“Ut, Ut, Ut”. With every roar, Thurkill pushed another step forward, yelling at those on each side to do likewise. The rhythmic chanting of the growing number of Saxon warriors was pounding in his ears, half scaring him to death - so God alone knew what it must be like for the enemy. At first the going was tough but steady - the resistance coming from the enemy soldiers fierce and unflinching. But soon the unity and strength of the defenders began to reap its rewards.
And all this time, Thurkill made no attempt to use his axe. There was no need; not only was it almost impossible to reach any exposed flesh, but the shieldwall on its own was having the desired effect. Men were falling to the ground and being trampled under hoof or foot. Here and there a warrior armed with a spear managed to skewer an unfortunate horseman in the face, neck or groin, but beyond that, there was little need to try to kill the enemy. It was tiring work though. His shoulders ached where they bore the brunt of the pressure against his shield while his leg muscles screamed at the effort of holding fast his position. Despite the chill in the air, beads of sweat poured from his forehead, stinging his eyes until he blinked them away.
By his side, Thurkill could see that Copsig was terrified. To his credit, the lad was giving his all, but this was his first taste of battle and the fear was etched on his face for all to see. Thurkill found himself thinking back to his first time at Stamford - a few short weeks ago - how his bowels had turned to liquid and he had almost shat himself when the blood fest began. It was nothing less than a horrible, deeply shocking experience that he would not wish on anyone. He knew it was only the presence of familiar faces on either side of him that kept Copsig steady; the fear of letting his closest companions down was worse than the fear of the enemy. He would never be able to face his friends again for shame if he turned and ran. It was better to die in the thick of the fighting than to live as a coward. Catching his eye, Thurkill gave him what he hoped was an encouraging nod. “Hold on, lad,” he grunted through gritted teeth. “They’ll not stand for much longer, I’m sure of it.”
The horsemen broke without warning. One moment there were pressing hard against the immovable wall of shields and the next there was nothing but empty space. One order, shouted loud enough to carry across the breadth of the conflict, and the knights wheeled their mounts away from the melee and fled.
Spent, Thurkill leaned on the edge of his shield, his chest heaving with the effort. “Quick! Shut and bar the gates,” he wheezed. “Do not let the whoresons back in.”
As men rushed to do his bidding, others worked their way across the ground to complete the grisly task of finishing any that yet lived. There was to be no mercy; they were skewered or gutted where they lay despite their outstretched arms and begging eyes. Others looked to the Saxon wounded and began to treat those who stood a chance of recovery as well as they could.
By his side, the sound of retching made him turn; with the skirmish over, Copsig was reacting to the experience in the only way he could. Smiling, Thurkill laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, much as he remembered his father doing to him after his first fight. “You acquitted yourself well, Copsig. You should take pride in that. Being afraid carries no shame and any man who tells you otherwise is either a fool or a liar. Trust me when I say, though, it will become easier. The first time is always the worst.”
Copsig spat the last remnants of bile onto the ground before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Grinning sheepishly, he thanked Thurkill. “It was an honour to stand with you today, Lord. I am pleased to have not let you down.”
“There was never any danger of that, lad. I knew you would do your duty well. I am only sorry that your first taste of battle had to be a defeat.”
“Defeat, Lord? Did we not send them packing with their tails between their legs?”
“Aye, they may have retreated but they had no need to stay. This was just another probe to let us see their strength. Look around you; are there not many more of our slain than theirs? I’d reckon there are five or six dead Saxons for every Norman. Even though Edgar intends to submit, we cannot afford to carry such losses.”
Copsig’s shoulders slumped. Damn me for my insensitivity, Thurkill rebuked himself. I did not need to be quite so negative. Slapping the poor lad on the back, he tried to repair the damage. “Still, all that is for others to worry about. We need to find a tavern to drink to the first step in your career as a mighty warrior. The time will come when friend and foe alike will hear the name, Copsig Normans’-bane, and quake in their boots.”
“With laughter more than fear though.” Eahlmund roared at his own joke, punching Copsig hard on his arm for good measure. “Come on, lad, forget Thurkill and his miserable bellyaching; let’s go find ale and women, and hopefully vast amounts of both.”
***
Thurkill left them to it after the first two cups, though he threw them a handful of coins with which to avail themselves of several more. He would have loved to stay, to bury his head in ale to wash away the emotions of battle, but he had other, more pressing, matters to attend to – not least of which was to make sure Hild was safe and not worrying for his welfare. With more than a little regret he left his five companions at a tavern not far from their lodgings with orders not to make Copsig too ill. As well as it being his first taste of conflict, his youthful looks suggested that he might also be new to the idea of excessive drinking. Thurkill chuckled as he imagined what the rest of the lads had in store for him; he doubted the poor boy would be up before sunrise at any rate.
Hild greeted him at the door to their lodgings, relief apparent in her eyes. “Thank God you’re alive. All I’ve heard since you ran off is people screaming, running past the window, yelling that the Normans are in the city and slaughtering everyone. I didn’t know what to do for the best; whether I should stay put and wait for you, or run with the rest of them.”
