Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  “You’re a little too over confident, Saxon.” Casca looked down at Goda who was rubbing her wrists. “You think I won’t touch you?”

  “I’m expected back in a few days. The leader will start sending back parts of her body if I don’t turn up by the end of the week.” Goda smiled infuriatingly. “So you won’t touch me. Not that I’d want to be, anyway.”

  “Too used to being fucked by animals of the forest, no doubt,” Casca said.

  For the first time red spots touched Goda’s cheeks. “You’re a little too arrogant, de Longeville.”

  “Turns women on,” Casca grinned, determined to get under her skin.

  “Not this one!”

  “Oh, I dunno. You look a little flustered. Never had a Norman hump you before? You’ll never go back to a Saxon weakling afterwards if one does. We screwed your army at Hastings, now our soldiers are doing the same to your women. And they’re loving it.”

  Goda went red, then white. “Norman bastard! All of you will die in rivers of blood!” She was trembling in rage.

  “I think not,” Casca replied and called for Athelrig. The peasant appeared and stared at the bodies lying about. “This man I understand violated your daughter,” he pointed at the forester, looking up in anxiety. “He’s yours to do with as you wish.”

  The forester looked fearfully at Casca. “No, Lord, please!”

  “Shut up.” Casca ignored his protests and the guards stepped back as Athelrig grabbed the man and dragged him into one of the huts. There came a series of blows, cries, then a scream. Casca eyed Goda all the time this was happening. “Thought we might have needed that swine, but it seems you’ll do instead. You know what I want. The location of the camp where my woman is being held.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing,” she said defiantly. The winced at another particularly deep prolonged scream from the hut. “You’ll not get a word out of me.”

  Casca grabbed her by the hair. He hauled her up. “There’s the life of a woman I care a lot about at stake here. You can tell me now, voluntarily, or later after a great deal of pain and discomfort. Just so you understand me, Goda, you’re alone and with no friends around you. I can do what I like and nobody is going to stop me.”

  The sounds from the hut ceased and Athelrig appeared. He was breathing hard and his knuckles were red and bleeding. “He’s not dead, sire,” the peasant said a little shakily. “I beat him but he’s not worth killing. My daughter’s honor has been restored.”

  “Stay here a moment,” Casca said, a new idea suddenly forming in his mind. He turned to Carl. “Go bring him out here.”

  Carl sheathed his sword and went into the hut, soon reappearing dragging the half conscious forester out by the throat. The man’s face was bloodied, bruised and broken. There was a water trough nearby and Casca grabbed a skin hanging from a hook over the trough and filled it with water. He threw the contents over the forester and the man came to, spluttering. Casca grabbed the man and held him close. “Want me to let that man at you again? He’s vowed to have your balls nailed to my castle. I’m inclined to let him unless you tell me where Aveline is being held.”

  The forester groaned. He was in a bad way. “Please, no more. I’ll tell you.”

  Goda screamed in rage. “You tell him and I’ll have you strung up from the…..”

  She got no further as Casca slapped a backhander across her face, knocking her down. “Silence! I’ll send you to London where you’ll be put into a brothel and service a whole army of horny Normans!” He swung back to the forester. “Now tell me, dog!”

  The forester babbled, detailing the forest where the camp was, the number of bandits in the camp and what roads through the forest to take. Goda tried to stop him but she was pinned down by Eustace and one of the other men and gagged. Casca was satisfied with the information. “You have saved your miserable life. But I won’t let you go until I have rescued Aveline, just in case you have lied.”

  “I’ve told the truth, Lord,” the forester wailed through swollen lips and broken teeth. Blood dribbled from his mouth. He was a piteous sight. Casca threw him down with a disgusted look on his face. “You may go,” he said to Athelrig. He turned to Carl. “We need to take these two back and put them in pens. Go on ahead and make one of the huts in the village secure, and mount a guard on it at all times.”

