by Smith, Skye
He held the stallion quiet while a tired, wet and hungry Morcar dismounted. "Welcome, the midden is that way, the wash place the other way. Get cleaned up and we will get some food into you."
The food, of course, was venison, or to be more exact, wild pig. There was also forest greens soup to drink, but no ale. Just clean spring water.
A quick tour of the camp showed storage and sleeping quarters inside a long low cave that had been shaped and smoothed by some ancient peoples. It even had a chimney so that a fire could be lit inside. The paddock was made from the ruins of another long cave that had collapsed to leave a small gorge. It had a wide gate made of lashed saplings.
There were also simple huts made by training the boughs of evergreens to hang low to the ground and then cutting out the boughs beneath them. This created a hut-like structure from the low branches of a living tree. Some of them were quite large, enough for twenty men to sleep dry and sit in comfort.
Everyone in the camp looked healthy enough and fed enough, but there was an air of desperation about their clothes. When Morcar asked the forest men about the clothes, a man replied that they don't do their daily chores in their church best. Another man replied that they couldn't just walk into a market and buy more, because they were outlaws.
That man led Morcar into the storage cave and showed him chests overfilled with clothing. "We have clothes a-plenty, but they were taken from Normans. Bloody useless for living in the forest or doing any real work. Perfect if we went to church.” Morcar suddenly felt self-conscious about the Norman look of his own clothing.
Most of the men slept under the tree huts rather than in the cave. The cave was good shelter from winter storms but it smelled strangely sour and of wet wool, and the floor was rock hard and slightly damp. The tree huts smelled of fresh air and pine, and the deep carpet of needles was soft and warm and dry to sleep on.
"Most of our band sleeps at their homes in the villages surrounding this forest. Only the ones that are outlawed must sleep here. It is a good reason not to show your face to a Norman, or to bring yourself to their notice by flashing coins," said the forest man, "or flash clothing."
"At first we thought it a lark to be outlawed. The life in the forest was comfortable enough and much less work than working for a land lord's rent. After a winter, you start to wish you could go home and have a normal life again. We knew what you gave up when you were outlawed, but we never understood how long 'forever' was. When you are outlawed, it is forever."
Morcar was interested. He would never tell these folks, but as an Earl he had outlawed many a man. "You are saying that you never understood what outlaw meant until you were one?"
"The words are small," said the forest man, "but the meaning is wide and it takes time to understand how wide. We had to learn to live as a band, else everyone takes advantage of you because you are outside the law. You will not be helped by the law if someone cheats you, or beats you. Rich folk can just leave the shire and buy a new life somewhere else. Poor folk end up living in the wilds as we do, or selling themselves as the lowest of slaves."
"See those two women. Not bad looking, eh? They came from good farming stock. A priest was their downfall. He paid them good coin for favours. Once they were ruined he paid them much less. He liked it best with both of them at the same time. One night they tied him up and cut off the end of his prick so that he couldn't ruin any other girls. He had them outlawed."
"It was his right, though I would not defend him," replied Morcar.
"They had no skills for the wild. We found them scratched, bitten, ragged and half-starved. They were trying to sell themselves but they looked so bad that no one was buying. "
"And now what?" asked Morcar.
"Now they are two of the most important members of the band."
"How so?" asked Morcar.
"We use them as bait to trap Normans. Them buggers can't resist a helpless woman."
"Why do you need bait?" asked Morcar.
"Well on open ground they will slaughter us, but in rugged ground we slaughter them. They have learned that lesson well. They stay well clear of rugged ground and the forests. The girls there pretend they are farm girls and scream and raise their skirts and run for the forest. Like I said. Most of them can't resist the chase."
"Got to be careful, though," said another forester. "Can't do it just anywhere. If we kill Normans close to a village, the Normans may slaughter the entire village. Can't do it to large patrols cause if any escape, we are for it."
"Do many of you get caught?" asked Morcar.
"Not in the forest. Most that get caught, are caught because they are trying to sell something Norman, or are wearing something Norman, or try to spend coins that are too big for their boots. The fastest way to get caught is to ride a Norman horse. Of course, these days, all horses are Norman horses."
Hereward reached the camp just before night fell. He crawled into the tree hut, and heard the complaints of those already settled for the night. He was soaking wet and his cloak was shedding water over everyone. He backed out, removed his cloak, and crawled in again. "Is there no fire?"
"There is a fire in the cave. Can't have a fire under one of these huts, else the whole tree would turn into a torch," was the answer from the back.
Hereward crawled out again, grabbed his cloak and hobbled over to the flickering glow that marked the cave's entrance. Raynar, Edwin, and Morcar crawled out of their cozy beds of needles and followed him.
The two women were in the cave curled together on some boughs against the furthest wall on the other side of the fire. There was a tall man talking to them. Raynar recognized him and pushed past Morcar and Hereward, so that he could wrap his arms around Rodor. He had ridden with Rodor at the battle at Stamford and they carried sister bows. They were composite bows brought from the grass plains beyond Constantinople by some of the mercenaries that were killed at Stamford.
