The log dropped to the ground with a thud as the remaining five men failed to cope with the sudden shift in balance. The defenders gave a great shout of triumph, as if their enemy were already defeated. The bowmen wasted no time taking advantage of the confusion. All six of them nocked a new arrow and sent them in one deadly salvo down on to the flustered men below. Half of them failed to find a target but the others flew true. The range could hardly be any closer and so the impact was fatal. The man who had dropped the log was struck where neck meets shoulder, the arrow biting deep into the flesh, penetrating straight down into the heart. He dropped dead so suddenly that he had no time to scream. The second arrow took a man on the other side who had been left unprotected by his companion who had moved his wooden board so that it covered him more. The iron tip punched a hole through his mailshirt and on into his gut. He fell sideways, hands clutched to his belly in pain as the barbed arrow ripped into his vital organs.
Without hesitation, though, two more soldiers rushed forward to take the place of the casualties, dragging the bodies to one side. At the same time, FitzGilbert roared at the shield bearers to keep their boards in place or suffer his wrath should any more of the log carriers be killed. Moments later, the pounding resumed. Nervously, Thurkill glanced down at the rear of the gate. It was holding for now but he could not say for how much longer. Even from his elevated position he could see the crack on the cross-piece had grown in size. Not for the first time, he offered up a prayer of thanks that Urri had insisted on it being at least as thick as a man’s arm.
“Will it take it?” Hild’s face betrayed her fear.
“Not for much longer.”
“We need to prepare for that moment, husband. If they get in, we will all die unless we can hold them at bay with our shieldwall.”
Her words cut through to his brain, shaking him from his torpor. Hugging her tightly to his chest, he thanked her for being a better war-captain than him and then turned to run down towards the hall. As he ran, he yelled back at his wife. “Keep your archers trained on the men holding the log. Aim for anything that is not covered by a shield. Even an arrow in the foot will be enough to stop a man in his tracks.”
Running into the hall, he found Urri and a good number of other men waiting patiently as they had been instructed. Thurkill kicked himself for his stupidity. In his concerns for the gate, he had completely forgotten his own plan. Hild’s timely words may well have just averted a disaster.
“Urri, gather the men, we need you up by the gate before the Normans break through. Form a shieldwall, eight men wide and two ranks deep.” Then to those within earshot he continued. “Remember your training. You must hold firm. If the gate goes, you’re all that stands between the Normans and your families.” He could think of no better words of encouragement; if that did not give them the strength to stand, nothing would.
Without waiting to see their reaction, he rushed off back to the wall. It pained him that he really needed to be everywhere at once. He wanted to stand next to each man, to give them courage to resist, courage to strike a blow even. He would have loved for Scalpi to be there to guide him. He was still not much more than a boy, in truth, forced by circumstance to take the role of one much older and more experienced than he. Yet despite that, he believed in his heart that his father would be proud of him, would approve of what he had become and what he had achieved. He swore to himself that now was not going to be the time that he started to let him down. Setting his jaw in a defiant expression, he launched himself up the small incline that led to the wooden parapet, coming to a halt next to his wife as she loosed yet another arrow. “How goes it?”
Breathlessly she turned to him, revealing a long gash that ran diagonally from her elbow towards the shoulder. “In Jesus’ name, what happened, wife?”
Despite the pain she must have felt, Hild grinned. “A lucky shot from one of their crossbowmen. He caught me just as I was drawing back my bowstring.” Seeing the look on her husband’s face, she sought to assuage his fears. “Don’t fret so, it looks worse than it is. It’s not stopping me from using the bow properly anyway.”
Trying to seem less worried than he felt, Thurkill laughed. “Well, I hope you killed the bastard for his impudence. Or have you left that job for me? I would dearly love the chance to discuss this insult with him further.”
“He’s all yours, husband. I’ve been a dutiful wife, following your orders to attack only those who would try to break the gate. We’ve managed to injure two more, but they keep replacing them. I fear they have too many men for us to stop them.”
“Either they break or we do. There is no third option.” Risking a glance over the wall, Thurkill’s heart sank. The fog had lifted now, allowing him to see all the way to the trees. But it was not the improved visibility that upset him, rather what it revealed. There, about fifty paces away and ranged across the width of the path, FitzGilbert sat a-horse along with roughly a dozen other knights. They were formed up in a wedge, Robert himself at the point, just waiting. Thurkill knew that as soon as the gate broke, they would charge forward into the village and cut down, indiscriminately, all who they found within. Spinning round, he looked back towards his hall. Where is the shieldwall? What is taking them so long?
If the gate gave way in the next few moments, then nothing could save them. There would be no defence against the marauding horsemen. Finally, the spearmen came into view, trotting forward in two well-disciplined rows under Urri’s watchful eye from his usual position on the left of the front rank.
“Got the bastard.” Behind him, Hild let out an excited yelp as another of the log carriers limped away, a shaft buried deep in his thigh. As before, however, the triumph was short-lived as another man immediately rushed forward to take his place.
