by Tony Roberts
“Fuck, she turns me on,” Lesalles muttered. He turned and waved his fully armed men out ahead of him. Goda grinned. They would take care of those swine who had destroyed her camp. Maybe all of them would die, Saxon and Norman. That would suit her perfectly.
Lesalles mounted up outside in the courtyard. The horses were a recent purchase. He’d gotten them on credit, planning to repay them through the wool deal. Bollocks. Still, he’d get pleasure at chopping Casca up into bits and sending them to Giffard, the King and Roland. That’d show them all.
Snarling the order to ride, Lesalles led the group of twelve men out of the courtyard, through the open gateway onto the dirt road, and galloped off west.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Casca showed Aveline Stokeham that afternoon. It wasn’t at its best; the rain had died away to a mere spitting, but the grey, low clouds dulled everything. The mud didn’t help either, and banks of it had been built up next to the river and wood was being piled close by, ready for the stockade along that side.
The pathways in between the houses were brown and thick. Mud and detritus from the felled trees mixed in one viscid gloop, and most of the folk were spattered in it. But what pleased Aveline, if in an embarrassing way, was the way all bowed to her and greeted her. Casca had her by the arm and walked her along the cleanest and most unaffected routes.
“They’re so nice,” she commented after a visit to the village tannery. Casca and Aveline had joked about him getting a job there.
“Good folk, they just needed someone to look to. Any problems they have, or disputes, or guidance, I’m the one they come to see. Without someone in my place, squabbles end up in fights or deaths. Then you have trouble. We keep the peace, we dispense justice, and in return we protect them.”
“You sound as though you’ve done this before. And you, a man from humble background!”
Casca smiled. He remembered Helsfjord. What a time that was. Glam, Sifrit. Lida. He hurried his thoughts on from Lida. Sorrow lay there. Metah’s people, the Teotec. He’d been a God there. Chung Wei in far-away Chin. He’d been a Baron there, too. Burgundy. That village in Hungary with the Magyars….. he couldn’t recall the name but it was virtually incomprehensible. Vargeszhevag…something. “Yes, a humble background. Like Lesalles.”
Aveline scowled. “Don’t compare yourself to that monster! He only cares of himself. He doesn’t know how to treat people except through fear.”
“He’s not the only one who does that,” Casca said mildly. His mind was thinking of Lesalles, of how to bring him to Stokeham and end the feud once and for all. Only then could he truly relax.
Arnand, Carl and Eustace walked alongside or behind them. Aveline had been especially pleased at seeing Carl again, and had raged at the attempted murder Lesalles had made on him. Aveline was impressed by the way Casca stopped to talk to anyone who spoke and passed the time of day with them. Covered in mud, living in hovels that Aveline thought were fit only for animals, enduring the miserable weather of England, she thought these people would be the most downcast on God’s earth. Yet all were happy.
Casca looked at the freshly dug graves by the church. The two guards had been found dead together with the Saxon bandit. It hadn’t been difficult to work out what had happened. Goda was another worry; would she return? Where had she gone? Was she still in the forest? He shook her from his mind and guided Aveline over to the church.
Father Gilbert had made the place his own. The Saxon priest had left, moved to another village that had lost theirs recently. Both priests were pleased with the arrangement. Father Gilbert welcomed them in and asked them to wipe their boots on the stone by the doorway.
“Is there anything you need, Father?” Casca asked. He still felt uncomfortable around priests, particularly those of the Christian persuasion. He didn’t want to stay any longer than was necessary.
“Only the date of the wedding,” the priest smiled.
Casca felt Aveline tighten her grip on his arm. “Ah. Well, I think we should wait till the spring. No point in doing anything before then, is there?”
“Indeed no. But I’ll need as much advance notice as possible. It’ll be a big event in this parish.”
“I’ll let you know, priest.” Casca felt that a good enough excuse to leave. Aveline was smiling so happily that Casca didn’t have the heart to deny that a wedding would take place. It would make leaving her harder. Maybe he fake his death? Perhaps. He sighed deeply and stepped back out into the day.
Arnand and Carl nudged each other, smirking.
