by Tony Roberts
The locals had fled as the soldiers plunged into the surf from the boats, wading ashore, weapons drawn and raised out of the water. No doubt in a short while the local landowner would be sending panic-stricken messages that the enemy had landed. Walter Giffard and his men had been sent to secure the fort, and Casca crunched up the stony slope into the wide, rectangular area through the gatehouse. Huge holes showed in the walls and roof, and stones lay in piles where it had fallen. But it was unmistakably Roman. Casca felt a pang of nostalgia and reverently handled one of the fallen stones for a moment. Then he sighed, closed his heart and dropped the finely carved stone.
“Make sure all the entrances are covered. Fill in any gaps in the walls. There’s plenty of rubble lying around. Sergeants, organize your men!” snapped the company captain, his armor gleaming head to foot. He had a head cowl so that only his face showed, and his helmet covered much of that.
Robert snarled and impatiently gestured to his unit of fifty men. “Come on, you lazy bastards! Over here! Casca, I want you to bring the biggest stones first.” Casca grumbled. The moody swine has singling him out for yet more hard work. Lucky he was almost as strong as an ox.
“What is this place?” Arnand asked, looking round in wonder. The Normans had built castles of wood, nearly all of them of what was called motte-and-bailey. This involved digging a boundary ditch, throwing all the earth dug out of the ground into a huge conical shaped hill and flattening the top, and then placing a wooden castle atop the mound, and then erecting a wooden fence on top of the raised ramparts inside the ditch. This, though, was of stone and much bigger, and had no mound to site the castle on.
“Roman fort. Probably seven hundred years old.” Casca grunted as he shifted a particularly unwieldy rock to block part of the hole Robert’s unit had been ordered to see to and make good.
“Really?” Arnand looked at the stones again, this time with interest. “You know about these sort of things?”
“Some. I grew up where there were plenty of them.” A safe statement; he had indeed grown up around Roman architecture. He put the stone at the bottom of the improvised repair work. No doubt the engineers would in time improve on it. He looked across to the north-west corner and saw that there was plenty of activity. “Looks like the Duke and his followers are making camp there.”
“Away from the fishing town. Not surprised, it stinks.” Arnand wrinkled his nose. “I want to know where all these riches are that we’ve been promised.”
Casca led Arnand over to the north wall, the one that looked out inland. The land was flat and marshy, and clumps of trees and reeds stood up from the marsh grass and little isles of dry land. “Over there. Towns, cities, villages.”
Arnand gazed out for a moment. “And women! What about castles?”
Casca patted the neglected walls. “Only these. The Saxons don’t build them.”
“Bah! Then we’ll take them.” Arnand nodded as if to agree with his statement and picked up another stone. Casca didn’t argue; if the main Saxon army were defeated, then there was nothing to stop the Normans from marching on the main administrative centers at Winchester and London.
Later that day after Robert had finally been satisfied that all was proper, the men had fallen out and the entire army was busy making camp within the four walls of the old Roman fort. It was big enough to accommodate them all. Casca set his equipment in a small corner next to a wall and buttress and began to clean his sword and leather belt. Out to sea, the huge invasion fleet rode the swells, taking their turn to beach and disgorge their cargos of men, horses, supplies and equipment. There was a narrow neck of water in between a shingle bank to allow the ships into what was a lagoon, and the fort was to one side of this. The army was growing and raiders had been sent out on horseback already to plunder the nearby villages and spread terror.
The sky was grey, leaden clouds racing across eastwards, pushed along on a stiff breeze, but the wall Casca leaned against protected him from the worst of it. As he looked across the grass and mud expanse of the courtyard, he saw Robert receiving a message. The sergeant looked up, glanced at Casca, then turned away, presenting his back to the warrior. Casca was intrigued.
He watched as the sergeant walked off into the tower that he’d personally assigned to himself. He emerged a few minutes later, dressed in his best gear, and followed the messenger past the resting men towards the fenced-off area reserved for the Duke, nobles and the top men of the invasion force, followed by three of his men. Casca was fed up. He stood up and walked after the group, sliding his sword into his scabbard.
