Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2

by Paul Bernardi

  There was a moment’s silence before everyone erupted at once. Voices on all sides clamoured to be heard, each one increasing in volume in a bid to stand out above the furore. To Thurkill’s ears, such was the cacophony that he could not tell who spoke for or against him. Eventually the tumult became so out of hand that Wulfric had to stand on his chair to appeal for calm.

  “Gentlemen, Ladies, I urge you to stay calm. As our lord has stated, we find ourselves in the midst of a crisis and we will not find the answer by having everyone shout at the same time. The folkmoot is appointed to represent the interests of all, so please allow them to speak freely so that we may proceed.”

  Grudgingly, the people quietened – save for the odd indignant shout – but, with peace finally restored, Haegmund the miller rose to speak. “I say to hell with the Normans. I for one stand with Lord Thurkill. Though he may have only been our lord for a short while, I have seen nothing in that time that tells me he does not have our best interests at heart. I say we fight to protect what’s ours and that’s an end to it.” With that, the barrel-chested man sat down heavily and folded his arms, his fierce expression daring any to take issue with him.

  Urri was next. “I stand with Haegmund. If it were not for Thurkill and his folk, these Normans would have already overrun the village for we had no wall until a few short weeks ago. What’s more, he has taught us how to defend ourselves with spear and shield. If a lord’s first duty is to protect his people, then who can say that he has not done so? In return, our duty is to serve our lord in whatever way he asks.”

  Just as Thurkill began to think he would carry the day, Eadwig the farmer rose. He had not had occasion to speak with Eadwig much before now but he knew him to be a prickly character whose outlook on life was often as dark as a rain-swept November sky. As soon as he began to speak, he realised his reputation was well earned.

  “I hear the words of my fellow brothers, but I for one wonder whether we should be so quick to risk life and limb in this escapade. We all heard what this Norman said; he only wants one thing. He has no interest in us and will surely leave us in peace once he gets it. This disagreement between him and Lord Thurkill took place several weeks before he came here to Gudmundcestre. It is not our fight. Why should we risk our lives in this conflict?” He paused, looking round at the other members of the folkmoot for support, before continuing.

  “We are not warriors. Yes, we may have learned how to hold a spear and shield and stand in a straight line – and we should be rightly grateful to our lord for that – but we are no match for these Normans. They had the battle-skill to kill our king and his best warriors, so what hope would we have?”

  Some murmurs of assent greeted the farmer’s speech, but Thurkill noted they were muted and few in number. Before they could spread any further, however, Wulfric was on his feet once more, nostrils flared and cheeks reddened in anger. “There is merit in Eadwig’s words.” His measured tone did little to hide the strength of his feelings.

  “It is true that we are not warriors, but farmers, millers and blacksmiths. But more than that, we are Saxons. Men of honour with traditions that stretch back hundreds of years to the time when our people first came to these shores after the Romans left. Those traditions dictate that if a lord fulfils his duty to his people, then those people are bound to him in return. Who here can say, with hand on heart and before God, that Lord Thurkill has in any way failed us? Well?”

  Silence filled the packed hall. None would willingly speak against Wulfric’s tirade, not even Eadwig who sat staring at his feet, as if conscious of the many eyes that fell upon him, as if daring him to rise to the bait.

  Seeing his challenge go unanswered, the priest continued. “I for one will not be the first to abandon my honour. I will not anger our forefathers by refusing to do my duty. Though my vows forbid me to take a man’s life, I will stand by our lord to lend him whatever support I can and I cry shame on any who refuses to do likewise. We may have lost our king in battle but we can yet hold our village and our pride.”

  The priest’s intervention brought matters to an end. There were none who chose to speak after that, not that they could amidst the cheers and shouts of defiance that ensued.

  As the people began to file out of the hall, Thurkill summoned his five warriors to give orders for a watch to be established on the walls.

