by Tony Roberts
“Yeah. You?”
“No,” the stranger said and thrust viciously for Carl’s gut. The warrior had been wary and something had warned him to be on his guard. Even as the blade jabbed toward him, he was turning, his right hand reaching for the hilt of his own weapon. The keen edge of the sword scored a deep furrow along Carl’s unarmored waist, slicing into it, but missing all the important organs.
Carl swore with pain and fury. The blade passed into thin air, one edge reddened. Carl’s waist had been cut to about two inches in depth, and about six inches in width. The pain burned through him but Carl was already striking down. The cut struck the would-be killer across the neck, severing the jugular, and kept on going down. It lodged firmly in the collar bone, and the man staggered back, hands to his wound, blood spraying up through his fingers. He screamed and fell to one side of the lane, thrashing in agony, then shuddered and went still.
Carl gasped, and staggered forward, clutching his wound. He retrieved his sword from the corpse, and checked the man. There was little of note on him except for a pouch tied to his neck. It was a gory business in retrieving it but he finally dragged it free, and opened the small leather object. A few coins lay within, as well as a mark with the symbol of a stag’s head. Carl’s mouth turned down. That was the personal symbol of Lesalles. He kept it all, wiped his sword, then resumed his journey, but much slower and less steady than before.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was getting late. The afternoon sun was sinking to the west, and he reckoned there was perhaps a couple of hours daylight left. The battle had been going on most of the day and they were fairly tired. His limbs ached and the sweat cooled on his arms and neck as he rested and waited for the next order to get up and attack.
The army of Harold Godwinsson still stood defiantly at the top of the hill, but their numbers were much reduced. Duke William had feigned a retreat or two in different parts of the field and the foolish fyrd had broken ranks to chase them, only to find it was a trap and the elite cavalry arm of the Normans had wheeled round and cut them to carrion.
The slope was littered with corpses. Most of them were Norman, and horses lay amongst the broken figures of men. Those damned battle axes of the huscarls had sewn carnage and the mounted warriors had been just as vulnerable to them as the foot soldiers.
“I’ll be glad when this is done,” Arnand commented, wiping a dirty and sweaty brow. His shield had been discarded up the slope somewhere, shredded to bits by an axe. Casca’s hadn’t been much better but he’d picked up a relatively undamaged one lying on the slope next to its dead former owner when he’d last retreated.
“It’ll be over soon enough. One last go.” Casca gazed up the slope and knew the Saxons were just as exhausted and weary as the invaders. One last supreme effort would settle it, one way or another. The groans of the wounded was constant, and the pathetic sight of the hurt crawling away from the field caught his sight as he rested. Some of them had stopped and would never move again.
“What’ll happen if we don’t win?” Eustace asked. He was cut, but the wound was superficial, and it had been tended to during the rest period. A ripped cloak has been applied to his wound and wrapped around the shoulder. It was stiff but he could still use the arm.
“We run for the town and hope the boats can take us and they’re too tired to chase. But I think they’re close to collapsing. Look at how their shield wall curls round at the top now. It was straighter before.” Casca nodded at the right wing, facing the Bretons. If the attacking force got on top of the hill, they could then roll up the Saxon line.
The rest of the group grunted. They didn’t care less what happened, as long as they got a full belly, a good wine and a willing wench to roll with after the day’s hard work. They’d been sold the dream of having the Saxon riches if they beat the usurper Godwinsson’s army. That meant enough money to buy beer and women. Casca had higher aims. But for all it meant beating the stubborn English, and now was the time for shit or bust.
“Alright, rest time’s over,” the company captain snapped, walking past, a mace dangling from his bloodied arm. “Get into line. We’re all going for one big charge. They’ll crack this time. Then you can drink yourselves into a stupor.”
The men growled, threw drinking vessels aside and wearily got to their feet. “This had better be fucking worth it,” one of the men grumbled. A few around him made noises of agreement. They were all pissed off with the battle.
