Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  “So, I’ll ask again, you snivelling wretch, tell me your name.”

  The man had to spit to clear the blood and phlegm from his ruined mouth, taking care not to splatter his tormentor’s boots. “Lilla, Lord.”

  “See, Lilla, that was not too difficult was it? You didn’t really need to take all that punishment just for your name, did you? Now, if you would be so kind, please tell me what the two of you were doing in the woods on your own, covered in blood? And why did your friend run from us?”

  Lilla’s eyes filled with tears, though whether from the pain of his nose or despair at his situation was unclear. “We thought you were coming to kill us.”

  “And why would you think that?” A look of understanding slowly began to spread across FitzGilbert’s face. “Wait. Are you telling me there were more of you before but that you had been attacked and many of your number killed? That would explain the blood, after all.”

  Lilla nodded miserably, but offered no further detail.

  “Why on earth would anyone do that? I am aware of no other Norman soldiers in this area, so it must have been Saxons who did this, am I right?” Taking Lilla’s continued silence as confirmation, he continued with his reasoning.

  “I can only conclude that you and your friends have been living outside of the law in the forests, and you started to run out of food. There’s only so many berries and mushrooms to be found, right? And after a while you become bored of such paltry fare; a man needs meat after all. And from there it was but a short step to stealing something that does not belong to you. And it sounds like you found out the hard way that such actions carry consequences. Where was all this happening eh, Lilla? Not far from here I’ll wager.”

  The dazed Saxon made the mistake of hesitating too long before answering. His head was swimming with pain and his vision blurred as a result of the beating he had endured to that point, so it was no wonder that he struggled to stay focussed on what his interrogator was saying.

  None of that mattered to FitzGilbert, though. He was not inclined to be kept waiting while this pathetic excuse for a man felt sorry for himself. Bunching his hand into a fist once more, he punched Lilla square in the mouth, loosening two teeth in the process which the bloodied wretch then spat onto the floor along with copious amounts of blood; no longer caring whether any found its way onto his captor’s clothing.

  Between sobs, Lilla managed to croak “Gudmundcestre.”

  “In the name of Christ our Saviour, your language is a garbled mess at the best of times. Where in the name of God’s hairy ball sack is that?”

  “A day’s walk north of here, along the old Roman road.”

  “Hmmm. We had not ventured that far north as yet. Tell me about this Gudmundcestre. What sort of place is it and what sort of man is it that is called lord there?”

  ***

  FitzGilbert removed his mailed gloves finger by finger before flinging them at one of the two nearby soldiers. “Have them cleaned up. I want all the blood and other bits of Saxon washed out before dawn. And see you don’t leave them wet; I’ll not have them back covered in rust, mark you.”

  As the man scurried away to do his master’s bidding, the Norman turned to his second in command, the captain in charge of the small unit of horsemen. “What do you make of that, Hugh? Sounds like this Saxon lord at Gudmundcestre is quite a character. Taller than most men, young – not yet full bearded – a warrior of some renown. Could he be our man do you think?”

  Hugh shrugged. FitzGilbert’s petty feud was of no particular interest to him. As long as the men got paid, had the chance of a little booty on the side and had their pick of women every now and again – willing or otherwise – then all was fine with him. For the last few weeks, though, they had seen precious little of either coin or girls and he knew the men were becoming restless. Whether this Lord of Gudmundcestre was the man his master sought was immaterial; his men were itching for a fight and the promise of spoils that came with it.

  “I think it worth a look, Lord. My men could do with the sport.”

  TWENTY - FIVE

  Thurkill shuddered as he slipped out from beneath the furs under which he and Hild slept. The planks that formed the walls of their chamber were frosted white on the inside bearing witness to another frozen night. As he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots, his thoughts turned to the day ahead. Not for the first time, he found himself ruing his role as lord of the village, but it was a duty he knew could not be avoided, however unpleasant. Those who had been wronged had to know that their lord would enforce retribution and that compensation would be imposed upon those who were found guilty. The law had to be an effective deterrent so that those who chose to act outside of its constraints knew they would not escape the consequences when they were brought to justice.

  Despite all that his rational mind told him, however, it did not make the job any easier, any less distasteful. He would be heartily glad when it was over. Thankfully, he would not have to wield the axe himself; Urri had already stepped forward to volunteer for that task. It pleased Thurkill that the blacksmith was once again showing such strong leadership, not least because he remained acutely aware that he was still a newcomer here. To have one of the villagers carry out the folkmoot’s sentence could only help to increase its validity in the eyes of all those who witnessed it.

  A rustling sound behind him told him that Hild was also now stirring. “Hurry up, my love. The sooner we get this over and done with the better.”

  When they were ready, Thurkill pushed open the door to find most of the villagers already assembled in the space in front of the church, ready to bear witness to the carrying out of the sentences. Although there were no clouds, the sun had only just begun to rise above the tree-line to the east and so the village was still shrouded in the dawn’s drab grey hue.

