The impact, when it came, was as bad as anything he’d felt in battle before. The weight of two dozen or so knights slammed into them with an irresistible force. Their tiny shieldwall never stood a chance, disintegrating on impact. To his right he saw Leofgar go down screaming, clutching at the stump where his left hand had been but moments before. Looking down, Thurkill was greeted with the incongruous sight of the severed appendage lying on the floor still holding onto his shield. Further along, Urri, too, collapsed under a flurry of blows, though it took three or four Normans to bring him down. As for the rest of them, they were forced back into the centre of the village, desperately defending themselves in any way they could with shield and sword, parrying every spear and sword thrust that was aimed at them.
Thurkill knew that it was only a matter of time now until either they were overwhelmed or their strength gave out. But he would not give in; he would not yield. As long as he had the strength to wield his sword, he would go on. He may yet be able to kill another of his attackers, the thought of which inspired him to keep fighting. He would have dearly loved the chance to face and kill FitzGilbert but, in the fierce melee around him, he could not make him out. No matter, he thought, any one of these bastards will serve just as well.
He shuddered as yet another blow landed on his shield, the impact reverberating all the way up his arm until it caused his teeth to chatter. Feigning injury, he dropped to one knee, looking up as he did so to make sure his attacker took the bait. Sure enough, he saw a look of triumph on the man’s face as he raised his arm to deliver the killing blow. Timing his move to perfection, Thurkill used the strength in his thighs to push himself up. As he did so, he thrust his sword deep into the man’s groin. As the Norman fell, Thurkill felt his sword being pulled from his grasp as the flesh clung to the blade as if unwilling to give it up. With a sharp jerk, he managed to retrieve it, the sucking sound as it freed itself from its fleshy embrace almost turning his stomach. It was not a moment too soon, however, as already two more men were closing in on him. Sparks flew as he managed to block a sword cut that would otherwise have taken his head clean off, but he was off balance and under unrelenting pressure.
All around him the sound of fighting continued, giving him hope that not all his comrades had yet been killed. The song of metal striking metal or metal against wood was deafening and his ears were ringing with the constant onslaught to his senses. He pushed another blow aside with his shield, before quickly raising his sword once more to turn aside a spear that had been aimed at his face. How much longer could he go on? He could feel the strength draining from his limbs; his legs quivered as the muscles began to spasm.
A sudden bolt of agony shot up his thigh. Glancing down he saw an angry red weal from which the blood was already starting to flow. In his fatigue, he had lost concentration momentarily but long enough for a Norman to dart forward with his spear which he managed to force under the rim of his round shield to score a wound the length of his hand. On its own it was not life threatening, but Thurkill knew it would sap what remained of his strength even more quickly.
There was nothing for it now. He could stand back, defend and wait for death to take him or he could seek it out, meeting it on his own terms. Mouthing a silent apology to Hild for his failure to defend her and the village, he summoned up his last reserves of energy. Yelling incoherently, he threw himself forward, crashing into the first man before he had a chance to react. The next man in the way went down, transfixed by his sword. Lacking the strength to retrieve the blade, he let it drop and pulled his seax from his belt. As he did so, he flung his heavy linden-board shield at a third man who was rushing him with his spear aimed directly at his belly. As the man recoiled, his nose shattered by the metal rim, Thurkill finally saw FitzGilbert. He was pummelling Eahlmund’s shield repeatedly while his friend just about remained standing, his face as white as the winter snow.
Screaming with hatred, Thurkill ran at him, all pain in his body forgotten. His target was but ten paces away, side on and, so far, seemingly unaware of his approach. Thurkill’s heart surged; now was his chance. He cared not whether he lived or died as long as he could send this Norman sheep’s turd to hell first.
He was so close now; exhilaration flooded through his body, washing away the throbbing aches that had dulled his muscles. One last effort and he would have him, and then he could die happy. He raised his seax above his head and emitted a blood curdling screech as he launched himself headlong at FitzGilbert.
