by Smith, Skye
"The goddess of mothers and children and fertility," she stopped walking at the bank of the river and pulled him to her, pulled his arm in between her breasts, and whispered. "She is a friend of the downtrodden, and so I often come to this place and speak to her of my hopes and dreams, and of my fears and troubles."
She was so lovely with her face framed by the folds of her hair, that he could not help himself, and he leaned slightly forward and kissed her. She leaped back from him and raised her hands to protect herself, but she did not scream.
He kept her eyes locked to his, and slowly pulled out his dagger from his belt and put the grip of it into her right hand and turned the point of it up to press against his shirt below his heart. "Do not fear me Leona," he whispered, "and do not judge me too harshly for stealing a kiss. For a moment there, while you spoke of the goddess, you became a goddess."
It was exactly the right thing to say. She was a women in need of a hug, in need of being protected by a man's strong arms, in need of a man. She dropped the dagger and pressed herself into his chest and began to weep. "Oh, oh, oh," she gasped, "If you only knew how frightened Rowena and I are. Every day we speak of leaving this lonely place and traveling north to our father's home. And every day, Rowena becomes stubborn again, and refuses to leave her son's house to any footpad who comes along."
He held her close to keep her warm and safe within his arms, and gently kissed away at her tears. When her tears stopped, she turned her face and took his lips with hers and they shared their breaths like lovers. When she turned her face away to claim back her lips, he kissed her ear instead, and then whispered softly into it, "You must get away from here. You must leave this place and go to your father's house. All of you, all of the men, all of the women, and all of the children. And you must go soon. Tomorrow would not be too soon. You must convince Rowena, and go."
She pushed back from him and stared into his eyes, and again began to cry, but this time she ran away from his arms and up the slope back to the house. He watched her skip gracefully between the rows of herbs and vegetables and out of sight, before he crouched beside the river and begged the goddess Isis to watch over this family.
He did not make himself comfortable, there beside the tiny stream that became such a mighty river, because he was so tired that he would have fallen asleep. Instead he walked slowly back to the yard to find his cart and his bed. The stableman had left the cart close to the barn so to be out of the wind, and was now sitting leaning up against the barn next to it.
"I'll tell you news of this place, if you will tell me your news," the stableman said, and then began with his news. "The husband and his brother and three others from this manor were killed at Hastings. Thus in one day, we lost all of our young and healthy men. That was some months ago, but for all that time Rowena has refused to believe it. Well, now she has finally admitted to herself that she is a widow. That was why she went to town to do the paperwork.
Leona was to wed this year, but her man is dead too. I do almost everything now. I've got no help. It has been a bad year, and I think it is going to get worse. I don't trust these Normans. "
Raynar stayed awake talking with him until the moon rose to dim the stars, but then he crawled into his bed of straw in the cart. "Take the women to their father, and be quick about it," were his last words to the stableman before he fell asleep.
In the morning he ate with the stableman and the house staff and the children. He wanted to speak to the women again, and warn Rowena of 'dead and bed', but they refused his presence. It was to be expected. They were ladies and he a stranger. The women did not say goodbye but the cook said it for them, and handed him bread and green cheese for the road.
* * * * *
Less than two miles down the street towards Cirencester the road crossed a boggy land of ponds and marsh, but the Romans knew how to make roads, and it was raised high enough so that it would never flood. While he was looking about at the wonder of this ancient street, he noticed two riders coming up fast behind him. There was a glint of sun off armour or weapons, and the horses were big. Normans then.
While they were still a ways behind, he let Abby walk at her own speed between the potholes, while he rolled off the seat into the back and strung his staff bow and found four heavy arrows. With that done, he once again took his place on the seat, but this time with his weapons within easy reach. The riders caught him up as if he were standing still, because they did not need to worry about cracking a wheel in a pothole.
He wished he had his Byzantine bow, so that he could shoot from the kneeling position. The preparations were for naught, however, as the two Normans, a knight and a squire, gave him nothing more than a cursory look as they overtook him. The were busy talking and laughing and were soon ahead of him.
Then his heart stopped. The two Normans had stopped ahead and were blocking his way. Raynar stopped Abby thirty paces from them and touched his bow with his fingers.
"How far to Cricklade? " the man asked in French.
Raynar pretended not to understand the French and they switched to simple English words and gestures. He toadied like a peasant and kept pointing back the way they had come and holding up two fingers, meaning two miles.
"And the manor, eet is no further?" the squire asked in heavily accented English.
He kept saying two miles and pointing back the way they had come. As they swung their horses around the cart to go back the way they had come, they spoke to each other in French, already ignoring this peasant carter. "Come on then. We've come too far, but we are close. My cock is hard just thinking about it." said the knight, rubbing at his crotch.
"You have to read out the proclamation of Escheat to the household first, before you can fuck her." the beefy squire reminded him. He had slowed to a stop while he looked over the wetlands. "It will be easy for the boy to have an accident if I took him riding in land such as this. Look at the bogs."