  Together, they walked hand in hand to take their position in the centre of the folkmoot, close by the stone cross that faced the great oak. As they walked, their feet crunched over the hard frost that had formed overnight. He was glad he had worn his thickest cloak. Not only did it keep the worst of the chill air out, but it also helped mask the fact that beneath it, he was shivering like a petrified dog. It would not do to have folk think him in any way afraid of what was to follow.

  Once greetings had been exchanged, Thurkill wasted no time in giving the order to begin.

  “Eahlmund, bring forth the prisoners.”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea once had for Moses, to allow the small group to come forward. The five men shuffled forward in single file, flanked by three spearmen on each side. They halted by the old oak tree in front of which five tree stumps had been lined up. Above the middle stump, there hung a rope which had been slung over one of the oak tree’s thickest branches; at the end of which had been knotted a loop just larger than a man’s head.

  Urri stood behind the stumps next to a brazier that already burned fiercely. Thurkill reflected that the blacksmith must have been up for some time already to have achieved such a blaze. Protruding from the brazier were a number of irons, tools of the man’s trade, which Urri rearranged from time to time to ensure that the heat was evenly distributed amongst them.

  The five men stared at the scene in front of them. Four of them were white with fear, their eyes wide and staring in every direction as if hoping for some late reprieve that might spare them their fate. The fifth, Beorhtric, stood as impassive and as sullen as ever, as if bored by the whole affair. The man had been resigned to his fate as soon as he had been captured, if not before, and today was no different. He was not going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him beg for mercy.

  With the men now assembled in a line, Thurkill saw no reason to delay matters further. “Beorhtric, you have been found guilty of the murder of Egferth of Gudmundcestre. The sentence is death. Proceed.” His voice as cold as the bitter chill that burned at his fingertips.

  Without hesitation, Leofric and Leofgar grabbed Beorhtric and manhandled him up
onto the middle tree stump. Stepping up behind him, Leofric reached for the noose before pushing it down over the condemned man’s head, adjusting the knot until the rope sat snugly under his chin. Jumping down, he then looked over for final confirmation. Thurkill nodded briefly, his face an emotionless mask. The two brothers then turned to face Beorhtric who, even now, scowled his defiance, and – raising their right legs in unison – kicked away the stump with the flats of their feet.

  The brigand let out a sickening gasp as the rope snapped taut around his neck. The depth of the drop was not sufficient to break his neck and, instead, he was left to dangle, his legs kicking futilely as he struggled for breath. Within moments, his face began to turn purple, his eyes bulging in their sockets as the strain for air became unbearable, while his kicks became weaker and weaker. Then, his body gave one final jerk before convulsing no more and he was left swaying gently in the breeze. Rather than cheer or shout, the crowd were deathly silent, the only sound being the creaking of the rope as it swung back and forth, protesting at the weight it still bore.

  Those closest to Beorhtric now covered their noses with their hands as they became aware that the dying man’s bowels had voided at the point of his death, a fact which – Thurkill knew – did not reflect on the man’s courage. His father, who had seen many such executions, had once told him many years ago that the victim often soiled himself through no fault of his own as the body let go of its tenuous grip on life. Unbidden, an image flashed into his mind of his aunt slapping his father’s face for ‘scaring the young lad with your horror stories’.

  As the hanged man breathed his last, so Thurkill spoke once more. “You four others have been found guilty of the lesser crime of brigandage, for which the punishment is to have your hand removed so that you may be perpetually reminded of your misdeeds. Proceed.”

  Grabbing the nearest man – whose face was now streaked with tears as he realised the dreadful moment was upon him – Leofric forced him to his knees as his brother pulled the wretch’s left arm out straight so that it was stretched across the flat surface of the next tree stump.

  Without giving the man time to think, Urri stepped up with his woodsman’s axe, its blade sharpened to a keen edge in readiness. In one smooth movement, he raised it above his head before delivering a single sweeping blow, the speed and strength of which cut through the bone and sinew of the wrist as cleanly as if it were a pat of butter.

  Before the man even had time to scream in pain, Leofgar pulled him over to the brazier where Eahlmund took one of the irons – its end glowing red hot – and pressed the metal against the stump, cauterising the wound instantly. The whole thing happened so quickly that the wound had hardly even had time to bleed. But it was never going to be painless. Almost immediately, a gut-wrenching burst of pain set in, overcoming the brigand’s initial shock and causing him to unleash an horrific scream which pierced the ears of all those assembled.

  Looking away, Thurkill noted the incongruous sight of the man’s severed hand lying upturned on the ground where it had fallen, its fingers curled up towards the sky. As he stared, he was horrified to see one of the village dogs seized its moment. Darting forward between the legs of those standing nearest to the stumps, it grabbed the hand in its powerful jaws before slinking off behind the hall to enjoy its prize.

