by Tony Roberts
After a dozen volleys that made hardly any impression, the mounted nobles came galloping along the line of foot soldiers. Casca planted his conical helm firmly on his head. “Okay lads,” he said, “now it’s up to us to knock holes in that shield wall.” The nasal guard pressed against his Roman nose and flattened it slightly. He twitched it. It would irritate him until he got into the fighting, and then that would be forgotten in the mayhem of battle.
Flags were raised and to a tumultuous roar of fierce delight, the foot soldiers strode forward and started climbing the hill towards the Saxons. The archers began running back to their start line, to get a rest and to replenish lost arrows. None had been shot downhill so it seemed the enemy had no archers. That was one bonus, Casca thought to himself. They wouldn’t be hit by damned arrows on their climb.
The men tramped up, weapons gripped firmly in hands, shields ready to block enemy fire. Grunting, heavy breathing, metallic clinks and the chanting of the Saxons filled the air. Casca felt his blood coursing through his veins. Here he went again. Into battle, what he existed for. Well, Jew, here I go again. Hope you enjoy the spectacle.
The line of Normans snaked in an uneven line as it climbed. Suddenly, the English line seemed to melt as the shields swung away. Casca looked up and saw arms raised with objects in their hands. Axes! “Shields!” he screamed, even as the arms fell and the deadly, spinning objects came hurtling through the air. Casca flung up his wooden kite shield and two heavy blows struck it, shaking him. The shield lining splintered and an axe blade appeared, sticking halfway through.
Casca peered out and saw more object being raised. More axes and spears, and other vicious weapons. Clubs and maces. The hail of missiles came flying at them, and Casca ducked behind his shield again. Something struck the top and spun past, and another flashed past his face as he gritted his teeth.
Screams of agony filled the air as men went down, struck by blunt objects or impaled by sharp ones. Casca raised his sword. “Come on, at the bastards!”
He led the charge in his section, aware of Arnand to his left and Osborn to the right. The rest were close behind but Casca’s quick glance told him there were too many dark bodies lying in the grass. The Saxon shields came together as the dark clad Normans closed the gap. Casca smashed his sword down from high onto a shield. It shook but held. A blade came stabbing out but Casca slammed his shield against it and knocked it aside.
More men pressed forward and hacked at the shield wall. Then the huscarls struck back. Huge men with two-handed battle axes stood up and struck down with inhuman force. Casca saw one of his men struck, the helmet crumpling and the head caving in. Brains and gore splattered out and the Norman fell to his knees and then crumpled in a fetal ball at the feet of the man who’d cut him down.
Casca raised his sword to strike again at the man in front of him, but before he could a tremendous blow splintered his shield and tore it from his arm, the leather strap ripped from its housing. Casca staggered sideways into Osborn’s shield. The huscarl who had smashed Casca’s shield aside now raised his mighty axe high to cut the Eternal Mercenary in two. Casca planted his right foot into the earth and roared at the man. Axe swung down and met sword blade.
Casca was shoved back by the blow, but the huscarl’s axe shaft split in two. The man flung away the useless weapon and pulled out his sword. Casca screamed in fury and waded forward, the rest of the battle forgotten. He was dimly aware of packed humanity swaying to and fro to either side, the grunting, screaming, cursing and crying of hundreds of men. Sounds of metal striking metal and wood filled the air, and the unmistakable smell of unwashed men sweating in effort to kill each other washed over him, mixed with the smell of blood, urine, feces and vomit.
Casca swung hard and the shock of the blow went down the sword blade of the Saxon to his arms and he stepped back, unbalanced. Another defender turned and tried to run Casca through from the left, but the scarred warrior was wise to that one; he’d been in far too many fights to forget that. He turned sideways and the stab passed harmlessly to one side. Casca slashed down hard into the neck of the Saxon. Blood splashed up in an arc of spray. The man fell screaming.