“Alright, alright, cut it out, you two,” Casca growled. “Damn you all.” He grinned.
“Grumpy,” Aveline said. “Afraid I’ll tie you down?”
Casca laughed loudly. “No chance of that, woman! Just you try!”
Aveline poked her tongue out at him. Just then Eustace came running back towards them; he’d been called away. “Sire! Sire! Quick, get to the castle! Lesalles is approaching on horseback with twelve men!”
Casca swore. He turned to Aveline. “Get to the castle keep now! Carl, Eustace, go with her! Arnand, you help me in getting these people inside their houses now!”
The village exploded into life. The few Saxon militiamen came running to help, and Casca left them to get the villagers in their homes. He took Arnand and they drove a few who were too far from their homes into the castle bailey, just as Casca heard the thudding of horses hoofs.
He ran up the staircase and turned at the top.
He could see the line of riders crossing the wooden bridge below, heading towards the castle and thankfully ignoring the villagers. He grabbed his sword. It was to him they were bound, and Aveline.
This was it, the final confrontation. To the death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The twelve men dismounted and stood in the bailey, swords in hands. Casca stood on the steps leading up to the keep, blocking the way. Behind him stood Carl, Eustace and Arnand, all ready to stop them getting any further and die in the attempt if necessary. Inside the walls of the keep Aveline stared out of her arrow slitted window, trembling.
Lesalles strode forward arrogantly, a swagger in his step. He outnumbered the puny opposition and he knew it. “Give her to me, and I’ll be lenient with you all,” he shouted up, standing at the foot of the steeply rising steps. “But if you try to stop me, I’ll cut off your heads and stick them up on these ramparts.”
“You talk big,” Casca replied, “but can you carry out your threats? I don’t think you can. In any event, I’ll never hand Aveline over to someone like you. Go back to your kennel, you whining dog, and leave these affairs to real men.”
Lesalles shook with anger. Nobody talked to him like that and lived! He gripped his sword tightly and swung round. The buildings of the castle stood against the walls, unguarded. He smiled. “Burn these pathetic huts to the ground,” he ordered his men.
The others turned and began making their way towards the smithy where the fires always burned. They knew their job. Casca growled and stepped down towards Lesalles. “You don’t change, do you? Burning farms in Normandy and castles in England. Some decent landlord you are!”
“What do you know about the farms?” Lesalles snapped.
“You burned mine down. Now I’m after your blood.” Casca carried on down and reached the bottom, closely followed by his three men. Lesalles called out a warning and four of his henchmen turned and came running back to their leader’s side. “Get them! Stop them from burning the place down!” Casca snapped, facing Lesalles.
The blacksmith saw the seven Normans advance on him and stepped back, helpless to do anything on his own. But the other servants and occupants decided their living was on the line and grabbed pichforks, sticks and clubs. If they were to die, then they’d do so defending their possessions.
Casca slashed at Lesalles who blocked, and to either side Casca’s men sprang forward, screaming defiance. The sky was getting dark and it wasn’t due to the night approaching. A rain storm wa
s coming and thunder could be heard distantly, rumbling deeply over the countryside.
Lesalles hacked back at Casca but the blow was deflected and Casca turned aside and slammed the hilt of his sword into the head of the man facing Arnand. The Norman cried out and staggered sideways. Lesalles growled and came at Casca once more, but the Eternal Mercenary was waiting and parried, blocked and swung his blade at the earl’s head. Lesalles had to back away hastily.
Arnand, his opponent partially stunned, wielded his blade and cut the man down the chest. The Norman clutched his wound and fell to the ground in agony. Carl battered his opponent back and managed to send his blade up under the guard and into his left armpit. The soldier screamed and fell to his knees. Eustace allowed his enemy to overreach and lopped his arm off at the elbow. Casca noted the way the fight was going. “Go help the villagers!”
The last of Lesalles’ men who had run to help him was now faced with three enemies and he ran backwards towards his comrades. Lesalles cursed and danced away from Casca’s next attack, gaining some distance. Rain was now falling and a flicker of lightning cut through the darkening sky. “You’re going to die,” Lesalles growled.
