by Tony Roberts
“You’re here on firm ground now,” Casca said. He turned and picked up a groggy Will, blood streaming down his face. “Get that seen to, Will,” Casca advised, and began checking the others. Walt was up on his feet, spitting out dust and pieces of debris. He was covered in pieces of the barbican and was busy brushing off the worst of it.
A couple of Frenchmen were groaning closer to the door and Casca kicked one in the throat, silencing him instantly. The door was splintered and hanging on one hinge, the bottom one. The lintel was cracked and sounds of fighting were coming from the other side. “Hey, take care of any Frenchies and then get over here,” he said to the others, “and don’t take all day. I think we’re about to be visited by the owners of this establishment.”
The others came forward, pausing only to check the state of the enemy soldiers, and putting to death all those who had survived the drop. Two Englishmen were lying still and Pip went over to them, checking to see if they were still alive. Casca glanced up at the hole in the ceiling but nobody appeared. He pulled a grim expression, then pulled experimentally at the iron door handle, shaped like a lion’s paw. It rattled but the door remained stuck.
“This opens inwards,” Casca said. “Help me.” The others all grabbed the slightly open edge and as one, heaved on it. With a deep groaning sound it gave way, the wood splintering still further, and more dust dropped from the shattered lintel. The sound of battle increased and two Frenchmen barged in, wanting to see who it was in the room.
Casca grabbed the first by the throat and rammed a fist into his exposed face, breaking his nose and then slammed him to the floor. The soldier bit off a cry and scrabbled with his gauntleted fingers for a purchase to get up. Casca sent his right foot down on his neck. There came a sickening crunch. The man stopped moving.
The second Frenchman was assailed by four archers, all bludgeoning him around the helmet and chest. As he was well protected, he rode the blows but staggered back. The others roared and piled out after him, Casca close behind.
They were in a large chamber, probably the entrance hall. It was ruined and stonework lay all round, the wooden furnishings that had been there now piles of splintered wreckage. The room was full of defenders, all battling the English men-at-arms, and bodies lay in the center of the chamber. Others were crawling away from the melee, bleeding, trying to reach safety so they could see to their injuries before they passed out. The archers were an easier target and four Frenchmen peeled away from the edge of the fight to take on these newcomers. Casca barged his comrades aside, picking up a lump of stone in his left hand. He brought it down on the head of the first man, smashing in the helmet, and brains leaked out through the eye slits as the man toppled to the floor.
The second was armed with a short handled polearm, a long pointed blade like a spear at the top supplemented by a hammer close to where the pole met the head. This was a modern melee weapon, used to fight cavalry as well as infantry, and was deadly in the right hands.
The eternal mercenary smashed aside the first attack, a straight stab, but then had to step back as the Frenchman swept the polearm round towards his head, hoping to bash his brains in. Casca had his own version of the hammer. He sent the pommel of his sword into the Frenchman’s face, knocking his head back, then reversed his weapon and slashed down through the neck, cutting through the neck guard and into flesh. The defender fell to his knees, blood running through his fingers and crashed face down to the ground.
The third and fourth turned as one. They had intended to butcher the lightly protected enemy troops, but saw the big scarred leader as the danger. Not only was he fearsome looking, but was as strong as anyone they had seen and could wield broken pieces of masonry as if they were of wood.
To make things worse for Casca, a crossbowman suddenly appeared behind the two, already loaded up and ready to loose. The thing that saved Casca from being skewered were the two swordsmen who closed in on the eternal mercenary, intending to carve him to pieces. The stupid cochon had no armor and was ripe for a good slicing up. Good. Another foolish Englishman who would die as a reward for invading France.
One raised his sword high above his head while the second thrust forward, hoping to impale the man through the chest. Casca dodged the stab, grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him hard across him, just in time to meet the downwards blow of his comrade. The Frenchman fell like a stone. The other man was stunned at having cut his friend down and wasted precious seconds in trying to retrieve his blade from the neck and back of his fallen associate. Casca sent his sword into the throat of the man, penetrating through the neck and out the back. The man-at-arms choked, blood spraying out forward and sideways, coating Casca across the face and chest, and Casca held him before him, blocking the crossbowman’s aim.
Walt threw his dagger which struck the crossbowman across the head but didn’t stick into him, but it was enough to make him loose off into the ceiling. Half-stunned, the Frenchman staggered back out of another door which was bolted shut by his comrades as he vanished out of sight, leaving the few remaining defenders in the hallway to be slaughtered by the English men-at-arms.
“This door’s stuck fast!” Will exclaimed, tugging at the handle. “We’ll never get through this!”
“Burn it down,” one of the men-at-arms commanded, coated in blood. “We’ll flush those swine out.”
They grabbed whatever wood they could find, and someone produced a flask of oil, and they liberally coated the wood in it, then set fire to it. Smoke billowed up and they retreated away from the blaze. From the other side of the door shouts could be heard, and coughing. The smoke was filling the hallway but some was clearly finding its way into the space beyond. The flames grew higher and set off the ceiling above, the jagged edges turning black, then red.
“By the blood of the Virgin!” one of the sergeants exclaimed, “the whole place is going up! Out!”