Rodor was as wet as Hereward, as were five other men around the fire. They were building it back to life and it was better to sit and keep your head down out of the cloud of smoke. At least with the fire the men could remove their sodden wool cloaks and hang them to drip over the lines stretched across the cave for that very purpose.
One of the women threw a sack to the wet men, and inside was what was left of the meat from earlier. The men cut off strips of meat and wrapped them around green sticks and held them over the fire. One of the men lit a pine torch and used it to look inside the cooking pot. He lifted the heavy pot and put it down on flat stones at the side of the fire. The other men told him to leave the torch burning so he stuck the handle of it into a hole in the wall. The limestone above the hole was blackened from countless generations of torches.
Raynar was hungry again. They had been moving fast and it was cold and wet outside. But he did not reach for more food. This may be all the food that this poor camp had.
Rodor read his thoughts. "Eat, Raynar. There is no shortage of food in this camp, thanks to those Welsh bows you gave us."
Edwin looked up for an explanation. Rodor handed Edwin a choice bit of crackling. "Raynar here has the best adventures of any of us. Always ask him for a tale when you share a fire with him. He came through Sherwood a year past with a giant blacksmith and a Welsh fairie and a cartload of Welsh longbows and Yew bow staves.
They had half the sheriff's men on their tail, cause they had been running archery contests at all the village fetes, and were using the contests to spread the knowledge of the Welsh bow. As usual, he got into trouble saving a woman. You will notice that with all his tales. His epitaph will be: Died saving a woman."
The other men all laughed. They had all shared fires with Raynar before. They knew his tales.
"Which woman was it that time? Oh right. The Welsh fairie. She was a looker. A Norman priest was going to burn her as a witch, and you turned the fete against him and he barely escaped a scorching himself."
The other men threw in side stories about the evil that same priest
had done since.
"Anyways, we were watching at the cross for a likely Norman purse, when this cart with a bowman, a fairie, and a giant, gallops by with cavalry on their track. We scared the buggers off, but to keep their archery business going would have tempted the fates, so they gifted us the cart and the load, and they split up to go home."
One of the other men spoke up. "The sheriff has regretted that his men let you escape with those bows. He keeps his men out of the forest now, and they don't use the short cuts through it. It's against his law to even carry one of those long bows, so we all have two. A Welsh bow for in the forest, and a normal ash selfbow for around the villages."
"You have done your work too well," Hereward said. "We could not take a prisoner from the patrol that followed us, because they shied from entering the forest. Instead they turned away towards Nottingham."
Rodor broke in. "If you lot are headed for Chester, you could send us some more bows. Our own staves are not fully seasoned yet, and we don't want to carve them before their time."
The soup was now hot and the men all pulled their bowls out of their packs and held them out for a scoop.
Raynar was heating some more meat on a stick. "Do you have enough silver to pay this end of the tally? If I send you a load of bows, I will have to pay half for them to start out, but you will have to pay the other half when they arrive."
"We have silver enough for as many bows as you can send," replied Rodor, "and the more of those bows we have, the more silver we will get."
"Take care you lot," said Raynar, "the Norman sheriffs are angry at the number of men they are losing, and the word is that the Norman foragers are killing all Danelaw men."
"You mean killing the warriors that fight them?"
"They've decided that every healthy Dane is a warrior," stated Raynar. "Well, it's true isn't it?"
"The buggers. We heard that the Sheriff of Peterburgh is dead. He didn't last long. Killed by a mat merchant."
"Which of us was selling mats that day?" laughed Hereward, and everyone laughed with him, and pointed fingers at each other in jest.
Edwin and Morcar both stared at these rough peasants who laughed about killing nobles, and were quiet.
"The lesson is, don't push your sheriff to the point that he strikes out at everyone, else all villages and all families will pay the price,” said Hereward.
"We already know that. Our trails always lead into the forest, never to a village. Those who are outlawed never go home in case they are seen. We always give those we ambush a chance to throw down everything of value and walk away. We never show our faces, and we wear common rags, so there is nothing to identify us by."
Rodor broke in. "We have become clever with the corpses as well. We make them look like accidents."
"Then you are using the Norman's own tactics against them," replied Hereward. "A lot of English sons-and-heirs died last year from accidents. Usually a fall from a horse."
"Ya, us too. We use lines, or slings, or traps to bring down the horse," Rodor explained. "The rider is hurt or at least stunned from the fall, and we finish him with a rock. We don't want to leave the marks of weapons or arrows. If the body is punctured with an arrow you can still make it look accidental, but a slash is hard to hide. Last month we covered an arrow wound by pushing the man onto the rack of a dead buck. A waste of good meat, but a killing would have cost us a village."
"Your attacks have no honour. I could not fight that way. I fight face to face, man on man." Edwin created a stony silence with his comment
It was embarrassing. Rodor finally said, "We fight like Normans. We will use every dirty trick to win, just as they do. It was forced on us, and we force it back onto them." Everyone save Edwin mumbled support for what Rodor had said, even Morcar.
"Edwin," said Morcar, "you have been blinded by the Norman culture of chivalry. Their chivalry is only extended to other Norman lords and knights. To all others, the Danes, the English, the Bretons, the Welsh, the Mussulmans, they offer only slaughter and pillage, slavery and rape."