Her small victory did, however, give time for the shieldwall to form up behind the gate. They stood about five paces back from the wooden posts so that they would not be hurt if and when it eventually broke. And they were not a moment too soon for, almost as soon as they’d taken up their position, an ear-splitting crack filled the air as the cross-piece finally gave up the uneven struggle, breaking into two and falling to the ground with a heavy thump. For a brief moment, silence descended as everyone, Norman and Saxon alike, stopped to watch as the two gate panels – still largely intact despite the heavy pummelling to which they had been subjected all morning – slowly swung inwards on their hinges.
“Forward!” FitzGilbert broke the spell, urging his knights forward. Viciously raking his heels along his horse’s flanks, he threw the beast into a canter as he closed the distance to the now yawning gap in the wall. Behind him, his knights followed suit, pushing hard to catch up with their leader, knowing that the impact of their charge would be all the greater were they were to crash through at the same time.
Almost simultaneously, Thurkill yelled down at Urri and the rest of the men. “Close up. Fill the gap with your shields. Do not let them pass; the fate of the village, your wives and your children, rests in your hands.”
“Ut, ut, ut!” The men chanted as they stomped forward in unison, smashing their spear hafts against the backs of their shields to add to the noise. The courage they gained from the noise would be a big factor in deciding whether they stood or ran. He couldn’t fault their discipline, but he knew that could change in an instant when the Normans hit them.
Stand, you bastards, stand! He willed them to hold fast, wishing he was there alongside them. He had to trust them, though, had to hope that the training he had given them was enough. It had worked well enough against the brigands a few days ago, but what about against warriors such as these? Fear would be twisting their stomachs into knots, loosening their bowels. More than one would likely soil themselves before the fight was over. It happened to the best of them and there would be no shame in it, as long as they held.
“Brace!” Urri’s voice carried clearly above the clamour of battle; a growl more than a shout.
And then the knights were upon t
hem. The impact when it came was terrifying, causing Thurkill to think they surely could not withstand the onslaught. But by some miracle they did. The man in the middle of the rear rank – Haegmund it was – lost his footing, thrown back by the force of the knight clattering into the man to his front, who fell back against the miller’s shield. Before Haegmund could react, the rim of his board smashed into his face, dumping him, dazed, on his arse, his mouth blooded and short of at least two teeth.
To his credit, though, the miller was straight back on his feet, forcing himself back into position. Thurkill doubted the poor wretch knew what day it was but the benefit of the training was plain to see. Haegmund was more worried about letting his comrades down than he was of his teeth. Doubtless, he was also fearful of the bollocking he knew that Urri would give him if he did not get straight back into line.
Thurkill smiled grimly, perhaps they might survive the attack after all. They had been fortunate, though. The narrowness of the gateway meant that the Norman wedge had been forced in on itself as their horses scrambled for space. The resulting crush had reduced the impact of their charge, not by much, but enough to mean that the full force of their beasts could not be brought to bear. Now the four men who formed the front row were trying to urge their mounts on whilst, at the same time, stabbing their spears forward, hoping to find a fleshy target. In both endeavours they were thwarted. The shieldwall, with Urri haranguing and cajoling, was not to be budged. They had taken a couple of steps back to absorb the force of the attack but now they had steadied and were holding firm.
Satisfied they were not in any immediate danger, Thurkill risked another look over the parapet, careful not to present an easy target to any opportunistic crossbowman. At least half the horsemen were fully engaged with the shieldwall; the rest were standing uselessly, unable to bring their spears to bear against any available target. But that might not last. At any moment the shieldwall might break. It certainly could not defeat the Normans on its own; all it could realistically do was stand and take the punishment. Something else was needed to help turn the tide. It was time to put his plan into action so he hailed his warband to join him.
“Ready?” Thurkill looked behind him to where Leofric and Leofgar now stood.
“Aye, Lord.” They were crouched down behind the wall, out of sight of the attackers. Both men were ready with shield and sword in hand, the blades sharpened to the keenest edge possible. Their faces betrayed no fear, ready to do their lord’s bidding come what may.
Thurkill then looked over to the other side of the gate, over the heads of the melee that was being fought out below. There he caught the eye of Eahlmund who stood with Copsig and Eardwulf, all three of whom nodded back to show their readiness. Grinning maniacally, Thurkill slung his shield across his back and gripped his huge war axe in both hands. Sucking a huge breath of air deep into his lungs, he stood up and yelled at the top of his voice. “Now!”
As one, the six men stepped up onto wooden benches to gain extra height before vaulting over the wall to land on the fresh piles of straw that had been placed at the foot for the palisade in readiness this very purpose. The height of the drop was a risk, but an acceptable one to Thurkill’s mind and offset by the soft landing that had been prepared for them.
Nevertheless, a bolt of pain shot up his leg as his ankle gave way beneath him as he landed heavily. He went into a sideways roll to take the weight off it as quickly as he could. He didn’t think it was broken – the pain seemed bearable, after all – but he prayed it would hold for what was to come. Then he was back on his feet, half hobbling, half running as fast as he could towards the knights’ unprotected flank.
The surprise was total. The Normans could not have foreseen such a drastic turn of events. All their attention was focussed on the gate, but now they suddenly found themselves assailed on both sides by screaming, snarling Saxons intent on their destruction. At such close range, they did not even have time to wheel their horses to face the new threat.
