by Tony Roberts
“Why? These are the enemy,” one of the men protested.
“Because, you imbecile, these will be the Duke’s subjects once he’s crowned, and we’ll be keeping law and order here. Want the population to rise up? Keep them happy and our job will be easier.” Casca stared the man down. “They’ll have enough on their mind with the taxes that the Duke will no doubt levy. Don’t piss them off any more than we need to.”
The commanders grumbled but went off to buy animals from the Saxon villagers. Casca made sure nobody was ripped off, and before long they were marching on their way, slaughtered pigs and sheep hanging from wooden poles amongst the Normans. The men were much happier now they had some decent food to look forward to and there was much more talking.
They camped not far from Southwark that evening and Casca made sure there were sentries sent out and a ditch dug around the campsite, a traditional old legionary habit. There were complaints, but Casca growled at the dissenters and the men set to their digging. The promise of roasted meat encouraged them to complete the ditch in no time and the men gathered in their units to share in the feast.
The sentries were rotated so everyone had a share of the food. Arnand sat happily gorging on a hunk of pork, the fat dribbling down his chin. “This I call soldiering!”
Eustace agreed with a belch and a nod. The others in Casca’s small unit made appreciative grunts through the meat. Casca hoped that this would help build a loyalty that he felt would be needed in the months to come. Looking after his men was something he felt was essential to gaining the respect of men serving under him. He was confident his fighting ability would carry him through, but men needed looking after off the battlefield as well.
The next morning was grey, cold and damp. A low cloud covered the land and the men slowly kicked over the remnants of the fires and their night camp. Casca wanted to be away as soon as possible. He didn’t like staying too long in one place in potentially hostile countryside, and he felt that eyes were on them from the forest and woodlands. Ahead the land cleared and it wasn’t long before the collection of houses came into view huddled along the southern bank of the Thames.
Southwark was just an extension of London in reality, across the river. Bridges linked the two. Casca saw a low muddy bank on the far side with the remains of a city wall surrounding houses, and to the left of that, almost out of sight, the more modern expansion of the city.
The Saxon defenders didn’t want to allow any of their settlement to fall to the invaders, and so Casca and his men saw arrayed a line of men behind a hastily thrown up palisade in front of Southwark. Spear points pointed up wickedly and pennants fluttered in the air. Casca ordered his men to halt and ready themselves, then got one of his men to tie a white piece of cloth to a spear and he walked out in front of the line of Normans, accompanied by Arnand and Eustace, and the three approached the Saxon defenses.
They got to hailing distance and one of the Saxons slipped through a gap in the fence and stood defiantly there, waiting to hear what the filthy Normans had to say. “Halt! Come no further! Say what you wish. I am Ethelgar, captain of the guard. I am under orders from my thane, Morcar, not to surrender this settlement.”
Casca stepped forward once pace and filled his lungs. “And I am Baron de Longeville and I have been ordered by my liege Walter Giffard to take it. Tell your women and children to flee across the river. I give you until the sun is at its highest. Then you will all die.”
Ethelgar sneered. “Big words, Norman. Our women and children have already gone. Do your worst. My blade thirsts for Norman blood.”
“Very well, then you may find your end sooner than midday.” Casca spat on the ground and waved the two others back with him. He was relieved the woman and children had gone; he hated dragging them into any war. Now he could put the first part of his plan of attack into action without any qualms. He beckoned the archer captain over to him. “Set your men to loose fire arrows into the houses. Burn the damned place down. Wait for my order.”
The archer captain grinned. He loved destruction. Burning down a village was just the sort of thing that appealed to him.
The other captains were summoned. Casca’s plan was simple and direct. The captains nodded and took up their places with their units. The horses were split into two and placed on either flank; the archers similarly split and positioned on the left and right, who were in turn protected by two units of infantry. Casca’s small unit was sited in the center and the rest put in reserve to the rear. They were also told to watch for any unwelcome arrivals behind them.
