Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  The slash struck along the man’s left shoulder and his neck and cut into the poor quality meshing. The sword traveled down into muscle and bone, jarring Casca’s arm. He pulled it out and stepped back. The man fell flat over the bench and thrashed feebly, blood welling up from the deep cut.

  “Kill the swine!” one of the men ordered from behind an improvised face mask. All of them were wearing some sort of cloth over their noses and mouths. Casca grabbed a bottle of half-drunk wine and flung it at the nearest man. The bottle struck him across the face and shattered, sending shards of glass everywhere and splashing the red wine over his clothing. A second man advanced, his eyes wide with murderous intent.

  “Go make sure the girl stays in her room!” the same voice ordered, and a third man made to cut past Casca to the room beyond, but the Eternal Mercenary wasn’t having any of it. He barged sideways, sending the third man staggering against the right hand wall, and then Casca stepped back quickly, sword swinging, to be met by the second man’s blade. The man who’d been struck by the bottle came at him, clutching his face and screwing up one eye. Casca slashed wildly at the man in front of him, driving him back.

  Slash. Lunge. Thrust. Casca was whirling his blade, keeping the four men still on their feet back, and he sensed the door behind him open and Aveline gasp in horror. One of the men, the one told to get the girl, tried again, but Casca this time cut him across the right shoulder and the victim cried out and fell aside.

  The three in front came at him. Sword blades flashed in the candlelight. Grunts filled the air. One blade cut close to the left, but Casca stepped hard to the right. A second blade speared for his throat. Casca knocked the thrust up and turned to the right. A small table fell over with a crash. Shadows were enormous against the wall. The third man swept his blade backhanded towards Casca’s waist, and it was met full on with a parry. Metal rang loud.

  “Kill him you idiots!” the leader hissed from the rear. Aveline screamed. The other man had got to his feet, blood seeping from his wound, and was closing on her. Casca stepped back to the doorway of her room and slammed his fist holding his sword into the guy’s head, snapping it back into the thick wooden door frame. He fell in a heap at Casca’s feet.

  But this had given the other soldiers an opening. Two came at him side by side. Murder burned in their eyes. Casca knew he had to act in a second or two or he’d be skewered. He dropped into a crouch and the two blades flashed past his ears and bit into the wall behind him. From his squatting position Casca now thrust up. The point of his sword sank deep into the guts of the man on the right. He screamed and folded over the steel. Casca pulled him across and hauled out the blade. The falling body now came in between the other soldier and a rising Casca.

  Aveline was sobbing behind him. Groans came from the wounded and dying. Casca stepped to the right and faced the last two still on their feet. He was soaked in blood, and rivulets ran down his raised blade onto his fist. “Come close and feel death,” he growled softly.

  The nearest man hesitated. They should have taken care of this man easily, but four had been killed or taken out of the fight. His fee for the nights’ dirty work wasn’t worth his life. He turned and ran past the leader, fleeing down the corridor.

  “Now it’s you and me,” Casca said and advanced.

  The leader snarled and chopped down. Casca met it above his head and pushed hard. The Norman was sent staggering backwards, his eyes widening. Such strength he hadn’t expected. He desperately struck back, hacking for Casca’s neck, but the Eternal Mercenary deflected the blow, stepped to the right, half turned and sent his riposte up inside the line of the Norman’s blade and sank it deep into his abdomen.

  The leader dropped his sword and fell face down, twisting to one side as Casca savagely pulled the blade free. Casca slowly turned and surveyed the scene of carnage. It wasn’t a room anymore; it was a charnel house. Two had gone, the first he’d wounded and the one who’d fled. They’d either run away or fled to get further help.

  Aveline stood in the doorway, hands to her mouth. Her eyes were huge, staring at Casca. “How did you manage to defeat them all?”

  “I’m good,” he replied, finding a cloth to wipe his blade. It was an old, dirty thing and he flung it aside. It had done its job but was soaked. He slid the sword back into the sheath and bent to examine the leader. He was dead. Casca pulled the face cloth down and stood up. It was Roger. “Your fiancé sent him. I don’t think he likes me around you, Lady Aveline.”