“Die you Norman scum!” the huscarl yelled, his sword arcing down from high. Casca flung up his blade and smashed it aside. He swung hard again. The huscarl blocked, desperation on his face. Another slash from high. The huscarl missed the block. Casca’s blade bit into the left shoulder, carving open the chain mail. The huscarl screamed and fell away. There was no time to enjoy the victory, as another Saxon took his place.
Like a vicious organism, the line of men hacked and cut at each other, death their intention. And many met it. Blood dripped down Casca’s face, but it wasn’t his. Screaming to gain strength, he slashed right to left at the man in front. The shield was scored with blade damage, but held.
The Saxons weren’t giving ground, and the piles of bodies were growing where the two sides clashed. Suddenly cries of defeat rose from the left and the Bretons turned and broke. The Norman center began to peel back, their left exposed by their fleeing allies. Casca stepped back and pulled a panting Arnand with him. Osborn was slowly falling aside, his face no longer recognizable. He’d been chopped by one of those damned axes.
“The Duke is down, the Duke is down!” someone cried and fled down the hill.
As one the Norman line began to give ground, dismay spreading through their lines. The Saxons were even chasing the Bretons to the left down towards the bottom of the hill.
Duke William, astride his horse, heard the cries. He cursed and waved his bodyguard to follow him to the left. He pulled back his helm, strapped to his chin, and rose up high. “I’m not fucking dead!” he roared, “I’m alive! Now kill those Saxon scum!”
The Normans pointed and stopped their flight. The Bretons, though, were too panic stricken to notice, so the Duke and his cavalry went thundering off to the left to crash into the stunned Saxons and chopped them to pieces. Casca stood on the slope and watched. The crisis had passed. He looked back up at the English shields and they were still there, as resolute as before. He cursed. It was going to take something special to shift them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lesalles greeted the bishop’s representative at the house. He ushered the man into a small antechamber and shut the door firmly. Aveline was intrigued; what was an ungodly man like Lesalles doing with a man connected to Bishop Odo? She moved over to the door, but Carl intervened. “If you’re seen, my lady, you could be in trouble!”
“But I want to know what is being said. If he’s going to be my future husband, I have to know his affairs.”
Carl took her away and pointed to the staircase that ran up around the antechamber. “Up there is an alcove. I’ve been told by one of the housemaids that there is a crack in the wall there that allows someone to hear what is being said in that room.”
“How did you find that out?” she asked suspiciously. Carl smiled rakishly. Aveline pursed her lips and walked to the stairs. “Make sure no one passes you, Carl.” The bodyguard nodded and the young woman went up the wooden staircase as silently as she could, turning the corner to the left, passing a tiny window that looked out onto a small courtyard. The alcove was there, just as Carl had described. Built into it against the wall was a plank bench, and she sat down on it primly.
The wall was of plaster and wood, and one of the vertical running planks had become wet, probably through a roof leak in the recent past. This had rotted the edge and it had expanded, cracking the plaster. Now a small crack had opened and Aveline could clearly hear the conversation in the antechamber. The two men must have been no more than ten feet from her. She breathed shallowly and leaned against the cool wood.
“The bishop has accepted your gift,” the church representative was saying, “and will back your claim. He also will provide a cleric to oversee your ceremony as soon as he is installed as senior churchman in England.” Aveline held her breath. It seemed her wedding was going to be organized
as soon as possible with the bishop’s blessing! What had Lesalles done to attract such favor?
Lesalles rumbled in amusement. “Then it is settled. All that remains is for a title to be granted by the Duke and I shall then be content.”
“And do you have an indication that he is inclined to grant you this?” the churchman asked silkily. Aveline didn’t like the way he sounded. It was very much like a teacher she once suffered under; humorless, exacting and one who didn’t tolerate failure.
“My donations to the Duke’s funds will guarantee it.” Lesalles sounded smug. “My marriage to the merchant’s daughter will also guarantee an income from the wool trade, as I will be a patron of his business.”
