Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  “Ah.” Casca saw what Giffard was intimating. “Please tell the King I would be delighted to allow Roland to seal the wool deal with him. I want his daughter, not the father’s wool.”

  Giffard smiled widely. “Then, my lad, you will have Royal assent to steal that swine screwer’s betrothed and there will be no protest at all! In fact, if you could, ah, deal with Lesalles as well, I’m sure the King would be relieved. Many of us in the Council are not happy that he is Earl of Mittel Saxe.”

  “My pleasure!” Casca almost rubbed his hands in delight. With the tacit agreement of no less than the King himself, he could get that bastard Lesalles without any come-back. It was open season on the man.

  “But wait until I bring you news of the King’s agreement. Until then, he’s a noble of his Court and so untouchable,” Giffard said gravely, “whereas you are not.”

  “Understood,” Casca growled. He ached to skewer him, but it would just have to wait a little longer. No matter, Casca thought, I have all the time in the world. I’m used to it.

  Lesalles reappeared with his two men, escorted closely by Carl and Eustace. The two household men looked angry. “His men broke a few doors and roughed up the villagers.”

  “I want compensation for that, Lesalles!” Casca snapped, swinging to face the Earl.

  “Ask all you want, I’ll not pay. This hovel should be burned to the ground.”

  “Earl Lesalles,” Giffard spoke sharply, frowning, “the King has just been crowned and his rule is not yet secure in these lands. It would not do to upset the native populace. You will make reparation!”

  Lesalles faced his equal for a long moment, then scowled and nodded curtly. “Very well! Send me the list and I’ll make good the damage. But don’t try to screw me; I know the cost of everything.”

  “But the value of nothing,” Casca replied.

  Lesalles laughed nastily and jerked a frustrated head at his men. They stalked out of Stokeham. Giffard lingered a moment with his retinue. “Invent a few damages. He’s a rich man. Won’t hurt to add a few items you need replacing. Besides, you’ll need materials for your castle. They cost quite a lot of money!”

  “Yes sire,” Casca smirked. “Already thinking on that one.”

  Giffard chuckled and slapped his Baron on the shoulder. He then left. Casca waited till everyone was gone before turning to Arnand, now recovered enough to do non-physical work. “Get a list of damaged goods. Ask every household what is broken – whether those animals did it or not – and bring them to the green here. Also, find out from the wood cutter what material we’ll need to make the castle walls. What type of wood, I mean, and then I’ll work out the costs for it.”

  Arnand nodded. Casca slapped a hand against his thigh in annoyance, then stiffened in surprise. Coming through the entrance was a long-legged blonde, dressed in rough outdoor clothing. Not many women he’d seen so far interested him, but this one was different. The confident way she walked, the shape of her body, her bright hair. This was interesting.

  He watched as she stopped one of the passing commoners and got a response. The villager pointed straight at him. The woman nodded and walked up to him, swaying. Casca became even more interested in her.

  “You’re the Baron de Longeville?” she asked, her voice strong, authoritative.

  “Well, you’re no peasant,” Casca replied, nodding. “Who are you and where are you from?”

  “I’m Goda. I come from a village to the south. I heard there was a new Lord here. One who speaks my language too! How pleasant. My village is too small to be bothered with by the likes of the nobility.”

  Casca was intrigued. “But you’re no villager; your clothing is too tidy and neat. You’re more of an outdoor type. A hunter, maybe?”

  She smiled coyly. “Maybe I do hunt. Those other men, the ones who left on horseback, they looked very important.”

  “The one with the big flag is probably your overlord; he’s the Earl of Buchingeham. The other one in blue is the Earl of Mittel Saxe and is on his way back to London. Are you staying in Stokeham this evening?”

  Goda shook her head. “I was passing by, but I wanted to see the new Lord in the flesh.” Her eyes roamed over him. “Not bad,” she smiled and turned round. She took a few steps. “I’ll be coming back this way in about a week; watch out for me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Casca said, and watched as she walked – if one could describe the way she moved as walking – out of the village and down to the bridge.

