by Tony Roberts
The campfires spread out all around while the King and his senior nobles entered Acheux to find billets of their own. Casca decided he and his men had had enough of sleeping out in cold, damp fields, and would use their newly gained coins to spend a warm night inside somewhere.
Walt studied the dim lights of the village in the near distance. “You know if we get caught we could be punished severely,” he said.
“If we get caught then we deserve to be,” Casca replied softly. “We have money; we have no idea whether we shall live long enough to enjoy it elsewhere.”
“Fair enough point. We’re all with you on this one. I’m fed up with being pissed, shat and rained on for nothing. It’s about time we got something out of this bloody stupid journey.”
They made their way softly through the bare plowed fields that led close to the village. Whatever crop had been growing there had been harvested and now only the cold, rutted earth remained, a series of muddy ridges separated with long puddles of rainwater. Due to the darkness of the night, one or two stepped into these puddles, accompanied with low whispered swearing.
The village began with a warped split plank fence, marking the boundary of the first property, a somewhat ramshackle hovel with an unkempt thatched roof, and out at the rear a pig pen stood.
A dog barked along a street ahead, and the eleven men made their way around the rear of the homes. The ground here smelt; clearly this was where the waste products from the village were deposited, and the land appeared to dip. Casca tugged on Walt’s arm. “Don’t go that way,” he said quietly, “you’ll be up to your waist in shit if you do.”
“Uh-huh; I can smell it.”
They slipped in between two huts and found themselves on the one main road through the settlement. Houses leaned towards one another from either side of the thoroughfare and lights shone from a few windows and doorways.
Casca nodded towards a group of men standing outside one large building halfway along the street. “That’s where the King and his buddies are sleeping tonight. We’ll avoid that place like the plague.”
“Talking of the plague,” Andrew said, jerking his head in the direction of Will, gasping as another stomach cramp hit him, “what about old shit-pants there? They take one look at him and we’ll be stoned for fear of spreading it here.”
“Then we keep him behind us when we enter the tavern.”
“What tavern?”
“There’s more than one in a village. We’ll find one.”
They filed in between two large houses and passed by more animal pens. A huge barn loomed ahead, so they turned right and headed for more big buildings. One had multiple windows, all showing some light, and voices could be heard coming from beyond the doorway. Sills sniffed the air. “I smell ale.”
“That you do,” Casca agreed. “Leave the talking to me, alright? I speak their language fluently, so best we appear to be mercenaries. They always have money, and even in war, money opens doors that swords do not.”
The others grinned and nodded, and followed Casca to the rear door. There was a privy shed, a rudimentary stables and a large storage shed for barrels and sacks. As they approached the door, it opened and a female figure emerged, carrying an empty barrel. She gasped and halted, staring up in fear at the group of men that had materialized right in front of her.
“Well met, mademoiselle,” Casca greeted her. “Is this the famous inn of Acheux?”
“Oh, well, one of the inns,” she said in relief, looking at the dark figures in front of her. “You are here with the English?”
“Perhaps,” Casca smiled, the faint light of the tavern illuminating his teeth. “We are mercenaries, looking to spend our well-earned money. Would your master be pleased to accommodate us for one night?”
“Oh - I-I do not know,” she stammered. “I shall have to ask. He is not happy to see the English, I must tell you.”
“But he would be happy to see our money, yes? Like you would be?” and Casca slipped a coin down her cleavage, pressing it firmly in, managing to caress her bulging flesh as he did so.
The girl felt her nipples harden and her heart beat faster. The large man before her exuded a very manly aura and she felt drawn to him. “Oh...yes.... I think he would be pleased if you spent well in his tavern.”
“Then that’s sorted,” Casca grinned and took the keg from her. “This is to be put by the others over in that shed?”
“Yes.”
Casca handed to keg to Will, standing at the back. He told him to put the keg with the others and follow the rest of them into the inn once he’d done that. Now that everyone’s attention would be on the rest of them, nobody would notice Will’s condition. The girl led them into the building and they passed along a narrow passageway into the main room, held up with stout wooden beams and with a bar that dominated one corner of the chamber. Tables and chairs were scattered about the wooden floor and half of these were occupied. Curious heads turned as the men filed in, and eyes became wary and clouded. There was no mistaking what these newcomers were.
The girl led them to the bar and behind it stood the innkeeper, a tall, swarthy man with a large beak of a nose. “Guillaume, there are men here wishing to spend their money.”
“Stupid whore,” Guillaume scowled, “these are English and are not welcome here!”
Casca leaned forward and took Guillaume by the throat, smiling pleasantly into his face from a distance of one inch. “Now my fine French friend, I have here in my pouch a load of coins which are begging to be exchanged for a large quantity of ale and equal quantity of female flesh. I’m sure you would be agreeable to possessing such riches for just one night of our undesired presence, mm?”
Guillaume’s eyes bulged, then swivelled down to the bar as Casca upended his bag and tinkled the coins all over it. His eyes popped out even wider and he began making inarticulate noises. Casca released him and kept on smiling as Guillaume practically climaxed as he scooped up the coins.