Arnand looked up in interest but Casca shook his head as he passed. The fenced-off area wasn’t guarded or denied to anyone, and Casca found it easy to follow Robert and the others. He had no idea where Robert was going but he’d find out soon enough, that was if he was able to stay out of sight.
The tents were a mass of white. Casca passed through the first and lost himself in the narrow alleys in between. The smell of horse dung and roasting pig mixed in the air, guiding him forwards. Voices melded into one mass of noise as men and women talked on any number of subjects. Vendors had set up stalls of wood and cloth along the camp’s edge, close to the shoreline, and many people were making their way there to be fed. Casca doubted Robert was heading there. The big tents of the nobility stood uphill from them and that was where Casca made his way.
One or two people called out to him to try their wares but he ignored them. Soldiers marched back and forth, all dressed alike but sporting their noble’s badges. He recognized one or two wearing Walter Giffard’s and he nodded to them, getting a similar response when they saw his badge on his chest.
Straw had been thrown onto the ground to try to soak up the mud, but even so it was very soft underfoot. The Duke’s tent stood apart from the rest, guarded by stern looking knights, and Casca gave it a wide berth.
Then he saw Robert. The sergeant was walking from right to left across his intended path and he stopped and stepped backwards against the side of a tent and watched as the group headed straight for a big tent over to his left. Men stood on guard and the messenger spoke to them before Robert and his small group was allowed to go in.
Casca skirted round behind the tent and looked round. A walkway stood to the rear and was fairly busy. No way to sneak around trying to listen in or cut open the tent. As he stood looking, a group of men came past, discussing the possibility of facing the Saxons in battle. Casca pulled a face of frustration and returned to the front. A man passed by and Casca caught him by the sleeve. “Whose tent is that?”
“That’s Lesalles’ tent. You don’t want to cross him.” The man pulled himself free and walked off quickly. Casca had a bad feeling about it all, but then temporarily forgot that as he saw Roland leave a smaller tent to one side. He waited until the fat merchant had vanished before approaching the tent. He gently pulled the flap aside and came face to face with an ugly, unshaven soldier with the sides and rear of his head shaved in the popular trendy manner. “What y’a want?” he demanded, thrusting out his lower jaw.
“Is the Lady Aveline here?” Casca replied, thinking the guard wasn’t all that bright.
“What if she is? You got an invite?”
“Who is it, Carl?” came a familiar voice from the depths of the tent.
“Some soldier. Scarred face.” Carl glared at Casca who smiled infuriatingly back.
Aveline appeared and gasped. “Oh, it’s you! Quick, come in! Carl, make sure nobody comes in!”
Carl looked disappointed at allowing Casca past him but dutifully stepped outside and stood there, arms folded, face like a thunderstorm. Aveline took Casca to the rear of the tent where a flap that normally hung down had been tied back. This was her private area. “What are you doing here, are you mad?” she whispered furiously. “He’ll have you whipped and put to death if he catches sight of you again! I heard him say that the morning you left!”
Casca shrugged. Lesalles could go piss into the wind as far as he
was concerned. Nothing he did would stop Casca getting even with him in time. He just needed the opportunity to get him alone, away from his guards and out of sight of the other Normans. Then he would eviscerate the bastard. “How is he treating you, Lady Aveline?”
“That’s none of your business,” she pursed her lips tightly, shocked at his rudeness. He was a common soldier and didn’t ask his betters as to their domestic affairs. “I won’t be able to protect you if you are seen. You’d better go, and go as far away as you can.”
“Might not be that simple.” Casca looked round at the tent. Chests and boxes lay scattered around on the grassy floor and simple beds stood close to each other, separated by the cloth screen. “I think my squad sergeant and Lesalles are in league together, and I’m the target. No idea how Lesalles got to know about me, but I think he sent my sergeant a letter. I’ve just followed him to his tent. My sergeant doesn’t care for me that much.” He grinned.