On his order the archers aimed high and began to send flaming missiles over the defenders into Southwark. Shouts of anger and dismay rose up from the Saxons and soon the thatch and wooden buildings were ablaze. The defenders had no means to put the fires out and their rear was cut off by the flames. They were now isolated.
Casca waved at the archer captain. The bows dropped and now aimed right at the palisade. Flaming arrows streaked across the gap into the barrier and the wooden planks began to catch and burn. A few struck defenders. The victims shrieked in horror and pain, and flapped about vainly trying to pull the scorching missile from arms, legs or shoulders, and trying to beat the flames out from their clothing. Ethelgar saw he was in a hopeless position. Flames were closing in from behind and the archers were shooting his men to pieces. He made the only decision a trapped man of honor could. Attack!
With a roar of rage, desperation and exultation, the defending men rushed out from the barricade and closed in on the Norman lines. Casca drew his sword and his men did likewise. Now it would be man against man.
The archers withdrew hastily, and the infantry braced themselves for the impact. Casca had faith in his unit commanders to stand firm, and for the cavalry to do their bit. He now was engulfed in battle. The Saxons came at them hard, axes and swords high. The crashing blow of their attack shook the Norman line, and the grunts and curses of men straining to kill filled the air.
Casca took on the first to reach him, a poorly armored militia man brandishing a small round shield and a short sword. The swipe of the fyrd man fell short, and Casca rammed his blade up inside the shield guard and into his chest. The sound of bones being broken came to his ears the same time as the sucking noise of the blade sinking into the bag of flesh and fluid that made up his left lung.
The fyrd man gasped and sank to his knees, dropping his sword. Casca kicked him over and slammed his shield into the face of the second Saxon to arrive, and cut down across his raised left arm, biting into the upper arm above the elbow. The Saxon stood stupidly looking at the severed limb, the stump spurting blood, before collapsing with shock.
The fight was unequal; most of the Saxons were militiamen and members of the local fyrd, whereas Casca’s soldiers were better armed, better protected and better trained. Saxon after Saxon fell at the feet of the Norman line and the moment to finish it came closer and closer. Casca scored a deep, bloody line down the front of yet another enemy soldier. The man fell in a bloodied heap. Casca stepped forward, sword swinging brutally at another. Pieces of wood flew up as his sword cut into the man’s shield. Casca pulled the blade free.
“On! On! Drive them back!” he yelled. He struck again. The Saxon only just blocked the blow with his sword. He stumbled back, eyes wide in fear. The scarred Norman was too strong. The moment had come. With a cheer the cavalry burst in on the crumbling Saxon flanks, scattering them wide. Casca slammed his shield into the body of his opponent. The Saxon fell onto the ground helpless. Casca kicked at him, catching him under the jaw. Stepping past the unconscious man he slashed at the back of another who had turned to run. The Saxon jerked upright in agony and slid to the ground.
The defenders had had enough and many threw their weapons down. The mounted troops were spreading panic and with nowhere to go the Saxons gave up.
Ethelgar’s broken body was found under a pile of his men. Casca ordered the captured men to be searched. Any that looked as though they may come from
a rich background were to be kept; those who were common soldiery were let go. Leaving Southwark to the flames, Casca turned his small army round and made for the road to Guildford. London would have to be left for another day.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The advance went fairly rapidly after that; Winchester fell a few days later, and with it the Saxon resistance. Winchester was the old capital and where the kings were crowned. With its fall a successor to Harold was now harder to find. With reinforcements the Duke crossed the Thames at a place called Wallingford, building more castles as he went. More Saxon leaders submitted to him and the army closed in on London from the north west.
Earls Morcar and Edwin, the two main Saxon leaders left, fled northwards, leaving the city defenseless. Casca was amongst the soldiers who marched through the gates into the city as winter came. He was given a large town house close to the river as befitting his rank and station, but not one too large. He made sure his retainers were housed downstairs comfortably enough, and that the servants were there and knew their place. The former owner had fallen at Hastings and the servants had been wondering who would now house, feed and clothe them.
