The Longbowman

by Tony Roberts

  Suddenly cries went up behind them; had the French managed to get a force at their rearward positions? Everyone turned in alarm, and the King demanded to know what was going on. “We’re cut off, do you think?” Walt asked, a worried expression on his face.

  “Dunno – someone will find out.” Casca pondered on it. Certainly the French at the bottom of the slope had no further stomach for the battle and were milling about. Most of their leaders had fallen on the field and it seemed no-one was taking responsibility. Riders would, no doubt, be galloping off around the country spreading word of the disaster.

  After a few moments the panic seemed to settle down. It seemed, from what was being passed round the ranks of men a few minutes later, a small band of the enemy had managed to break into the camp and loot some of the baggage. The King had ordered the execution of what prisoners that had been taken as a precaution, and although some men had protested because they would lose ransom money, it had been carried out by some of the lower ranks quite enthusiastically.

  “That’ll piss off the French,” Walt commented. “So much for chivalry, eh?”

  “That’s all a load of bollocks anyway,” Andrew said with a sniff. “Chivalry’s all very well if you can afford it, but the likes of us have no use for it. I don’t regard cutting fingers off as chivalrous, I dunno ‘bout you lot.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Casca said, stamping his feet. “Shit. How much longer have we got to stand here like a load of fools in this rain? The French have had enough; they’ve lost and are buggering off.”

  Finally Henry decided the same and dismissed the army to camp. Darkness was not long in coming, and orders came to carry the dead English to the villages and put them in barns or abandoned houses where they would be burned. No Christian burials for the fallen, then. They carried Will and Sills to Azincourt, placed them gently side by side in a barn, and walked a few yards while others were put there before it was set alight.

  They watched silently. Casca thought that it would have been a suitable send-off for a Viking chieftain, and he hung his head in respect and said a silent prayer to the gods for the two.

  “Didn’t think you were the praying type, Cass,” Andrew commented, looked at his closed eyes and respectful stance.

  “Not normally, no,” Casca snapped his eyes open. “But it would have been disrespectful not to say something, don’t you think?”

  “Aye.” They stood by the blaze, warming themselves, backing away as it caught fully and sent out waves of heat. They were reluctant to move away as it was a welcome change to be this warm. The rain would put out the fire once it got small enough, and they would be wet once more.

  The following morning the fallen French were examined. Some wounded were found and, if they were of suitable rank, pulled out from the heaps of dead or dying and herded together with the baggage. The others were cold-bloodedly killed. Casca and the others didn’t partake in that activity; they were being gathered ready for the march to Calais, some three more days’ march to the north. It would be an easy passage now, however, with the French army defeated and no more rivers to cross.

  The eternal mercenary was sitting on a tree stump, wrapping his bow stave in a cloth cover, tying it with string, when a messenger came up to Sir Godfrey and spoke a few words, then Sir Godfrey turned and pointed at Casca. Oh shit, something’s up, he thought. He stood as the messenger arrived, bearing the royal coat of arms. It was the King’s messenger.

  “Yeoman Cass Long of Southampton?”

  “I am he.”

  “Please accompany me to the King’s tent; he desires your attendance.”

  Casca raised an eyebrow at Walt and Andrew who looked as surprised as he. “Look after my things, hopefully this won’t take too long.”

  They made their way through the camp, past groups of men attending prayer, gathering loot, tending wounds, putting out fires. The usual stuff. “Any idea what I’m required for?” Casca asked.

  “I’m not privy to the will of the sovereign,” the messenger said haughtily. “You will find out in due course. You will need to hand over your knife and any other weapon you may have, naturally.”

  “This is the only weapon I have on me,” the warrior replied.

  Even though he had assured the messenger of this, when they arrived outside the King’s tent, he was searched. Sovereigns cannot take any chances; there may be an assassin in every corner, so it does not hurt to be overly careful. Casca accepted this without offense. In his time he’d been a ruler and knew that there were those who intrigued for their own purposes and had their own agendas. The memory of being poisoned by Li Tsao way back in Chin came to him. He’d been too successful and had rejected her advances. Therefore he had to be put out of the way of that bitch.

  The tent was bigger than the rest in the camp, and had an entrance flap held up with two poles. Guards stood by the entrance, their faces fixed in a serious glare. The royal coat of arms fluttered above the tent so as to let all know here was Henry, the fifth of that name to rule England.

  The grizzled features of Sir Thomas Erpingham met him as he waited. “Ah, yes, the archer from Sir Godfrey’s retinue.” He examined Casca closely. “A fearsome looking brute you are. You fit the description of a soldier perfectly.” He saw the bloodied bandage on Casca’s leg. “Are you wounded, archer?”