  Casca returned to his lodgings. The door was ajar and he tutted irritably. He went to throw his belt on his bed when he noticed a piece of parchment resting on it. Puzzled, he picked it up and unfolded it. The long familiar script of Latin met his eyes, and a feeling of nostalgia overcame him for a moment. It made his heart ache. Then he crushed it and took in what was being said.

  Your woman is being held in the forest. Do not try to rescue her or she will be sliced up and the pieces sent to you one by one. We will contact you shortly to arrange a price for her release. Try to enter the forest and we will know it. Stay away.

  It was unsigned. He crumpled the note in his fist. He growled deep in his chest. He hated this sort of game. He was best charging an enemy and hacking them to bits. He called Arnand in. His retainer appeared, still looking slightly worse for wear but getting better every day. Casca waved the parchment. “A note from those who have Aveline; they say they’ll kill her if we try to rescue her. She’s somewhere in ‘the forest’, wherever that is!”

  “Damn them,” Arnand whispered savagely. “If only I’d been a little more careful.”

  “Don’t go beating yourself up over that,” Casca said. “Someone just left this here. Did you see anyone come and go?”

  “No, Lord. People were coming in and going out most of the time.”

  “That’s what I thought. Someone in the village must be working for the Saxons.” He snorted in amusement. “Hell, the villagers are Saxons! Still, I’d start checking on who’s new around here. I know there’s been some new arrivals recently, but go make checks. Discreetly. It must be only during the last week or two. Don’t do anything, just find me who it might be.”

  “Yes, sire.” Arnand left. Casca read the note again, then placed it in his pouch. For now he’d have to wait. But once he knew who it was who’d left the note there, he’d get the truth out of them.

  And then rescue Aveline.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next few days were agonizingly slow. Casca buried himself in the preparation for the castle. The costs in bringing in materials from outside was prohibitive so he contented himself in getting as much local wood as possible. Many of the first few castles the Duke – or, as Casca corrected himself, now the King - had made had been from pre-fabricated pieces assembled in Normandy.

  The King had sold these to his barons and nobles for something more than cost price. The nobility either had to throw up castles pretty damned quick or be vulnerable to possible attacks from the Saxons. So they’d paid up. Casca had no such luxury. He was almost broke, and knew it wouldn’t be until the harvest time when the produce from his Manor started coming in that the money would start to flow.

  The locals dug the ditch in three days. They grumbled but Casca pointed out that they could come under attack so it was best they built something they could take shelter in. The north ditch of the village was used as the south wall of the castle. The river was used as the east side. The ditch dug along the north side was opened to the river so a narrow channel appeared, only four feet deep, but it served as an additional barrier and also as a means by which water could be brought into the castle.

  The west side was where the mound, or the motte, was built. No entrance was made there. The way into the castle was via a gap in the dividing barrier in between village and castle, so the only access was to come through the village. Inside the area of the new castle grounds, or the bailey, Casca wanted a number of new buildings put up. But these would have to wait until the b
asic walls of the castle keep were built.

  Casca was lucky; there were three skilled craftsmen in the village who used wood, and they were put to good use in crafting walls and doors for the keep. It wasn’t much; a circular construction twenty feet in width with one door that led out onto the parapet walkway, a single room per floor and three floors planned, linked by step ladders.

  Basic and crude, but it would do until he could afford something better. There were gaps in between the wooden walls in both parapet and keep, but it was best to have something up quick. The other nobles may laugh at it but at least he had something.

  It was halfway through construction when the second note arrived. Casca was weary, having helped in putting up the last bit of the first floor of the keep. It had been a bastard, but the roughly-hewn logs had finally gone into the ground at something like an even keel. Now the carpenters could cut the plank ceiling and start on the next floor. His hands were sore and ached.

  Carl and Arnand were waiting by the headman’s house. Their looks said it all. “There’s another note on you bed, Lord,” Arnand said heavily.