Casca grabbed Pip by the hand and together they ran out into the clear air outside, grateful to be away from the choking atmosphere. They stood in a group by the outer door, watching as the smoke rose above the shattered barbican. A few Frenchmen were seen staggering away, beating at their smoldering clothes, making for the safety of the Porte Leure. They were allowed to go, for the barbican now belonged to the English. Those caught behind the door would be left to die, screaming out their last breath before the smoke claimed them.
Pip sat at Casca’s feet, trembling, her face dirt-and-smoke-stained, while Casca stood above her, deep in thought.
He wondered who it was who had loosed the arrow that had nearly killed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
With the fall of the barbican, the fight was knocked out of the French. They finally realized there was no hope for relief, and asked for a fortnight’s grace, after which if their army hadn’t turned up then they would surrender. Henry refused, but they finally agreed to surrender on the feast of St.Maurice, a week after the barbican had been taken.
It was strange for the English to walk through Harfleur after enduring so many weeks outside its walls. The town was a mess. The bombardment had caused so much damage and many houses were ruins. The townsfolk were in a wretched state, short of food and their homes smashed. Henry took pity on the women and ordered them all out of the town, leaving the men behind. He wanted people to clear up the mess.
Casca and his squad were billeted in one badly damaged building close to the east gate. The holes in the roof were left open to the sky but they found stones and broken doors to block the holes in the front of the property. Much of the furniture had been broken but enough remained to make it reasonably comfortable. Pip and Casca shared the best bedroom while the five others who were still able to walk had the other rooms.
Dysentery was taking a terrible toll on the army. Many were sick and some had died. Henry wanted those still suffering particularly badly to be taken back to England by ship.
Casca did some thinking during the time he was at the house. The arrow meant for Pip had just missed h
er, and it was clear someone had deliberately shot at her. The only groups of archers armed for the fight were not part of Godfrey Fulk’s retinue, so it meant nobody close was Cooper’s hired killer, which was good in one way. He made a few enquiries discreetly, and learned that there were two retinues who had been armed at the fight and who had also been around to loot the farms the day after they had landed. One was a group of archers belonging to a Sir William de Wolfe, and the other was under a knight called Simon Forde of Goodrich.
Casca would have to visit each and see if he could learn who was the unknown man on his and Pip’s trail. Before that though, there was the issue of what they would do now that Harfleur was in English hands. It was almost October and the campaigning season was virtually at an end. It was clear there would be no further advance into French lands to conquer, so there were two choices left to the King. Either they would stay in Harfleur or go.
To stay meant a garrison and almost certainly they would be besieged by the French. Henry would return to England anyway, and to have just one town to show for his expenditure would be seen as a failure. To go now would be a risk, for where could they go other than back to England? They could remain under arms ready for the following year, but Harfleur couldn’t support them all, so that meant going to another English possession, and there were only two within reach. One was to the south, and that was Gascony and Bordeaux, while the other was to the north-east, and that was Calais.
Both journeys would be risky and would have to cross rivers, and it would be vital to have crossing points secured in order for the army to get over them, for if they were blocked then the French could easily trap them and that would be the end of it. Bordeaux was a long way off through the countryside of Normandy, Maine and Anjou, and the distance too far to Casca’s experienced mind.
So that left the march to Calais, a much shorter distance. Edward III had done it during the Crecy campaign, outwitting the French by crossing the River Somme at a ford called Blanchetaque, a place the French hadn’t defended, and the English had gotten out of a trap. There were many rivers in their path, but Casca guessed if Henry was going to make a move then it would be to Calais.
Walt, Will, Andrew, Gavin and Sills were busy making a fire, the cold autumn days were making conditions uncomfortable, and the rains were beginning to affect everyone’s mood. What with the dysentery and losses elsewhere, the army was about two thirds of its original size, and their group was typical of this. Sir Godfrey had told his captains to amalgamate the existing squads to bring those left up to strength, and so Casca found himself demoted back to ordinary archer as another sergeant had been appointed over them.
He didn’t mind too much; he had enough to do looking after Pip. The nights were good for she kept him warm and satisfied, but the days were tough, and the new sergeant had asked some awkward questions about Pip and ‘his’ role with the group. They had all stuck up for their ‘errand boy’ who had braved the melee at the barbican so the sergeant had muttered and wandered off.
Pay had finally come but in Harfleur there was precious little to spend it on. Food was short and most of the shops had been smashed or abandoned.
Sir Godfrey wanted to give his men a rousing speech so he assembled all that afternoon to his side, in the street close to the church of St.Martin. They all pressed together, all forty-six of them, and the knight stood on a wooden box so he could be seen by all. He had a florid expression and was somewhat large, but he’d managed to have a suit of armor made to fit him which couldn’t have come cheap.
“Men of Montgomery,” he began, his arms out wide. No matter that a fair few of the company were not from Montgomery, since he hailed from there, so did his retinue and followers. “We are at the beginning of a long journey, a journey that will test all of us. The perfidious French are threatening us all from their assembly camp near Paris, and the King has determined that we should make our way to Calais.”
