by Tony Roberts
“Sir is too kind,” Casca said sarcastically, and got a whack over the shoulders for that.
“Spirit, eh? Well we’ll see what spirit you have when we hang you from the village square. We don’t take kindly to murderers.”
“No trial? I’m damned already? What would you say if I said I didn’t kill that woman, and that it was an Englishman?”
“I’d not believe you,” the rider replied. “I run this village and I have already decided to hang you. The people need to know that I am here for their protection.”
“Then where were you when the English army approached? Shitting in your pants from a safe distance, no doubt,” Casca snapped.
The rider’s face turned dark and he slowly dismounted. “What could ten men do against ten thousand? If I had tried to protect my village you and your animals would have burned the place to the ground and slayed everyone in it. No, my brave Gascon, I am no fool. But you, you will soon be begging for your miserable life as the rope is placed around that ugly neck of yours.” He gestured abruptly to his men and they began climbing the hill, the two other men picking up their mounts while the leader kept his sword in Casca’s back. Casca looked round but saw no comfort there. Would be prefer being run through yet again and then goodness knows what would happen to him, or be hung as a criminal in the village and left to rot? He would be left hanging for days, no doubt, and Ned would be long gone.
He lurched left then spun right. The leader stabbed thin air and the first of his henchmen swung his blade as Casca came for him, ripping through the thin padding of Casca’s jerkin. The eternal mercenary cried out in pain but grabbed the man’s dagger hilt and ripped it free from the sheath and slammed it into the man’s guts as he held him tight.
The Frenchman stiffened in agony and Casca stepped aside, spinning round as fast as he could. The leader was waving his second man at Casca so the scarred warrior reversed his grip on the knife and sent it hurtling through the air to embed itself in the man’s throat. Arterial blood sprayed out and the doomed henchman sank to his knees, dropping his sword and fell flat on his face.
Casca reached down and took the first man’s sword and straightened slowly, in great pain. “So, shall we get this over with, you French shit? Show me how brave you really are or is that smell I detect from you yet another loosening of your bowels?”
“You disrespectful bastard,” the Frenchman gasped in outrage, “I shall teach you a lesson in combat and manners!”
“Big deal, big mouth.” Casca held his chest with his left hand and arm. The waves of pain rippling through his body made him feel nauseous. “Come on then and kiss death.”
The leader roared in anger and attacked, his sword pounding down at Casca from above. The eternal mercenary took the blow above his head and winced as the movement sent fresh waves of agony through him. He stepped back and almost stumbled over the corpse of the first man he’d killed. The leader jumped forward and came at him again, two-handed. The sword slashed down and Casca blocked, the force transmitting itself along his arm, and again as another blow hammered down onto him.
Weakness was spreading through him and Casca knew he had to finish it quickly or he’d be cut up into pieces. “Horse fucker,” he wheezed. “No woman would dare let your shriveled organ near her.”
The Frenchman screamed in outrage and came at him again. The sword blurred down and Casca dodged to one side and slashed back across one-handed at the man’s neck. He felt the blade pass through flesh and fell heavily onto his ass, his sword falling out of his hand. The Frenchman stood still for a moment, then fell sideways in slow motion, blood dripping down his chest, his throat cut open. Casca lay still for a few moments, then groaned and rolled onto all fours and got up, taking hold of the nearest horse’s reins.
He examined the three bodies and found some useful items on them; coins, rings, food. He took them and checked the clothing of the dead men. One had a half decent tunic and he spent a little time tugging it off, finally getting it free of its former owner.
Time was pressing so he got up on horseback, again with difficulty, and rode slowly away, eastwards, away from the village and the scene of carnage. It wouldn’t be all that long before the other riders came to see what was taking them so long to bring one man back, and the sooner he was away the better. He leaned forward on the neck of the animal and gently encouraged it to make its way through the trees he’d been trying to get to earlier, and then along a narrow grassy path, probably made by animals coming to the river for a drink, that ran parallel to the river in the near distance.
The pain was now throbbing throughout his body and he knew he would have to rest somewhere soon and recover from his injuries. Ned had nearly a day’s head start on him and, unless he had rejoined the army, it would be next to impossible finding him in all this countryside. Casca needed time to think; his mind wasn’t that clear, what with the pain and the grief at Pip’s death, and his immediate aim was to get somewhere safe and away from the village.
The horse walked onto a road and the pain-wracked Casca saw that it was the road heading east, and the passage of so many thousands of feet was clearly visible. He was on the right route, after all. Ahead was the army, but how far? A day’s walk was too far for him to get to before night fell, so he would have to continue the following day.
A farm lay to the right and he made his way over to it in the fading light, making sure he was out of sight of the house. He thought he saw one or two figures moving about but what with the coming night and his condition, he wasn’t that sure, and he made for an outbuilding set away from the main house, slipping off the horse as he got there and led the animal into what turned out to be a barn, full of hay and winter forage.
