by Tony Roberts
“Well that was bloody quick,” Andrew observed. “They ran like the devil was at their heels!”
“Probably was,” Casca said, “at least the war equivalent, at least. They really don’t like the bow.”
“You’d think the fools’ld learn, wouldn’t you?” Sills said disparagingly. He spat with emphasis, his contempt towards the French evident.
“Not in their nature,” Casca said, unstringing his bow. “They have the crossbow, but put their faith in dismounted knights. They think it more chivalrous and manly to fight honorably face to face. They regard us as lower than the creatures that crawl on the earth, not worth shitting on.”
“Well they’ll keep on getting shot to fuck every time they meet our army, then,” Sills replied.
Walt slapped Will on the shoulder. “Put your string away; that’s it for now.”
As Will unstrung his bow, Sir Thomas waved his men forward to make sure the enemy were gone. There came a thundering sound of more mounted men, and the Duke of York and his retinue came riding up. There was an exchange between the two leaders and the Duke waved his men to organize a proper vanguard. Enough of his men were now across to form an effective screen, and those archers not part of the vanguard were permitted to return to their units.
They waited an hour before Sir Godfrey and his guards crossed, then gravitated towards his banner. The King was visible in his saddle, on the near bank, observing the crossing. “Let’s form camp,” Casca said to the others. “We’ll be here until dark crossing this river, so we may as well get as much rest as we can. I think we’re going to be marching hard and fast from tomorrow onwards.”
Sir Godfrey called his men to the tent he’d just had erected, and they gathered round in a large circle. “We’ve crossed the Somme and will now turn north-west for the march to Calais. Our situation is still serious, with two French armies closing in on us.”
The men exchanged worried looks. Two armies?
“One is coming from the Paris region and is a day or so behind us. Our intelligence is that they are near Amiens, and once they realize we’re across the Somme they will cross there and try to cut off our run for Calais, and they have a shorter distance to travel. The King is considering what route to take, but there will be a few more rivers to cross, luckily they are not that big and we should be able to force our way across should it be contested.”
The ageing noble looked at each and every one of the sixty-three men left with him. “Its been a hard march and many of you are feeling the effects of hunger and perhaps are slightly weaker because of illness, but we cannot afford to allow the enemy to block our route. The second army is assembling in Anjou and Maine and will be soon marching to support the first army. If they combine then they will number a force so big that we may not be able to fend them off. Our numbers are still falling and theirs growing.”
Casca hoped to hell the man would give them some good news. He wasn’t doing their morale any good. Was he aware he was making them all feel hunted?
“The King has now decided that each and every archer is to fashion a stake of wood, six foot or so in length, sharpened at each end, and carry it with you until we reach safety. This is in order to protect you from the French cavalry. Horses cannot ride through sharpened stakes, after all,” he smiled mirthlessly. “As for the knights and men-at-arms, you are now to wear your armor at all times. We are to expect a confrontation at any time; guard duties will be doubled and nobody is permitted to wander off to collect provisions or firewood or anything else without express permission from myself, and then only with at least ten of you.”
“Sire,” Casca raised his arm.
“Yes, archer?”
“Sire, the wood for these stakes – we’ll have to fell trees. That’ll require a large party to do that. We may have to search a fair distance for suitable wood.”
Sir Godfrey rubbed his chin. “Ah, yes, fair point. Good thinking. I think you all ought to go over to those trees ahead,” he indicated the trees the archers had just driven the French from, “and use that. Best hurry; the other groups will be looking for theirs pretty soon.”
Casca bowed and slapped his men on the backs. “C’mon you slackers, you hear Sir Godfrey. Bring your axes.”
A small group of armored swordsmen gathered by the assembling bowmen. Their captain, a sharp-nosed fair-haired and blue-eyed man of short stature, announced they were the escort. Together they trotted off through the growing camp and attracted the attention of the other archer units who quickly realized their intentions and before long it was a race, the men cheering their teams on and shouting abuse at the others.
A few of the quicker ones were tripped up as they passed and more than one threat against another’s manhood were made. Casca noticed that the archers were beginning to use a gesture of contempt to those who made the threats, that of raising their bow fingers into the air. He chuckled and reached the thicket, fumbling for his archer’s axe. He attacked a particularly stout looking trunk, sending chips flying out in all directions. “Hey, Walt, come over here and help. This is a big bugger and if we knock this one over it’ll provide our group with all the wood we need.”
Walt passed his bow to Will and joined in, on the other side. Both men, big and burly, assaulted the tree and soon it was shaking as it’s support was reduced. “Look out!” Andrew shouted, stepping back in alarm, “it’s falling!”
The ash tree creaked ominously, then with a splintering crack passed the point of no return and crashed against another tree, knocking the leaves off the branches of one side, before sliding down slowly to the ground. Twigs snapped, branches shattered and leaves billowed up into the air to slowly settle down in the wake of the fallen ash. The millions of ash keys, the seeds, flew off in all directions, adding to the confusion.
“Bloody hell, that nearly hit me!” Andrew exclaimed, walking round a few branches.