Casca glanced at Pip. She was listening intently, her head cocked to one side. He knew what sort of journey it would be. It wouldn’t be for the faint-hearted.
Sir Godfrey continued. “We are therefore to set off in a few days for our fortress there, at a pace that we are sure will keep us ahead of the enemy. As you know, the French have vowed to cut off the three middle fingers of all of our archers’ right hands, so you know your fate if you should fall into their clutches. I will not allow this to happen to any of my company! The King agrees and he has vowed that all of us will pass through the French countryside, God willing, without any of us falling into their hands.”
The men looked at one another. English archers were feared and despised by the French who saw the use of so many low-born men as weak and unchivalrous. War should be fought between nobles, and if any peasants or rabble joined in, then they were merely there to be slaughtered. For a non-noble to kill a noble was unthinkable, yet the English continued to rely on them. Therefore the French mutilated each and every archer they got their hands on. They could not bring any ransom money if captured, and so were worthless. Best to cut off their fingers and return them to England where they would be of no use and couldn’t return to the army as they would not be able to use a bow again.
Nobles, being rich, would be taken prisoner and ransomed. Many people had become rich through the wars with the French, and more than one family’s fortune had been founded on plunder and ransom. War could be profitable from time to time.
“Make ready for a departure in three days,” Sir Godfrey ended. “Assemble by the east gate. Anyone who falls ill now will be left behind to be shipped back to England without pay. Those who reach Calais will collect their wages due. May God look over each and every one of you.”
They broke up. “Hey, you,” the sergeant snapped to Casca and Pip, “the priest wants a word.”
“What priest?” Casca asked, alarmed. Priests were fanatics, and sometimes it concealed the fact they were part of the Brotherhood, those maniacs who often hunted him. Thankfully there had been no sign of them for a while, but that was no guarantee they weren’t far away.
“Father Richard, Sir Godfrey’s personal cleric. Go see him and don’t keep him waiting!”
“Shit,” Casca said under his breath.
“Why would Father Richard want to see us?” Pip asked.
“No idea. Let’s go see the man. I doubt he’ll like being kept waiting.” The priest was visible, standing before the door to the church, a crucifix of wood hanging from his neck. He wore a white cassock with a red cross stitched on the left breast. Very English. By his side were two junior clerics, one a scribe, by the looks of things. Casca walked up to the priest and gave the barest of nods before presenting himself and Pip.
“Ah, yes, the boy,” Father Richard said, a smile breaking over his fleshy face. Rings adorned two of his fingers and it was clear the priest enjoyed the patronage of Sir Godfrey. “I was interested to learn of your presence, boy. Tell me, what is your name?”
“Pip, your holiness,” she said nervously.
“Pip? Such a small name. I hear you took part in the fight at the barbican. Such a brave thing for one so young.” He looked at Casca, his expression clouding over. “God has given this child the blessing of youthful beauty; it would be a sin to see it destroyed in combat. It is therefore decided that this boy is not to take part in any more. I shall see to it that this beautiful child is given the full protection of the Church, and from now on will accompany me on this campaign.”
Casca frowned. Pip looked shocked. “I’ve vowed to see Pip through this war safely,” he said. “He’s with us, not the Church.”
“Do you defy God’s will? Let me tell you, Long – that’s your name, is it not? – if you try to stop me I shall have you burned for heresy. Now get back to your company. Pip is in safe hands!” With that he put a fatherly arm round Pip’s shoulder and pulled her close to him. “Your concern for him is at an end.”
Casca scowled, held Pip’s entreating look for a moment, nodded, and turned away.
The priest gave him the creeps. There was something not quite right about him. Two memories came to him, almost simultaneously. The first was when he’d gone on a rescue mission to get a girl out of barbarian hands during the dying days of the Roman Empire. They’d fled through the Alps and had encountered a bishop who had decided to ravish the girl and only Casca’s intervention had prevented the girl’s virginity being taken, and the second was when he’d saved Hrolvath from being raped by the perverted Timoteus in North Africa on the Vandal campaign. This situation was giving him the same bad vibes.
He stopped at the street corner and peered back. The group were entering a tall building next door to the church, and the door was shut firmly. He glanced up at the roof, then the tower of the church. It was a square crenellated tower, typical of Norman architecture, and had open arches for the bells to ring out through. That was his way in, but he’d need help.
* * *
As darkness fell, as it did early now the days were getting shorter, three men slipped through the streets, armed with bows. That was nothing unusual, for bands of armed English archers were everywhere. The sergeants and captains were busy trying to prevent the rival companies from fighting, so any large group was viewed with suspicion. Three men were not.
Walt had a length of rope coiled round his body. Will was with him and Casca was in the lead, his mood dark. Besides his bow he carried a dagger in his boot and a sword hanging from his belt.
St.Martin’s was shrouded in darkness, but lights could be faintly seen coming from within. They slipped off the cobbled road and over a low wall into the churchyard. Graves were dotted about and they avoided the worst of the pitfalls and got round the back without too many bruises. Here the weeds grew thickly and the trees blocked any view from the far side, across the river. The tower loomed above them.