by Tony Roberts
The two men hadn’t even hit the ground when the rest of the group exploded into action. Spears were hurled through the air and the three Norman warriors sprang at their nearest opponents, swords biting into flesh and bone. Screams briefly filled the narrow path through the trees, then there was silence. Casca turned full circle and assessed the scene.
All the guards were down. Two were feebly moving. “Finish them off!” he snapped to the nearest Saxons. “Get these bodies off the path, and hide yourselves!”
The men moved off left and right, into undergrowth that rattled with the end of year’s dead growth. Bracken. Thick, leafy and excellent for what Casca wished to do. He pulled one of the two he’d downed into the thick growth and crouched low behind the screen of fronds. The other men had cleared the path, but patches of blood remained where the dead had fallen. There was nothing that could be done about that. Casca accepted that as a hazard to be borne. Nothing to it.
A Saxon and Carl were on either side of him, waiting, expectant. Their faces flushed and excited. Casca felt it too, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. There was more to come. There was a splash of color ahead. The patrol leader was returning, presumably with the brigand leader. He peered through the gently swaying curled fronds and saw three men approaching. One was the patrol leader. The second a tall man with a beard, and dressed much better than the usual individual bandits. He must be the leader. The third was another man-at-arms, probably the leader’s personal bodyguard.
Casca tensed. The three were close. He could hear them talk.
“Where are they?” the leader asked, looking ahead. “I thought you said they were here!”
“They were,” the patrol leader said, puzzled. He looked closer, and saw fresh dirt on the ground where feet had scuffed it up, and then spots of blood on the grass. He gasped in shock.
Casca picked up his axe and hefted it, judging the distance to the patrolman. He slowly rose and drew his arm back, then flung it forward. The weapon rotated through the air and came to a sudden halt, splitting apart the chest of the brigand. He gasped and staggered back, falling onto his back, the axe embedded in his ribcage.
The leader and bodyguard sprang into a defensive posture, back to back, as the rest of the group burst out of their places of concealment and ran at them. The leader, Ethelwin, chopped at the first Saxon and cut him down, a huge red score down the man’s face and chest. The bodyguard wasn’t so lucky. Seeing what had happened to the first man, this Saxon, Leofwine, threw his spear. It sank into the brigand’s gut and he folded over, screaming. Immediately two men got to him and hacked at him repeatedly until he fell still.
Casca faced Ethelwin. He didn’t want any more of his men killed. “Leave him to me. Go check the path to make sure nobody comes this way.”
“You sure you can take care of this one?” Arnand said, worried.
Casca looked at him for a moment. “Go make sure none of this dog’s friends comes by. I won’t be long.”
Ethelwin tried to take advantage of Casca looking away, and sprang forward, his sword descending in a vicious arc, aimed for Casca’s head. Casca flung up his sword, stepped quickly forward, deflected the blow off to his right, sank low, then came up with his own blade swinging in towards Ethelwin’s midriff. The brigand just couldn’t deal with the skill of the Eternal Mercenary. A man who had learned his skills with the Tenth Legion in the Roman Empire and from a gladiatorial school outside Rome was too much for a half-trained bully with no armor.
Ethelwin’s torso caved in as the blade cut deeply into him, smashing apart the stomach and liver. Ethelwin was a dead man even before his heart stopped. He sank to his knees, clutching the spreading red stain across his tunic. Casca stood above him dispassionately. “For a leader you put up little resistance,” he said sadly. He had expected more.
Ethelwin screwed up his face in pain, then fell forward, half on the path and half in the bracken. Casca didn’t bother to wipe his sword; he’d be using it again very soon. The others were grouped to either side of the path and he waved them on. Casca walked boldly down the center, sword in his right hand, axe in his left. The smell of the smoke was getting stronger and now a clearing could be seen.
Casca motioned to the others to fan out and keep in cover. They did so, as silent as they could. The Saxons were better at it, partly because they had little or no armor on, but mostly because they were adept at moving through such terrain. Casca crept forward through the bracken, trying to make as little noise as possible.