  “Any idea who left it there?” Casca growled, his temper not helped by the anonymous way people were moving about into a place they shouldn’t be.

  “Some.” Carl looked about before answering in a low voice. “There’s a forester who turned up the week of the first note; he’s one who’s helped gather the wood for the castle walls. He was seen near here a short while back and Gretchen reckons he was inside but when she returned from collecting water he was just by the entrance and made off quickly.”

  Casca thought for a moment. “Where is this forester now?”

  “Gone. He was seen crossing the bridge over the river a few moments ago.”

  “Damn him! Right, let’s see what this note says.” Casca charged through the house to his bed and picked up the yellowed parchment. It was once again written in Latin. He compared the writing. Identical. This time it was demanding payment within a week of a thousand florins. If payment was not forthcoming then a finger would arrive and the demand would rise to two thousand.

  “Florins?” Casca frowned. He wasn’t sure whether the locals were familiar with the coinage used in Normandy and the continent. “Is that known to Saxons? Is it used here?”

  “No idea, Lord. Hold on.” Carl vanished out of the alcove and sought out Gretchen. It was common knowledge Carl and Gretchen were lovers and it was likely, according to Father Gilbert, that he would soon be conducting a wedding. He soon returned. “No. Not a Saxon coin.”

  “Well,” Casca mused, “time to ask Lord Giffard. These Silvaticii may have made a mistake.”

  “Silvaticii?” Arnand asked.

  “Forest bandits.” Casca had used an old Roman term, but it would do. “I can’t afford this ransom!”

  “Then she’ll die,” Arnand said in desperation. “What can be done?”

  “I intend making her Baroness of this place,” Casca snarled, thrusting the piece of parchment into his pouch. “And no half-witted forest dweller will stop that! Find someone who talked to that forester. I need to know everything about that man, where he came from, what he ate, what he said. Everything!”

  He sent a message to Lord Giffard and waited for the reply. In the meantime a lead came from Arnand’s enquiries about the forester. He’d been indiscreet with one of the villager girls and talked in bed. She had told her father that she’d been deflowered and in his rage the father had gotten out of her the truth. Now he was livid and wanting the forester’s testicles nailed to the new castle walls.

  Casca had him brought to his new room in the castle. Still covered in sawdust, he preferred it to the communal accommodation of the house. His bed and table were here and he could think at nights when the work stopped. It also allowed him a view out over the village through narrow arrow slits. And if it rained or blew a hard wind, the cloth screens the village women had made could be thrown across them.

  “Well, Ceorl,” he used the Saxon term for peasant, “tell me what you know.”

  The man, a burly wide-shouldered individual, looked at the two well-armed guards – Eustace and Carl – who stood against the doorway, then at Casca who was sat behind his table, the two wall-mounted torches flickering in the gusts of wind that found their way through the cloth screens. He felt intimidated, which was what Casca had intended. “Sire, this outsider told my daughter he was rom a nearby village just to the south. He boasted he was the best forester in Sudrie and often visited a place called Stanes.”

  Casca drummed his fingers on the table. “And where are these two places you’ve mentioned?”

  “Stanes is across the big river on the south bank, sire. I don’t know where Sudrie is, though. I’m sorry sire.”

  “No matter, I shall find out. You may go.” The peasant scuttled away, relieved to still have his head.

  “I know the term Sudrie,” Casca said after he’d gone. “It’s one of the new shires the King has formed. It’s to the south of the Thames River. The border isn’t too far from us.” Something else was bothering him, something he’d heard recently. He couldn’t bring it to his mind just then, but he was certain in time it would. “Right, we need to find out where this damned village to the south is. Then we go there and find this forester. Bring that man with us to identify him. We go the moment I find out exactly where this place is.”

  “What will we do?” Carl asked.