  The thirty or so men who had been trained to stand in the shieldwall were divided into three groups of ten. At any one time, one group was to patrol the wall while the other two rested. Thurkill would have liked to have more men on the wall as the gaps between them were larger than he would have wanted, but it was more important that as many men as possible were rested and fresh for a fight should it come to that.

  To Hild he gave instructions to ensure that food and water was kept in plentiful supply. They would have no problem with either if it came to a siege as a small stream broke off from the nearby river and flowed through the village ensuring a constant supply and their granary was still more than half full from the previous harvest and supplemented with good stocks of apples and cheese. He had no fear of their running short of supplies for a good while yet, not that he thought FitzGilbert would have the patience to starve them out.

  Over the next few hours, Thurkill noted the mood began to lighten in the village. Though the anxiety was not far below the surface, the priest’s stirring words, combined with decisive action on his part to organise the defences, seemed to have rallied the people behind the common cause. Everywhere he went, people smiled and called out words of support and encouragement. Even Eadwig nodded and offered a grim half smile when Thurkill came to stand by him to look out over the wall in the direction of the woods where they believed the Normans to be lurking. In truth, Thurkill’s purpose for going to that part of the wall was two-fold as he felt he owed the farmer some words of apology.

  “I respect your views, Eadwig, so I thank you for standing with me. I’m truly sorry this has come to pass. If I could change things, rest assured that I would.”

  The farmer grunted. “You know if it were down to me, I wouldn’t be here. Better yet, you wouldn’t be. This trouble has come to pass only because you’re here. None of us invited it upon ourselves.”

  Thurkill felt his anger rising and fought hard to keep it under control. “So why fight then? Why risk your life for me?”

  “Do you know nothing of honour and brotherhood? Did your father teach you nothing?” He didn’t pause for a response. “I fight because my fellow villagers voted to fight. Whether I agree with the decision or not, I will not stand by while they put their lives at risk instead of me. What would be said of me were I to stay at home out of harm’s way? That I were a coward who stood aside while his friends died? I will not have that shame on my name, I will not allow my children to grow up in that shadow. I would rather die with a spear in my hand next to Urri or Haegmund, than skulk in fear in my home.”

  “I understand that, Eadwig. It is why I stood with King Harold at the end, even after my father had been killed in front of my eyes and after many others had already fled. There are few who understand honour better than me and few have lost more because of it. I did not ask for this Norman bastard to come here, but I accept that I brought it on myself by killing his brother. But can you honestly say that you would’ve done differently to me were you in my shoes? Would you have stood by and done nothing having seen the throats of your womenfolk slit for no reason?”

  Eadwig stared at the ground and said nothing. Thurkill needed no further confirmation than that and felt no need to push his point further. He did not wish to challenge the man’s courage; it was enough that he was here on the walls.

  “Let us at least part as comrades in this endeavour, even if not friends. Will you take my hand, Eadwig?”

  Thurkill proffered his right hand as a gesture of reconciliation. For a moment he feared that the farmer might not take it, but then the older man shrugged and grasped it firmly, applying pressure as if to tel
l Thurkill that his commitment should not be doubted.

  Thurkill bade him goodnight. “’Til tomorrow, then, when we shall see what FitzGilbert has in store for us.”

  TWENTY - NINE

  Thurkill was awoken by the sound of retching. It was still dark outside, the only light coming from a small candle by the bed. Bleary-eyed, he padded over to where Hild knelt in the corner, her face hovering over a small wooden pail. “What ails you, my love? Was the fish not properly cooked? I’ll have a word with Aebbe, tell her to be more careful.”

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Hild sat back on her haunches smiling benignly at him as if talking to a child. “It is not the fish, or anything else I consumed last night, husband.”

  Chuckling at Thurkill’s quizzical expression she continued. “I think this is the proof of my condition, my love. There is little doubt now I am with child, for this must be the sickness comes in the early stages. It is nothing to worry about, so the other women tell me. It passes in time.”

