s not make it easy for them.”
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 31