Thurkill took her in his arms and hugged her hard, so hard that she grunted as the wind was forced from her lungs. Releasing her, he ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face, to better take in her beauty. In the thick of the fighting, he’d not had time to think of his own safety or of Hild being left alone to fend for herself without him, but her words brought home to him just how close he had been to death. Kissing her forehead, he sought to reassure her and - if truth be told - himself.
“It’s true the bastards managed to breach the north gate, but we arrived in time to put a stop to them. We pushed them back through the gate and barred it behind them. Young Copsig did well, too, for his first time.”
Hild smiled for she had genuine affection for the lad. “Where is he now? I would offer my congratulations.”
“It may be a while before you see him and, when you do, his head will be sore. Eahlmund and the others have taken him off to drink to his coming of age. I fear they mean to leave him with a woman too.”
Hild stared open-mouthed in outrage. “He’s only just sixteen is he not?”
“Just two years younger than me, you’ll find. Besides, in these days, he may as well enjoy himself while he can as who knows what tomorrow may bring?”
Rather than dwell on such unsavoury matters, Hild changed the subject. “How did the Normans manage to get in? And why are they attacking when you tell me that Edgar is going to surrender anyway?”
“I can’t say for sure; I can only assume that they took the gate wardens by surprise. Perhaps those men had also heard that Edgar planned to submit and assumed there was no danger of attack. But it would appear that no one has yet told the Normans, or perhaps they wanted to send a message to make sure that the king does not change his mind.”
“Is that likely?”
“I’d say not, especially not now. I’m afraid the game’s up, Hild. We’re cooped up in Lundenburh and what strength we do have is pitifully small; far too small to have a chance of stopping Duke William and his army of Norman sheep dung. As much as it pains me to say it, we must prepare ourselves for life under these foreign bastards.”
<
br /> FOURTEEN
It was still dark when Thurkill pushed open the door to Edgar’s hall. A sharp frost carpeted the ground and it was perishingly cold, so he was overjoyed to find that a well-stoked fire was already burning in the central hearth. Making for it, he elbowed himself a space amongst the others who had already gathered there. He stood with his hands stuffed under his armpits and stamping his feet to force warmth back into his extremities. Sure enough, his hands and feet soon began to tingle, painfully at first, as sensation slowly came back to them.
“Well met, Thurkill my lad. I wish it were under happier circumstances though.”
Despite his poor humour, Thurkill smiled as Aelfric pushed his way in close to him, shooing the previous occupant to one side. Whatever his mood, Thurkill always felt lifted in the older man’s presence. Even the prospect of kneeling before Duke William seemed less bad than it had when he had woken that morning.
“Well met, Lord. We can but smile and hope the day goes without incident.”
Thurkill stifled a yawn. He had been up half the night polishing his helmet, mail shirt, belt buckles and every other bit of metal, great and small, until they shone. Hild had stayed up with him, sponging the dirt from his clothes and mending the little tears and blemishes as best she could. If he had to prostrate himself before his enemy, he would do so with pride and bearing.
He wondered if FitzGilbert would be there. It seemed a strong possibility. Although, Duke William had promised a truce for the duration of the assembly on pain of death, it might not be enough to stop a sly knife between the ribs before or after. He was sure FitzGilbert would not shrink from such a perfidious act should the chance present itself. He would have to be on his guard at all times and not stray too far from Aelfric’s side. The old man’s protection and the strength of his retinue should be enough, he hoped.
“What do you know of this place where we are to meet?”
“Beorhthanstaed? It’s a small place set amidst a birch wood to the north west; about two to three hundred souls, so I am told. I know of no reason why William has chosen this site other than it’s close to the city and sited on a river. As good a place as any for his army to set up camp, I suppose.”
Thurkill snorted, unimpressed. “Explains the early start, I suppose. If we set off now, we should be there before the sun goes down.”
***
Dusk was, indeed, falling as they arrived at the town. The sun had shone brightly all day, causing the frost and ice to sparkle on the trees like so many spear points; spears which, Thurkill thought ironically, he would have dearly loved to have with them now. They should be marching to battle, to bring death to the Normans, not bowing meekly before their lord, offering him the crown.
All the same, their party numbered over two hundred men; enough to show the Normans they were not afraid or humbled, but a paltry number considering the forces that King Harold had called on just two short months before.
They were met a mile from the town by a group of horsemen sent to escort them to the camp. Thurkill could not help but admire the knights; each man wore a matching dark blue cloak that hung down below his knees and was equipped with helmet, long kite-shaped shield, full length mailshirt, sword and spear. In unison, they wheeled around the Saxon delegation, forming up in two equal columns on either side of them. It was a practised manoeuvre that was executed to perfection. It spoke to their exceptional horsemanship; not a single word had been spoken, no command given, just absolute faith in each other’s ability to be in the right place. How did we think we could beat these people? Thurkill wondered. These men have been schooled for war since before they could walk, whereas we fight with farmers, blacksmiths and fishermen.
