Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  He nodded and walked off stiffly. He needed the girl to relieve him of his frustration fairly soon. He’d get her to do it. A knife to her throat. They always obeyed. Aveline wiped her face rapidly, sobbing. his animal was her worst nightmare. She sat back and put her hands to her face and cried. Somehow she had to be saved; how, she didn’t know.

  Her thoughts turned to Casca.

  * * *

  The leafless trees were like some huge place of the dead. It gave the men the shivers. Casca wasn’t affected like the others, however. He’d been to places like this many times, although he preferred the forests further north or in the mountains; they stayed green even in winter. Here, the stark bareness emphasized death. The men’s breaths clouded in the air before them as they followed the path through the trees.

  Casca was looking for a huge fallen tree. One that had been brought down in a thunderstorm a few years back, so the forester had said. The path forked at that point and they were to take the right hand one.

  He was armed with sword and axe. An axe had many uses, both as a means to hack at obstacles in the woods and as a close-up weapon. It could also be used as a throwing weapon. It was versatile. None of the others had one; they preferred the spear as well as their swords. All of them wore furs on top of their tunics and armor. It was chilly during the day but at night the furs would be essential.

  The wind whistled through the branches high up but here down on the ground in the forest the wind had lost its cutting edge. The day was coming to an end and they were getting close to the bandit territory. Once past the dead tree they would be in enemy land.

  One of the Saxon militiamen was out in front, acting as scout. Casca’s reasoning was that as a native he ought to be more familiar with the area, terrain, smells and noises; and of course, if anything bad happened then none of his small band of Normans would get caught out. Another was bringing up the rear, a hundred yards back. Casca didn’t want any bunching. He was always mindful of the stories told him as a youngster by his uncle Tontine back in Etruria where he’d grown up.

  When he was about 6 years old the Roman general Varus had gone into Germania with three entire legions, intent on subduing the barbaric German tribes forever. Trouble was, they were fighting on alien terrain and the tribes were used to the forests. On top of that, they were led by a warlord called Arminius who had learned the Roman ways of fighting while a captive in Rome, and had later earned his freedom. He took that knowledge back to the deep, dark world of the tribes, waiting for the right time.

  Varus has provided it. His three legions had been utterly wiped out in an ambush somewhere in the forests east of the Rhine. The disaster had haunted the emperor, Augustus, for the remainder of his life. Often he’d wandered the corridors of his palace at night, crying out ‘Varus, give me back my legions!’ The story was told to the wide-eyed boys of the Empire, Casca included, and they grew up with a fear – and hate – of the wild tribesmen on the other side of the Rhine.

  So Casca pressed on through the winter forest of England, his little band spaced out and wary. Saxon – Norman – Saxon – Norman and so on. Casca was fourth in the long drawn out line. He glanced up at the dull grey sky again. It was time to stop for the night. They would continue at daybreak and the camp should be only a few hours along the right hand fork. But they would be moving into territory that was probably observed, so it would be then that Casca’s next part of his plan would be put into operation.

  For now they’d rest off the path in the undergrowth on either side of the trackway, with two men on guard at any one time. They broke out their rations, a mixture of berries and stringy meat from one of the village goats that had been slaughtered a few days ago, and washed it down with a thin, watery ale. It was better than nothing, and they sat or lay there, shivering in the cold.

  Arnand slid up to Casca. “Do you think your ruse will work?”

  “No way of knowing,” Casca grunted. “Either they’ll fall for it or we’ll end up dead or captive. I imagine I’ll fetch a good price. Not sure about you, though.” He grinned. “This anything like you imagined it to be when you joined up in Normandy?”

  “Oh, God, no!” the Norman shook his head. “We were told of the wealth and beauty of the place. Nothing of the sort, is it?”