“It’s not funny,” Aveline replied. “You could well end up dead.”
“I’m not that easy to kill,” Casca said absently, looking at the boxes. “Your father looks ready to set up business here. Got a good contract, has he?”
Aveline tutted, frowning. “You’re inquisitive. I didn’t think a simple soldier was bothered with such things. For your information, yes he is intending to sign a contract with Lesalles. We’re bound for London and when the Saxons are defeated Lesalles will be given a title and land, and father has agreed to give Lesalles preferential rates for the wool market to Flanders.”
Casca whistled. That was good money. English wool was prized on the continent. Someone was pulling the right strings. “On condition you marry the good Lesalles, I assume.”
Aveline gasped. “You’re so rude! I should throw you out of my tent!”
Casca chuckled. “Don’t worry, Lady, I’ll be on my way in a moment. I think I’ll have to watch my back from now on. I bet your betrothed is paying my sergeant at this very moment to ensure I have a permanent accident. Nice guy.”
Aveline’s cheeks flushed red, then she drew back her hand and slapped Casca full across the left cheek. The slap was noisy enough to bring Carl back through the tent flap. He saw Casca rubbing his cheek, smiling ruefully, and Aveline flying the red spots of battle. She glared at him and the guard withdrew hastily.
“Well, Lady Aveline,” Casca said softly, “I thank you for your gift. I’ll leave you now, but in return I give you a gift of my own.” Before she could react, he grabbed her, pulled her to him and pressed his lips against hers. She stiffened in shock, then flailed her fists against his shoulders and upper back. He kissed her long and hard, holding her tight, then released her and stepped back, smiling in a roguish manner. “Mmmmm, sweet lips. You kiss beautifully, ma’am.” He turned away, hearing her gasp in outrage, and walked out of the tent. He rubbed his face, standing next to Carl. “Don’t piss her off, Carl.”
Carl rumbled in amusement. “Goodbye.”
Casca nodded and walked away. He had enjoyed his moment but wondered if Aveline would in turn now speak to Lesalles or her father about him. If she did, Lesalles would probably turn up in person with half the army and demand he be strung up from one of the towers.
Aveline stood in the tent, watching the now still flap, holding her hand to her lips. He hadn’t hurt her, despite pinning her tightly, and it made a change from the coarse clumsy and thoughtless way Lesalles had treated her. She slowly made her way to her bed and sat down, her mind in a whirl of thoughts.
She worried Casca might be killed, and she wondered why it still made her feel this way after the manner in which he’d just treated her. Also, his words to her, although rude and out of place, had been truthful. She was just a pawn in the game played by her father and Lesalles. She was the payment for the awarding of a contract, and it made her feel cheap; a possession, not a woman. She loved her father and knew he had to earn money for the two of them to be able to live, but this was something she’d never thought he’d do. He’d become influenced by Lesalles during their journey from Caen to England, and now saw a chance to become very rich.
Lesalles was ambitious, ruthless and coarse. A thief, dressed in finery and with position, but still a common thief. If he hadn’t been fortunate to be in the service of the Duke, he’d probably be wallowing in pig shit in Caen or somewhere. He was a man on the make, and came from a lower social position than she. She hated her situation and desperately hoped something or someone could rescue her.
Maybe someone like Casca?
CHAPTER TEN
It was raining. It always rained in Britannia, so Casca sourly reckoned. England, he corrected himself. Damned names always keep changing. But the weather doesn’t. He was wading through a bed of nettles, slashing at them half-heartedly with his sword, as he climbed a steep slope. His leggings protected him from the acid burning pain that the nettles would inflict on bare skin, and passed through them towards the top of the gently wooded rise.
Most of the land here was clear, indicating that the locals had chopped down and cleared the woodland, but further inland it was densely wooded. The Andresweald, or something like that, according to one local shepherd they’d interrogated. Casca had been used as translator, being one of the few who actually understood the guttural Anglo-Saxon tongue. Robert had ordered him to take part in a scouting party to find out what lay ahead before the main army set out eastwards for the London road. With him were four others, all members of Robert’s followers, and Casca had no illusions that he wasn’t meant to return.