The camp was spread there in front of him, the ground of which was covered in dead leaves, crushed twigs and acorns and other forest detritus. Smoke was lazily drifting up from three separate fires. The clearing was about fifty yards across, and two other tracks could be seen leading away to the right and directly ahead. The trees around the clearing were huge; they towered up over a hundred feet in height and their branches overhung the clearing for some distance. There was clear sky, but it was only towards the center.
Casca squinted up and tried to see if any guards were in the trees, but he could see none. Careless. He looked over the camp again. Some huts made of branches, twigs and turf were grouped to the left, near two of the fires. Some wicker screens lay over in that direction too. He then saw Aveline and his heart leaped. She was sitting next to one of the huge trees with what looked like a priest. Two guards were patrolling close to her.
Three more guards were patrolling the camp edge and about twenty more people could be seen moving about. Casca had seen enough. He wriggled to the left and beckoned Arnand to come closer.
“What do we do?” the Norman asked.
“You take Eustace and four of the Saxons and take out the men by those huts. Tell Carl to take the other one and deal with the three guards. I’ll go get Aveline. Burn those huts. Spread confusion. Hit them hard. Got it?”
“Clear. They’ll not know what’s hit them!” Arnand grinned and moved off.
Casca got to his feet but remained crouching. He breathed in hard a few times, then checked the others. All were looking at him. He nodded to himself and took a final deep breath. Then he sprang to his feet and charged out of cover into the clearing.
CHAPTER TWENTY- EIGHT
Casca had eyes only on one objective; Aveline. He trusted the men to left and right of him would cope with what they had to face. His target sat with head down thirty yards away. In between her and the running Casca were two men, both of whom had to die.
Casca had run ten yards before he was seen. Or, maybe, he guessed, he’d been seen earlier than that but it had taken that long for the reaction. The first guard, the one nearest to him, began turning in surprise as the shouts went up. Casca kept on running, his muscular frame driving his body on, closing the gap between him and the guard. Beyond him the second guard had also turned and was reaching for his sword.
The first guard was close, and Casca could see the desperation on his face as Casca closed to striking distance. Casca swerved to one side and as he passed the fumbling guard, struck out with his sword, scoring a deep cut across the brigand’s face. The man screamed and span round, hands to his face, completely forgetting his sword as pain flashed through his brain and his balance went.
The second guard saw his comrade fall and stepped in Casca’s path, a determined look on his face. Aveline had looked up by this time and recognized who was coming to rescue her. “Casca!” she shouted in joy.
Casca heard her, but was too busy to respond. His sword struck at the second guard but the man parried. Casca’s second blow came from his axe. It swept up from waist height and sank into the guard’s midriff. The man jumped back in shock and from the force of the blow, and dropped his sword in pain. Casca chopped at him a third time, cutting him down with the sword, then he was past and bearing down on Aveline and the priest.
Aveline stood up, tugging on the rope that bound her. “Oh, thank God! I thought I’d never see you again!”
Casca reached for the woman and pulled her close,
kissing her deeply. Aveline threw her arms round him and returned it. The priest stood back, his mind trying to comprehend the sudden change in the situation. Men were fighting all round the camp and screams, curses and the ringing of steel on steel filled the air.
Casca released the sobbing woman and pointed at the priest. “Free her bonds and you will live.” He indicated where the rope held her by the foot. He turned to see two more men charging at him, one with a large nose. Aveline screamed. “That man did unspeakable things to me!”
Casca snarled and crouched low. The two Saxon brigands came at him from different directions, swords high. Casca sprang at the first, sword meeting his blow. The metal screamed as it bit at each other. Spinning past the man Casca used the momentum to send the axe flying through the air to crash into the second. The man stared in stupefaction at the axe buried in his chest before falling face first onto the soft ground.
Now gripping the sword in both hands, Casca circled slowly round the remaining man, the one with the large nose. “What did you do to her, you piece of dirt?”