  Casca shrugged. “We’re seeing it in winter; wait till the spring. As for the riches and wealth, did you honestly think the common soldier would get any of that? Land. That’s where the money is. No cities of gold here; I could have told you that. The real money will be made from the land, and King William appointed his trusty lieutenants as land owners. People he knew and trusted, or owed a favor to. Those are the ones who’ll get the chief share of any wealth.”

  Arnand scowled. “Then what is there for people like Eustace, Carl and me?”

  “Once I get Stokeham up and running, it should create enough money to build better buildings and pay you lot better wages. I’ll not cheat you. I want to leave a decent legacy for whoever takes over from me.”

  “You talk as if you’ll be leaving soon!” Arnand said.

  “Who knows? Once things settle down it’ll probably get a little too boring. I’ve heard of some of the Norman nobles have gone to Sicily and are carving out a kingdom there. Maybe that’s the place to go. Warmer too. Better wine.”

  “You have a persuasive argument,” Arnand chuckled. “I’m fed up with freezing my balls off here. And Aveline?”

  “Aveline.” Casca rolled her name round his tongue. “She’ll be my woman, and if I move to Sicily she’ll come with me. I guess she’ll prefer the warm lands of southern Italy to here. And I bet she’ll be glad to see the end of this place after her kidnapping.”

  “And Lesalles?”

  “I’ll kill that swine first.”

  * * *

  With the coming of night the fires of the camp were stoked up and their light filled the clearing. People were drawn in towards them. A couple of poached deer were roasting on spits and it was clear there was a feast coming. Aveline was brought closer to the middle of the camp, but still away from the revelry. A small fire was lit for her and she sat, engulfed in her misery. The priest stopped by and inquired as to what she wanted. Aveline had pleaded with him to stay with her but he’d shaken his head and said he had all the camp to visit and see to. It appeared he was under the illusion he could persuade the bandits to renounce their unlawful ways and return to a life of peace and goodness. Why they tolerated this man was beyond her, but as he was the only one amongst them who could speak Latin, or write, he had his uses.

  Two men stood close by, on guard. They occasionally checked on her but apart from that contented themselves with watching the edge of the camp for intruders. Yannic was off duty now, and the urge to satisfy himself on her was getting too much. There were some thatch screens used for sleeping quarters and Yannic had one for himself. He lay there awake, thinking of the prisoner, getting more and more worked up.

  Eventually it was his turn to take guard duty. He rushed out, eager to get to her, and waved the other guard off to the far side. It was past midnight and many of the camp were asleep, sated on venison and ale. The fires were dying down and light was fainter. He walked over to the sleeping figure of Aveline and pulled her head up, his fist in her hair.

  She was awake in seconds, eyes wild and shocked. He leered down at her, then unfastened his breeches. His excitement was clear as his erection sprang free. He pulled her hand towards it, and she began struggling. This stopped the moment a blade pressed against her throat. Yannic took her hand again and placed it round his member, and slowly began sliding her hand back and forth. He then nodded and let go, leaving her hand to continue, which, reluctantly, she did, shaking in fear.

  The thick, rancid smelling organ turned her stomach. She almost gagged and threw up, but somehow kept it down. Now he began to moan as she slid her hand back and forth along his phallus, and she looked up at him, her eyes pleading. There was no pity in his eyes, just mounting excitement. The
blade of the dagger held fast against her pale skin, and she didn’t dare move or speak for fear of it slicing into her throat.

  He took hold of her hand again began moving it faster and faster, then she felt his hardness stiffen and swell, and he groaned deeply and softly. To her shock, the organ was suddenly ejaculating, and she almost let go. He pulled her hand from the now shrinking organ and backed away, grinning, withdrawing the blade and buttoning up his breeches. The dagger was slid back into its scabbard. He patted her head gently and she turned away, shutting her eyes. He stood up and walked off, back on guard duty, leaving Aveline lying alone, sobbing. She felt dirty and used. She also knew he’d be back to do that again – or maybe something worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Goda emerged from the river, soaking wet. There hadn’t been a damned boat anywhere and finally she’d grabbed a dead length of fallen tree and used it to cross the wide stretch of water. Now she was on the right side she could get to the camp with no natural obstacles to slow her down.