  Casca had forgotten the wound. It had ceased to sting an hour or so ago. “Oh, that – a small cut which I bound during the battle, sire. One of those cuts that bleeds a lot yet is not deep.”

  “Ah, yes. I have endured many of those myself. Very well, present yourself to the King, and speak only when spoken to; you understand?”

  “Sire.”

  They pushed through the flap into the tent. Casca wasn’t that impressed by it. Genghis Khan and, much more recently, Tamerlane had bigger tents. Those steppe nomads could show the world what a tent really was. Even Casca, not by any means the highest ranked man in those armies, had a tent three, or even four times the size of this. He smiled to himself briefly, then snapped into a serious expression as he was taken past scribes and chaplains, nobles and surgeons, and commanded to bow before the King.

  Casca knelt and bowed low. Henry was on the other side of a collapsible table, being tended to by his personal physician. His face was bruised and cut, and his basin haircut meant that the wound was fully on show. A mark of honor?

  “You may rise, Yeoman Long,” Henry commanded.

  Casca did so and for the first time regarded the man who had by sheer bloody mindedness won a victory. He was in his late twenties, athletic, straight-nosed, and exuded an air of confidence about him. He stared with interest at the dirty, unshaven, bloodied man before him through clear, intelligent, yet cold eyes. “Do you know who you slew today, Yeoman?”

  Casca guessed the King was referring to the noble who had broken Henry’s helmet. “No sire. A noble of some standing, I assume.”

  “Indeed. A noble, of some standing,” Henry agreed. He did not look best pleased. “That was the Duke of Alenҫon, the commander of their second wave of attack. Equivalent to the Duke of York, God rest his soul!”

  “Sire – the Duke fell?”

  Henry grimaced; he did not mean to so easily divulge that piece of information to this lowly man, but now he had there was no point in denying it. “Sadly, yes. Amongst others. Be that as it may, I am not best pleased that someone of low rank should slay someone of such nobility.”

  Casca thought this dumb. So what if he killed the man? It was either him or the Duke, and most probably the King, too.

  The King sighed. “However, in performing such an action you in fact saved my life, and for that I must personally thank you. God must have thought it pleasing to have my life saved by one of my oft unregarded number, if only to make me remember there are others here than my immediate circle and social acquaintances.” He waved to one side and a courtier advanced with a plate held up, a small leather bag resting upon it. “I cannot offer you the usual rewards suc
h as a dukedom or county, quite clearly, and I believe you would find this of more use to you.”

  Casca eyed the bag; it was clinking and full of coin. He bowed solemnly. He doubted Henry had a sense of humor, so he thought it best to keep his mouth shut. It was offered so he took it and the feel of coin through the bag made him smile briefly.

  Henry grunted. “Quite. I am a good judge of people. You have performed well this day, as have all of you, and I shall say as such on the morrow. Now, Yeoman, I must be about my business. I have a kingdom to consider as well as an army, and God clearly intends for me to continue, else why would He have allowed me to emerge victorious today? You may go.”

  Casca bowed once more and backed away. Sir Thomas came with him and placed an arm across the flap before Casca could leave. “Sir Godfrey Fulk will also be rewarded since it was his men who saved the King’s life, but the King wished to single you out as you actually performed an act of valor in the field. It would not be possible to reward all who partook as it would be too expensive, so I would not recommend you inform your friends of this – ah – remuneration.”

  “I understand, sire.”

  Sir Thomas smiled briefly. “We must not pass up a gift of providence, must we? Your coin here, the King’s triumph later, my reward for serving him faithfully. We all have to accept our rewards – and risks.” He frowned.

  “The Duke of York, sire?”

  “Indeed. The Duke died most valiantly. And the Earl of Suffolk. You see, Yeoman Long, it is not only you common people who perish in battle. We must lead, and accept the very real risk of death. Indeed, it is expected of us. You can retreat with no shame, but for us, the shame is great and stains our reputation forever.”

  “I understand, sire. We would more readily follow a man who is a success in battle rather than one who has incurred great losses.” He thought of Tamerlane. The man had been a phenomenon. “Makes us believe more of victory, and the rewards it brings.” He smiled, weighing the bag in his hand.

  Sir Thomas barked briefly with humor. “You know, you seem to have a greater grasp if things than I gave you credit for. Go with God and look after yourself, Yeoman.”

  “Thank you, sire. And may I offer you my congratulations?”

  “You may, and I thank you greatly for such.”

  The two locked eyes for a moment, and an unspoken message passed between the two, warrior to warrior, then Casca turned and ducked out through the flap and out into the chilly morning.

  While he had been in the tent more of the battlefield had been searched, and some of the enemy still alive pulled out from the heaps of bodies. Those not of noble standing had their throats slit, while those with value were hauled off to the line of prisoners.