He never made it. Just as his feet left the ground, he felt a sharp pain on his shins followed by the sight of the ground advancing to meet his face. One of FitzGilbert’s thugs had managed to trip him with his spear shaft as he was in full flight. The nose guard saved his face from the worst of the impact but he still felt blood fill his mouth as his teeth were crushed against his lips. His eyes watered with the shock and pain of the collision and he was momentarily dazed.
FitzGilbert, meanwhile, had ceased his assault on Eahlmund and had turned instead to stand over his fallen foe. Even through his tears of pain, Thurkill could see the look of excited malice on the Norman’s face. Frustration coursed through his veins; he had been so close only to now find himself helpless, prostrate at his enemy’s feet.
The sound of FitzGilbert’s mocking laughter did nothing to help, adding to his sense of abject failure. It was cruel fate if this was to be the last sound he would hear before death took him. He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. He just prayed that when the blow came it would be clean and quick.
But death never came. Instead, he became aware of a new sound. The sound of many feet running. He felt the ground shaking as the sound came closer and closer. Accompanying the sound of heavy boots pounding the earth, he could now also hear many voices shouting and singing in unison. Then a voice called out above the uproar, a voice that he recognised.
“Men of Huntendune, clear this filth from this village. Spare no one!”
***
Thurkill took the cup of ale that was offered him by Aelfric. He used his first mouthful to swill out the blood, snot and dirt from his mouth, spitting the mess on the ground. At least two teeth appeared to have been loosened when he smashed his face into the ground. He then gulped the rest of the cup’s contents down, feeling it soothing his parched throat as well as if it had been Wulfric’s best honeyed wine. He sat on an upturned tree stump, every inch of his body aching but otherwise uninjured save for the spear cut on his leg. The priest had already seen to that, applying a herbal poultice packed with some of his fabled honey and herbs before binding it tightly with strips of clean white linen.
“I’d say we reached you just in time, lad.”
“Too late for some, I fear, but I have no doubt you have saved many lives here today, Lord. But what of FitzGilbert? Does he lie dead with the others?”
Aelfric grunted. “I fear not. As soon as he heard us coming, he was away over the wall, like a rabbit down its bolt hole when the fox is on its tail. Like the coward he is, I doubt he’ll stop running until he reaches Lundenburh.”
“Shit.” Thurkill was despondent. All that for nought. So many dead with little or nothing to show for it. “What of the dead? How many have fallen?”
Aelfric’s jaw set firm. “A lot fewer than could have been the case but for your staunch defence, but still more than was warranted. Eight men lie dead with several more wounded, though the priest assures me they will all recover.”
“What of Urri and Leofgar? Do they yet live?”
“Aye, they are made of strong English oak those two. Urri has a few broken bones but is otherwise alright, but your man may never carry a shield again. He’s in a lot of pain but the wound will heal well enough now that the stump has been cleansed and seared.
“But Eardwulf did not make it, I’m sorry to say. He was killed as the Normans fled. By all accounts he fought well enough but was too exhausted to defend himself at the last. He will be buried with honour in the church here.
�
��All the women and children, I’m pleased to say, have survived. That wife of yours is a marvel, Thurkill. She marshalled them out of the gate better than any captain of war I have ever seen. Not one was lost.”
Thurkill grunted. Pride in his wife’s achievement only partially off-setting the pang of loss he felt for Eardwulf’s death.
“We met them on the north road as we were marching down with Agbert, so we knew what we were heading into. We even ran the last half mile or so once we understood how grave the situation was.”
“I thank God that you did, Lord. Those few moments were all that separated us from death.”
Aelfric grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Anyway, for now we must focus on rebuilding Gudmundcestre. Once you are rested and we have buried the dead, then we can make a start with replacing those buildings that have burned down. It will take more than a few Norman thugs to stop us, eh?”