“You’re unharmed so shut your moaning,” Walt said. “Christ, you’re worse than my wife, moaning at everything!”
“That’s because you give her plenty to moan about, you ugly sod,” Sills said.
“Oh, you shut up or I’ll put your stake up somewhere painful.”
“He’d enjoy that,” Andrew commented.
“Fuck right off, Taffy. Go worry a sheep.”
“Alright,” Casca said, “let’s get our wood cut before dark. Get the branches off – they look big enough.” They all enthusiastically set about hacking the tree to pieces, other archers joining in further down the fallen ash. Wood chippings flew everywhere and it wasn’t long before each had their own stout length of wood, lopped and sharpened at either end.
Naturally, they all compared sizes and mocked those who had slightly shorter ones, decrying their lack of manhood. Chuckling, they all returned to camp and a welcome supper and a warming fire, although their activities that afternoon had kept them from getting too cold.
Now they had their stakes and the knights their armor at all times, they were as ready as they could all be for the French, wherever they were.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning the advance guards found the abandoned French camp close by. It seemed the enemy had fled, leaving the English to advance unopposed north-west. The men were cheered by this and even more so when stockpiles of food were discovered. It seems the French had just upped and gone without worrying about anything other than their lives.
The King sent the Duke of York out ahead once more with his men to make sure everything was cleared for the main body to advance, and the rearguard watched behind to make sure nobody was sneaking up on them. The causeways at Bethancourt were dismantled and totally ruined, so that anyone wishing to cross the Somme would have to find the next crossing to get after them.
The men were still suffering badly; Casca was having to help Will who was showing signs of dysentery. He couldn’t keep anything in and had to stop frequently to squat by the roadside, so Casca stood by waiting until he’d finished and then half-helped him a
long to catch up the others.
More men were crapping by the roadside as they went, and Casca wondered how long the road would be unsafe for any unwary traveler in the weeks to come. The rains would help wash away much of the disease but some would linger for quite some time.
Men were struggling to keep up; blisters formed and many were seen limping along, teeth gritted, eyes dull with pain. Nobody wished to be left behind, as their fate would no doubt be gruesome if they were captured. The nobles rode on slowly, eyes constantly scouring the horizon. Any sign of the French would probably be seen by one of them first, being higher than the rest. The land to left, right and ahead remained empty of any tell-tale banner or flash of metal. They were out there somewhere, but where?
The men discussed the whereabouts of the enemy. Some stated that they had run to Paris, frightened now that the Somme had been crossed. Casca doubted that. He’d seen the few tracks left by the retreating French vanguard and they had been heading south-west, towards the Amiens crossing. He was sure the main French army was coming up from there on an intercept course. It would be down to timing and the efficiency of the scouts on either side to find the other, and to keep the main body hidden.
It was a game of cat and mouse. The countryside was large, but as they got closer to Calais, the space they could maneuver in was becoming smaller. Others insisted the French were hot on their tails and were catching up, while others again said they were ahead and waiting, astride the Calais road, blocking the route to safety.
The weather remained dull, with intermittent rain showers. The road was wet and turning into a quagmire, the mud squelching under foot. Breath came out from the men in clouds, and steam rose from their bodies as they tramped on, heads bowed, lost in their own personal miseries.
How effective they were was open to conjecture, but Casca had been in equally desperate situations before and had found that men, when cornered and faced with destruction, rose above themselves and confounded expectations. Hungry, tired, riddled with disease, they were still an army that had teeth.
A series of six-foot fangs made of ash and yew.
They camped that night in a couple of villages, singing softly and retelling stories of heroism and valor. Casca smiled. The soldiers had accepted they were facing the odds and were now grimly determined to take on whatever came their way. A couple of stories had been told, and Walt swallowed a draught of weak ale before turning to Casca who sat alongside him. “You’ve done plenty of fighting, Cass. Tell us a story about victory. You’ve surely been in a winning fight before.”
The others nodded and voiced their agreement. Casca smiled and stared into the crackling flames. “I know many stories from around Europe and even further afield,” he said. “Any of you heard of Charlemagne?”
“Who?” Will asked.
“French king, wasn’t he?” Walt said. “The ‘Song of Roland’, and all that.”
“That’s the one. I served for some time in Burgundy and learned all about his stories.” He neglected to tell them when that had been – he had served in Charlemagne’s empire under the man himself as a Count in Burgundy. He had been a Burgundian during that time. Good times. “There were tales of many battles and heroism. You mentioned Roland – that was the Battle of Roncesvaux in the Pyrenees. I’ll tell you all about that battle.”
He looked into the fire as he began. He vividly recalled that campaign, the so-called war to liberate northern Spain from the hands of the Muslims, which had ended in ignominious retreat and continual harassment from both the Islamic emirs and the local tribes of the region.
“The army of Charlemagne was retreating north through the Pyrenees, laden with booty from their battles against the Moors and Arabs around Zaragossa. Their route went through the lands of the fierce Vascones, and those warriors waited for the main part to pass, then they descended like a horde from the mountains onto the rearguard, commanded by Roland, the Count of the Breton March.” He had been alongside Roland, acting as support for the tired rearguard, and it was suddenly all mayhem.