“Lads, add your share to the pile. This feller looks as if he needs it.”
More coins were slapped down and the innkeeper mewled in pleasure. This would sort out his life forever. Fuck hating the English, for one night he would quite happily have the cross of St.George emblazoned across his ass. “Fetch the girls, Chantelle,” he cried out happily to the girl, “our guests need to be shown some good French hospitality!”
“But there are only four of us!” Chantelle pointed out.
“So? Double rates for tonight; I can afford to pay you all!” he laughed.
The locals pulled faces and more than one got up and left in disgust. They would not spend their time in the company of the people who were invading and ravaging their land. Guillaume may be a prostitute, selling his honor for a few miserable pieces of silver, but they would not stoop to such degrading ethics.
“Vive la France,” Casca called out to their backs. One turned and gave Casca the most contemptuous look he could muster, then fear flickered in his eyes as Casca drew his finger across his throat and pointed at him. The Frenchman exited rapidly, almost knocking the man in front of him over in his haste.
Chantelle felt another coin being slid down her cleavage. She looked up into Casca’s face. “I am yours tonight,” she said softly.
“I know. Fetch your girls, then take me to a room upstairs. I have energy to burn off.”
The night went by rapidly for the men as they enjoyed the best night they could remember for a long time. For Casca, the pleasure of Chantelle was what he needed; it helped further to move on in his mind away from Pip.
He left Chantelle in bed, the girl smiling in her sleep amongst the rumpled blankets, and softly descended to the main room where his men lay sated on alcohol and sex. The other women had performed valiantly and were sprawled over the men they had exhausted, deep in sleep. The scarred warrior gently shook his men awake and pointed at the back door. One by one they got to their feet and staggered out into the chill pre-dawn. Will was in the privy, asleep. He’
d spent some time there and the combination of the one drink he’d had and his dysentery had told. The smell was awful and Casca slapped him awake.
“Ah, you’re not dead then, lad. C’mon, time to get back to our little camp and get going. It’s another day on our march.”
Andrew held his head. He felt as if someone was pounding a warhammer on his head. “How on earth can you behave as if nothing had happened?” he said accusingly at Casca. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a wing of cavalry!”
“You look like that, Taffy,” Sills grinned, then belched. “Ugh, that’s foul.”
“Hurry up,” Casca waved them on, “I want to be away from here before the King and his entourage wakes. If they catch us here, we’re for it.”
They trotted out of the village and through the grey countryside to their small camp on the edge of the vanguard. People were already beginning to stir, and priests were starting to prepare matins for the soldiers’ souls and well-being prior to setting off for yet another hard slog.
They grabbed their equipment, threw away whatever they felt was of no use, then gathered by the roadside ready for the day’s orders from whichever officer appeared. Casca glanced at Will; his face was strained and the effects of the journey and illness was clearly doing him no good, but there was nothing to it other than to carry on. They weren’t too far from Calais now and if they managed to sneak past the French army they may very well get away intact.
One good thing about the evening was that they had managed to eat as well as drink, so they felt strong enough to make whatever march was to be asked of them that day. They had none in their packs, however, like the rest of the army. Hunger would be another enemy to overcome.
A group of men came along the road, archers to the fore, a group of dismounted men-at-arms behind them. A captain spotted them and waved Casca over. “You the flanking screen?”
“I dunno, Captain. Nobody has told us what our role is.”
The captain sighed. “Very well,” he said testily, “in the absence of anyone else, patrol off to our left and keep any damned Frenchies away from us. We’ve got a hard day’s march today.”
“Where are we bound for, Captain?”
The captain nodded off to the north-west. “My orders are to clear the route to a place called Thievres. No idea where the damned place is but it’s a hard day’s march and there’s a couple of rivers to cross. No dallying; keep us in sight or you’ll get lost and then may God help you.”
Casca grunted. He waved the others into a long straggling line, parallel to the road. The sky was leaden and heavy, but thankfully it was not raining. Visibility was reasonable, so they walked about fifty yards from the road, Casca in front with Walt bringing up the rear. Andrew was directly behind Casca and Will not far behind, then came most of the others with Sills one in front of Walt. They had to constantly keep on checking their footing as the ground was slippery through the recent rains, and they were walking across farmland and many fields had been plowed, making the ground uneven and treacherous.
They hacked away at any hedges or undergrowth that blocked their path, and trudged on, finding the vanguard were putting on a really hard rate of march. Someone was in a hurry. Andrew came up to Casca halfway through the morning. “You think someone’s said something about the French?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they’re moving like the devil himself was at their heels. I’m thinking perhaps the King found out last night where the French were, see. No other explanation, is there?”
Casca shrugged. The Welshman was probably right, but what else could be said? They were pushing the weakened men to the limit, that was for sure, and the eternal mercenary wondered whether they would be fit to face any tough obstacle should one rear its head.