"I hope the sister is there. She is supposed to be pretty, and she is a nobody, so we can do anything we want to her. I hope she has big ..." and the knight's words were stopped by an intense pain in his back and then a worse one in his heart.
His squire was close enough to him to reach across his horse and try to stop his knight from falling out of the saddle. He was staring in the arrow stuck deep through the knight's armour, when another arrow punched through his mail and skewered his heart. They slid down to the road together, but were dead before they hit it.
Raynar stood beside the cart seat and stared up and down the street. It was straight, so he could see along it for a half mile each way. No one was coming. He drew his dagger but ignored the men and moved cautiously towards the big horses. He seized both sets of reins and tied them to the cart. Then he crouched beside the men to ensure they were indeed dead. Both arrows had found the hearts, and at close range. They were very dead.
He dug out his arrows, and frisked them for valuables, then dragged the knight to the low wall at the edge of the road. After peering over at the standing water on the surface of the marsh, he hefted the man off the road and over the wall. The weight of the armour sank the man but he was still visible. The squire was given the same muddy burial beside his master.
He did not put weapons in either man's hands, for they did not die in battle, and he had no respect for them as warriors. Instead he looked out over what must be the headwaters of the Isis, and he spoke out, "Thank you goddess, for having these men lose their way and find me before they found your daughter Leona. I give them to you to punish them for the wrongs they have done, and would do, to your daughters on this earth."
With that he leaped over the low wall and landed on the back of the knight, and once he got his balance back, he tromped back and forth on him to make him sink deeper into the quagmire. When that one was deep enough in the mud to be no longer visible, he did the same to the squire. Though he was now muddy to the knee, this was not the time to clean up. Not now. Not yet.
He unloaded shields, weapons and
saddles from the horses. Those shared the same boggy style grave as the men that owned them, but on the other side of the street. The gear was worth a fortune, and the horses more, but he could not keep anything Norman with him, other than the heavy purse that the knight had carried. He even buried the scroll of Escheat separately from the bodies.
If he were searched at a crossroads, anything Norman would earn him a cell or lose him a hand. He checked around the road where they had fallen. There was almost no blood. Their hearts were stilled before they hit the dirt. He kicked dirt over what little blood there was.
Worried about the time this was taking, he glanced up and down the road. Still clear. "Now," he thought, "I need a meadow for the horses. Should I go back to warn the women? No, they can best play innocent if they are innocent. Besides, they may not believe him about Dead and Bed, and do something stupid, like turn him over to the Normans."
With the two horses tied behind, he trotted the cart towards Cirencester looking for a good place to set the horses loose. He could have killed the horses too, but he doubted that he could sink them. Better to set them loose and trust that some honest local farmer would use them in front of ploughs, where they would do some good for a change.
Near to the western edge of the marsh, a wet meadow stretched endlessly to the north. He dragged the horses off the road and onto the grass. It was easy to remove their bridles because they were so enjoying the taste of the sweet lush grass. He whipped the horses with the reins and they ran north and then kicked some sods loose and buried the costly bridles beneath them.
For a few minutes he watched the horses, but they soon stopped running and were eating again. Raynar undid his belt, which was actually a sling, and he loaded it with a small round stones from the roadbed. His slinger practice in Wallingford now paid off. He hit the horses repeatedly in the sides and flanks, until they turned north and ran far away from the road.
Raynar sat on the cart seat and trotted Abby, weaving back and forth to miss the sharp corners of the potholes. Finally, when he was completely through the wetlands and the road became smoother, he gave Abby her reins. His heart was still thumping madly and the morning's porridge was heavy in his stomach. Even laying on the straw and forcing himself to relax did not stop his heart from thumping.
* * * * *
Cirencester was the town where the two Roman streets, Fosse Way and Ermine way, crossed each other. There would be a Norman garrison at that cross for sure, and a large one. He waved down a local carter and asked if there was a way around the town without having to go through it.
The carter gave him a knowing wink and pointed as he explained a by pass route. Just before the town was a fork, and that cartway did a horseshoe around the town to the north. Raynar took this route, and found other carters along the way who kept him from straying from the horseshoe. At the top of the curve, where it crossed Fosse Way, there were no Normans. There were other carters, however, and they assured him that if he kept going, it would reconnect with Ermine Way.
The rest of the highway to Gloucester was well maintained with a soft surface on top of the Roman stone roadbed. Abby made good time, even though she deserved a rest, and he deserved sleep. Luckily there was a stable yard just outside the north gate of the town. The owner was friendly and for the cost of the feed, allowed Raynar to sleep in his cart in the yard.
* * * * *
* * * * *
THE HOODSMAN - Hunting Kings by Skye Smith
Chapter 15 - Welsh Long Bows, Gloucester in April 1067
In the morning the grooms at the stable near Gloucester's North Gate offered to watch out for Abby and the cart while young Raynar went to the market to find some Welshmen. He walked into town down the London road and through the north gate. Beyond the gate, he found the market easily enough but could not see any Welshmen, at least, none selling bows.