The churchman moved around the chamber. Aveline could only picture in her mind what he was doing. “You have authority from both Duke and bishop. Your star is rising. Stay faithful to both and you should continue to do so. The bishop would, however, appreciate continued donations so that he can pray for your soul and for your happiness in your married life.”
Lesalles snickered. “Happiness in my marriage? I’m not marrying her for love!” his voice dropped so Aveline had to press against the crack hard to hear. “She is useful in that she guarantees that fool merchant’s loyalty to me, so I can rake in the wealth he generates, and useful in providing me with sons to continue my lineage. I’m not marrying her for any other reason!”
“Quite,” the churchman responded dryly. Aveline put her hand to her mouth and shrank away from the wall, so that she couldn’t hear what was said next. When she put her head back, she heard Lesalles talking again.
“I want a nice rich fertile area to build my castle. I want the church to cow the peasants into obeying me. I will request of the Duke good land. I will continue paying you as long as you fulfill your side of the bargain.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the churchman said irritably. “But don’t get too greedy. The bishop is a much more powerful man than you and he can destroy you with just one word. Stick to the path we have shown you, and you will be rich. Or at least rich enough for a man who began with nothing.”
Lesalles grunted. “Then I can expect the wedding to be soon?”
“Yes. Once the Duke has secured the kingdom and is made king. You’ll get your title and land, and then you’ll get your wife.”
“Good. Our meeting is therefore at an end. Extend my respects to His Eminence.” There was a touch of sarcasm to Lesalle’s voice. Aveline stood up, heart beating. She shrank from the repulsive mind of her intended husband, and knew her life would be one of misery if she lived with him. Somehow he had to be stopped.
She came down the stairs just as Lesalles and the churchman came out of the room. Carl stood in the way and Lesalles scowled. “What are you doing up there?” he demanded of the woman. “I want you down here with me.”
“I was just exploring,” Aveline explained, reaching the bottom.
Lesalles growled and turned his back on her. He saw the churchman out, then came back, his body stiff. “You will remain in my household from now on. You won’t need a bodyguard anymore. I’ll arrange for some wench to attend you needs, but I will be your guard from now on. I don’t want to risk losing you now our wedding has been approved.”
Aveline caught her breath. “Oh! What of Carl?”
“Carl?” Lesalles smiled evilly at the silent guard. “He can go get himself killed in the army.” He flicked a finger. “You’re dismissed for good. Get out!”
“But – I haven’t paid for his services yet!” Aveline protested.
“Then do so, and make it quick!” Lesalles snarled. He stalked to the door and flung it open. “Pay him and be done with it! If I find him in this building by the time I return I’ll have him struck down!” He stamped off deeper into the building, roaring at one of the cowering servants. Aveline grabbed Carl’s arm. “Please, go find Casca, tell him I’m to be wed to that beast once the Duke is made king. He’s got to save me, please!” she pressed a gold coin into his palm. “He’s with Walter Giffard.”
“I will, my Lady. I’ll do it just to see that swine brought down!” Carl left and passed out into the bright sunlit day, blinking. He knew the army was fighting north of the town, so he turned right and began walking uphill.
He was watched from a narrow window by Lesalles and another. Lesalles nodded at the figure of Carl as he passed. “That one,” he said. “Make sure he dies quickly and quietly.”
“It shall be done,” the other said darkly and slipped out of the room. Lesalles stood alone for a moment, then smiled to himself and returned to the business of what money he could extort from his tenants. He did, after all, have to find funds for a wedding and raise capital to buy material and labor for a castle. If he was going to be a lord, then he’d have to start showing he was one.
* * *
The second attack went almost the same as the first. Casca led his men up the hill, but now they had to cope with the bodies lying and sprawling over the ground immediately in front of the Saxon line. There would be no hard fierce charge, only a resigned acceptance they would have to walk or clamber to the enemy.
Casca led the group past the bodies of their comrades, and ignored the entreaties of help from those still alive. They had rested and drank from the stream at the bottom of the hill, and now had renewed strength to bash away at the stubborn enemy. The faces of the Saxons were set hard. They, too, had lost many friends, and were determined to mete out death to their killers.
