They Marvel at the Star



  THEY MARVEL AT THE STAR

  by

  L J HICK

  A short story to commemorate the Battle of Hastings

  Copyright 2016 L J Hick

  About L J Hick

  Other titles by L J Hick

  Connect with L J Hick

  HASTINGS 1066

  Thomas twisted the strands of green grass around his fingers and thought of home. The lush green fields that surrounded the farm where he plied his trade were now just a fond memory. He doubted that he would ever see his mother and father again or his childhood sweetheart, Alice. His enforcement into the king's army had been sudden and unexpected. Although Thomas was a member of the Fyrd for the local landowner, he was shocked when the king's men arrived, recruiting for the coming confrontation with William.

  Thomas knew that King Harold's army had fought a battle at Stamford Bridge against the Viking king, Harald Hardrada. He knew that the army would be passing close to his hometown, but he thought that they would pass far enough away from the town to prevent any chance of him becoming involved in this war. He still remembered the drawn expression that haunted his father's face. He recalled his mother's tears and Alice's sobbing. He hated kings and he hated their God. They fought their wars with other men's lives, driven only by personal gain. This was bad enough, but then they would back up their selfish insanity by proclaiming that it was God's will. What God, thought Thomas? The same God that allows barbarians blessed with too much power to drag sons away from their families and loved ones?

  They had marched all day and they sheltered on the outskirts of some woodland he did not know the name of. Most of the other members of the Fyrd were either asleep, or desperately trying to repair their worn footwear. He looked at his own boots and whispered a word of thanks to his father. His father had always maintained that a man needed sturdy and comfortable boots to work the land. He was right, as usual, but the boots also served those who marched to war.

  He watched the housecarls as they strode around, telling tales of the latest battle at Stamford Bridge. They wore hauberks that provided mail armour to protect them from the swords and arrows of their enemies, whilst Thomas just had a long leather overcoat that only offered protection from the cold. The housecarls had personal swords that were tried and tested in battle, whilst Thomas had an axe that would be better employed to chop wood. Damn all kings and their ambition, he thought. Damn the churches too, and their willingness to take the side of their preferred combatant and bring their God with them.

  As the light started to fade more rapidly with the onset of the night, he glanced across to a tree where the sound of a young boy coughing drew the attention of some of the housecarls. He had not spoken to the boy and did not know his name but he guessed he was around the same age as he was, sixteen. He watched as one of the housecarls tipped the boys head back and moved the hair from his face. He turned to the others and shook his head. Thomas knew that the shake of the head meant that the boy would probably not survive until the morning. Another soul lost on the march to war before even one drop of blood was spilt. Thomas wrapped the leather overcoat tightly around him to keep out the cold and at least ensure his own survival until morning. Normally, the boy's coughing would have kept Thomas awake but the relentless pace of the day's march caused him to drift into a deep sleep.

  He was woken by the rough shaking of his arm. He jumped to his feet and reached for his axe, half expecting to be told that they were under attack. Instead, he saw the bearded features of a man in front of him. The man stood a good foot taller than Thomas did, and his muscular build caused Thomas to relax the grip on his axe.

  "You won't hurt me with that thing, boy," said the man. "Is that all you have brought with you?"

  "I am not afforded the luxuries that others seem to have," said Thomas.

  The man stood back, surprised at the sharp comment from the young man.

  "You are lucky that it was me who woke you," he said. "Most of the others would have dealt you a blow to teach you some respect."

  "You have to earn respect," said Thomas.

  "So, you have no respect for any man here, simply because you do not know them?" asked the man. "You have this the wrong way round. You should respect your fellow man until he shows himself to be unworthy of it."

  "Then we disagree about that," said Thomas.

  Thomas looked into the man's blue eyes that burned with anger. His long blond hair hung around his face as his mouth formed into a snarl.

  "I need your help with the boy over there," he snapped. "I had thought that you might like to aid me, but then if you did not know the boy."

