by Tony Roberts
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #31 The Conqueror
Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder
Copyright © 2009 by Tony Roberts
Cover design by Greg Brantley
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY- EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 32 The Anzac
PROLOGUE
The smell of burning filled the air, and the crackling of flames was the only thing to be heard. The farmhouse was a mass of fire, and nothing could possibly live within what was left of the once immaculate building. Lying scattered on the ground outside were a few bodies, twisted in the final state of death, all having met a violent end.
As the flames ate away the last of the supports, the building crashed in on itself with a hearty roar, and sparks shot up high into the sky. The flames grew for a moment before settling back, smaller than before as the combustible materials were steadily consumed. It would continue to burn for a long time until only embers remained, but to those watching it was now safe to approach, and they did, calming their nervous mounts.
“Nice work,” the largest of the men grunted in satisfaction to the others.
“It was easy; these farmers are no contest,” a second growled in response, spitting onto the ground in disgust.
“No matter, the Lord of this land must be persuaded he cannot oppose Lesalles; he will learn in time to bow to his strength. Did the bodies contain anything of value?”
The subordinates shook their heads and looked at the dead scattered about. Even the dog had been killed, for it had tried to protect its master; only to be cut down cruelly for its bravery. The leader took one last look at the dead before turning his horse round and walked off into the darkness, his chain armor glittering in the light of the flames. The others followed him, leaving behind a scene of total devastation, already putting out of their minds the bodies lying there.
One of the bodies, the man whom the dog had tried to protect, lay like the others as one dead, but something was happening inside the broken body. Cells were re-knitting, bones were reforming and healing, blood flow was rerouted away from the gaping wounds the raiders’ swords had made so that life remained within. The wounds themselves were closing and the skin rejoining, leaving red scars that would fade with time. They would then merely be just scars like the rest that covered the body of the man.
A hand trembled, the fingers clawing into the moist earth. The heart beat faster, urging the blood to speed up the healing process. White cells congregated around the wounds, attacking the tetanus germs and other infections that tried to invade the body, and were slaughtered. The arm shook and moved, and the eyes of the man opened slowly. They were gray-blue and looked about blankly, not understanding what was going on. The brain hadn’t kicked in properly yet.
A groan escaped lips that were smeared with dirt. Pain filled the body and he rolled over onto his back. He looked up into the sky, dark with night but glowing with the flames of the dying fire. One hand brushed soft fur and it jerked back for a moment, then came back to stroke the dark matted hair. A sound escaped the cracked lips of the man. “Pepin.” With the name memory came back and he looked sideways at the motionless animal, eyes closed, tongue hanging out of the side of the jaw and resting against the ground. The man sighed and closed his eyes before stroking the body in fondness. Pepin had been a faithful dog.
The man, Casca Rufio Longinus, groaned and rolled onto his side and heaved himself up. Weakness swam through him and he grunted, hanging his head but keeping his arms locked so he didn’t fall back to the ground once more. He slowly dragged his knees under his chest and pushed his torso upright. “Once again I rise from the dead,” he muttered bitterly. His gaze took in the broken figures lying scattered about and the ruined and still burning buildings that only a short while ago had been a farm. A home.
The others who’d shared the farm. Dead, just like Pepin. He got to his feet and swayed, staring at the burning house. Everything he’d owned was in there, and so now he had nothing. No home, no friends, no possessions, save the clothes he wore. And even these were unfit; the tunic was stained with blood and had a long slash down the back. He’d been cut down from behind while his attention had been distracted by one of the men in front of him. Casca had been reaching for him, to pull him off his mount in fury, when he’d suddenly become aware of someone behind him and the sharp pain had cut through him and then the next thing he’d remembered was coming round just now.
He flexed his aching back. The wound would be closing but it would remain a raw and painful jagged scar for a few days. Best he not touch it yet. Another day and it would be just another of the many scars he possessed, the only reminder of his many brushes with death over the past 1030 or so years since his spear thrust into the side of the crucified Jew had led to the Curse of immortality.
“Shit.” Just a word, but one that carried all the pain, anger and regret he felt at that moment. He walked forward and began dragging the maid and the two farm hands who had also been slaughtered away from the fire and in a neat row. Pepin he then carried gently and laid him at the feet of the woman. He had no tools, no spade. All had been burned. He’d walk to the nearest farm and ask for help to get the bodies buried. Then he’d find out the identities of the five men who’d attacked them and killed the others and left him for dead. All he’d heard before being cut down were two things; a name and a place. Lesalles and Hrodbehrt’s Tavern.
And when he’d find them he’d kill them. All of them.