  Day was coming and she hadn’t stopped all night. She had the feeling she was going to be too late but she had to try all the same. Running along the path she could see as the day improved that many feet had been that way recently. Her clothing stuck to her body and the cold was almost unbearable. Finally she knew it was hopeless; she was beginning to shake with cold. There was a village nearby and that meant fire and food.

  She deviated off the river path and trotted towards the edge of the settlement. The villagers were beginning to start their day, baking, cooking, making things, going out into the fields. She waited for a few moments before slinking quietly to the nearest hut. A couple lived there and the woman left to wash the clothing in the stream that ran through the settlement into the nearby river.

  Goda quickly slipped round the front and into the hut. The man turned quickly at the door being opened and saw a drenched woman with her hair plastered against her head. “Who are you?” he demanded, staring at her.

  “No time to talk,” she answered, untying her tunic and pulling it off over her head. Her undershirt followed, freeing her breasts. The man gaped in surprise, and watched as she unpeeled her breeches and unfastened her boots. All clothing was soon off and she hung it close to the fire on a wooden frame she had spotted.

  Totally naked she stood by the fire warming herself. The man couldn’t stop staring at her fit, lithe figure. “What – what are you doing?” he finally managed to speak.

  “Drying myself, what does it look like?” she said, smiling at him. She saw his eyes running over her firm body, and smiled again. “Like what you see?”

  The man nodded. Goda turned and beckoned him close. “My wife isn’t going to be long,” he said.

  “Long enough for my clothes to dry out a bit, mm?” She pulled him against her, then pressed her breasts into his face. He responded and pushed her to the ground. Moaning, he began running his hands over her body, and Goda groaned, arching her back. The man began to unfasten his trousers and Goda helped him, pulling them off. She twirled them round and round, into a long, thin shape. The man frowned. Suddenly she wrapped it round his throat and neck and tightened it, standing up. He gasped and grabbed hold of the knotted material, but it was tight around his neck. Goda got behind him and pulled hard, gritting her teeth. Her knee ground into his back and he flailed his arms ineffectively.

  Her victim sank to the ground and she pulled hard for a few moments more before releasing him. He flopped to the ground and lay there, eyes wide and staring at nothing. She spat at him and resumed her place in front of the fire, warming herself.

  Finally she decided it was enough and struggled her clothing back on, noting it was damp and still a little wet in places, but it was warmer. And she was warmer. Finally she threw the frame into the fire, and using one of the burning pieces, placed it against the flammable roof and saw it catch. She dashed outside and ran for the pathway, glad she could now run without her clothing restricting her movements.

  Behind her the hut blazed up, attracting shouts and cries of alarm. Goda ran on, laughing in delight.

  * * *

  The line of men headed down the forest path, much closer together than they’d been the previous day. Three were roped together, hands behind their backs, being prodded on by the others’ spears. Casca stood behind the three roped men, his eyes alert. Somewhere close by the brigands would be watching. Leading the group were two of the Saxon militiamen, talking in good humor, discussing everything from the price of prisoners to the merits of women. Casca had been explicit in his orders; talk without fear, and make it clear they were in charge.

  Arnand, Carl and Eustace walked on, heads bowed. They were pictures of misery. Casca had even got them to smear mud on their faces, making them look even more roughed up. One of the Saxons knew a little about the brigand activities in the area, having come from a nearby village a few weeks ago. They were the bane of people’s lives, and not many sympathized with them. Too many times livestock or women had been stolen. Nobody though had gone into the forest to sort them out; it was too dangerous and the camp’s location had up to now been secret.

  Suddenly an axe buried itself into the trunk of a tree right in front of the leading man. The line came to a halt and men appeared to left and right, armed to the teeth, hostile expressions in their faces. “Who are you and what is your business here?” one of them demanded, looking up and down the line of men.