“Come on!” he roared, swinging his sword, cutting it down from high towards the head of the nearest defender. The shield came up and wood splinters flew, and the Saxon stabbed forward, hoping to disembowel Casca. The scarred warrior expected it, and slammed his shield across his gut, knocking the blow aside. He slashed again, turning his body to gain more strength to the blow. The Saxon blocked again.
The air was full of noise. Men shouted. Weapons clashed. Screams broke out as men were cut and slashed open. A man to Casca’s left was struck by one of the huscarls. His axe splintered the shoulder and bit deep into the upper chest, laying it open. The man screamed and sank to his knees, blood spraying up in a fountain. Casca rammed his shield into the huscarl and hacked down at the other Saxon, cursing. The Saxon blocked again but stepped back into the bodies of his comrades, and so Casca swung his sword sideways at waist level. The huscarl was helpless. He was trying to pull his axe out of the screaming, writhing Norman.
Casca pulled his blade out of the huscarl’s bloody side and flung the blade back as the first Saxon stabbed forward again. Now Casca was getting angry. “Die you bastard!” he roared. The blades clashed. Casca stepped forward. His comrades came with him. Two shields came at him, one on either side. They were trying to close the gap. Arnand and Eustace fought against them, trying to keep the gap open.
Hack! Slash! Block…… Casca battered at the stubborn Saxon in front of him. The man couldn’t go back as his comrades pressed in close. There was no room to left or right. Whoever died here died standing up.
The Englishman’s helmet was slipping off his head. There had been some hefty blows from Casca and the defending warrior had been shaken by the force of blocking them. The smell of unwashed bodies rose up as men struggled on the bloodied slope, and Casca slammed his shield into the face of the Saxon, and then stabbed forward hard, seeing a narrow gap. The sword pierced the chainmail hauberk of the Saxon and he screamed, skewered through the right hand side of his chest.
As the wounded man slumped against his comrades behind him, Casca pulled the blade free and wielded his sword again. Sweat ran down his forehead inside the helmet; it was damned hard work and still they couldn’t make any progress.
Suddenly a shout went up from behind. “Pull back! Fall back! Back!”
The infantry, confused, stepped away from the heat of the conflict and parted as the cavalry thundered up the slope towards them. The Duke had decided enough was enough and now it was up to the shock troops, the mounted knights, to carve a way throu
gh. Casca stepped aside in a hurry as a knot of horses came racing past, their riders raising swords, spears and maces on high. Then they struck with a terrifying force and the screams of horses intermingled with the roars of men.
But still the Saxons stood.
“Get back down the hill,” one of Giffard’s men-at-arms ordered, riding past, “and get some rest. You’ll be needed again before long.” He rode on to repeat the orders to the next group.
Casca waved wearily at his men, at least those who were still standing. “Come on, let’s get a breather. Rest and regain your strength. Sounds like we’ll be needing it again soon.”
“Will they ever give up?” Arnand asked, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. He looked back up at the melee with something akin to respect. Those Englishmen had taken everything the Norman army could throw at them, and still defied them. “I thought this would be easy!”
“Not much chance of that,” Casca said, leading them downhill, “they know if they lose today they lose everything. Just like us. There’ll be no second chance after today for either side.”
And while they rested and eased aching limbs, the cavalry fought and battled up at the top of the hill against the axe-wielding huscarls.
* * *
Carl walked rapidly along the narrow dusty lane that led north from Hastings. The signs of the army having gone that way earlier in the day were many and frequent, so he knew he was on the right path. Ahead a hill rose and the distant sound of battle reached his ears. He was getting close.
“Hey!” a voice called from behind.
Carl turned to see a darkly dressed man with a sword in his hand loping towards him. He seemed vaguely familiar but couldn’t quite place where he’d seen him before. “Yeah?”
“Heading for the battle?” the man asked, coming up to Carl.