  Casca smiled ominously. “Let that peasant have the forester. He’ll get the truth out of him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They moved the following day. The village was four miles away and they set off at daybreak, Casca leading Carl and Eustace, with two other half-trained soldiers Casca had recruited recently, and the peasant who was called Athelrig. Arnand was left in charge as Casca still reckoned he wasn’t fit enough to come on the raid.

  The village was a poor affair; six houses and a few animal sheds. One or two people were moving about and, to the watching eyes of Casca’s party, they were armed. All of them. “Village my ass,” Casca whispered fiercely, “this is a bandit camp.”

  “What do we do?” Eustace whispered. Casca surveyed the small settlement again. He pointed at the peasant Athelrig. “Stay here until I call you. The rest, spread out and come at them from three directions. You,” he pointed at Carl and one of the other men, “come from the right. You two others the left; I’ll attack from here. I want the forester. Kill the others.”

  Athelrig pointed out the forester, a dark-haired man near the hut to the left, sharpening a knife. Everyone knew not to kill that one. There were about seven others visible, two with short bows and the rest swords and axes. The bowmen would have to go first.

  Casca waited for a few moments, then saw Carl, Eustace and the other soldiers get to their positions, then he raised himself into a crouch and moved forward. One of the bowmen was standing on guard by a rotting fence. He looked bored. He also looked unprofessional. Casca bared his teeth. He’d eat this one for breakfast.

  He waited until the guard turned away to look at a barking dog, wondering why it was suddenly going mad, and sprang forward, his sword flashing in the mid-morning January sun. The guard turned round, aware of some danger, but had no time to defend himself or raise the alarm. Casca’s cut slashed down across his unarmored chest and the man collapsed to the ground, Casca racing past him into the clearing of the settlement.

  A second man dragged out his sword in shock. “Look out!” he yelled before Casca got to him. The first blow was parried but the clumsy way it had been done convinced Casca he was facing another untrained man. The shout had brought the rest of the camp out and they found themselves under attack almost immediately.

  Casca ducked the wide, clumsy blow from his opponent and, as he came back up, rammed the blade point first into his gut, sinking it two feet in. He pulled it out aggressively and looked for the next one. To his surprise, it was the blonde woman, Goda. She’d just burst out of the first house, arme
d with a sword and dagger, and looked wildly around for the nearest danger.

  It was Casca.

  “Well, my Saxon whore,” Casca greeted her, walking towards the armed woman, “we meet again. Like to tell me what the hell you’re up to?”

  “Go screw yourself!” she snarled and launched into a whirlwind attack. Casca blocked the sword blow and saw the dagger lancing towards his face. His free hand shot up and took her wrist and held it, the point of the knife inches from his face. He had a glimpse of a Greek whore in front of him, and the scene changed to a time long ago, before he’d been changed by Jesus to this immortal. Then he was a simple soldier, with simple soldier’s tastes.

  The whore had come at him unexpectedly from behind, screaming in outrage after Casca had told her he hadn’t enough to pay her fully. He’d turned away to pick up his clothing and had been taken by surprise. The knife had come down at him just as he’d turned in surprise. His face had taken the blow, slicing down from near his right eye to mouth. He’d flung himself back in a reflex which had saved his sight and life. Then he’d lashed out, catching her on the side of the head, knocking the woman flat out.

  He’d grabbed his clothes, put them on hastily, and gone staggering out clutching a cloth to his bloodied face, determined to get as much distance between the whore and himself. To this day the scar down his face was his most noticeable feature.

  So now with the knife of Goda close to his face, he recalled the incident again. Fixing his mouth in a firm line, he squeezed hard, causing her to gasp and drop the knife. She was still locked sword on sword, and Casca noted she was left-handed. Unusual. He pushed her back and she tried to use her sword but it was held, and Casca struck her hard with his free hand, stunning her.

  She sank to her knees and felt the sword wrenched out of her grip. Casca stood back and looked at her again. By this time Carl and Eustace were standing close, having dispatched their enemies. The forester was also on his knees, guarded by the two other men.