A river crossed their route and the archers were waved across first. The bridge was undamaged and it seemed they were keeping one step ahead of any pursuit. They rushed over the stone built crossing and fanned out the other side again, checking the trees on the banks. A river was fairly easy to spot since all appeared to have a thick growth of trees and bushes along both banks. Beyond, the road ran straight ahead, cresting a long low hill before dropping out of sight. The captain was waving men into position again. “Check that hilltop there – I don’t want to come face to face with the entire enemy army without warning, or the Duke will have us all on a plate for breakfast!”
The archers panted up the long approach to the ridge top, and as they neared the top, readied an arrow. Nobody was taking any chances. Casca crested the top and looked around. They were silhouetted against the sky in all directions so anyone for miles around would see them, but there was little they could do about it. Ahead, the road ran down a gentle slope to a wide fertile valley running roughly north-west. Behind them over their left shoulders in the far distance, a city could just about be seen with the spires of a cathedral rising to the sky.
“What’s that place?” Will asked, trying not to throw up.
“Amiens,” Casca said. “If we’d been able to cross the Somme back there, we would have come to this spot from there.”
“What, and cut out all those days of hard slog?” Sills said, disgusted. “Bloody hell.”
“We’ve got here, so shut it. C’mon, let’s spread out wide and make sure no-one is going to have a go at us.” They took up positions off to the left once more, and soon the army was marching into sight, the clinking and thudding sound accompanying them. People were sitting at the top of the hill, trying to ease aches and pains, but there was no let-up from the rate of march.
A second river appeared early in the afternoon, and the land became heavily wooded. They slowed and waited for the vanguard to catch up. The flanking archers were recalled and now took up position close to the roadside, no more than ten yards away. The woods hemmed in on either side of the road and men became nervous. A few scouts had ridden on ahead and came back repeatedly, passing on information further back to the Duke of York, riding underneath his banner of red and blue quarters with yellow bars. It was quite distinctive and anyone in the vicinity would know who he was.
The second river was crossed and they turned to the left once more, leaving the right hand fork in the road which went north. Casca glanced that way, then turned his head to the left and concentrated on watching for any ambush. Thankfully there were none but the frequency of riders returning, their mounts foaming at the mouth, increased.
Something was up and Casca worried about that; he’d been around too long not to know something was going on ahead that wasn’t good. The woods receded and once more they were out in open countryside with trees in the distance to left, right and ahead. The land rose and fell gently, nothing too arduous, and the men kept going, their eyes dull with pain and hunger.
Near evening Sir Thomas Erpingham came riding up and turned to face the advancing men. The road split where he was. “The main army will turn off at this point and continue to the next village for the night, but we are to hurry on ahead to the next river crossing. I am reliably informed that the French are there, trying to dismantle the bridge. We must get there and drive them off. Now, fill your lungs with air and make every effort to reach the crossing before they succeed in their evil intentions!”
Casca gritted his teeth. A fight at the end of a hard day’s march – just what they didn’t need!
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bridge had been broken by the time they got there, at a place called Frevent, where the road crossed the River Canche. What made matters worse, was that the French were gathered on the far bank, jeering at the English as the vanguard spread out through the village. The banks of the river were not high, being a mere three feet or so above the level of the water. The banks were thick with trees and vegetation, but the river itself was no more than six or seven feet wide, hardly a barrier to a determined enemy. The only barrier to the archers from crossing were the French themselves, and these were no ordinary militiamen or hastily-raised levies. These were f
ully armored men-at-arms, wielding swords, poleaxes and other deadly weapons.
Casca and his men were part of the breathless advance group that arrived, their chests heaving, dismayed at the sight of the gesticulating enemy across the small river. There was nothing they could do for the moment until the main part of the vanguard arrived, a few minutes behind.
“Oh, shit, that’s that, then!” Andrew said, pointing at the bridge, another stone construction, with the middle span missing. It had three spans, rising high above the river and the banks, the road rising up on causeways to be carried across the river. “Why did we bother running like bloody fools all this way?”
Casca sat down heavily on the edge of a water trough and eased the pain in his chest. “To try to stop this from happening – we were too late.”
“So what now?” Walt asked, looking about, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Do we go back?”
“Doubt it,” Casca said, spitting in disgust on the ground in between his feet. “The rest of the army will be marching up the road to this place tomorrow morning.”
“And find us here with our fingers up our arses swapping stories with the Frogs over the river,” Sills added, scowling.
“Not a chance,” Casca got up and stretched his legs, easing the fire in his muscles. “The Duke will get his engineers to repair the bridge tonight so that its ready tomorrow morning for the King to ride across.”
“Oh, just like that?” Sills asked, disbelief in his voice. “There’s the whole French army over there waiting for us. How in the devil will we manage that?”
“That’s just an advance guard, like us,” Casca observed. “There’s only a couple of hundred over there. The trouble is that it means the main army isn’t far away, and they’re on that side of the Canche. We’ve come damned close to getting away, as well.”
“What’s beyond this river, then?” Will asked, leaning on his bow stave. His face was ashen and strained.
“One more river after this and then it’s Calais. We nearly made it.”