“Speak, Lord. Whatever it is, you can rely on my sword and those of my men to put it to rights.”
“I’m not sure you can, Thurkill. It is bigger and potentially more damaging than any of us can deal with. Since Edgar submitted to William at Beorhthanstaed, the new king has been true to his word and has proved to be fair to us Saxons. Harsh admittedly, but ultimately fair. Yes, there have been some arrests and some land dispossessions from those who refused to bend the knee, but nothing that couldn’t be reasonably justified. Nothing that you might not expect any king to do when needs must. But what worries me now is that those who William leaves to rule in his place while he is in Normandy may not be so inclined.”
“Surely they’ll follow the orders they’re given?”
“Who knows what orders they’ll have let alone whether they choose to follow them? What if they decide to invent some charge or conspiracy as pretext to take what they want? Without William to keep them in check, I truly worry what may happen to the people.”
Thurkill was doubtful. Who would dare so openly defy the king’s command? “Who does William leave in his stead? Do we know?”
“His half-brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux and another called William FitzOsberne. Though I have met neither, they each come with a reputation. They appear to have less of William’s wisdom and restraint and more of his aggression.”
“What would you have me do?”
“I am not sure there is anything you can do, if I am honest, lad. Just keep an ear open for news. I am sure there will be word on the roads should things take a turn for the worse. Listen to what the merchants are saying as they travel north. There’s not much that escapes them.”
***
The journey back to Gudmundcestre was only slightly more pleasant. Mercifully, the incessant rain had finally stopped, though vast banks of thick cloud still shrouded the land like a smothering grey blanket. At least their clothes had mostly dried out and their cloaks were still warm from where they had been hung by the hearth. Nevertheless, it was not enough to lift Thurkill’s mood for Aelfric’s words weighed heavily on his mind.
Over recent days, he had begun to hope that things might just be bearable under the Normans; that they had, perhaps, simply swapped one king for another. One that spoke French rather than English but – to all other intents and purposes – the same. But now he found himself wondering if he had been fooling himself, allowing his own little piece of paradise to mask what might be going on elsewhere? If Aelfric was right – and he had no reason to doubt him – then who knew how long their happy existence might go on? Would Aelfric himself be in danger while he was in Normandy? What if the Normans decided to take action against all those that had stood with Harold at Senlac? God knew that they would not need much of an excuse. William had always been open in his claim that Harold was a usurper. It would be but a short step to declare any who had fought for Harold to be outlaws, their lands forfeit to the crown.
What’s more, he knew one man who would take great pleasure in seizing his lands. There had been no sign of FitzGilbert since the coronation, but Thurkill did not doubt he was still in the country. The Norman was not the type of man to forgive and forget. Thurkill had managed to put him out of his mind for a few happy days but he could not pretend forever. Sooner or later he would have to deal with it. He would also have to tell Hild soon. He scolded himself for not having done so before, but he knew it was because he had been trying to protect her from the worry. Beyond everything else, he wanted her to be happy. She would have to know about the threat that hung over them both. Thurkill had little doubt that, should FitzGilbert get the better of him, things would not go well for his woman. The best she could hope for was a quick death.
He would have preferred to bring an end to it himself – to go seek out the Norman and deal with him – but he had responsibilities now. Not least of which was his duty to Aelfric and to the people of Gudmundcestre. What sort of lord would he be were he to abandon them to resolve his own personal feud? No. He would have to stay put and wait. Perhaps he would not be able to find him this far from Lundenburh? As his horse plodded along, hoof after muddy hoof, Thurkill set his face in an expression of grim determination. Let him come. I will be ready for him, come what may. He might just have need of the new palisade.
Turning in his saddle, Thurkill looked back to the four men who trudged along behind him. “Lads, it’s time we readied the people of Gudmundcestre to look to their safety. You heard Lord Aelfric’s words; with the threat of bandits around, it would not hurt to have the men train with spear and shield so that they may protect their hearths and homes.”
“Aye, Lord. An hour spent practising with blade and shield is never an hour wasted.”
Thurkill nodded, smiling at Leofric’s enthusiasm. He chose not to mention Robert FitzGilbert, but he felt sure that the Norman whoreson could not be too far from their thoughts as well.
TWENTY - ONE
“What is it that you want, FitzGilbert? Are you still chasing shadows, looking for your brother’s killer?” Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, yawned, as if to emphasise just how much the whole business bored him.
Robert FitzGilbert was not so easily put off, however. He had come to petition the king’s half-brother for more troops with which to extend his search. “I will not rest, Lord, until I’ve had my revenge. I suspect I am not alone in my desire. Any brother worth his weight in salt would move heaven and earth to avenge his kin. Why, even you, the mighty Bishop of Bayeux, would want William to exact a price were you to be most foully murdered, I presume?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But with my brother back in Normandy, I do have rather more pressing matters to see to, governing this God-forsaken, rain-sodden, foul midden of a country, than worrying about your search for some low-born Saxon farm-hand with one ear.”