So he made for the top of the rise as fast as he could, slipping once or twice in the wet long grass. The others panted to keep up with him. All were unfriendly, surly and the type to follow orders and not question it. Since Robert was personally paying these retainers, they’d not worry about slaughtering one of their own army. Casca turned as he reached the top and looked back.
The sea could be seen, a flat slate grey mass, in the near distance. The bay the Norman army had disembarked on was curving round to the west, his right, and changed into a huge headland that jutted out into the sea. To the east, the bay curved in a crescent away from him and was lost in a series of swamps and small lakes.
Villages could be seen along the eastern edge and smoke drifted lazily up into the miserable sky, blissfully unaware of the proximity of the invaders. He turned again and walked a few steps and saw more smoke. There was a village not far away.
Footfalls heralded the arrival of the others and Casca gripped his sword tightly. It would be now. He was ready. Battle called to him. Instinct screamed at him. He was a killer; used to it, familiar with it. Death was his companion, his constant shadow, yet it never touched him.
“Casca, message from the Sarge,” the man nominated as the patrol leader said deeply. He was drawing out his sword when Casca swung round. The others had their swords out and were beginning to close in. Casca’s turn was accompanied by his blade cutting through the air. The edge entered the leader’s throat and sliced through it. Blood sprayed as the windpipe was severed, coating Casca’s sword and his arm. He didn’t stop but carried on, completing the cut.
The leader made an obscene sucking noise and fell back, throat gaping open redly. His sword dropped from his lifeless hand. Casca planted his right foot wide and gripped his sword in both hands. The swing continued. Casca’s face exhibited rage, his teeth clenched. He half turned, now facing the second man. The Norman had stepped forward at Casca’s assault and was about to raise his sword to attack. The scarred warrior’s blade sought out his flesh as Casca pulled the heavy steel through the damp air.
With a jarring blow the sword edge smashed into chainmail. Casca’s strength, the force of the blow and the keen edge cut apart the welded rings, annihilating the fine work of the smith who had created it. The Norman’s face opened in shock, pain and terror. The blade kept on going, burrowing into flesh, splintering ribs and seeking out vital organs.
Casca screamed, the venting of breath aiding hi
m in his blow. The blade pulled the body with it, twisting the soldier round as it sliced through the heart and carried on cutting open the lungs. The man spun and his ruptured organs began spilling out of the open cavity the sword has created. Casca couldn’t stop the swing until the sword had exited the doomed body and gone three feet beyond. The sound of the two bodies striking the ground almost together was clearly audible to the remaining two.
“I’ve a message for you!” Casca snarled. He swung the sword one-handed, cutting through the air as he advanced on the nearest one. Cut and cut again. The Norman flung up his blade to block it and was sent staggering back by the appalling force of the blow. The fourth man came at Casca from the left, his expression determined if desperate.
Casca roared and ran at him, sword blurring down in a deadly arc aimed for the Norman’s head. The Norman leaped back, eyed wide, sword raised in a defensive posture. The sound of the blades meeting rang out, filling the plateau all the way to the edge of the trees. Casca didn’t stop. The third man was coming at him again, thrusting forward for his guts. Sensible move, wrong moment. Casca slapped the point aside and was now inside the man’s reach.
As he stepped up to him, their armor meeting in a far-from-friendly embrace, Casca’s sword came up from beneath waist height and slid point first into the soldier’s abdomen, sliding in effortlessly. The Norman gasped and fell against Casca. Still holding the dying man, he became aware that the last man was closing in behind, ready to administer the coup-de-grace.
Using all his strength, the Eternal Mercenary swung his dying companion round, still impaled on his blade. The slashing blow intended for Casca’s back fell instead on the luckless man’s neck, finishing him off. Casca stepped back and hauled his sword free of the corpse. “Bad luck,” Casca breathed. “Now it’s your turn.”