Behind them, the fight was descending into a mass of individual melees. Three villagers lay dead but two of Lesalles men were down, one with the blacksmith’s red-hot poker through his gut.
Arnand and Carl swayed into the fight, cutting down two more, but Eustace missed his blow and received a sharp length of steel through his guts, sending him sinking to the ground, clutching his stomach. His enemy slashed down cruelly again, almost decapitating him, and Eustace fell dead at his feet. Carl saw it and screamed his fury, picking up a fallen spear and launching it at the victorious soldier. The Norman turned just in time to receive the missile through his chest and he was propelled off his feet to crash heavily onto his back, the wooden shaft pointing to the leaden sky.
Casca faced a man who was now clearly beyond reason. Lesalles was screaming in anger and mindless rage. He beat at Casca so hard that the Eternal Mercenary had to back away to stop himself being split down the middle. Lesalles took advantage to suddenly turn and run to the staircase and begin pounding up towards the keep and Aveline.
With a roar Casca bounded in his wake. That animal should not reach Aveline! The stairs were getting slippery with the falling rain, and Casca twice almost fell onto his face as he raced up the lung-bursting climb to the summit. Lesalles was just two paces ahead and realized as he got to the top he’d not gotten far enough away.
Casca slammed into the parapet wall, blocking the doorway into the tower. Lesalles stepped backwards slowly, his sword in front of him. Behind Casca the door slowly opened and Aveline appeared, white-faced. “Stay back,” Casca said in a commanding tone; the last thing he wanted was for her to get in the way.
The wind blew hard, driving the icy rain into Casca’s face. His armor shielded the worst of it but his sleeves were soaked, as were his leggings. His helmet was off and his close-cropped hair was saturated. Distant thunder rolled through the air and Casca stood still, his legs braced, gripping his sword two handed.
Ten feet away the hard-faced figure of Lesalles stood. His blue tunic was plastered to his chain mail armor and, like Casca, he was bareheaded. His jutting nose dripped with rainwater, but he seemed not to notice. His glare was focused entirely on Casca. “Well, de Longeville,” he growled, “let’s get this over with. I’m tired of your interference. Tonight I kill you and take Aveline as mine. You’ll feed the crows and be forgotten in a few years.”
Casca shook his head. “No, you bloodsucker. It’s you who’ll end your life here and now. Aveline is mine, and nothing you do or say will ever change that. Now shut up and prepare to die.”
Behind Casca Aveline clutched the roughly hewn tops of the parapet wall and watched with wide, horrified eyes as the two men who vied for her faced each other. Arnand and Carl had come panting up the staircase, past the broken bodies of the last of Lesalles’ men, and had halted next to the girl. All of them knew this was the final reckoning.
Lightning flashed across the sky, throwing Casca’s face into sharp relief for a few seconds before vanishing. A long roll of thunder growled, as though demanding the two men got on with it.
Casca stepped forward, jaw fixed. This sonofabitch was one of the most deserving of a long slow death he’d met. A social climber, he’d left lives ruined and broken in his wake without a moment’s thought. Time to end it. Lesalles growled and swung his sword, also two handed. The walkway was just wide enough to take them standing sideways to the wall. One slip and the careless would fall twenty feet to the sodden earth below. Enough bodies lay there already and those who’d survived stood and watched as the final part of the drama was played out.
Casca attacked. From high to the right he cut down at Lesalles’ head. The Norman earl met the cut, almost contemptuously. Shifting his weight to the right he swung back at Casca. It was also blocked. The metallic sound rang out over the castle bailey. Teeth bared, Casca stepped forward once more. Grunting in effort, he slashed hard at his hated enemy.
Lesalles deflected the blow aside. For the first time he smiled. He could beat this bastard. Suddenly releasing his left hand from the hilt, he swung up under Casca’s dying sweep and felt the edge rip through cloth and flesh. “Hah! First blood to me!”
Casca stepped back and checked the wound. Left arm. Stinging. Sleeve ripped. Arm bleeding. Not for long, he thought. Lesalles didn’t allow him any time to recover. Now he’d drawn blood, he wanted more. Snarling his venomous hatred, he slashed twice at Casca. The Eternal Mercenary blocked the first one-handed, the second with a desperate flinging up of the sword in both hands.