The archers moved silently forward. They had resupplied themselves and now had full quivers once again. No Saxon archer stood against them, so they got to halfway up the hill, and aimed high into the air. This time their arrows would plummet down onto the heads of the defenders.
As they began to loose arrows, the order came for the combined foot and mounted men to start the climb. Many of the men walking had begun the fight on horseback, but their beasts lay decorating the once green grass of the now muddied and bloodied slope. They had an extra edge to their determination; to avenge their steeds. The Duke himself had lost three mounts, but he always had another to replace it.
This time they weren’t going to retreat; they would fight until they fell.
Casca stepped around the corpses of men and beasts, and led his group up almost in the center of the advancing line. Some Normans rode past, over-eager to get to grips with the Anglo-Saxons, and charged into the line. “Come on!” the roar went up from the climbing men, and they broke into a stumbling, tired run. Directly ahead Casca could see the red dragon banner of the king waving in the late afternoon breeze. That was his target.
They hit the Saxon line and his blade rose and fell, dealing out death with every stroke. Men fell screaming, bodies ripped open by any and every way possible. Casca swung his sword two-handed, his shield having been discarded as an extra encumbrance, and the blow took off the head of the first man to stand in his way. Blood splattered over his arms and he stepped forward, swinging again.
His comrades pressed forward, and then three mounted knights crashed into the line just to the right, ripping away the opponents to Casca’s sword side. He stepped forward again and found the ground leveling out. He was on top of the hill! One of the riders crashed to the ground, his horse having been decapitated by yet another huscarl, and Casca screamed a war-cry and waded in, stepping over a crushed Saxon. The huscarl was just pulling the dripping blade of his axe free from the thrashing Norman when Casca’s blade plunged into his neck, thrusting down point first into the lungs. The huscarl jerked rigid, then fell across the man and horse he’d just slain.
Ripping the sword free Casca stepped forward. Another Saxon staggered into his path, a bloodied gash across his shoulder and chest, and Casca’s cut removed the man’s right arm at the elbow. Sword and forearm cart-wheeled in the air and the man spun round, emitting a strangled cry, before crashing to the ground. Ahead, two Normans were battering away at a small knot of well-armored Saxons, the banner just behind them. Casca lurched forward, gore and blood dripping off him. Bodies lay all round and arrows lay thickly in the earth, points buried deep. At least the archers had stopped shooting now they had got at the Saxon line.
One Norman went down, and with his dying strength carved a deep score across his killer’s face. The head split open and the man fell aside. Casca avoided the Norman’s horse thrashing as it lay on its side and passed through the gap made by the dying huscarl. Right in front of him stood a man holding the banner, bloodied sword in his other hand, while to his side knelt a man clutching an arrow that seemed to be buried in his left eye socket. The manner of his dress and armor made it clear this was King Harold.
The surviving Norman was slashing away at two other huscarls, all of whom seemed to be hurt. Casca came at them, his blade eager to drink more Saxon blood. With one huge blow one huscarl lost his head, the decapitated body part striking the ground with a soggy thud. Leaving the Norman to fight the last huscarl, Casca closed in on the banner holder.
The Saxon snarled and str
uck, but Casca blocked it, two handed. His counter slashed across at neck height and this, too was blocked. But Casca wasn’t giving up. He rammed the hilt up hard, the pommel crushing the lower jaw of the banner man, and his head jerked back hard, exposing the neck. Casca wasted no time. His sword came round and sank deep into the throat, creating an extra mouth. The banner fell across the wounded king, and Casca pushed aside the dying Saxon banner holder.
“Now, Godwinsson,” Casca breathed, “you meet your end today.”
“You cannot kill a king,” came the pain-filled, gasping reply.
“I’ve killed one before,” Casca snapped, and slashed hard down on the wounded man’s shoulder and neck. Harold fell back and lay there, his face ruined, covered in blood and his one remaining eye staring up at the darkening sky.
“Bastard!” a huscarl screamed from the left. The bodyguard had just cut down two foot-soldiers and now came at Casca, his axe raised high. Casca stepped away and swung in a reflex action. The weapons met high above both men and they swayed back and forth, each trying to push the other back. Other men were crowding round, fighting, and Casca became aware that the huscarls were gathering round the body of their fallen king.