  Gently, Thurkill raised Hild to her feet, wiping the corner of her mouth with the linen cloth she had draped around her shoulders against the chill. “You have made me happy beyond measure, wife. I cannot wait for the moment to come when I shall be a father. Will it be a boy or a girl do you think?”

  “I have no idea, and in truth I care more that when it comes it is healthy. So many die so young or even before they come into this world. To have a child that survives to adulthood will be a blessing indeed.”

  Thurkill nodded. “And before that, we must see to FitzGilbert or none of us will live to see the birth of our child. Will you be alright if I leave you for a while? I should go to the wall to check on the watch, now I am awake.”

  Thurkill climbed up to the palisade where he was greeted by Eahlmund who had overseen the change from the night watch to the first of the two day-shifts. The weary men had just trudged off to the hall where fresh bread and a hot broth awaited them before they would go to find their beds. Thurkill hoped they would be able to sleep but he feared they would soon be back on the wall if FitzGilbert was the kind of man he took him to be.

  Idly thumbing the blade of his war axe, he stared out across the meadow that stretched from the gate to the treeline, a hundred or so paces distant. The early glow of the dawn was now colouring the tops of the trees, where the first buds of spring had already started to appear. Listening to the chirruping of the birds, Thurkill wondered what the day would bring. What would they do when he refused to accede to their demands? In all likelihood it would be violent and, in his heart, he knew that men would die on both sides. He just prayed that not too many of them would be Saxon. His mind filled with images of Hild, a new born babe suckling at her breast. Inwardly, he cursed the fates that had conspired to bring such happiness into a time of such despair.

  As if reflecting the state of his mind, a low mist had formed overnight clinging to the meadow. It was growing thicker by the moment, so much so that he felt sure it would soon be enough to disguise the sight and sound of any Norman manoeuvres. Leaning out over the top of the wall, cupping his hand around his one good ear did not help. He could hear nothing but the birds singing in the tops of the trees that were, themselves, now obscured from view.

  “Who knows what goes on out there?” Urri had come to stand by him, having recently arrived to take up his guard duty. “I’ve rarely seen a fog as low and as dense as this. I doubt we can see more than thirty paces, if that.”

  “Aye. Can’t hear or see a thing under it. But I’m sure the bastards are out there. I doubt we’ll have long to wait now.”

  It was as if his words were prophetic. No sooner had he finished speaking than the blacksmith grabbed his arm, nodding towards the path. Squinting in the direction indicated, Thurkill could still see nothing, but he could definitely hear something now. Horses. And the sound of clinking metal. The Normans had returned.

  “Go rouse the others, Urri. Bring them to the wall. We must make a show of our strength. We must let them know we’re ready for a fight and don’t fear them. Hurry back, mind, for you’re the scariest of them all.”

  Urri grinned. “Aye, Lord.” With that, he loped off towards the hall, his great lumbering strides making short work of the distance.

  Turning back, Thurkill peered out once more, trying to make out the first signs of movement. Moments later he saw them, just six of them but all on horseback and all fully armed. They walked their mounts to a point about ten paces from the gate and then halted, the horses shaking their heads up and down, blowing steam through their nostrils. After a short while, FitzGilbert removed his helmet to reveal his shock of unruly dark curls perched on top of his otherwise clean shaven head. Thurkill never could get used to the way the Normans wore their hair. Short hair with no beard or moustache was a look that spoke of childhood to him.

  “Saxon!” Thurkill’s pushed such idle thoughts to one side. “Have you made your decision? Will you come forth to answer for your crime or will you continue to hide behind this puny wall?”

  Hefting his great war axe in both hands – an unmistakable threat – Thurkill drew himself up to his full height before replying. “Go home, Norman. You’ll get nothing here but pain and death.”

  “Those are brave words for one that skulks in the shadows. I doubt you’d be so brave were you to stand face to face with me.”

  “Do not doubt my courage, Norman. Those that do rarely live long enough to realise their error.”

  “Well, I have only your word for that, boy. You should come out here to show me so that I might see for myself.”