  “Why would Lesalles do such a thing?”

  “Jealousy? Power? Hate? Who knows. But whatever, he won’t rest until he thinks I’m dead.” He pulled upright the fallen table. One of the men was groaning, the one he’d struck into the doorway. He pulled him up and sat him down on the bench. The other three were dead. Just then, the sound of Roland’s snoring came to them through the door to his bedroom. Casca shook his head in amazement. “Does he normally sleep like the dead?”

  Aveline, despite herself, giggled. She regained control quickly and composed herself. “Yes. He won’t wake until the morning. What about these people?”

  “I’ll take care of it. I suspect your fiancé will be calling round before long. I think I’d best be going. I don’t think I’m welcome in Caen anymore.” He looked at the corpse of Roger. At least he’d taken care of all those who’d attacked the farm, but their paymaster was still around and becoming too much of a pain in the ass.

  “But what if someone comes back?”

  “If they do, it won’t be you they’re after. This was to take care of me. Lesalles won’t do anything against you or your father. I’m going to Dives with the army. I’ll be safer there. Tell Lesalles I decided to quit and run. Knowing that bastard he’ll set the sheriff after me.”

  Aveline gave Casca a long, even stare. “I’m sorry you’ve been put in danger. I wish I could persuade Lesalles to leave you alone.”

  Casca laughed bitterly. “He won’t. He’s power mad. Nobody challenges him, and I’ve done just that. I’ve taken care of his pets here and that’s an insult he won’t let pass. Take care, Lady Aveline. Who knows, we might meet again in England.”

  Aveline looked at the blood soaked muscle-covered soldier, then leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “That’s a thank you. And may God protect you whatever you do.”

  Casca looked at her in surprise. Then he smiled. “No doubt he will.” He picked up the first of the corpses and dragged it out of the ruined room and down the corridor to the front door and deposited him in a heap by the dirt roadside. The other two soon joined him. By this time the fourth man had recovered and was getting to his feet. Casca took him by the neck and marched him out of the building and swung him round.

  “Now listen you ugly swine; I’m leaving Caen. I’ve had enough of being picked on by Lesalles. Tell your master if he wants my hide he’ll have to come search for me in Spain. Plenty of work there for a mercenary like me. Now go!” He kicked the Norman to help him on his way, and turned about and ran off into the shadows. Hopefully the misinformation would take Lesalles’ attention away from where he really was going; Dives, and the assembly point of the entire army the Duke was gathering.

  He was gambling on the anonymity of being in an army to keep hidden from Lesalles, and hoping some time, somewhere, he’d have the chance of getting him away from his bodyguards to finally get even and settle things once and for all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The girl stood in front of Casca, slowly swaying seductively. The wispy, gauzy folds of the clothing that concealed her body fell to the ground and she was there, standing in front of him, her long hair loose and tumbling down her back. Casca reached out to pull her against him, to feel her nakedness press against his yearning flesh, but she was gone, a wraith that dissolved before his eyes, and the dew of the pre-dawn was soaking into his shirt.

  Casca groaned and rolled to his feet. A dream. He stood, remembering where he was. An animal shed within sight of Caen’s northern g
ate, close to where the river chuckled gently northwards out of the walled city and through the tree-lined fields beyond. His armor, having been washed in the river during the night to get rid of the dried blood, hung from cross-beams supporting the wall, bending them with its weight. His outer clothes also hung there, having been scrubbed the previous evening as blood had been on them too.

  He washed his face in an old, rotten bucket that had collected some water in the past, either from the rain or had been left for the shed’s other occupants, a couple of goats, and sucked in his breath at the cold. At least it woke him up. He slipped on his outer garments, finding them still slightly damp. They would dry in the sun, and the sky was clear which would mean a hot day. It was July in Normandy, and high summer.