“Something you’re not capable of, you filth!” Yannic snarled, furious that ‘his’ woman was being taken by another.
Casca roared in rage and sprang forward, beating at Yannic left and right. The brigand fended off the first blow but missed the second and the blade cut a chunk of flesh off his waist. Yannic screamed in pain and writhed to one side, his sword held defensively in front of him.
“Animal!” Casca boomed and pounded away at Yannic, his sword battering the Saxon to his knees. Finally the sword flew out of nerveless hands and the brigand knelt helplessly at Casca’s feet.
“Please, spare me!” he whined.
“You must be joking!” Casca growled, glaring down at the fearful man.
Aveline came over to Casca. “He-he put his thing in my hand!”
“Whaaaat?” Casca bellowed, his eyes threatening to burst out of their sockets. “For that, I think I’ll cut it off!”
Yannic screamed in fear and scrambled through the leaf mold and bounded away, bleeding from his waist. Casca turned to pursue but the priest stood in his way. “Spare that poor misguided creature, my son. He suffers from an ailment.”
“I’ll give him a fucking ailment,” Casca promised.
Aveline frowned. “Please, what did you say? The priest speaks Latin, which is how he managed to tell me things.”
“You speak Latin?” Casca asked, incredulously.
Aveline nodded. She now held Casca’s free hand. Blood dripped from his sword and the fighting was dying away around them. Bodies littered the area and the huts were going up in flames. Arnand had done his job well. The group were heading towards them, Casca noted. Two of his men were missing. Both Saxon militiamen.
“What happened?” he said, bringing his breathing under control.
“We took out the guards and most of the hut dwellers,” Arnand said, sweat on his forehead. “A few got away. We lost two.”
“Let’s go. We’ve got what we came for. The survivors can go to hell and be damned,” Casca said, holding Aveline close. He turned to the priest. “You can go,” he said in Latin. “But do yourself a favor; don’t come anywhere near this lot again. I may well return and wipe what survivors there are out to a man.”
The priest bowed and made a small sign of the cross. Casca grimaced. He had one last thing to do. He saw Yannic crawling towards the forest, favoring his good side. He stepped up to him and stood in his way. Yannic sobbed and fell face down, spent. “Spare me, master,” he pleaded.
“Hand or cock,” Casca said implacably. “Choose. You insulted my woman and that’s something I can’t forgive.”
Yannic burst into tears. Casca looked down at him, cursed and turned his back on him. He was so miserable and helpless that it cut through the rage. Casca just couldn’t do any more to him. He was already hurt and it was likely the wound would become infected and then the brigand would die. He looked at the priest. “You like to think you can save souls? Well, worshipper of crucifixes, here’s one you’re welcome to try. He’s too pathetic for me to bother with. I fight men, not pant-pissers.”
He walked back to Aveline and held her. “We go to Stokeham now.”
“It’s over?” she asked.
“Nearly. But this event is. Let’s get you to our home.”
Aveline smiled and put her head against Casca’s shoulder. Casca squeezed her arm and wiped his sword clean before sliding it away. “Carl, take up the rear. Watch out for anyone following us. Leofwine, go ahead and make sure no one gets in our way. The rest of you, keep alert. I’m looking after the lady.”
The men grinned, pleased they had accomplished their mission. And the Saxons who’d never seen Aveline before were doubly pleased; the woman they’d come to rescue had turned out to be a beauty. That always added to the feeling of satisfaction.
They had traveled perhaps a quarter of a mile when Leofwine gave a warning and the group dived off the path and into the undergrowth, Casca holding Aveline tightly. They waited silently, tensely, as the sound of pounding feet came closer. They watched as a long-haired woman clutching a sword sped past, panting hard.
They slowly returned to the path as she passed out of sight. “That was the woman who was a prisoner at Stokeham,” Casca said.
“Oh shit,” Carl said.
“Something must have gone wrong,” Arnand added.
“Okay, let her go; I want to get back to see what’s happened!” Casca snapped. As one, they turned and continued along the path westwards.