  Thurkill chose to say nothing. He knew FitzGilbert was hoping to prick him into a reaction, but he was not even remotely interested in rising to the bait. Instead, he stood staring down at the small group of horsemen, a look of complete disdain etched on his face.

  Eventually, FitzGilbert lost patience. “Yet again, I find myself at a loss to understand how one as womanly as you managed to best my brother. Nevertheless, you’ve made your choice and must now take the consequences.” With that, he replaced his helmet and raised his right arm, before letting it fall in a sharp cutting motion. Almost immediately, another – much larger – group surged into view from the fog where they had been concealed until now. It took Thurkill a moment to realise what was happening, but once it dawned on him, he yelled. “Archers! To the walls!”

  Below him, the six knights peeled off to each side, allowing the new arrivals through. A group of men, a long, thick tree trunk between them, ran forward. Its branches had been removed and one end sharpened to a blunt point. Ropes had been lashed along its length from which the six men now carried the whole contraption, three on either side. Next to them, a further group trotted along holding their long shields above them so as to protect themselves and those that held the log.

  In no time at all, the Normans reached the gate, where they readied themselves to begin. The first blow caused the wooden planks to shudder but no more. It was a solid construction backed by a heavy wooden cross-piece that rested snugly within a pair of iron braces on either side. Thurkill knew it was well made and would stand up to no small amount of punishment, but he also knew it would not hold forever. Impatiently, he looked behind him towards the centre of the village to see where the archers were. Sure enough, they were coming. Half a dozen of them, led – he noted with a mix of worry and pride – by Hild. Hot on their heels came another group, with Eahlmund in front, pushing a couple of carts filled with rocks. Excellent. The more missiles we have the better.

  By the time the archers reached the wall, the battering ram had already landed another four blows. They were aiming for the join where the two halves of the gate met, correctly identifying that to be the weakest point.

  “Come on, come on. Hurry,” he yelled. “Who knows how long the gate will stand?”

  Without pausing to aim well, the archers quickly loosed off a volley. At that range, though, they could not miss. But not one shaft found its mark. Rather they al
l either embedded themselves in the protective shields or bounced harmlessly off. One even stuck in the log where its goose feathers stood quivering.

  “Again!”

  Time after time, the six archers let fly. Each one was an expert with their weapon, trained from an early age to bring down animals on the hoof, but none could find a target, so well covered were the soldiers. Meanwhile the gate was weakening all the time. Great splinters were now being shorn off the solid oak planks, while a worrying crack was beginning to form on the cross-bar. There was no telling how long it might be until the whole thing split asunder and then it would all be over. Once the Normans were within the walls of the village, it would be a massacre. They had to keep them out at all costs.

  “Rocks!” Thurkill roared. The three men nearest to him raced down to grab the biggest stones they could find from the carts before lugging them back up to the wall. Just as the first man raised his missile above his head, ready to launch it at the men below, he gave out a blood-curdling shriek. Spinning round to see what had happened, Thurkill saw him lying on the ground, a bolt protruding from his eye socket. “Ware, Ware! Crossbows. Hild, have half your men target them. The rest can carry on as before.”

  Three of the Saxon bowmen trotted along the wall to where they were closer to the crossbowmen. There, they bent their bows back aiming at the new group of Normans who had come into view. With their weaker bows, designed for hunting rather than warfare, there was little likelihood of them being able to kill a man, especially one equipped with a mailshirt. But they did enough, nonetheless, to disrupt the flow of bolts.

  The stone throwers needed no second invitation to take advantage of the much-needed respite. The first volley met with immediate success. A heavy, jagged rock struck a shield bearer’s exposed elbow, making him drop his shield in pain and shock, the bone broken by the impact. The second missile was timed and directed to perfection, bouncing off the now-exposed head of the lead man on the battering ram. Though not enough to knock him out, he went down on one knee, letting go of the rope as he raised his hands to protect his skull from further damage.