  The road ran close by and Casca quickly shrugged into the hauberk and clipped his belt around his waist. The sword had done good work yesterday and it had needed a little sharpening, but not much. His shield leaned against the wall and he sat next to it, watching the road. Sooner or later a group of soldiers would appear and head north out of the gates, which were now being unbarred, and he’d tack onto them. Once at Dives he’d seek out Walter Giffard’s retinue and melt into the group. He’d done this a hundred – a few hundred – times in the past, so it was like second nature.

  The sun was warming his face, shining directly into his eyes, when a group came into view. Grunting as he got up, he grabbed his shield and small pack and loped out of the rotten shed and caught them up, joining the twenty-strong group at the rear.

  “Who are you?” one of the men turned in surprise. He was a large-nosed olive-skinned guy with a wide mouth. He looked from the Mediterranean area.

  “Casca. Joined in Caen, I’m bound for Dives. Thought I’d tag along with you guys.”

  “Well, why not?” the large-nosed man shrugged. “I’m Jean.”

  “French? A mercenary?”

  “Yeah. Pay beats cutting wheat or pulling grapes off the vines.”

  Casca nodded. “I’m no Norman either. Like you, being paid to fight beats pulling berries off bushes.”

  Jean and the others weren’t part of Walter Giffard’s retinue but they were friendly enough to him. Jean and Casca exchanged tales along the road and from the Frenchman Casca learned that the Duke was recruiting Bretons and Flemish soldiers to beef up the Norman army. Word was that the Duke was promising huge chunks of land to the various commanders if they came with him to conquer the Saxon English.

  Casca reckoned it would be a close thing; the English would be bastards to beat. They had axe wielding maniacs called Huscarls, the elite bodyguard of the King, and they weren’t the sort you’d like to face unless you had plenty of help. The rest of the Saxons were levy Fyrdmen from the local area, and they only stayed with the army for a few months.

  “You faced the Saxons before?” Jean asked.

  “Not the English Saxons.” Casca’s thoughts briefly went back to when he had taken on the Saxons in their various stages of development from forest tribesmen to settled farming people of a kingdom. They had been pirates on the sea when he’d still been a Roman, and fought them then. Then he’d been the lord of Helsfjord and defeated an invading force in the northlands; then when he’d been with Charlemagne on his huge campaigns into the Germanic lands the Saxons had fought hard but had been overcome. “I’ve fought them in the past and never lost.”

  “Then I’ll take that as a lucky omen,” Jean laughed. The sergeant leading the group glanced behind him but decided Casca wasn’t there to cause mischief so he ignored him. All along the road groups of soldiers were marching north. It took two days to cover the distance to the coast and Casca could feel the sea air on his face before he saw the water, and the smell of salt reached him.

  Then they were walking over a grassy rise and the sea suddenly hove into view. It stretched into infinity, but Casca knew that beyond the horizon lay England. The water glittered and slowly moved as the currents and wind played with it, and sea birds circled overhead and then plunged down as they caught sight of a chance of food.

  The field leading down to the sea was covered in tents and men moved in and around them. Horses were tethered in large groups, fenced off from the main camp, and practice apparatus stood to the rear where many soldiers were honing their combat skills. The whole array of different flags fluttered from various circular cloth tents, and Casca felt overwhelmed for a moment. Then he spotted the insignia of Giffard and said his goodbyes to Jean and the others before moving off towards it.

  The sergeant he’d tested himself against back in Caen was there, Robert, who recognized Casca and called him over. “I wondered where you’d gone,” he said, studying Casca. “Thought you’d run off.”

  “No chance of that, Sergeant,” Casca chuckled, “just had to say my goodbyes to Caen.” He grinned foolishly, wanting to make the sergeant think he was much simpler than he was.

  The sergeant grunted, then waved at the immediate tents. “You stay close to these tents from now on, and train with your new buddies. You’ll get to meet them. I want you to get familiar with their names and with the training. I’ll be teaching you how to fight in a unit. This isn’t escorting merchant’s mule trains or guarding a noble’s bedroom. This is the real stuff and you’d better be tough enough to take it.”