The others leaned forward, entranced by the tale. Casca glanced up and smiled. “There are many legends of the battle here in France, in Italy and even Germany. Those places all ended up being ruled by Charlemagne so the legend got passed down to them all. Here in France it’s known as le chanson de Roland. Travelling plays in summer speak of the battle. But I’ve heard a slightly different version to the playwrights, so make your own minds up which one is true, should you ever hear of another.”
He clasped his hands together and returned his gaze to the yellow flames. “Like our situation now, they were tired, retreating and hounded by many enemies. Suddenly down from the hills onto the pass came the Vascones, screaming, yelling, like packs of wild dogs.”
Casca was suddenly back there, gripping his sword in anxiety. He turned to the long-haired Roland, astride his horse. “Protect the baggage! They’re after the loot!”
Casca kicked the nearest two men who were standing mouths agape. “Don’t just stand there like you’ve got your heads up your asses, grab your shields and defend yourselves! Move!” He went along the line of men, yelling at them to stand fast. There was no time to do anything else, as the fur-clad weapon–wielding tribesmen were on them.
Men leaped onto soldiers, pulling them down and hacking at them in a frenzy. Stones flew at heads, javelins thudded into bodies, axes bit into flesh. Casca slashed at the first who came at him, slicing him open from neck to naval, cutting him in two. His sword went up and then down again to slice through the second who was about to grab the warrior. The Vascone’s head struck the ground a moment before his torso.
Screams, shouts and the sound of steel upon steel filled the air. Cohesion was non-existent; the Frankish lines had been broken up into pieces and now it was a fight to the death.
Roland carved death in front of him, his great sword swinging up and down again and again. His bodyguard around him fought like men possessed, but one after the other they were cut down. Casca saw his own men, Burgundians, being overwhelmed, their throats cut, axes and sword hacking at the bodies repeatedly even after they were dead. Two more Vascones came running towards him. Casca snarled and swung his sword low, taking the first one up under the midriff and out by the shoulder. The tribesman was dead before he hit the ground.
There were too many; the fight was too confused. Carving another Vascone in two, Casca backed towards Roland, surrounded by corpses. The two, standing back-to-back, slaughtered anyone who came at them.
Finally an arrow pierced Roland’s breastplate and he fell against Casca. The rest of the column had been destroyed, the few survivors trying to run. The baggage was being looted and there were too many dead around the fallen Count for any of the other tribesmen to want to try their luck.
“We fought well,” Roland gasped, wincing at the pain the barb was giving him. Casca grimaced; he knew time was running out. “My horn – give me my horn.”
The eternal mercenary passed Roland his curved hunting horn, and the Count put it to his lips one last time, drew in his breath and blew into it with all his dying strength. The sound deafened Casca. The Vascones swung round, alarmed. It would bring the men of the main body back to investigate.
Roland sank into Casca’s arms. “It is done,” he whispered. “Make sure my body is buried in Francia.”
“I promise it shall be so,” Casca nodded, and watched as the life faded from his companion. He didn’t notice the Vascones melting away into the hills once more, laden with loot, just as the main body under Charlemagne returned to find out the fate of the rearguard.
The men sat round the fire all remained silent, entranced by Casca’s tale of the battle. Casca looked up. He smiled wearily. “The sacrifice of the rearguard meant the rest of the army returned safely to their homes.”
“But the rearguard all died,” Will pointed out.
“Worry not, boy,” Sills said wickedly, “we’re not the rearguard!”
A few others chuckled a
nd nodded. Walt grunted. “Not the most encouraging story to tell us, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Casca said, “that army was harassed and pursued in a foreign land, and most of them returned to their homes. Something perhaps all of you can think about?”
Walt pursed his lips and looked away, warming his hands.
* * *
They marched on, through the wet countryside of northern France. The weather was still damp and miserable, and food was once again in short supply. Will was struggling to keep up and Casca and Walt helped him, propping him up when he looked as if he’d fall. The rest kept silent, heads bowed, their minds elsewhere trying to keep them off the pain in their stomachs and feet.
It was on that day they passed close to a place called Peronne, and here they saw the mud had already been churned up by thousands of feet, wheels and horse hooves. They stood for a while in wonder at the wide extent of the disturbance, trying to guess how many feet had made those marks, almost obliterating the road in the process.
One thing was certain now; the French army had passed there, within a day, and was now ahead of them somewhere, probably searching for them.
They had lost the race.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The French were aware of them fairly soon afterwards. Word came down the line that groups of skirmishers were gathering on the flanks and were trying to pick off a few from the column. Stragglers would now certainly meet death – or maybe something worse – if they fell behind.
This spurred those suffering to redouble their efforts to keep up with the rest, and Casca and his group saw many making heroic efforts to keep going, limping terribly, or grasping their stomachs and bent over. Others stolidly plodded on, bandages and dressings soaked with blood, ignoring their pain. No words were necessary.