Taking full advantage, Thurkill launched himself at the first man in his path. Leaping up as high as his armour would allow him, he brought the blade of his axe down in one great arc onto the man’s head. The knight was dead almost before he knew what had hit him, his skull cleaved in two with bone and grey matter spraying to all sides. The blow toppled the man’s body off his horse, causing the poor beast to panic. Rearing up, its front legs thrashed the air before hammering down on the hind quarters of the horse in front. Within moments, fear had spread to the rest of the knights. Those closest to Thurkill and his men were desperate to escape from the death-bringing fiends that had appeared from nowhere, while those in front, attacking the shieldwall, turned their heads to see what was happening to their rear.
Chaos now reigned as the knights fought to escape the danger. Those closest to the shieldwall were not willing to wait for those behind to get out of the way which just added to the confused mass of men and beasts. All the while, they presented easy targets to the defenders on the walls and to Thurkill’s men on the ground. Four men lay dead before the rest were able to scramble away from the killing zone.
The outcome far exceeded Thurkill’s expectations. It was a more stunning success than he could have imagined. He had been afraid that the whole thing could end in disaster, but when he had proposed it the night before, Eahlmund and the others had enthusiastically agreed. It was not in their nature to be couped up behind walls. They preferred their fighting to be done in the open.
Using the handle of his war axe as a crutch to favour his throbbing ankle, Thurkill surveyed the scene. In total, eight Normans lay dead or dying around the gate where the fighting had been fiercest. The more lightly wounded who had been able to move had managed to get away by either being pulled up to sit behind their comrades as they rode off, or by clinging on to their bridles and allowing the momentum of the horses to pull them along.
It was not a bad return for the first encounter, he surmised. But it came with a cost. The gate had been breached and would need urgent repair, and at least two of the villagers had been killed, both by crossbowmen. But overall, he knew that the reckoning scales had tilted in his favour. Nevertheless, there was much work to do, and fast, before the Normans rallied and came back. For return they surely would.
THIRTY
Thurkill limped over towards the church, knowing that was where the wounded had been taken for Wulfric and his wife to tend to. On the way, he gave orders to Urri to gather men to repair the gate and to do so as if the devil were coming for them. He knew they had a spare cross-piece, but they would have to assess the whole structure to ascertain the full extent of the damage. Only then would they know how long it would take to make the repairs.
“Hurry now, Urri. There’s no telling how soon FitzGilbert will come back. The sooner you have it fixed the better.”
“Aye, Lord. Rest assured I’ll work the bastards until they drop if need be.”
Thurkill was still smiling when he entered the church, but the sight which greeted him there instantly wiped it from his face. Several makeshift cots had been laid out on the floor, around half of which were occupied by villagers with a variety of injuries. Set apart from them, just to the right of the door, three shapes lay covered from head to foot by blankets. Three dead! Forgive me, God, for what I have done. He sank to his knees and bowed his head in prayer, waves of grief and guilt washing over him. These people had died as a direct result of his deeds in another place, at another time. He prayed for forgiveness and for the strength to face up to his responsibilities.
Moments later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring up into his wife’s face, her beauty transcending the grime of the day and the concern that was etched into every line of her face. Rising to his feet, he embraced her, careful to avoid her newly bandaged arm. He hugged her tight to his chest before easing off as he remembered her condition. “I’m sorry, Hild.”
“For what? It was not you who killed them.”
“It was my actions at Haslow that caused their deaths, though. May God forgive me for the sin of pride that led me to take a stand against this Norman and risk the lives of my people against his knights.”
“You did what you had to do for your honour and that of our people, and I love you the more for it. I would not stand by a man who gave up so easily. Now, stop feeling sorry for yourself and speak to the injured. Give them succour, give them hope. Let them know they have done their duty before God.”
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Thurkill nodded, knowing Hild was right. Whatever his own personal feelings, he had to continue to lead by example. He made his way slowly from cot to cot, asking after each person, complimenting them on their courage and stout resistance. In truth, he had seen very little of the fighting by the gate but the wounded souls did not know that or, if they did, they did not care. For them, the words of encouragement and praise from their lord were enough to bring a smile to their faces. More than one tried to rise to their feet to offer the respect due to him, but each time Thurkill held out a hand to stop them and begged them to lie still and rest. Mercifully, most seemed to have relatively minor wounds and looked to his – admittedly unskilled – eye as if they would make a full recovery in time.
The last pallet he came to, however, told a different story. The smell of death hung heavy in the air around him. With a start Thurkill realised it was Eadwig, his erstwhile critic who had spoken so vociferously against fighting the Normans. He lay on his back, unmoving, his eyes closed. It was hard to tell, in fact, whether he still lived. His face was drained of almost all its colour as if his life blood had already deserted his body. As he came closer, however, the sole of his boot scuffed the straw-covered, earthen floor, the sound of which caused the farmer’s eyes to flicker open. Seeing Thurkill standing over him, a smile – or was it a grimace of pain – played across his lips.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 49