The man fighting Casca couldn’t get help as his comrades were battling to keep more and more Normans away from their dead lord, so it was just the two to fight it out to the finish. Casca was outside the phalanx of huscarls but this one man seemed determined to chop him to pieces in revenge for Casca’s act of regicide. He was huge, well-built and had a sweaty strand of blond hair hanging down from his conical helm. His yellow teeth were fixed in a grimace of rage and he worked hard to get his axe free from Casca’s blade to use it on the Norman.
Finally he pushed hard enough to allow the axe to be swung back ready to carve Casca in two, but Casca attacked, having no other choice. His blade rammed up hard past the down-swinging arms and into the huscarl’s jaw, slicing deep into his mouth and plunged up into his brain, destroying it instantly.
A mighty blow slammed into Casca’s head as the dying Saxon screamed, flailing in his last efforts to kill his opponent. Casca sank to his knees, exhausted, stunned, and he just saw the Saxon toppling backwards, his sword embedded through his head, before blackness claimed him and Casca fell forwards into a carpet of bodies, mud and grass.
* * *
How long he was out he didn’t know, but he became aware of someone talking loudly close by and someone spilling water on his face. “Come on, Sergeant,” a familiar voice encouraged him, “up! You’re not dead – at least not yet.”
Not yet? What in the name of Hades is he talking about? Casca groaned and sat up, helped rather roughly by Arnand. He blearily opened his eyes and fixed them on the grinning man. “What in the name of all the demons of hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve got some important people to see. They want answers.” Casca was pulled up, not only by Arnand, but by a bloodied Eustace too. Other men were standing about in the fading light. Casca looked about and saw a scene of carnage. Bodies lay everywhere; some almost untouched, others grotesquely mutilated. Some were missing body parts, and they lay close by, swamped in blood and flies.
Other men stood in a group, all staring at him. Casca realized with a start that these were the big boys – the Duke and his immediate nobles, including Walter Giffard, off to one side. Some sported wounds, but they all looked pleased with themselves, although there was an air of impatience about them. “Well?” the Duke boomed. He was a dark, unshaven brute of a man. His wide nose dominated his face and two dark eyes stared out of a dark face like two wild animals in caves. Not a man to cross.
Casca bowed low and it was then he realized his helmet was missing. It must have been knocked off by the dying blow of the huscarl. The Duke waved irritably. “Later! Tell me, soldier, did you slay the Saxon king?”
“Yes, sire. He was wounded and I finished him off.” Casca looked at the sea of corpses and saw that the huscarls were all lying round in a heap. They had died to a man, defending the body of Harold. Judging by the number of Normans lying with them, they’d taken enough before they had been overcome.
The Duke waved at the dead. “Well, which one is it? I need to know!”
Casca stumbled over the bodies, still unsteady on his feet. He paused and looked down at a man whose face was ruined, cut to pieces. “This is he.”
“How are you sure? He’s unrecognizable!” one of the nobles exclaimed.
“The left eye. He had an arrow in it when I struck him down. Look.” Sure enough, the corpse had the broken off remnant of an arrow shaft sticking out of the bloody hole that had been his left eye.
“You’re sure this is King Harold?” the Duke demanded, staring at the body.
“Yes Sire.”
“Hmmph!” the Duke pulled a face. “We’ll have to make sure. If you’re right, you give me a problem.”
“How so, Sire?” Casca didn’t like the way the nobles were all looking at him.
“A king slain by a commoner? No bloody way. I’ll have to ennoble you, you swine.”
Casca stared at the Duke, then cracked a smile. The Duke snorted, then laughed, slapping his thigh with his gauntlets. The nobles smirked or laughed too, although one or two looked unimpressed. Duke William pointed at Casca. “But as far as everyone is concerned you were already a noble before the battle, get it? But don’t do getting drunk yet, Sergeant. This has got to be confirmed.”