Casca decided if he were to have servants, then these would do. There were five; three women and two men. The men were a stable-hand and personal valet, and the women a cook, a cleaner and a chamber maid. Casca told them to carry on their duties as before; all that was changing was the owner. The five looked frightened but readily obeyed, happy that nothing was changing inside the house.
Father Gilbert turned up with Carl shortly afterwards. Carl was well on the way to recovery and the priest was pleased with himself. He took a room at the back upstairs and turned it into a mini chapel. Casca avoided the room like the plague; religion had no interest to him, save should the Jew return.
London was a place waiting for something to happen; the atmosphere was heavy and laden with tension. The local town leaders had welcomed the Duke, seeing that their former leaders had abandoned them, and they encouraged the Londoners to welcome the invaders too. They supported Duke William’s claim to the throne and preparations to crown him went ahead.
It was in the days leading up to this, the week before Christmas, that Casca received a visit from a shadowy figure. There came a soft knock on the door and the valet, a thin permanently worried looking individual called Aelfgar, answered. There was a short dialogue and Aelfgar came over to Casca who was sat in the candlelight trying to work out the running costs of keeping his household. There always seemed to be more expenditure than expected! Aelfgar interrupted. “Sire, there’s a visitor at the door wanting to speak to you. Can’t understand him; he’s talking your native language.”
Casca peered past the servant to the doorway. Snow was falling outside and the figure by the door was standing motionless, patiently. Casca stood up. “Bring him to me. Might as well see what he wants. It’ll make a change from these damned figures,” he grumbled. As Aelfgar went back, Casca had an amusing thought; if he spoke my real native language, it’d be Latin, not this bastardized French the Normans speak.
The figure seemed to glide over the cold stone floor and up the single step to the dining area. His face was concealed in the grey hooded cloak he wore, and from the furtive way he moved it was clear he was used to making his way in this manner. Casca indicated a chair for him to sit in, opposite, but the figure shook his head. That would put his back to the main room and he was uncomfortable about that. Instead, he moved to the right and stood with his back to the wooden paneling of the dining area.
“I have come from a mutual acquaintance who says that the time has come.” His voice was husky, whispery. Casca felt excitement race through his veins. The man continued. “You are to bring two trusted men to the Bridge Gate tonight. Do not tarry; speed is of the essence.”
Casca slammed his palms onto the tabletop. “Damn it, about time! Aelfgar, go get my sword! And where is Eustace?” He looked round at Arnand who was standing behind him. “Where is he?”
“Um, probably with Gretchen.” Gretchen was the chamber maid, a dark haired tall woman with stout thighs and a voracious sexual drive. “I heard crashing sounds from his chamber earlier this evening.”
“Damn! Carl’s too weak to take part yet; go get Hugh.” Casca waved Arnand to fetch one of the other two guards in his employ. Arnand nodded and trotted off.
Hugh arrived quickly enough, buckling on his sword and shrugging into his cloak. It was cold and wet outside so nobody wanted to go without adequate clothing. Arnand nodded and Casca waved the shadowy figure to lead them out.
The streets of London were muddy and rutted, but freezing into hardened ridges. A cold wind blew from the east, knifing through the thin clothing and biting into flesh. They were led swiftly down a couple of streets parallel to the river and onto the bridge approach itself. The shadowy figure suddenly wasn’t there, so Casca led the other two to the torch lit area at the bridge gate, where two guards patrolled miserably.
The stink of rotting fish, sewage and other unpleasant dead things came strongly to them as they reached the bridge. Obviously the river was not the place to try a swim. Casca looked about but could see nobody, apart from the two cold guards. Suddenly a pair of wooden shutters in the gatehouse of the bridge opened and a figure leaned out. “Up here,” he whispered strong enough to be heard down on the ground.
The two guards suddenly turned and walked in opposite directions, leaving the way into the gatehouse free. Casca looked at his two companions, shrugged, and led them to the single recessed door on the inside of the walkway underneath the building that led out onto the bridge itself.