He barely managed to unfasten the saddle from the horse before he sank, exhausted, onto a pile of hay and shut his eyes, giving into his wounds at last.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
How long he lay there, almost as one dead, he had no idea. In that time the wounds he had received healed, sealing themselves shut, leaving more scars on his already heavily disfigured body. Blood vessels resumed their flow once the skin had sealed itself sufficiently, and the internal disruptions caused by the blades were erased. All the while he slept, his body concentrating on sending its energies into the healing process.
What woke him finally was a wet sensation on his face. It penetrated his unconsciousness and brought him up to the surface from the black depths of a dreamless sleep. He opened one eye and saw a dark, black tunnel before him. It sent a foul-smelling blast of air into his face and he groaned in revulsion. He opened the other eye and tried to focus.
The horse. It was snuffling him. “Shit,” Casca said under his breath and levered himself up to a sitting position. It was daylight. It was also raining. The horse looked reasonably happy, having eaten well, and had defecated in profusion, judging by the aroma of the barn.
He got up and looked about. He could hear people talking close by, and decided he ought to get out of there yesterday. He blearily stumbled about and found the saddle. It took him a few minutes of awkward maneuvering to get the horse to obey his wishes, and, accompanied by suitable language, he finally got it fitted. His clothing was next. The outer jacket was ruined, being completely sodden with blood and ripped in four places. He tore it off and threw it into a corner and found the one he’d taken off the dead Frenchman and slipped it on. It was a tight fit but it was warmer than the one he’d had.
He used a pile of hay to assist himself in getting up into the saddle and rode for the exit, ducking as the horse passed through the opening. The rain pattered down but there was nothing for it but to ride. The army would be a day ahead of him, so he had to ride hard to catch them up. Ned wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to find his way home alone, at least not yet, anyway, not with the French actively hunting stragglers. He’d be strung up if caught, or maybe he’d just have his fingers removed. Either way, Ned would stick to the army as long as they were a viable force. There was safety in n
umbers.
The road was deserted so he cantered along in the wake of the army, their passage the previous day still visible. Ahead stood the city of Amiens but it wouldn’t have allowed Henry and his men access, and he would have to give it a wide berth. One man on his own was a ripe target for any glory-hunting Frenchman.
Casca thought about Ned and Wat Cooper. Cooper deserved as much as Ned to die for what he had ordered, but would Casca wish to return to England and Southampton after all this? He didn’t think he’d go back, at least not yet, and by the time he next saw England Cooper would probably be long dead, and may his soul rot in hell.
Ned would die, if he was with the army, of course. The trick would be to get him alone and kill him. He could hardly return to his group, go up to the killer and greet him heartily and run him through. He’d be arrested and hung right away. It would have to be done covertly. No matter, he had time. Maybe Ned would really get dysentery or be killed by some enraged local. He was no archer, that was for sure, and it was doubtful Ned would be allowed to pass himself off once they got serious should an enemy army appear. What would happen to him then was anyone’s guess.
The land was fairly level and he could see the dark looming shape of Amiens ahead, with its huge cathedral. It had been a Roman town but Casca couldn’t recall accurately if he’d ever been there. He turned off the road and crossed the farmland, the horse bounding over fences and hedges where an opening presented itself. A few cows shied away from him on one occasion and he made good time across the farmland, eventually rejoining the road beyond the city.
It was there that his luck ran out. A group of riders appeared from a side road that had been obscured by hedges, and he was shouted at to halt. Casca turned obediently and saw that there were seven riders led by a minor officer, a captain of some sort.
“You, who are you and what are you doing here?” the officer demanded, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
When all else fails, try bullshit, Casca thought. “Sire, I come from Abbeville. The town was recently by-passed by the English and I have been sent in their wake to see how far they have gone. I think the Count is gathering a force to join the King’s army but needs to know which route to take in safety.”
“Does he?” the officer said, still suspicious. “And what is your name?”
“Sire, my name is Casca Longue of Abbeville. I am a squire to Denis, Baron d’Abbeville.” Not bad, he mused to himself, thinking of it up on the spur of the moment.
“You do not have the appearance of one from Picardy, neither do you speak as one!”
“I am a native of Brittany but I found service with the Baron five years ago.”
The officer looked at Casca shrewdly. “You are too old and scarred for a squire. I do not believe you. A Breton? You speak too well for one of those uneducated peasants! I think you are an English spy!”
Casca lashed out, catching the man across the face. He fell heavily across the path of his nearest colleague, and Casca dug his heels into the flanks of his mount which shot forward in between two startled Frenchmen. Casca dragged his sword out and slashed across the last man’s face, cutting him down bloodily. He was free of the group for a moment, thundering down the narrow lane in between two high hedges, cutting due south away from the path he really needed to go.
The Frenchmen would lose precious seconds in getting over the shock and sorting themselves out. Their leader would need to remount and then bring order before setting off in pursuit. The scarred eternal mercenary risked a quick look back and saw the group tangled up in the narrow gap at the lane’s exit onto the road. Laughing, he urged his horse on. He’d need to cut east sooner rather than later, as he didn’t want to get too far away from the English, and the closer he got to their rearguard the better the chances of him getting away from his pursuers.