“He’s no farm-hand, Lord. Whilst he may not have elevated titles, vast lands or wealth, he is – nonetheless – a warrior of some renown. I’ve heard many tales of his feats of valour and martial skill. You’d do well not to underestimate him, as I do not.”
“Such as?” Odo swung his booted legs idly back and forward where they hung over the thick oaken arm of the chair in which he lounged. He longed for the comfort and warmth of his castle back in Normandy. These Saxon halls – even this one that had belonged to the Saxon king in his greatest city and was, therefore, supposedly the grandest of all his dwellings – were little more than pigsties dressed up with rugs and a hearth. The sooner they could construct some proper buildings, more fitting to their station and wealth, the better. Work had already begun on a new stone tower down by the river, close to the bridge over to Suthweca, but it would take some months before it would be habitable, let alone completed. Till then, they would have to slum it in these draughty, wooden cess pits.
Oblivious to the bishop’s concerns, FitzGilbert continued. “It’s said that this man brought down a Viking warrior at Stamford who had, until then, held up the whole of King Harold’s army and prevented them from crossing the bridge. He had killed over forty men single-handedly before this Saxon took him down with a spear by floating down the river until he was under the bridge.”
“Seems a bit cowardly if you ask me. Killing a man without facing him in combat.”
“Whatever the rights or wrongs of it, King Harold himself rewarded him personally for that particular act. Then there was the battle at Senlac itself, where this man stood alongside his father with the king until the end; Harold’s last two defenders in fact.”
“Well, that didn’t turn out too well either, did it? I can’t say that you are impressing me too much with these feats of valour as you call them.”
“Though he could not prevent Harold’s death, the fact that he stood when all was lost, killing six of our best knights in so doing, tells me he is a man of courage and no little skill. He’s not a man to shrink from danger, nor will he shirk a fight. For this reason, I beg of you to afford me a conroi of forty knights with which to seek him out an
d kill him.”
“And if I were to give you these men, what would you do with them? How, in God’s name, would you find him? He could be anywhere in this foul country.”
“I have men out in the market places and taverns, watching and listening. It’s just a matter of time until someone hears something.”
The bishop’s face showed he was anything but convinced. “Look, FitzGilbert, I’ve no problem with you embarking on this quest, however foolhardy I might think it to be. If you want to get yourself killed then that is your business. If this Saxon is as fearsome as your stories suggest then I’m glad that it is you who plans to face him rather than me. But what I would have a problem with would be trying to explain to my brother how I allowed forty of his cherished knights to be slaughtered on some fool’s errand.”
FitzGilbert’s face flushed with anger, but he held his peace. He had every ounce of his younger brother’s fire in his belly, but where he differed was that he was not ruled by his emotions. Robert was far more calculating, weighing up the likely consequences of his actions before committing them. So, whilst he longed to retort to Odo’s jibe, he knew that to do so would risk rejection. He could take a few insults as long as he got what he wanted.
His suspicions proved correct almost immediately when Odo – perhaps realising there was no sport to be had in goading him further – sighed and swivelled round in his chair so that he could take up the writing materials that lay on the table in front of him.
“Fine. On your head be it, FitzGilbert. Go see the Master of Horse and give him this note. It authorises you to assemble the men you want for your purpose.”
FitzGilbert bowed briefly. “My thanks, Lord. I will not let you down.”
As the younger man grasped the note, Odo held on to it, fixing FitzGilbert with a gaze that burned through his eyes and left no doubt as to the strength of the threat that followed. “See that you don’t. Bring at least half of them back or don’t bother coming back at all.”
TWENTY - TWO
The training was finally starting to bear fruit. After the first few days, Thurkill had despaired, wondering whether the villagers would ever get the hang of standing in a shieldwall. It was not a natural thing for a man to do after all, standing placidly to face an onrushing enemy. Every bone, every muscle in your body told you to run; either away from the danger or headlong towards it depending on your disposition. But for the shieldwall to work, it relied on every man being steady; every man keeping his shield overlapped with that of the man to his right, protecting him from the thrust of spear or sword.
And a well-formed wall of shields backed by strong, disciplined warriors, did work. It had been proven time and time again over the centuries. It had nearly worked at Senlac. If only they had stayed put on top of the ridge, the Normans might never have broken them
Those lessons had not been lost on Thurkill and so he schooled the men tirelessly day after day until they finally began to show signs of skill and proficiency. Excluding him and his five companions, there were roughly thirty men of fighting age and strength, ranging from the youngest, a boy of sixteen winters – Thurkill would take none younger – up to the oldest, a grey-haired bear of a man who reckoned he was at least forty but could not be sure.
He had the strength of two men and a ferocity that was an inspiration to his fellows. Thurkill placed him on the far left of the shieldwall in the most exposed and, therefore, most dangerous, position of all. You needed your best and strongest man there as the strength of the shieldwall rested on his courage and steadfastness. In Urri the blacksmith, Thurkill had found the ideal man for the job.
But it had been a struggle all the same. It took most of the first day just to have the men hold their shields correctly. Most of them had little or no experience at all, having never been called up for the fyrd before. Those who had any battle experience had been lost at Senlac, leaving the village shorn of fighting men.