CHAPTER ONE
Caen. The biggest town in central Normandy. A bustling, busy place where merchants jostled to sell their wares. Wagons and carts rumbled or squelched through the streets bringing in food, wool and iron, amongst other things, and men marched in squads, armed to the teeth.
Casca hopped off the wagon of oats he’d hitched a lift on and waved his thanks to the driver, a distant neighbor who’d been kind enough to help bury the dead. Casca had explained he had to go to Caen to catch a ship to Flanders where he had family. That would be the story passed round the farm
lands near where his burned down property had been.
That part of his life was over. What was to come was in the hands of fate, but Casca was damned sure some of it would involve pain and death. He stood by the side of the muddy main route through Caen’s southern quarter and stared at the building in front of him on the other side of the street; Hrodbehrt’s Tavern. One of the watering holes for people in this part of the city. He moved away as more soldiers came tramping past, kite-shaped shields slung from their backs and conical helms with their nasal guards on their heads. These were proud Norman soldiers, fierce and warlike. Casca admired them.
But today was not the day for wishing to join the growing army Duke William was assembling here. Maybe later. He wanted to find out why his farm had been attacked and everyone else cut down mercilessly. He also wanted the five who’d done it. And he was ready to dish out a suffering or three.
His clothes were sodden. The recent summer downpour had drenched him and had turned the street into a squelching morass. It was rutted from the wheels of the wagons and horse dung was piled in uneven mounds here and there - their smell filled the air. Casca needed money. The tavern would be a good place to get some, but how to do it without attracting the wrath of whoever he was to get it from? He looked like a down and out, and nobody would give him a second glance. He needed to get a quick job for florins, and one within sight of the tavern. He’d recognize the bastard whom he’d confronted at the farm, but none of the others. It had been too dark and he’d not been close enough to see their faces.
There was a nearby leather maker’s, and Casca stood in the doorway looking in. “Need a helping hand?” he asked, blocking the daylight out.
The owner, a thin, balding man with a sharp nose, squinted up at him. The fire at the back of the workshop backlit him but Casca couldn’t make him out clearly. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Casca. Out of work, looking for a job. You need a helping hand making leather jerkins for the army? Belts? Boots?”
“Well, yes,” the owner straightened slowly. “I’ve been overwhelmed by orders, and my rivals have gobbled up some of my trade. I could do with a helping hand but I can’t pay very well. You’ve done this sort of thing before?”
“Some. I’ll take whatever pay you offer. As long as you don’t screw me, that is,” Casca grinned and stepped into the cramped low-ceilinged workshop. A splintered stout table dominated the center of the room and anvils, tools and pieces of leather were stood by or hung on the walls. The owner shrugged. “I can pay you five pennies a week. No more.”
Casca grunted. That wasn’t much. “Tell you what; if I can have a decent set of clothes and food for the first week I’ll forgo a wage for the rest of the month.”
“It’s a deal,” the owner smiled. He had a set of old molding leather clothes in the storeroom. They looked they may fit the rough looking thickset Casca – at a squeeze. The food would be cheap. He would get a strong pair of hands for next to nothing. “You’re not wanted by anyone, are you?” he suddenly asked, cautious.
“Hell, no! I’m trying to pass the time until the Duke decides whether to use his army or not. I’ll join up if he decides to start a war. I’m not hanging round with those rough types getting ripped off at dice for weeks on end. I’d rather be put to some use. I’ve done some leather working before so I know some of what to do.”
The owner wiped his hands in his apron before sticking out a hand. “Deal. I’m Lewis.”
“Lewis? A good Norman name that.” Casca looked round now his eyes had got used to the gloom. The workshop looked fairly cluttered with piles of leather or cow hides. A second table stood at the rear, by a smaller door. The top of this was recessed and a pool of dark liquid sat in this. Casca knew what this was. Part of the curing process in making tough leather involved mixing in dog feces to the material. This was called ‘pure’, ironically enough. Casca knew he’d be put on that job amongst others.
Still, it was a job and he had a place to sleep. He also got himself a half decent set of clothes. A linen undershirt was covered over by a pair of thigh-length leather pants. The legs had rotted and so were cut off, but Casca didn’t care. It was June so the heat of summer would be good on his legs. He also had a leather jerkin, open at the front because it didn’t fit exactly to his bulky torso, but it covered his back and shoulders, and much of his chest. He also got a wide leather belt that did fit. He was pleased with that.
Lewis was as good as his word and they ate well on cheese, fruit and eggs. The leather worker explained he had a deal with a farmer or two to supply them with his products in return for a regular supply of farmhouse food. It seemed this bartering system was rife, what with the increased trade brought about by the Duke’s army assembled in and outside Caen.
“So what’s the Duke up to?” Casca asked that evening as they sat round the work table.