EPILOGUE
A week later, Thurkill rode into Huntendune with Hild, and the surviving members of his warband. The repair work at Gudmundcestre was already well under way under the watchful eyes of Urri, Haegmund and the other members of the folkmoot. In fact, progress was so good that Thurkill had decided that he and his men could be spared for the day while he came to see Aelfric. There were things he needed to talk through with his lord, things he had been mulling over every day since the battle. There had been no sign of FitzGilbert in the last few days, though Thurkill knew that this could not be the end of the story. A man like him would not give up so easily, especially not now he had been humiliated in battle. It was for this reason that he had come to Huntendune to seek the older man’s counsel.
They found Aelfric in his hall, deep in conversation with Alwig the Steward. Having not long since returned from Normandy, there was much for him to catch up on in respect of the affairs of his estates. Nevertheless, he lost no time in jumping up from the table as soon as he saw Thurkill. Striding over to him, he wrapped his arms around him in a warm embrace before then turning to Hild, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“How’s the leg, my lad? Not much of a limp there from what I can tell.”
“It heals well, Lord. Wulfric’s wife’s skills are beyond compare.”
“Excellent. And what of you, Hild? All’s well with the child, I trust? And Gudmundcestre? The building works proceed well?”
“I am well thank you, Lord. The sickness fades with each new day, though there is much to distract me from it. I’m glad to say the works proceed faster than we would have thought possible.”
Thurkill nodded, holding out his hand to take Hild’s. “They are a resilient people who take tragedy in their stride. I am proud to have been their lord these last few months.”
Aelfric raised an eyebrow as if something in the way Thurkill spoke had set him on edge. Before he could enquire further, however, they were disturbed by a loud commotion outside. As the shouting grew in volume, Aelfric’s quizzical expression was replaced with one of irritation. “What in God’s name is going on?”
Together, the two men went outside to find a conroi of ten Norman knights had ridden into the town, coming to a halt just outside the hall. Seeing Aelfric emerge, the leader amongst them jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, nudging the beast forward towards him.
“You are Aelfric, Lord of Huntendune.” It was a statement more than a question.
Thurkill was immediately wary; there was something about the manner of this man that did not augur well. All Normans were arrogant and self-assured, but this was something more. Had they come to seize him having had news of the fight at Gudmundcestre? He wouldn’t have put it past FitzGilbert running home to tell tales if it meant he could arrest him. His hand strayed down to his sword hilt, taking comfort for the familiar feel of the wound-leather grip. All his senses now on edge.
“My name is Ralph Taillebois, newly appointed by King William as reeve of this shire of Grantabridge.”
Aelfric’s tone was polite but there was, nevertheless, steel in his words. “What business do you have here in my town, Taillebois?”
“It is fitting that you come straight to the point; I shall do you the same courtesy. My business here is to inform you that this is no longer your town and you are no longer its lord.”
“By whose order?” The old man had just about kept his temper but Thurkill could tell that it had taken all his restraint to do so.
“By order of King William. It has been decreed that the lands of those who stood with Harold at Senlac against the rightful king shall be forfeit to the crown.”
“He has no right to do this,” Aelfric shouted. “These lands have been in my family since the days of King Alfred’s son, Edward. They were granted as payment for services rendered against the Danes. They are mine in perpetuity. I have the charters to prove it.”
“He has every right. Your pieces of parchment mean nothing now. Need I remind you that William took this land by right of conquest? It is his to do with as he pleases and no amount of charters can stop him. If you wish to appeal, you may go to Lundenburh and petition the king, though I doubt there would be much point. In the meantime, you have until sundown to clear your possessions and begone, or face the consequences.”
“Why you, lickspittle bastard.” Aelfric leapt forward, reaching for his sword as he did so. He made it no further, however, as the knight to Taillebois’ left kicked his horse forward, lowered his spear and drove it clean through the old Saxon’s chest as he ran on to it. It happened so quickly that no one moved or spoke for several moments. Thurkill stood rooted to the spot, shocked into paralysis, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.