  “Yes, Lord,” Carl said and left. Casca took hold of a furious Goda. “You’re going to be my special guest for the next week or so. Hope you like the company of this man.”

  “I’d rather die!” she snarled, hatred oozing from every word. Casca laughed and, picking her up, took her away from the ruined village, kicking and shouting in anger. Eustace and the other two followed, amusement on their faces, escorting the dejected forester.

  Casca felt better. He now needed to get to Aveline, somehow unseen, rescue her and get away without bringing down the wrath of the entire bandit camp.

  He was going to do it. How, he had no idea yet, but he was going to rescue his woman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He asked for volunteers and got ten. Saxons they were but they were his villagers and he was their Lord. They felt no loyalty to brigands, and furthermore brigands from outside their own territory. Casca selected the best six from them; men who could handle weapons and knew their way about the countryside. Arnand insisted he was fit enough to come along on the raid, and Casca decided maybe he was right.

  The two prisoners were put in a hut that stood apart from the rest and was unused, and the two men who had come on the mission to capture them put in charge of making sure they stayed inside. During this time the messenger returned from Buchingeham with a reply from the Earl. There was good news and not such good news. The good news was that the King had approved Casca’s deal and he had the blessing of the King to get the girl and thwart Lesalles.

  The bad news was in two parts; firstly the Earl had no spare men to help Casca in his task. Secondly Lesalles was now sending out agents and spies to find out who had Aveline and was also putting up reward money for information. Time was getting short.

  Casca sought out Father Gilbert. He showed him the two notes. “Who knows how to write Latin like this?”

  “A member of the clergy,” the priest said without hesitation. “No Saxon brigand would know any Latin, let alone write it. Most of the peasant population can’t write their own language.”

  “So, priest, you’re saying that someone of the cloth is with these Silvaticii and writing their ransom notes. A renegade priest?”

  “Or a fellow prisoner,” Father Gilbert added. “It would be good of you to save this priest as well as the woman.”

  Casca smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. Thank you. You told me what I suspected.”

  He went on an inspection of the castle. The smithy and stables were now up inside the bailey and a storeroom and feasting hall were half completed. Up on the motte the castle now had the second floor half completed. This would be the day room. The bedroom would eventually be the next floor up.

  The perimeter wall was mostly finished. Only on the riverward side was it still open. That needed some careful construction of the ground before they put anything in, or the river would wash what they put up away. Then there was the expected flooding. The banks needed reinforcing. That would take time.

  Mud. God, it was everywhere! The main culprits were the huge logs felled in the woods to the north west that had been dragged there by the heavy horses. The ground had been churned up and the mud had gotten everywhere. The villagers accepted it stoically. There had been worse in their time. At least they had someone running the place who seemed fair, rather than trying to screw them. Casca had set a tithe of one quarter which had pleased them; the previous Lord had levied a third, and even one half at times. This had made Casca popular.

  The other thing Casca had insisted on was that Arnand, Carl and the other ‘occupiers’ help out round the village repairing and building. There simply weren’t enough soldiers to afford to
be separate and aloof. Casca also believed in mixing with the natives in order to break down any barriers. A friendlier group of villagers would work much harder. The castle’s progress was evidence of that.

  He gathered together his group. They were given their instructions, and knew what was expected of them. Two of the Saxon villagers went on ahead to the River Thames to make sure there were boats for the group and to make sure nobody saw them crossing. Two Saxons in villager dress wouldn’t cause as much interest as a well-armed group of Norman warriors.

  Casca and the others followed an hour later. One of the Saxon militiamen was waiting for them. “All clear, Lord. Leofwine is on the far bank and has signaled all’s clear.”

  They got into the small boats that had been requisitioned from a nearby village and the nine men crossed. Leofwine was waiting in the long grass of the south bank. They took the first well-trodden path they came across and headed east along the riverbank.

  Casca had memorized the instructions the forester had told him. They were one full day’s march from their objective.