Lesalles growled in frustration. The second blow should have cut the damned baron’s head off. How had he blocked it? Luck.
Casca regained his balance and crouched low, blade forward. The stinging in his arm was settling into a dull throb. Behind him Aveline wanted to throw up. If Lesalles won then her life was over. She looked over the outer edge of the castle stockade. It was far enough down to kill her. She gripped the wood in both hands and prepared to pull herself up. Arnand and Carl were too engrossed in the fight to notice her movement.
A crack of thunder heralded Casca’s next assault. Quickly stepping forward he raised his blade. Lesalles countered, raising his. Whatever this cochon tried, he’d match and then better. His body would soon join those of his men. Grunting, Casca aimed for the neck. Lesalles stepped back. Suddenly the blade stopped and flicked back. Casca had feinted. Lesalles laughed. “What was that?”
Casca smiled faintly. He did it again. Again Lesalles found the blow withdrawn. “What the hell are you doing?”
Casca smiled wider. He’d gained six feet. Now he was far enough away from Aveline to wield his sword without worry of catching her by accident. His third blow was full blooded and carried through. The blow shook both sets of arms as Lesalles blocked it. Sparks flew from the steel.
The Norman looked shaken for the first time. Such force! His hands were half-numbed. His nerves tingled with shock. He needed to do something. Whirling his sword above his head he feinted left, right and left. Casca weaved, blade in front of his head, waiting. The blow came, scything in from the left, directed at his ribs. Casca swung hard, blocking it with a jarring suddenness, and then planted his left foot at the edge of the walkway and pulled with all his might up at the Earl’s head.
Lesalles flung himself back in alarm. The tip of the sword missed his jaw by inches. Merde! He stumbled before getting his balance. His face showed fear for the first time. Casca advanced slowly, a determined look on his face.
“What the hell are you?” Lesalles gasped.
“Your death,” Casca rasped.
Lesalles knew that he must quickly finish this or he’d end up dead. “Die you swine!” he yelled, launching himself again at his hated opponent. Blades met high, then low. Every attack was blocked, and now Casca wasn’t giving ground. The scarred mercen
ary now jabbed forward, almost breaking through the guard of Lesalles. The block though opened up his head to an attack and Casca took advantage. Lightning flickered over the castle as Casca cut down again and Lesalles was slow in blocking it. Tiredness was creeping in. This time the blow was softer and Lesalles cried out in pain. Casca pulled the sword back and Lesalles leaned in pain against the parapet, his blue shirt torn down the left shoulder.
The armor was ripped too, and the rain began washing out the red stain of blood as it seeped through to the tunic. “You’ll pay for that!” Lesalles gasped, straightening.
“I don’t think so.” Casca steadied himself. Lesalles came at him again, screaming in defiance. Casca ducked and the blow missed. Straightening inside the reach of his enemy, Casca slammed the four-foot blade up deep into his chest.
Lesalles gasped and leaned forward, his mouth open in a huge surprised ‘O’. Casca jerked the blade free fiercely and stepped back. The Norman stood still for a moment, as if he’d been turned into stone, then his sword clattered to the walkway and he slowly twisted to the left. In slow motion he toppled off the walkway and fell to the bailey below.
Casca sank to his knees, weary. At last! At long, long last he’d gotten his revenge. He’d done it. He’d conquered his enemy. He looked down. A circle of men surrounded the body of the former rent collector, looking dispassionately at him. A wave of tiredness broke over Casca. It was over.
Aveline sobbed and ran to him, throwing her arms round him. “Oh thank God you won! Now we can forget this beast and build our lives together!”
Casca grinned and caught hold of one of her hands. Yes, they could. At least for a while, he thought. Then one day he’d have to leave. But for the next few years, he could enjoy a life with her in Stokeham and build something here.
He got to his feet, rain-lashed, and raised his sword to the sky. Lightning flickered again and thunder rolled over the survivors of the battle. Casca threw back his head and screamed in relief, delight and defiance.