Once they had finally mastered how to link their shield with that of the man next to them, Thurkill had slowly begun to introduce spears as an added complication. He had the men form two ranks, with the one in front focussed on presenting an impenetrable barrier, while those behind looked for gaps through which they could thrust the seven-foot-long ash shafts, topped with the wickedly sharp leaf-shaped blade.
After a week of intense practice, Thurkill finally pronounced himself happy that they had mastered the basics. His words were greeted with much cheering and slapping of backs. He had learned, from building the palisade that the men were willing to follow his commands and responded well to encouragement. So, he made sure that, every now and then, he singled out a man here, another there, to compliment them by name. To be praised in front of their comrades gave a man a boost which, more often than not, saw him apply extra effort to the next activity, which in turn made his fellows work that bit harder so that they too might earn their lord’s approval.
Even Toki came out to join the training, though Thurkill refused to allow him to stand in the wall with the others, despite his fervent protestations. Whilst his leg was healing well – Wulfric had, a few days earlier, announced that the bone had knitted together as well as he could have hoped – he was by no means strong enough to take the added pressure that being part of a shieldwall entailed. After all, he was still hobbling and walking with the aid of a stick that Leofric had fashioned for him, which fitted snugly beneath his armpit.
So, while the others toiled, Toki sat on a log by the side of the drilling yard, his damaged leg stretched out in front of him, and watched. Though he was not taking part, he could still listen and observe so that he could pick up the sense of it all. When the time came, he would be able to join the others without too much difficulty.
During the second week, Thurkill considered it was time to move up to the next level in their drills. Up to that point, his five hearth-warriors had positioned themselves amongst the villagers so that they could show them how it was done and give the shieldwall greater shape and strength. But now, with the core skills mastered, Thurkill removed them and had them charge the wall to try to break it instead. At first it had been an unmitigated disaster. Even with just six men against thirty arranged in two ranks, they had broken the line without difficulty. None of the defenders had expected their attack to be anything like as ferocious as it was, and they scattered in confusion at the first impact. One or two in the centre had even fallen backwards to the ground only to find themselves staring at the point of a sword held to their throat by a grinning attacker.
Though he had expected such an outcome – he had told his companions to go in hard to teach the lesson well – Thurkill was still disappointed that they had broken quite so easily. “This is no game, gentlemen,” he’d roared. “The shieldwall is the only thing that stands between you and death; between the enemy and your women and children. Had that been for real, you would all now be dead and your wives would be screaming as soldiers forced themselves upon them.”
He allowed the silence to grow, letting his words sink in. He was deliberately harsher than perhaps he needed to be, but it was important that they realised what was at stake. For them to have the image of a faceless enemy raping and killing their womenfolk was no bad thing if it gave them the resolve to stand firm. His outburst also told him that shame and guilt could be a strong motivational factor – just as much as praise – as, on the second attempt, the wall almost held. The look of determination on their faces, one or two of them even snarling in anger, told him that the message had hit home. They understood now what defeat meant and they were desperate to show their lord that they could do better. Though they had still broken, it was not the craven attempt he had seen before.
They broke again on the third charge, but only due to bad luck. The man in the centre had lost his footing as he turned his ankle treading on a small stone. Down he went, yelping in pain, and Thurkill lost no time in stepping into the gap and bashing the man in the second rank out of the way with his iron shield boss. On this occ
asion, however, he had not even opened his mouth before Urri was lambasting them from his position on the left.
Thurkill smiled, using his shield to hide his face so that his mirth would not detract from his tirade. He was pleased to see the blacksmith take on this responsibility; every wall needed a leader and if Urri wanted to assume that role and if the men were prepared to listen to him, then it suited him down to the ground.
Urri was already a well-known and well-liked figure in the village; his job as blacksmith brought him into contact with almost everyone, whether for making and repairing farming equipment, casting nails for house-building or shoeing horses. Everyone knew Urri and depended on him for their livelihoods. Added to that, his size and great strength made him stand out from the rest. His booming voice would carry far over any field of battle, making sure none could be in any doubt as to his orders.
“My thanks, Urri,” Thurkill stepped back into the centre once the blacksmith had exhausted his vocabulary. “On this occasion – it was ill luck rather than poor skill that led to your downfall. Had it not been for that stone, I believe you would have held. Nonetheless, it teaches a valuable lesson. Always be sure of your footing. In a real battle there will be stones, there will be discarded weapons and – on top of that – the ground will be slippery with the blood and guts of fallen men, friends and foe alike. You must take care where you place your foot for once you go down, not only are you a dead man but, in all likelihood, you will also have the deaths of your comrades on your conscience – however briefly – as your trip could split the wall apart.”
Thurkill’s confidence grew over the course of the rest of the day. Though it buckled at times or took a step or two back, the shieldwall did not break again. What’s more, encouraged by Urri’s example, the men began to talk to each other: to warn where there was danger; to exhort each other to greater efforts; to cheer every little success as it came. A few more days of this, Thurkill thought, and we’ll have a shieldwall worthy of the name.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 41