  The remaining three captives were dealt with in similar quick and efficient fashion. The trick to it was speed. From the point that the hand was severed to the hot iron being applied to the wound was no more than a few heartbeats. In that way, the men were spared the worst of the pain and given a decent chance of survival as the blood flow was stopped and the wound sealed from dirt or foul pestilence. Some might consider the punishment cruel, but Thurkill saw no reason to make its enactment any more so. It was not an uncommon punishment for the crime of thievery. In Lundenburh, he had seen any number of men so maimed as evidence of their past misdemeanours.

  With the grisly task finally complete, Thurkill addressed the four outlaws, each of whom now cradled their injured arm, the stump of which had been wrapped tight with clean strips of linen cloth which Wulfric had treated with honey mixed with a herbal poultice to ward off the risk of infection.

  “The sentence of the court has been carried out; justice has been served. You are now free to go, though you should know that if you are caught stealing again, the penalty will be death. You are welcome to stay here in the village as we can always find work for eager men, even those with but one hand. But should you choose to do so, we will watch you closely for as long as you stay. You will have to earn our trust and respect over many months. Give me your decision: stay, work hard and want for nothing, or leave now with just the clothes that you stand in.”

  The four men looked at each other uneasily, as if unsure what to make of the offer. It seemed plain that none of them had expected it. Eventually, after no little discussion between them, two of them stepped forward and knelt before Thurkill, accepting his offer, swearing fealty to him and promising to work hard. Thurkill was not surprised, if he was honest; being a lordless man was no life for anyone. Without a lord, you were a man with no protection. Anyone could accuse you of a crime and you would have no defence, no one to speak for you, to vouch for your character. If anything, he was surprised to see two of the men turn and leave. Still, it was their choice and he wished them luck, for they would need it.

  TWENTY - SIX

  “I’m glad to have put it behind me, Hild. I take no enjoyment from inflicting punishment on defenceless men.” Stooping down, Thurkill grabbed a flat sided stone which he then launched into the water, grunting with satisfaction as the projectile bounced off the surface four, five, six times before clattering onto the pebbled bank on the far side of the river.

  Hild smiled, amused and bemused in equal measure by her husband’s fascination with such things. That must have been at least the twelfth such stone he’d thrown since they’d set off walking south from the village to clear their minds after the morning’s troubling scenes. Each one had, to a greater or lesser extent, performed its little trick, seemingly defying the water’s embrace at least for a short while. But even though the stone might skip across the water several times, she knew that Thurkill was not truly happy unless it made it all the way to the other side, as if claiming victory in its escape from its cold dark doom. She knew better than to ridicule him for his games, though, accepting that it helped to take his mind off his problems at least for a while.

  She linked her arm through his as they strolled further along the bank, Thurkill’s eyes cast continually on the ground as he searched for the perfect missile.

  “You had no choice in the matter, husband. Every lord has to be seen to be strong and to uphold the law. Were you to have not done so, the people would soon lose faith in you. Despite the punishments inflicted, there are still those who believe you to have been too lenient, that they all deserved death for their actions.”

  Thurkill stopped, pulling Hild round to face him. “But most agree with me? Most think the outcome fair?” The anxiety in his voice could not be hidden. Hild knew he worried whether he could live up to the trust placed in him by Aelfric. Even though he was doing perfectly well, she knew that he set his own standards in line with what he saw as his father’s example. Was any boy ever any different, she mused, always seeking to prove themselves worthy of their father’s pride?

  “Yes, Killi. They saw a lord who did his duty, a lord who wasn’t afraid to make a tough decision and one who did not shrink from following through on his words. I suspect that few of them would wish to carry that same burden on their shoulders.”

  Just then, Elspeth came running up to them carrying a posy of freshly picked flowers – bluebells and snowdrops mostly – taken from where they grew thickest around the base of the tree trunks in the dense woods, a hundred or so paces off to their left. Giggling infectiously, she gave her best approximation of a curtsey before presenting the posy. “For you, Lady Hild.”

  Hild smi
led warmly, making great show of sniffing deeply of their scent. “Why, Elspeth, they are beautiful. They shall brighten up my bed chamber and make a nice change from all the axes, swords and shields that my husband keeps in there, cluttering up the place. But look,” she turned towards Thurkill, “My Lord is bereft, for he has no flowers of his own. Quickly, go find some more so that he may be sad no longer, and then, when we return to the village, will you help me arrange them in vases?”

  Laughing gaily, Elspeth sprinted back towards the trees. Hild called after her. “Don’t go too far, my dear, stay where we can see you for there may still be outlaws in these parts.”

  When she had gone, Thurkill launched another stone, though this time it failed to bounce even once. He had been too hasty in his selection, a fault which he then compounded by failing to execute a proper flick of the wrist as he loosed it. “Bugger.”

  They walked on in silence for a while until Thurkill continued. “I hope Aelfric returns soon. I miss his guiding hand on my shoulder.”

  “As do we all, husband, but do not think for one moment that you’ve not done well in his absence. He could not have wanted for a better deputy.”

  “With Alwig’s help.”

  “True but do you not suppose that the Steward helps Aelfric too? Of course he does, for that’s his job. No one man can manage all things by himself. To believe so would be arrogant or foolhardy at best.”