  * * *

  The hut was dark and cold. The sniveling of the injured forester was getting on Goda’s nerves. She sat at one end of the wooden hovel while the forester was left to suffer loudly at the other. They had been given food and water but he’d left his, complaining that his mouth was hurting too much. Goda ate the lot; she couldn’t care less if he died or not. His betrayal of the camp in her mind condemned him to death. When the sentence was carried out was open to debate, but it was a done thing.

  What was on her mind was how to break out and warn the camp in time before Casca and the others got there. She was without any weapons or means to get out of the hovel. The two guards had been changed a little while back, and now two militia Saxons were standing guard. At least she could understand what they were saying, and she listened. The two men were discussing a wide range of things, but once or twice they mentioned the situation with the rescue.

  “Think they’ll get her out?” the first asked.

  “Naw. No chance. They don’t know the forest. Besides, even if they do get her, that mad Norman – you know, that Earl of Mittel Saxe - will find out and come get her. He’s got hundreds of men. If he turns up I’m off. I’m not going to stand in the way of one of those crazy people, especially one who thinks our new master’s stolen his woman!”

  The forester began to complain again. It drowned out what the guards were saying. Goda, fed up with him, suddenly got to her feet, clutching the almost inedible hunk of bread that had been passed through the door earlier on. She stood over the whining man and bent forward. “You do nothing but open your stupid mouth and utter nonsense. This is what got you in trouble in the first place – babbling to that strumpet you slept with! Then you spill your guts to those bastard Normans and betray our band to them. Now you whine and moan so I can’t hear what they’re saying outside! I’ve had enough!”

  She thrust the bread into the man’s mouth and clamped it there, pushing hard. The forester flailed wildly and tried to get up but Goda had thrown herself on top of him and now used her muscular physique to pin him to the straw covered floor. The man thrashed madly, eyes bulging wide in shock, pain and terror. Both her hands now pressed hard against the crusty bread, forcing it into the forester’s mouth, choking him. Thumbs clamped over his nostrils, pinching them shut, and she gritted her teeth in the effort to stop him from breaking free from her grip.

  The helpless victim tried to cry out but no sound escaped past the bread, filling his mouth and pushing down into his throat. He tried to breathe but it was impossible. Fists beat at her back but she ignored them, shaking in effort, head down, eyes shut. Her thighs crushed into his ribs, pinning him to the ground, and the mad thrashings gradually subsided, until with one last shudder he fell still.

  Breathing hard, she stood up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. The forester lay there, bread protruding from his wide open mouth, his eyes still staring at the ceiling. He’d pissed himself as his life had ebbed away. Satisfied, she returned to her place and bent to listen to the guards again.

  They were talking about the work going on at the castle. Goda cursed under her breath. She had missed the rest of the conversation about the mad Norman. She had to find out. She glanced at the corpse. It gave her an idea. She banged on the door. “Hey! Hey! I think he’s suffocated on your bread!”

  There came a break in the talking outside. She loosened the lacing on her tunic, opening the front until her breasts were half uncovered. She shook her hair and tried to make it look tidier. “He’s dead!” she said. “Look what your food has done to him!”

  The latch rattled, then slid back and the door pushed inwards cautiously. “Stand back so we can see you!” one guard barked.

  She stood against the far wall and looked down at the dead man. The two guards entered, swords drawn, and saw the corpse. “By the sweet blood of Jesus, she’s right!” one said.

  “Oh no, what do we tell him? He’ll be angry!” the second one replied.

  “Please, I don’t want to be here with a dead man,” Goda pleaded, looking fearfully at them. “I’m frightened!”

  “Now, now,” the first one grinned, “no need to go off like that. I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement,” he leered at her breasts. The nipples were almost showing. He felt the urge to couple with her. He would have her. He turned to his companion. “Go take him to the river and throw him in. We’ll just say he tried to get away and we had to kill him.”

  The second man looked dubious but received a cuff around the head. “Go on, you ceorl, get rid of him before anyone comes by!”