“How?” one of the nobles asked. “He’s unrecognizable!”
“His face is, but not elsewhere. I’ve sent for his wife,” the Duke boomed. “One look under his clothing should confirm whether he’s the man who’s screwed her or not, hey?”
The Normans burst out into gales of laughter. Casca and Arnand joined in. Surely she would know or not. Casca was led away by Walter Giffard to a group of trees behind the line of dead Saxons. “Sir, is the battle won?” It was an obvious thing, but Casca had missed the finish.
“Yes, lad. Once the king went down the Fyrd legged it, leaving the huscarls to fight to the death. Damned hard fight, though. Glad they didn’t have more of these guys, or we might be the ones being picked over by the winners. Now, sit down and gather your wits. If you’re right, you’ll be made a Count or Baron or something, depending on what the Duke decides. A minor noble, to be sure, but you’ll need a sponsor. It’s an expensive business, being noble. You’ll need help to start with. I’m offering help, in return for your vow of loyalty. That means if I get picked on by another noble, you come to my aid at once. Deal?”
“Deal,” Casca nodded, knowing it was essential to get an ally as soon as possible.
“So what name will you choose?”
“I haven’t thought of one,” Casca shrugged as he sat, grateful to be off his feet. “Where do you hail from, Sire?”
“Longeville. Why?”
Casca laughed. Longeville. Close to his Roman name! “In that case I shall be Casca de Longeville. With your permission, of course!”
Walter inclined his head. “Very wise. That shall also indicate you are of my faction. Well, I’ll go back to the Duke. Start picking your guard, you’ll need to gather to you enough men for protection, but only enough you can afford without getting too much into debt, or you’ll not be able to pay me back! I’d say six men to begin with.” With that, he returned to the Duke’s group, standing waiting for the arrival of the dead king’s wife, the exotically named Edith Swan Neck.
Arnand sat down and whistled. “A noble! You lucky swine! Of all the luck!”
“Luck?” Casca grinned, “luck be damned. I went for him deliberately.” He clutched his head. It was pounding. “Where’s my helm?”
“Dunno,” Eustace said, standing by the tree trunk. “Probably smashed up, if your head is anything to go by. How did you survive that?”
“You tell me,” Casca said, holding his head delicately. “I’ve no idea what I look like.”
“Shit,” Arnand laughed. “Worse than Eustace here.�
�� Eustace pulled a face. Arnand nudged Casca. “So who’s going to be your personal guard, then?”
“You two for a start.” Casca closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree he was sat against. Men were slowly walking amongst the dead and wounded, searching for comrades or for loot. Women were turning up, too. Some of the folk from Hastings, perhaps, or the woodland villages around these parts. Casca didn’t care. The point was they had survived, and won.
Now to somehow get Aveline away from the clutches of Lesalles.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The wife of the dead king confirmed that the man Casca had killed was, indeed, Harold Godwinsson. The Duke took her into his care and promptly ennobled Casca as Baron Casca de Longeville. For the moment it was merely a titular honor, as they hadn’t taken power. Walter Giffard took Casca into his immediate entourage and with him came Arnand and Eustace, plus two others who looked big and mean.
The day after the battle a priest had come up to Casca and told him a wounded man found close to the battlefield was insisting he talk to the scarred warrior, but by the time Casca was shown the man, who turned out to be Carl, the poor man had slipped into unconsciousness.
Casca had questioned the priest, who was tending the badly hurt, as to what had been said but the priest shrugged and merely said that Carl had asked for Casca, and it had taken hours to find him. Casca had then insisted that the priest tend the wounded man closely and let him know the moment he came round.
“I have other poor souls to attend,” the priest had said.
“I am Baron de Longeville and I insist,” Casca had retorted, his eyes boring into the cleric’s. “If he survives, then I may look to add you to my household. If not…..” Casca let the threat hang in the air.
The priest swallowed and nodded. The chance of becoming a household priest in a new kingdom was an opportunity not to let pass, so the priest promised to take Carl into his care and look after him personally. “It’s in the hands of God,” the priest had said.