It was unlocked and the three entered. A wooden staircase stood on the far side of the room they found themselves in and Casca went up, Arnand close behind and Hugh bringing up the rear. They came out onto a decently furnished room that overlooked the bridge. It appeared to be the gatekeeper’s lodge. The figure who had called to them stood in front of the crackling fire, and a rough wooden table stood in front of him. There were objects piled on top of it.
“Hurry,” the gatekeeper said, “there’s little time to waste. Our mutual lord has passed me instructions to give to you.” He pushed a scroll tied with string across the table to Casca. The scarred warrior picked it up and broke the string. Unrolling it he saw it was a set of written orders. He angled it to catch the candlelight.
“It’s in Latin,” the gatekeeper said. “Can you understand that language?”
Casca looked at him pityingly.
The gatekeeper shrugged. “Our lord wasn’t sure that you could. It’s going to be the new language of government here. The native language is to be replaced by Latin for legal and governmental issues, and the spoken word is to be French.”
Casca began reading the scroll. It was written in such poor Latin that he almost laughed, but he supposed being a native of the empire that gave the world that language gave him an unfair advantage over relatively uneducated warriors. He understood what was written easily enough. He was to go immediately to Lesalles' house close to the bridge, and he and the two men with him were to disguise themselves as Saxons. They were to break in and kidnap Aveline and then take her out of London by boat and make their way to a place called Stokeham in the manor of Buchingeham. Walter Giffard was the new lord of Buchingeham and Stokeham one of the lesser manors belonging to it.
Casca also read he was the new Lord of Stokeham. That was his reward for his services to the Duke and to Giffard. So now he had a place where he could begin to settle down and start earning money. He was fed up with owing Giffard the loan. His previous experience at both Helsfjord and the Burgundian estate would stand him in good stead.
“Why now?” he asked the gatekeeper.
“All the senior lords are meeting this night with the Duke to parcel out the finer details of land, castles, tithes and so on. Lesalles learns tonight what he is to be given. In six days the Duke will be crowned King of England, and all titles come into effect at that time. You m
ust hurry. Bring the woman here and I’ll have a boat ready. You are not to go with her, but to remain here. If you go now, Lesalles will be suspicious. Your two men here will take her to Stokeham.”
“And how will they know the way?”
The gatekeeper tapped another scroll on the table. “A map. They will pick it up on their return here. Now go, and take these clothes! You must be dressed the Saxon way.”
Casca and the two others clambered awkwardly into the rough woolen clothing of Saxon men. It was warmer but the bulk felt uncomfortable. They wrapped loose pieces of cloth around their faces so that only their eyes showed. As they dressed, the gatekeeper picked up the scroll Casca had been reading and dropped it into the fire. It flared up, then began to blacken and shrivel. He shrugged. “Orders. Just to ensure no record survives of tonight’s goings-on.”
They all went back down to the ground floor and the door pulled open. A blast of frigid air took the breath away, then the three stepped outside. Casca was pointed out the house he had to go to and then the door closed behind them.
As the two guards began to return to their posts, Casca led the two men with him down the narrow street towards the still and silent house that had been indicated. They moved as silently as they could, but the sound of the wind moaning down the street masked what noise there was anyway.
As they neared, they could see faint light coming from behind some of the closed shutters. “How are we going to get in?” Arnand whispered, his teeth chattering.
“The door.” Casca had no other plan than the basic in-and-at-them option. He went up to the door and banged loudly. Arnand and Hugh pressed against the wall either side of the door and Casca looked round the street. It was dark, and nobody came into sight. He banged again. “Okay, okay, what is it?” an irritable voice answered from the other side.
As the bolts slid back, Casca tensed. The door opened a crack and the Eternal Mercenary gave it everything he had, rushing the door and flinging it open with his shoulder. The man behind it cried out and fell back, clutching his face which now spurted blood from a shattered nose. Casca shoved him over as he passed, sword in hand, and clattered up the stairs. He stopped halfway up and pointed deeper into the guts of the building to Hugh. “Check the ground floor. Arnand, with me.”