  The second man grumbled, but took the forester by the wrists and began dragging him out. The first guard shut the door, put his sword away and came up against Goda. His hands flicked aside her top and flipped both breasts out. “Now we can quickly have fun before he gets back.”

  Goda smiled and wrapped one leg around his back, kissing him ardently. The guard responded and his hands rubbed and kneaded her breasts, lost in a world of passion. Goda’s hands ran round his back and ass, feeling it slowly. The belt was next and the hilt of a dagger. As she pushed her chest against his face, cooing louder and louder, she slid the dagger out and raised it over his back.

  With a groan she rammed it into him, sinking it to the hilt. The guard arched his back and forgot all about the woman. Goda flung him aside and pushed her reddened tits back into her tunic. Grabbing the fallen sword she sprang to the door and wrenched it open. Hastily she re-tied her tunic and ran down the slope towards the bridge. The second guard was just sliding the corpse into the water when he heard running feet on the wooden planks and turned in surprise.

  His mouth opened in shock as he saw Goda bearing down on him, sword raised. With one full-bloodied swing she shrieked in fury, cutting the man across the neck and upper chest. With a scream he fell backwards, off the bridge and crashed into the waters, staining them red.

  Still running and clutching the sword, Goda broke for freedom and ran hard for the south, hoping she was in time to warn the camp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  One of the Saxon guards had taken an interest in Aveline. The dark haired woman was disheveled, dirty and withdrawn, but still one that attracted interest from the guards. This individual, a gap-toothed nobody called Yannic, saw the vulnerable and lonely woman as fair game. The women from his village had shunned him. He wasn’t attractive, having long lank greasy hair and a very long and thin neck. His nose was too large for his narrow head, and he’d had to resort to forcing women to submit to his lust in the past. That had eventually got him banished from his village as the rest had decided he had to go. So he’d run away to the forest, a safer place than the village.

  He’d joined the outcasts and bandits and readily joined in the occasional raid against the neighboring settlements, happily joining in the rape that took place at those times. Ethelwin tolerated Yannic, mainly because he was damned good with t
he axe. He wasn’t much good with anything else. So he got the crap jobs; patrols and guard duty.

  Yannic didn’t care; he was part of a group that accepted him and he got a share of ass and loot, which was how far his ambitions went. Now he was on guard duty, making sure nobody came close to the captive, except the priest and the crone. The priest preferred choirboys and was a mewling pacifist, and the crone was….well, a crone. Not even Yannic in his most ardent of horny moments fancied her. But this little young tasty thing. Ah, she was asking for it. Teasing him with her cute pert titties. His mouth drooled with anticipation.

  Each time he passed her he ranged his eyes over her figure, mentally raping her. And he was passing by her position against the bole of a large oak more and more frequently as he got more and more worked up.

  Aveline had noticed the ugly thin guard with a nose like a woodpecker. His eyes burned hotly at her and she shivered. She hoped this disgusting creature would be sent elsewhere, but the leader seemed quite prepared to let him pace back and forth in front of her, almost falling over his tongue as he went by. She put her head down and shook in fear. She was beginning to wonder if she had been wrong in running away from Lesalles. Brute he was, yes, and he would probably beat her frequently. But that was preferable to this place and its inhabitants. She might speak to the priest the next time he came to talk to her, in his barbaric Latin, to see if he could send a message to London.

  “Cold?” Yannic asked from directly above. Aveline jumped. She hadn’t heard him approach. She looked up and saw him looming over her, smiling in a way she hated. “Or scared?” Aveline shrugged. She didn’t understand a word he said.

  Yannic looked round quickly. Nobody was looking. He grabbed her face and rubbed it against his crotch. Aveline held her breath; the smell was appalling. She tried to push away but he was stronger. Then he let go and she looked up at him, red-faced. He waggled his tongue and pointed at his loins, then pointed at her. The message was clear.