“Oh, he’s in a rage about the Saxon kingdom across the Channel. Harold Godwinsson’s gone and made himself king over there, and the Duke reckons he was promised the throne by the old King Edward before he died.”
Casca swallowed a spoonful of broth and wiped his lips. “Damned nobles, always fighting over land. So he’s going to invade and press his argument that way?”
“Yes, so the gossip goes. He’s not ready yet but he’s gathering all the local nobles to his side and punishing anyone who’s saying no.”
Casca’s ears pricked up at that. “I heard a name today in the town I think is sort of connected to that; you heard of a Lesalles?”
“Lesalles? You mean the Duke’s chief rent collector in this part of the Duchy? He wouldn’t say no to William the Bastard. I think if the Duke said shit he’d squat wherever he was!”
They both laughed at that. Now Casca had the identity of the man who’d sent the killers to his farm, and a probable reason why. They had been punished because the man who’d owned the land they’d been on had said no to the Duke. It was all a game of politics and they’d been innocent victims of it. Casca looked out onto the dark street. He’d have to find this Lesalles and pull his gizzards out. That would take some doing; he was almost certainly protected by a group of the hardest nastiest bullies in armor this side of the Alps. Still, he had time.
The next two weeks he worked hard in the shop, helping to cure and hang leather items. From time to time mercenary captains came in to pay or to place new orders. Some eyed the big Casca standing at the rear of the shop, thinking he’d be useful in their unit, but none actually said anything.
It was just after this that Casca caught sight of the man he was after, leaving the tavern opposite. Casca quickly downed his tools and made a quick excuse to Lewis and dashed outside, catching the sight of the man vanishing round the corner of one of the large wooden houses down the street.
He returned to the shop. Lewis looked at him in surprise. “What was all that about? Saw a ghost or something?”
“No,” Casca laughed, feeling much better now he’d seen the bastard he was after. “Thought it was someone I knew but I was mistaken.”
The rest of the day went slowly. Casca was itching to go across the street but couldn’t until he’d knocked off. He was sleeping in the workshop, something Lewis was happy with. It meant his property was being guarded for free while he slept in his house. Lewis lived about five minutes’ walk away.
Finally it was time and the leather tanner bade goodnight and left, leaving Casca alone and hardly able to contain himself. He waited till the night had come and the lights in the tavern were lit, then made his way over and pushed through the single door. The tavern was a typical low lit, dark inn where people came to drink and swap tales after a day’s work, or while passing through. He flipped the barman a small silver coin, one that he’d earned doing an extra bit of leatherworking on one of the jobs, and slipped into the furthest corner and sat quietly, sipping the ale, watching.
Some soldiers came, eager to spend their money, bored with the waiting, and a few townsfolk came and went. Some unidentifiabl
e characters took up one table on the far side and began discussing something, leaning forward towards one another. Casca watched them for a few moments, wondering what it was they were talking about, then lost interest and kept an eye on the door.
Then he arrived, the man with graying hair, fading blue livery and a dagger in his belt. He was the one Casca was after! The man strode past the drinkers, ignoring them all, and pulled himself up the wooden staircase. Casca threw the rest of his drink back and got up swiftly, passing through the room to the bottom of the stairs. Nobody was in sight so he went up as quickly as he could and looked along the passageway that went off to the right.
The last door on the left was just closing, and Casca glided along the wooden planked floor to the end and listened. He could hear the man moving around in the room, but it didn’t seem anyone else was there. Casca took a deep breath and slowly tested the latch. It lifted and clicked loudly. Cursing under his breath, he pushed the door open quickly and stepped into the room.
The man whirled and the dagger was out of the belt in a flash. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”
“Shut up,” Casca snapped, closing the door behind him. The room wasn’t big, but enough for a bed, table, chair and cupboard. “Where are the rest of your associates? Speak now and your death will be quick and painless; if not, I’ll hurt you plenty before I allow you the luxury of dying.”
“What are you talking about?” the man demanded, advancing on Casca. “It’s you who’ll do the dying, friend, whoever you are!”
“I think not,” Casca said, lunging bare-handed. The man attacked, as expected, thrusting forward sharply, hoping to skewer the intruder through the chest. Casca had anticipated that, and was ready. His right hand chopped down on the man’s exposed neck, stunning him. His left hand gripped the wrist holding the dagger and twisted.
The man sank to his knees, groaning. Casca wrenched the dagger out of his grip and sent another hard fist down on his neck. The man fell face down to the floorboards. Casca slipped the dagger into his belt and pulled the man across the floor to the table. Underneath it was a wash basin and jug. The jug was half full of dirty water. Casca ripped some of the bed sheet using the dagger and rolled it into a gag, and tied it to the unconscious man’s mouth. He used some more to make a rough rope and tied his hands behind his back.