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The Hoodsman - Frisians of the Fens by Skye Smith Copyright 2010-13
Chapter 20 - Raynar returns to the Peaks in April 1068
After two days of complete rest in the safety of Rodor's camp in Sherwood, they struck out again for Chester. A dozen Sherwood men chose to join them, all of them outlawed, but as they were on their way to a fine city, they had changed into decent clothing. The second day of rest was called to give them time to steal riding horses from the Normans.
Now they were approaching young Raynar’s homeland. The land of peaks, and valleys, and moors, and caves, and cliffs, and pot holes that could swallow a horse and rider. All were warned to stay close together, as the quick mists can hide a man further than ten paces away. It had been a year since he had last been in the peaks, but the trails and pathways were as fresh in his mind as if it were yesterday. He had grown up rambling across this land as a shepherd, a porter, a hunter, and a messenger.
Since they were all mounted, and they started out early, and the days were long, they made it as far as Bakewell in one day. They stopped to look at a well-carved stone cross and waited while the village priest approached.
"We mean no harm," Raynar told him in the local Saxon tongue with his hands held out in a gesture of wanting welcome. "We need a roof for the night, and we will be gone at first light."
The priest approached carefully, and looked closely at the well armed band of riders. There were others taking a good look from the shadows. Raynar raised his voice, "This is the Earl of Mercia, Edwin. We make for Chester. Do you offer your earl a welcome?" At that the village men began walking towards them in dribs and drabs.
"Father," Raynar said as he slid off Abby and approached the priest, "are there Normans hereabouts? We would rather they not know of our passing."
"There are no Normans," replied the priest. "The forest roads have been made too dangerous for them. I am surprised you yourselves were not set upon. You look enough like Normans."
"Then we are glad that your forest men have keener eyes than thee, Father. We are too tired to have ducked their arrows."
Bakewell was an old Saxon village with a good ford across the river Wye. It had a low stone church that was larger than most. The roof was in good repair and they were invited to shelter under it for the night. They never saw any young or children or comely women, but were well entertained by the elderly of the village. They fed on beef that had been hung properly and was tender and delicious. The ealders joined them in the meal, as they were eager for news of the outside world.
Raynar found out that Buxton was also free of Normans and that the natural spring was still running warm. The cartway along the Wye was no longer flooded but had muddy parts, which meant that Buxton was less than a morning's ride away.
"Be careful approaching the Dale," warned the old priest. "Miller's Dale where the cartway forks to Tideswell. A Norman patrol was ambushed there this winter, which is why we have been left in peace."
"Do you know the folk of Dale?" asked Raynar.
"Most, though now only when they come to me. My knees have weakened with age and I don't walk that far anymore."
"Is Alan still living there?" asked Raynar.
The priest was silent for a moment. "Who wants to know?"
"I am Raynar Porter, from the Porter's Glade in the Hope valley."
"Yes, he still keeps a house in Tideswell. Is there a message?"
"No, but I will visit him, once I have delivered the Earl safely to Maclesfeld. Are there Normans in Maclesfeld?"
The priest called over to the youngest of the ealders, a florid man, who by his look had a great craving for ale. After some whispers, the man told Raynar that Maclesfeld had a few Norman clerics at the church of Saint Michaels, but no warriors. "It's in Cheshire in't it. The Chester men don't allow them Normans to build their forts, so the closest Norman patrols are from the fort at Stoke. They're
not welcome in Cheshire, and they stay away."
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Buxton was one of Raynar’s favourite places. He first visited it as a small child with a group of Welsh mining families just after his father had been crushed in a mine accident. During slow times, the miners would hike to Buxton for an overnight just to soak in the warm mineral pool. From his home in the Porter's Glade there was an ancient street that led through the village of Brough and directly to Buxton. Now that he was older and wiser, Raynar knew that it had been built by the Romans, as it was well built and as straight as the hilly land would allow.
They had no problems on the cartway along the Wye, not even at Miller's Dale. It was still not noon by the time they had paid their respects to the ealders who greeted their Earl at Buxton, and made their way to the warm spring. The pool had not changed. The men needed no urging. They were mostly Danes, and unlike Saxons, they loved to bathe.
At Raynar’s instruction they hobbled the horses under a single watcher on the river bank to keep them away from the pool. It was not just that the horses might foul the pool, but that drinking the mineral water often caused the trots.
Hereward had agreed that Raynar should leave the group at Maclesfeld, so he could go and visit his home. Edwin was relieved that Maclesfeld and the rest of Cheshire had not yet been raided by the Normans. Neither had ever visited this high valley town before, and they were enjoying the warmth that was creeping back into their bones as they relaxed in the pool. It was unusual to see so many nude men together, and in the way of warriors, they began comparing scars.
Hereward was covered in scars that were mostly from slashes. Morcar had some long slashes, all on his sword side. Edwin had nary a cut. Raynar, of course, had one scar that ran diagonally across the length of his back.
"What were they trying to do, Raynar, peel you?" asked Morcar.
"I turned my back on the rider for an instant," he replied.