  Casca covertly shared his coin with Walt and Andrew as they waited to march off. The two were very grateful, and overwhelmed with the gift. “Look, I don’t need all of this, and anyway it’ll probably all go on drink and women. I don’t want land, or what goes with it.”

  “So what are you going to do, then, Cass?” Walt asked.

  “Oh, I dunno.” He looked about. “I can’t see Henry of Lancaster leaving things like this; there’ll be more campaigns, no doubt. The French are going to be in a heck of a mess now with so many of their leaders slain. Have you heard the list being passed round? Most of their military leaders fell yesterday.”

  “I don’t know about their fallen,” Andrew said, “I hear we lost about six hundred all told, including the Duke of York and the Earl of Suffolk. What did they lose? Five thousand?”

  “Something like that. They won’t risk another battle for some time, and now’s the chance Henry has to press his claim for King of France as well as England.”

  Walt grinned. “And you’ll be here as part of that army?”

  “Yep. It’s what I do. I’m good at it.”

  “What you are. I have a wife and kids back home,” Walt said, “and they’ll be pleased to see me. This money will see us through for a couple of years at least, and maybe I can buy a cow or something. I’d be well set if I do, and won’t need to come on this madness again.”

  Casca nodded, clapping the man on the shoulder. “And you, Andrew? Back to Wales?”

  “Oh yes. There’s this girl, see, close to Abertawe, and I might be able to set up home and run a small holding. Chickens or something.”

  “Not sheep, then?” Casca grinned.

  “Don’t you fucking start,” the Welshman chuckled.

  “Well, good luck both of you; it was an honor to fight alongside the pair of you. Shame our other pals didn’t make it.”

  The other two agreed, and, as the column began to move off north down the road than ran alongside the battlefield towards Calais, they stepped into line, their bows and few other possessions on their backs, and marched away from the place that would become known as Agincourt.

  EPILOGUE

  The sound of men tramping across muddy roads faded and the night time garden in Sicily came into focus. Hayley shook her head in wonder. “God, Carlos, Danny was right – you do feel as if you were there when you tell one of your tales. How do you do it?”

  Carlos Romano, or Casca Rufio Longinus, shrugged. “One of those things, Hayley. Maybe it’s part of the curse, I dunno. You got all that down on that recorder?”

  Hayley checked, then pressed the stop switch. “Yup. A present for Danny and Doctor Goldman when I get back Stateside. What about you?”

  “Let me know when the wedding is and I’ll be there. In the meantime, I’ve got a few deals I got to do over in the far east. Property and what have you. I need a base there just in case. You know how it is.”

  “Sure do.” She drained her can and heaved herself up with a grunt. “Your story telling has tuckered me out. I’m off to sleep – I’ll need it for tomorrow’s flight home. You need a lift somewhere?”

  “As far as Messina, then I’ve got my own transport. Thanks.”

  Hayley smiled and entered the house, leaving Carlos deep in thought, staring at the distant, glittering sea, thinking of those men who fought – and died – on that long march from Harfleur to Calais.

  Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 42 Barbarossa

  I am currently in the process of writing this novel, covering the years 1941 to 1943, linking the end of Casca: Blitzkrieg and Casca 4: Panzer Soldier. News on this novel will be announced either on facebook’s casca.net page or on the Casca website, the link of which is below.

  For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net

  The Barry Sadler website www.barrysadler.com

  THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS

  By Barry Sadler

  Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary

  Casca 2: God of Death

  Casca 3: The Warlord

  Casca 4: Panzer Soldier

  Casca 5: The Barbarian

  Casca 6: The Persian

  Casca 7: The Damned

  Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune

  Casca 9: The Sentinel

  Casca 10: The Conquistador

  Casca 11: The Legionnaire

  Casca 12: The African Mercenary

  Casca 13: The Assassin

  Casca 14: The Phoenix

  Casca 15: The Pirate

  Casca 16: Desert Mercenary

  Casca 17: The Warrior

  Casca 18: The Cursed

  Casca 19: The Samurai

  Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon

  Casca 21: The Trench Soldier

  Casca 22: The Mongol

  By Tony Roberts

  Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma

  Casca 26: Johnny Reb

  Casca 27: The Confederate

  Casca 28: The Avenger

  Casca 30: Napoleon’s Soldier

  Casca 31: The Conqueror

  Casca 32: The Anzac

  Casca 34: Devil’s Horseman

  Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood

  Casca 36: The Minuteman

  Casca 37: Roman Mercenary

  Casca 38: Th
e Continental

  Casca 39: The Crusader

  Casca 40: Blitzkrieg

  Casca 41: The Longbowman