An ale house at one end of the market place was serving porridge so he ordered some, and asked the woman serving about the Welsh stall. She knew nothing, but the man on the next bench heard the question and knew the answer. The stall was in the next row at the far end on the right. Raynar chatted to the man, who was a carter, about the town. While he ate he learned much about the market, the garrison, the lord, and the river. Once he finished eating, he went to find the Welshmen.
The stall was closed. He felt like screaming for it was the only stall that was closed. All was not lost, however, for he could hear Welsh voices behind the stall. He called out, and his answer came in strongly accented English. "We've been closed by the Normans, so go away". Raynar squeezed between the stalls and came upon two short but sinewy men who were sorting staves. The older man looked at him and repeated what he had said.
Raynar responded in Welsh. "If you would promise to stop sleeping with their wives they may let you open again."
They looked at him closely, up and down, and laughed and the elder said in Welsh, "No chance of that. They don't want us arming the peasants, do they. Especially with bows that turn their costly armour into market wares."
"So you won't sell me one?" he asked.
"Not in this town. We are just waiting for a mate to bring our cart around, and then we will load up and leave before they decide to burn our stock."
"My cart is at the north gate. If I wanted to follow you out of town, which road would I take?" he asked.
"The west gate. There is a woman that serves heavy ale on the west side of the bridge, under a huge willow. But don't tarry. It won't take us long to load this lot."
Raynar wanted to trot back to his cart, but kept himself to a walk. There were Normans watching the market, and a trotting man would catch their eye. He gave one of the stable grooms a lift into town, which meant that he found the willow tree ale house with no problem. There were three Welshmen waiting for him there, with a sad looking cart pulled by an equally sad looking pony.
"Bugger me" said the elder from the stall "you must have a rich daddy. Lookie here, lads, look at the seat." Raynar ignored the sarcasm, it was just the Welsh way of warming to him. He bought an ale and wandered over to the sad cart. After lifting the sacking that covered the load, he pulled a long bow out of a stack and tested its spring.
"So where do you go now?" asked Raynar in Welsh when he was joined by the men.
They all switched to Welsh. "Back to Wales. There is no business for us here in England anymore, not with the Normans in every market town. They have truly buggered our business. For two hands of years we have had it good though. Almost everyone in our village earns from it. The finding, curing, shaping.
We bring what we make to English markets and sell or swap it for things that are costly in Wales. We earn at both ends from this business. This trip will ruin us. We can't sell our bows and they are too valuable to chuck, so our cart is still full, and we have no coin to fill it with English goods in any case."
These men's trouble was a dream come true for Raynar, but he tried not to sound eager. "So your problem is a loaded cart, and no coin. I have some coin and no load."
"And how would we earn if you sell your English goods in Wales. All we would be doing is setting you up in our business." replied the man.
"Where I live the men want bows like this to protect themselves from the Normans. If I could get these bows passed the Normans that guard the crossroads, then I could sell them at home for a good profit. No, I would be a fool. It would risk my horse and cart, and they are worth more than the load." Raynar's voice ended in a mumble.
"So we would have coin and you would have the load?" The men looked at each other.
"Forget I spoke. The risks of my losing everything are too great." said Raynar softly. He had bargained with Welsh miners in the Peaks for years. You needed to be a good actor. You had to pretend that the deal was bad for you.
"It wouldn't take much coin for us to give up this load. Enough to buy something to sell in Wales. That would pay for our trip at least."
It took another ale to settle the price. The price includ
ed a hundred bows, two hundred seasoned staves, and over two hundred long arrows with no points, plus waxed bow strings and some targets painted on sack cloth. They loaded Raynar’s cart so that it looked like a load of staves. The Welshmen counted the coins, wished him luck and then turned back towards Gloucester market.
Raynar did not follow them back across the bridge. There was a guard posted on the town side, and he may have seen them swapping loads. Instead he took the cartway north along the west side of the river Severn, all the while wondering how far it was to the next ford so he could head back to Wallingford. He should have asked the Welshmen, but they had been eager to leave his company with his coins.
There were no easy fords. By midday he was following the Avon River, northwards back towards Fosse Way. He was now so far north that he decided that it was easier, and safer, to take the bows home to the Peaks, rather than to try to reach Wallingford through all the Norman check points he had seen.
The further north he went, the fewer Normans he saw. Evesham had no garrison. He thought he needed to go back to Fosse Way to travel north but carters at Evesham told him of another Roman street close by called Ryknild Street that went north. They swore it had a faster surface for a cart like his, and that they had seen no Normans along it.
Ryknild Street did have a smooth surface and led him through Redditch and to Burton-Upon-Trent. Supposedly it would lead him all the way to the Abbey at Repton. He was feeling more relaxed the further north he went. He took the time to explore the towns along the way and talk to the other carters. There was little news. Most of the locals had never even heard of Normans, that is, until he was approaching Burton-Upon-Trent.
At an alehouse close to the River Trent, Raynar took a break to munch his way through a large pork pie and chat to carters about the next stage of the highway. It was a place frequented by local carters and those walking between markets. The others who he shared a bench with were talking about the Normans who had just arrived in the town. They had come to take over the court.