  “We’ve taken a patrol of Normans prisoner. We’re fed up with these foreign dogs taking our land and women and want to help you drive them back into the sea,” the Saxon militiaman answered. He knew what to say; Casca had drilled him mercilessly the previous evening. Casca felt that he himself looked a little too much like a Norman and spoke with too thick an accent to be passed off as a native.

  “Is that so?” the brigand said, a challenge in his voice. “And I suppose you want a reward for handing these swine to us?”

  “That’s for you to determine,” the Saxon shrugged. “We’d be happy to join the next raid on Norman camps. They could fetch good money.”

  The brigand pushed rudely past the Saxon and looked at the ‘prisoners’. He grabbed Carl by the jaw and pulled his head up, looking into his eyes. Carl sullenly stared back. The brigand sneered and pushed Carl back. “Foreigners, yes. But we don’t care who we steal from. These Normans are too tough to take on. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Are you the leader?” the Saxon asked.

  “No. But I’m the one who’ll decide whether you’ll pass this point or end up with your heads decorating the forest.”

  The Saxon leaned on his spear. “Would your leader look kindly on you if you decided these Normans weren’t worth a ransom? Surely it’s up to him to decide that?”

  The brigand stuck his face into the Saxon’s. “You’ve got a big mouth. What’s your name? Where’re you from?”

  “Ludric of Brunewic. Heard of the place?”

  “Brunewic? No. You could be making it up!”

  “I’ve heard of the place,” a second brigand said. “Down near London.”

  Ludric nodded. “I was a woodcutter until the Normans came and burned my home down! I want revenge!”

  The brigand snorted. “That’ll be for the boss to decide. Alright, you lot come with us, but no funny stuff or we’ll stick you like swine!”

  With ten men around them, Casca’s group moved off along the track. Casca kept as quiet as he could, not trying to attract any attention. Under his cloak were three swords. These he’d give to the three in front of him at the right moment. When that was, he had no idea. A thousand things could go wrong.

  They walked for thirty minutes, passing through deeper and darker areas of the forest. Animals moved away from them at the edge of their vision, vague, dark shapes. Maybe deer, maybe boar. Birds flew off at their approach, two lines of men, each with a different intention.

  Casca smelt the fires and the cooking before they saw the camp. The escorting group ha
lted and hands were put out to stop Casca and his men. “Okay, stay here. I’m going to speak to the boss.”

  Casca waited and watched. The brigand guards were looking up and down the line, then forwards to the camp. Casca decided the time was now. He pushed up against Eustace, the nearest one to him, and sawed through his wrist bonds with a dagger. He passed it to Eustace who stepped up to Arnand and did the same to him. Casca then pushed the first of the swords into Eustace’s hands and waited till it had been passed on, then he gave him the second and third.

  Eustace stepped forward again and Casca reached for his own sword. He turned round slowly and caught the eye of the Saxon militiaman behind him and nodded. The Saxon grinned and took hold of the spear he was carrying more firmly and looked at the guard a few feet away, who was staring ahead towards the camp.

  The forest seemed to go quiet; it was as if it was holding its breath. Casca stepped out idly from the line and made a show of peering ahead down the track. One of the guards saw him and came towards the scarred warrior. “Hey, you, get back into line!”

  “Sorry,” Casca said, gripping his sword even tighter, and remaining where he was.

  “You stupid or something?” the guard growled, walking up to Casca. The other guards were now looking at the two, which is what Casca wanted.

  “No,” Casca smiled, “but you sure as hell are, shithead.”

  The guard opened his mouth in surprise, and Casca’s sword blurred through the air, slicing through the man’s windpipe, sending a spray of blood out into the chill January air. Not waiting to admire his blow, Casca was already moving forward to the next guard, a short man with a wart on his chin. The brigand was bringing back his axe to deliver a killing throw, but Casca had closed in and his sword thrust burrowed into the man’s chest, pushing him back and slicing apart his heart.