There were further surprises in store when they reached the settlement. Apart from the sheer size of the Norman camp, with tents stretching as far as the eye could see in all directions, hundreds of men were scurrying around shifting vast piles of earth from the ground and piling them into a huge defensive earthwork that ringed an area to the north east of the town. In those places where the earthwork was already the height of a man, other soldiers were busy sinking long wooden posts into the soil and lashing them to each other to form a solid, impenetrable palisade.
Eahlmund spat to one side. “I see they waste no time making themselves at home. Bastards.”
Aelfric, riding just in front of them, turned in his saddle. “They’re building a castle, lad. No doubt the first of many we shall see in our lands. I hear Normandy is riddled with them. This is the start of their subjugation of our land. Soon they will have them all over the place, each one garrisoned with soldiers. Of course, they will tell us they’re there to keep the peace but I fear that just means putting us Saxons in our place.”
Eahlmund said nothing, but spat once more; a huge gobbet of phlegm passing inches from one of their escorts, who scowled at the Saxon no doubt yearning to curse him – or worse – but under strict orders to cause no trouble ahead of the meeting.
They halted at the edge of the construction site. Edgar, along with Archbishop Ealdred, Aelfric and the other lords, were then ushered through what would doubtless eventually become the gateway to the castle. As he walked, marvelling at the scale of the enterprise, Thurkill saw it for what it was: a thinly veiled attempt to strike awe into the minds of the hall-dwelling Saxons.
Edgar did not speak as he walked. He held his head high, looking neither left or right as if determined not to appear cowed in the presence of his conqueror.
They strode on towards a huge tent, much larger than all the others, which had been erected in the middle of the enclosure, presumably to protect the Duke from the worst of the winter weather. The flaps on either side had been pinned back so that Thurkill could see within, despite the gathering gloom. The interior was illuminated by several huge candles which cast their light on to an ornately carved wooden chair that had been set in the middle. On this chair, wrapped in furs, was the Duke, his dark hair newly cropped close to his skull. He was bareheaded but for a narrow gold band, the symbol of his ducal rank.
As Edgar with his dozen or so companions – Thurkill included – ducked under the low entrance, William made no effort to rise, emphasising his authority over his visitors. As he watched, Thurkill saw fury in his features and grew afraid. My God, he’s angry with us for keeping him waiting this long for the throne.
But then, Thurkill’s blood froze. He was grateful for the shadows within the tent so that none might see the colour had drained from his face. There, just behind and to the right of William, stood FitzGilbert; his features - so similar to his dead brother - unmistakeable. In that same moment, the Norman also caught sight of Thurkill and all hell broke loose.
So many things happened at once that it was almost impossible to piece together. Apparently oblivious to his surroundings, FitzGilbert lunged forward, drawing his knife as he came. Immediately, Ladislav, the mountainous bodyguard who rarely left the king’s side, stepped into his path, no doubt fearing an attempt on Edgar’s life. He had no weapon – all blades having been surrendered already – so in one swift movement, he drove his gloved fist with every ounce of his upper body strength into the Norman’s face. No man could have withstood such a blow and FitzGilbert found himself sprawled on the ground, his right eye already puffing up and blood streaming from his nose.
And while all this was going on, William finally rose to his feet. “FitzGilbert! Hold, damn you!”
The whole tent was in uproar as men on both sides shouted the odds at each other. Those with knives had them drawn ready to defend or attack. For a moment, it seemed as though a great slaughter would ensue until William took control of the situation, his booming voice dripping with menacing authority.
“Hold! Hold I say. There’ll be no killing here today; I have given my word that the safety of our guests is guaranteed and I will not have any of you honourless scum prove me liar.”
Turning to the still sitting FitzGilbert, he continued. “Get out of my sight, now. Rest
assured, though, we will have words about this later.”
Groggily, the knight rose to his feet, still staring at Thurkill, his eyes like daggers. “But, Lord, this is the worthless pig who murdered my brother. I have sworn vengeance on him. I cannot allow my oath to go unfulfilled.”
“I don’t care if he is King Solomon himself, while you are in my presence, you will do whatever I tell you; oath be damned. If I command you to stick that knife in your own gut, you will do it or I will find someone else who will. Now get out before I grow yet more weary with you.”
Sulkily, FitzGilbert forced his way through the throng, pushing people out of his way without a care.
With order restored once more, the duke resumed his seat. “Lords, allow me to apologise for this intolerable incident. I had made it clear you were all under my protection while you were in my camp and FitzGilbert will be punished for his transgression. There will be no repeat. Though if I were you,” the duke fixed Thurkill with a look that burned into his soul, “I would stay out of his way. He has taken a dislike to you which rules his emotions to the exclusion of all else. In my presence you will be safe but I cannot vouch for him when I am not around to hold him in check. It was unwise of you to come here.”
“Lord,” Aelfric stepped forward, bristling with indignation. “Thurkill is my sworn man and as his lord, I am honour bound to protect him. Your FitzGilbert will do well to remember that if he harms my man in any way, I will seek redress accordingly.”
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 35