Taillebois, meanwhile, turned his horse back towards the rest of his men, apparently bored by the whole affair. “See that this mess is cleared away and make sure any other members of his household are gone before nightfall. Burn his hall and kill any that resist.”
Thurkill shook his head, as if trying to clear the fug that had descended. He had come to Huntendune to discuss his future with Aelfric, to ask permission to move on so that the people of Gudmundcestre could be free of the risk his presence presented to them. But none of that mattered any more. Aelfric was dead, cruelly murdered in front of his eyes not moments after he had been stripped of his lands and titles. He felt bitter bile rising in his throat, forcing him to swallow hard.
Tears flooded his eyes as he stared helplessly at the body of his friend and mentor lying in the dirt, an ever-expanding pool of blood forming around his body. In a daze, Thurkill turned to Hild, taking hold of her hands in his. He knew what he must do but he would not act without her permission; he loved her too much for that. His wife looked deep into his eyes as she had done on many occasions, both happy and sad. He saw in them a love and understanding that gave him the strength and courage to act. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
Thurkill then turned to his men; men he knew would follow him to the gates of hell if he but commanded it. They already knew what he had in mind; each one grim-faced and ready to play their part. He knew that what he was about to do would put them all outside of the law. It was a step that he did not take lightly but, even so, he could not allow Aelfric’s murder to go unanswered.
His worst fears about their new masters were beginning to be realised, their true colours had been exposed. They cared nothing for his people, that much was evident. Thurkill could not stand aside and allow these whoresons from Normandy free rein to behave as they pleased. Smiling at Eahlmund and the others, he drew his sword and flung himself at Taillebois, slashing the newly sharpened blade deep into his neck.
“Kill them. Kill them all!”
Historical Note
This, the second novel in the Huscarl Chronicles, focusses on the period shortly after the Battle of Hastings up until spring 1067.
If you were to ask them, many people might state that William the Conqueror became King of England after the battle but that does not tell the whole story of these turbulent times. In fact, all that hap
pened on 14 October 1066 was that the Norman Duke won a battle. It was undoubtedly a significant battle as he managed to kill the reigning King of England together with a significant proportion of his army, but it did not automatically mean he became king the same day. In fact, the battle had been a very close-run affair which – for much of the day – could have gone either way. There are also those who think – me included – that if Harold had but waited another week in London before marching south to face William, the additional soldiers he could have mustered might well have swung things in his favour.
In fact, it was to be a further ten weeks until, on Christmas Day 1066, William was finally crowned in Westminster Abbey, marking the official start of his reign. So, what happened during the intervening period? Far from giving up, the surviving Saxon nobles assembled in London to elect a new king, choosing Edgar Aetheling, last descendant of the House of Wessex.
Although he was king to all intents and purposes, Edgar is never listed as such in history books. This is partly due to the fact that history is always written by the victors and the Normans did not recognise Edgar’s title. The other reason was that the Normans saw coronation as the rite that conferred kingship whereas for the Saxons, election – or acclamation – was enough.
Very little is known of Edgar compared to other notable figures of the time. He was the grandson of King Edmund Ironside (whose father had been Aethelraed Unraed - or Unready, more familiarly). Edmund was only on the throne for six months during which time he fought and ultimately lost against the Danish King Cnut. As a result of this defeat, Edmund’s son – Edward the Exile – was sent abroad by Cnut, ostensibly to be killed. He actually ended up in Hungary where he married into the royal family and produced a number of children, the eldest surviving male being Edgar.
In the 1050s, when it looked like the current King, Edward the Confessor, was going to die childless, envoys left England to seek Edward the Exile’s return so he could take the throne from his cousin. Edward arrived back on these shores in 1057 but was dead within days (no one knows why or how). That left Edgar – no more than a toddler at that time – as the likely heir.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 52