  He frowned, shaking his head at Thomas, before turning away angrily and walking off. The guilt overwhelmed Thomas and he ran after the man.

  "Wait," he shouted.

  The man stopped and turned to look at Thomas.

  "What?" he asked.

  "I will help you," said Thomas.

  The man stared at Thomas for a second or two before walking back towards him.

  "I want you to know that I only need your help. I don't need your respect," he said.

  Thomas could not look him in the eyes and instead looked to the floor.

  "Kauko," said the man.

  "Kauko?" asked Thomas. "What is that?"

  "It is a man's name," said the man. "What is yours?"

  "Thomas," said Thomas. "I have never heard of anyone called Kauko before."

  "In all your many years and great travels you have never heard the name Kauko?" asked Kauko.

  Thomas recognised sarcasm when he heard it and immediately tried to justify his statement.

  "I know I am young and I may not have the experience that you have, but Kauko is an unusual name is it not?" asked Thomas.

  "Because he's a Viking spy," said a voice from behind Kauko.

  Thomas watched as a thickset man walked towards them. He had dark brown hair and a ginger beard.

  "Alfred," muttered Kauko.

  "Well, are you going to sort the boy out or just let him rot on that tree?" asked Alfred.

  "I was just getting some help as the others seem to not be interested," said Kauko.

  "I don't care how you do it, but get on with it. It will be morning soon and we march at first light," said Alfred.

  "It will be done," said Kauko.

  Alfred moved nearer to Thomas and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to stand straight.

  "Whatever you do, boy, don't bend over in front of this one. Do you know what I am saying?" he asked.

  He slapped Thomas on the arm and laughed.

  "Be gentle with him," he scoffed at Kauko, as he walked away.

  "Ignore him," said Kauko to Thomas. "I can assure you that I am not that way inclined."

  Thomas smiled nervously at Kauko and followed him to where the boy lay still against the tree. At least you have found peace, thought Thomas. Kauko grabbed the dead boy and slung him over his shoulder.

  "Over by the small fire, you will find two shovels. Bring them with you," said Kauko.

  They found a spot between the trees where they buried the boy. Kauko knelt by the grave in a moment of silence. He looked up when he realised that Thomas was still stood leaning on his shovel.

  "I'm not religious," said Thomas, offering a quick explanation for his state.

  "Neither am I, but...oh, I forgot your rules of respect differ to mine," said Kauko.

  Thomas was humbled by the retort and knelt by the side of the grave. Kauko was silent for what seemed like forever to Thomas before eventually getting to his feet. Kauko rubbed his forehead and spoke to his helper.

  "You will see many men fall before the battle is over. Some of them will be murderers, rapists, thieves and
killers for hire. Some of them will be good men, frightened men, boys like you, but all of them will be someone's son. You should look at your rules of respect and make them a little more versatile," said Kauko. "Come with me. Let's go to the fire and get you something decent to eat. Most of the others will be asleep and those that are not will be either too tired or too drunk to protest at your presence."

  Thomas followed Kauko to the fire and ate the meat that Kauko handed to him nervously, wary lest any of the other housecarls should voice their anger. He need not have worried. Those that were still awake either did not notice or did not care about Thomas sharing their food, or they were simply too scared of Kauko to say anything.

  "Is it the blond hair?" asked Thomas.

  Kauko frowned at Thomas, silently waiting for an explanation of the question.

  "The reason that man called you a Viking spy. Is it the blond hair?" asked Thomas.

  "That and the Viking name. I suppose I brought it upon myself really," said Kauko.

  "So, if you are not a Viking, why do you have a Viking name?" asked Thomas.

  "In the battle at Stamford Bridge, I asked a man I killed what his name was, just before he died," said Kauko.

  "Why would you ask his name?" asked Thomas.

  "The fighting was nearly done and we found ourselves facing each other. For the only time in the battle I fought against a single foe," said Kauko. "I knew he must be a fearsome warrior to have survived so long. I was right, he fought long and hard and had he not slipped during the fight he may well have got the better of me. I asked his name because I