  Casca flexed his muscles. “Try me, then, Sarge.”

  Robert stared at him for a moment, then slowly smiled and turned to face a couple of men who looked as though they’d been hewn from the cliffs. Obviously the sergeant’s enforcers. They looked as though they could rip trees out of the ground for fun. All were covered from neck to hip in chainmail armor, and it looked in much better condition than the usual rank and file. “Cocky little bastard, hey?”

  The two enforcers nodded and grinned evilly. The sergeant turned back to face Casca. “Look here, Casca, that’s your name isn’t it? Right. I’m Robert of Laval and don’t take shit from any of my men, get it? I’ve got retainers of my own that I’ve paid for and will let me have their sisters if I asked for them. You do as you’re told and I’ll be happy as a pig in shit. But if you piss me off, then you might as well run yourself through with your own sword. Got it?”

  Casca nodded. “Perfectly, Sarge. No offense, I only hoped to prove to you I’m tough enough for your unit.” Casca wondered how many retainers Robert had. They were probably running their own protection racket within the unit. They all looked as though they had the best equipment.

  Robert spat in the ground. “I’ll decide that over the next week or so. We’re due to sail in August so you’d best impress me by then. Walter Giffard don’t want slackers in his force.”

  Casca was shown to one of the larger tents, one of the communal ones, and spent the next two weeks getting used to the other foot soldiers and men-at-arms. Most of them were from Normandy and had readily flocked to the flag as plenty of plunder and riches had been promised to all those who came across to England. Robert drilled them mercilessly and Casca soon found out that there was, indeed, a racket going on. The two enforcers came round with a list of expenses the soldiers had been incurring, much to everyone’s surprise.

  Casca found out that he was supposed to pay ‘rent’ for the tent, plus a fee for training costs. The two enforcers stood in front of him, grinning. “And how do I pay for these?” Casca asked, his eyes boring into those of the man without the list.

  “It will be stopped from your pay each week.”

  “I take it you hand out the pay to each of us?”

  “You got it.”

  “And I suppose that some additional, ah, handling fees find their way into your pockets, too?” Casca wiped his hands on a cloth and threw it into his white tent. He’d heard enough from these two characters. Now was the time to prove himself to Robert and his comrades.

  The two looked at each other, not sure whether Casca was being serious or not. “Of course,” the man with the list said, his voice dropping into his boots. “So you’d best not complain or else….�
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  He got no further. Casca’s right hand crashed into his face, shattering his nose. His comrade roared in rage and charged Casca, taking him in the midriff and tumbled with him to the ground. The man who’d been struck staggered back and stared in disbelief at the blood splashing out over his hands and chest, and winced in pain at the shooting shards of agony that engulfed his face.

  Casca rolled and threw the second man off him, getting to his feet swiftly. His opponent scrambled up but Casca struck him hard in the guts and chopped down on his exposed neck, sending him crashing to the ground. The first man gritted his teeth and came at him, his face a pulped mass of blood. Casca shifted his weight from right to left and helped the Norman on his way by grabbing his arm and hip and swinging him round, using the momentum of the charge to add pace to the throw.

  The Norman landed in the middle of a tent’s side and caved it in, vanishing into the billowing folds of cloth. A cry of surprise came from the occupant before he was crushed beneath the weight of the enforcer.

  The second man got up, breathing heavily, but Casca had swung round and landed his right on his jaw, sending the man up, snapping his head back sharply. As his arms flailed for Casca, the Eternal Mercenary ducked and then rammed a meaty fist into his stomach. The enforcer leaned forward and groaned deeply, then threw up over the ground.

  Some of the onlookers chuckled at seeing this, but Casca had no time to reflect on what the man had for breakfast as the first man came at him again, having disentangled himself from the tent. His swinging fist caught Casca under the ribs and the other fist was closing in on his nose when the Eternal Mercenary slammed his right arm up to block, and then sent a left blurring under the man’s guard and up into his chin. The man’s head snapped back and his legs buckled.