Curses and shouts from the French faded as he negotiated a bend and the lane went downhill sharply. At the bottom there was a hamlet with a small bridge across a bubbling brook and Casca swung off the road, narrowly missing a surprised peasant, and thundered along the bank out of the hamlet and along the bottom of a small valley.
It wouldn’t take the six chasers long to follow him but he wanted to get as far away from them as possible, so he kept his head down and concentrated on the terrain, avoiding any pitfalls and hazards. It took a little time and as he got to a long turn in the watercourse he heard shouts and turned his head to see the leading members of the group racing in his wake either side of the brook.
Gritting his teeth he kept going. He wasn’t the best rider around, but he’d been on horseback enough times to know how to keep in the saddle. The Mongols had been just about the best he’d ridden with and he wished for a moment he could have a small squad of them to cut the pursuers down, but as he didn’t have access to any he just had to carry on. The land rose and he raced up to the head of the valley and then bounded over the small brook and made his way to the summit of the rise. Before him the scene unfolded of farmland, woods, rivers and distant towns and cities.
Behind him was Amiens, and ahead in the distance a number of small towns and a walled settlement with the inevitable tall spire of a church. The River Somme snaked and looped off to the left in the distance and cows could be seen dotted about in their fields. All very picturesque, but the French were gaining on him. The nearest cover was a wood about a mile away, so without hesitation he urged his horse down the slope and on a course straight for it.
The French took a few minutes after cresting the hill to find him, but one spotted him, shouted the alarm, and the six came converging from their scattered locations towards the lone rider, striving to cut him off. There was a fence before the wood and Casca vaulted it fifty yards ahead of the nearest chasing rider.
The wood was of oak, ash and elm and punctuated by shrubs and fallen trunks. Evidence of coppicing could be seen and it was clear someone used the timber for firewood. There would be a village nearby, probably on the far side.
There was a leaf-covered track through the woods, and more were falling as Casca galloped along it, the horse blowing hard. It was tired and he would have to stop pretty soon.
He dodged around a thick tree and then hauled on the reins and forced his unwilling mount to the right and down a narrow route in between two big oaks, twisted and gnarled. He slid off the beast and led it off the track into the undergrowth and held its neck, patting it softly, murmuring that all was fine.
Two men raced past on the main path, in hot pursuit, and Casca looped the reins onto a handy branch, allowing the horse to feed on some grass growing in a clear space. A tree had fallen in recent times and was lying, half of its bark missing, across the ground. Where the sky was open, grass and other plants had sprung up, taking advantage of the sunlight that had been blocked previously.
Another rider crashed past, and Casca leaned hard against the trunk of one of the big oaks. French voices could now be heard, shouting out. The idiots had no sense; they were making more noise than a herd of elephants, and Casca had no trouble locating where they were.
More riders came down the track. “Shut up, you idiot peasants!” their leader called out. “Where did you last see the cochon?”
One of his men replied but Casca couldn’t make out what he was saying. They had gone on ahead, so he slipped back to the horse and led it around the fallen tree and deeper into the forest, away from the six who were now fanning out under orders from the leader. Even with him commanding them, they still made too much noise and Casca walked away from them, finding a water hole to drink from. The horse did likewise and after filling a water flask he found under the saddle, he led the horse at an angle back towards the east. He had gone a little too far south.
The rain had stopped and that was a relief, although drops fell from the trees and found their way down his collar. It was cold and wet and he felt miserable. Pip’s death still haunted him and he knew it would be some time before the depression lifted; he always felt this bad after yet another woman he
had loved passed away. It was no good beating himself up over it though, as at least he’d given her a chance of escaping Cooper’s reach. It was too bad the fever had claimed her, but Cooper had been close, too damned close, all the time. His minion Ned was giving Casca cause to carry on and not feel too sorry for himself. Ned would be hunted down and killed, a reversal of roles. How he’d react when Casca reappeared with the army was anyone’s guess but that would have to be sorted out and planned in Casca’s head pretty soon.
First, though, he had to get away from the French searching for him in the woods. They were fairly widely scattered and that gave him an advantage; he could knock out a couple without pulling the rest in immediately. They thought they had the edge with six to his lone one, but he’d show those bastards they were messing about with someone who’d been trained in the gladiatorial schools of Rome and who had subsequently amassed fourteen hundred years of experience.
He crept forward, holding his horse’s reins, passing out of one small clearing into a denser patch of woodland. The ground became barer, roots protruding from the leaf-covered ground, and there was little or no grass here. Off to one side was a mound of earth and a hole to one side with plenty of reddish soil piled up outside. A badger set. There would be other exits for the large beasts from their set nearby.
The route in between two chestnut trees was clear, but a twig snapped to the left and he dropped into a crouch. He slipped the reins over a low-lying branch and pressed against the trunk of one of the trees, staring round the edge, his sword in his hand.
A figure gradually became distinct, one of the Frenchmen leading his horse in a similar fashion to that of Casca. He was peering left and right nervously, his sword slashing at leaves and branches, clearly unhappy at being alone. Casca’s horse was chestnut brown so it blended in nicely to the surroundings, while the other’s was black. The man was dressed in a studded jacket and had a conical helmet. Clearly a lesser member of the group.