* * *
Goda slowed as she smelt the smoke; she knew she was too late. Her lungs were trying to bust out of her chest, and she paused for a moment, so that her breathing returned to something like normal. Her cheeks were stained red and sweat filmed her face. She’d ran hard, but all the time with the knowledge she was probably too late.
Walking slowly now, with sword in her hand, she emerged into the clearing. The huts were smoldering ruins and the broken bodies of her former comrades lay scattered about. Their wounds told of how they had died. Violently. Suddenly. Goda’s face was hard with anger. She stepped up to the remains of the largest hut and scanned the dead. One or two she didn’t recognize and reckoned they were those of the attackers who had fallen. But the camp was wiped out.
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and she swung to her right. The priest. That pacifistic fool. He was tending one of the wounded. Goda had no time for the injured; they’d be too much of a burden. Better they died. She moved over to the habit-wearing cleric. “What happened? When did they do this?”
“Not long ago,” the priest said sadly. “They gave no quarter. All were slaughtered. They took the Norman woman, and left this one to suffer.”
Goda saw it was the ugly guard who’d had the hots for the prisoner. She wondered why he had been spared. “Leave him; you will come with me and speak with an Earl of Mittel Saxe for me. I don’t speak their disgusting tongue, but you at least can speak with them.”
“I have to tend this poor soul,” the priest objected.
Is that so?” Goda hissed. She loomed over the stricken figure of Yannic, then plunged her sword into his throat. Yannic shuddered, his hands like claws, then he fell back and lay still. “Now you have no need to tend him. Get up, or you’ll join him!”
The priest stumbled to his feet, his face horrified. “God will punish you for your terrible sin!”
She sneered, then struck the man across the face hard. “You pathetic weakling; you’ll meet God soon enough if you don’t do as I say. You’re alive only because you’re useful to me. If you refuse to be useful then I have no further need of your odious company. Is that understood?”
The priest nodded, fingering the red welts across his face. Goda nodded, pleased she’d subdued the man. “You know where I can find this earl?”
“London – he’s one of the new nobility,” the priest said sullenly.
“Good. Then I need to speak to him and
inform him that the woman he wants is at Stokeham.” She pushed the priest roughly towards the north-eastern exit, and the two left the clearing, now just a place of the dead. The forest could now reclaim what once it had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The sound of falling rain was soothing. Aveline sighed and stretched out, enjoying the warmth of the blankets, and the softness of the bed beneath her. She opened her eyes. Where was she? The ceiling was a rough wooden construction; the rain was pattering on it. She wondered why it wasn’t leaking.
It was the most comfortable place she’d slept in for ages. She turned to the left, where the most light was coming from. There was a shuttered opening close by, half open. She could see the cold grey world outside and the falling rain. It made her bed seem even more wonderful.
“Ah, good,” came a soft but deep voice to her right. “You’re awake.”
Aveline turned over and saw Casca sitting there, smiling. She smiled sleepily. “Mmmm. This bed’s so comfortable.” She was recalling the journey now. It had been dark and she was exhausted when they had arrived at Stokeham. Casca had carried her the last few miles, especially when the rain began. She hadn’t seen much as they had entered the settlement except for torchlight and a few huts. There had been wooden stockades and a long staircase, then she’d given into sleep and the next thing she knew she was in this chamber.
“You’ve slept for hours.” Casca took her hand and held it. “But you’re home now.”
“Home.” Aveline looked up at the ceiling. “Home’s with you, Casca.”
Casca grinned. “There’s plenty to build here. But we’ll make this place comfortable and fitting for a lord and lady.”
Aveline giggled. “I’ve never considered myself a lady of anywhere! Is Stokeham a big place?”
“Not yet,” Casca said, standing up and crossing over to the shutter. “But we’re getting more and more new arrivals and there’s already plans to enlarge the village. Seems that people want the safety of a stockaded village and a castle. Then there’s work and money to be made here. Word’s got out I’m building, and people are coming here from miles around.”