by Smith, Skye
The red faced man did not tarry near his victim. He regained his horse, mounted, and turned to run back up the game trail. Raynar ducked behind a thick bush and nocked an arrow. The man and horse were by him in an eye blink. He loosed but his hurried arrow glanced off the horses rump and made the bloody thing run faster. There was no catching him now, not on this trail. Instead he turned and ran to the stricken body in hopes of saving a life. He need not have hurried. The young and handsome Norman had died almost instantly and the arrow was still stuck into his heart.
Raynar looked at the arrow. It was not a Norman's hunting arrow, but an English peasant's arrow. The bastard with the red face had planned this murder, and had set it up to look like the work of an angry local peasant. Red was as cunning as he was vicious. Everyone now knew that these parishes were to be cleared. No one would question that this was done by a vengeful peasant.
He did a quick search of the body. There was a good sized purse, which had nothing in it but coins and a scrap of paper. He left the purse alone but pulled the paper and held it to the light. It was heavy stock and seemed to be an invitation of some sort. He calmed himself and forced his eyes to focus on the words. It was an invitation to visit a manor addressed to. The name came as a shock. The corpse at his feet used to be Richard, William's son, the heir to the throne of England.
He fought down the panic that was rising in him. Not the panic for his own skin, but the panic for the villagers of this valley. This arrow was enough for William to have them all slaughtered in revenge. He could not leave this arrow here, that was certain. He twisted and worked the cheap arrow until it was free. Thankfully he did not need to cut it out because the point was of bone and the barb snapped. He looked down at the man in triumph, only to see that now in place of the arrow, there was a large arrow hole in his chest. This would never be deemed an accident. It would end in the same slaughter of the innocent, arrow or not.
How much time had passed since the murder. Minutes. How much time was left before the search for this man would approach. He looked around nervously. Hiding the body would produce the same vengeance. His blood was rushing and he wanted to run and tell what he had witnessed. No, they would never believe him. He would be a dead man, and still not save the villagers.
He forced his hearing and sight to focus. His thoughts were disorganized, but his senses were calm. He looked towards a slight sound from the shadows of the trail and saw something move and then freeze dead still. He didn't know what it was, but standing here above this corpse he knew what anyone would assume about him. He had the murder arrow in his hand, and his bow. In one smooth motion he nocked, drew, aimed and loosed.
He was immediately disappointed in the shot. Such a light arrow loosed from his mighty bow flew higher than his aim. He was aiming low to wound, not to kill. Then he saw the target more clearly. It was not a person. It was the young stag. They looked at each other. The stag had the cheap arrow in its right shoulder, painful but not killing. The stag was enraged. It lowered its small rack and charged him. He reached for his short sword, and realized it was at his hide, but his Valkyries knife was in his belt. Just in time he drew the wickedly sharp fish filleting knife, ducked sideways and thrust it through the stag's neck.
The knife was ripped from his hands by the force of the charge. One hoof landed perilously close to turning him into a gelding. Then the weight of the stag dragged him backwards and to the ground. He grabbed the rack in both hands and used it to keep the gnashing teeth away from him and to bend the neck away from him. The stag's hind hoofs were trying to find his soft parts. Finally the stag went limp. He continued to hold on for a few minutes in case it was a ruse. It wasn't, the stag was dead.
He crawled out from under it and all he could smell now was the sweetness of blood that covered him. Now he had two corpses, and he could be strung up for either. His panic was calming though, replaced by something else. He had been in a life and death battle with the stag and the battle surge was in him and the world around him began moving very slowly and his mind cleared.
Richard's horse was standing nervously to one side, fearful of all the death scents. There was a handsome hunting bow hung from the saddle. He reached ever so slowly towards the bow but the damn horse backed away. That wasn't going to work. He thought again.
He walked to the stag and broke the arrow shaft at the skin, and dropped the pointless shaft beside his own bow. He pulled Richards dagger from its scabbard. What fool would bring a jeweled dagger on a hunt. For that matter, what hunter would wear bright clothing. He dropped the jeweled dagger to the ground beside the dead beast.
With a grunt, he lifted the head of the stag slightly and turned it so that the rack stood straight out. With more grunting, he dragged Richards limp body to the rack, aligned the right point of the rack with the arrow hole in the man and then did something most gruesome. He pushed the man's chest onto the point. Then he put all his weight against the man's back and pushed hard so that more points tore into the flesh of the corpse.
Slowly and carefully so as not to dislodge anything, he lowered man and rack gently to the ground. He reached for the man's jeweled dagger and shoved it into the stag's neck where his own knife had punctured it. Then he wrapped the mans hand around the jeweled hilt. Something was wrong. Not enough blood. He took off his own bloody shirt and squeezed the deer’s blood from it onto the corpse, then he smeared his shirt against everything. That looked much more believable
He stood up and he stood back. Had he forgotten anything. If he were just walking to this place what would he see. A stag with an old wound, and mad with pain, charges a man. Man and stag finish each other. Foot prints. The footprints of three men. He grabbed a branch of broom and carefully rubbed out his boot marks, and further up the trail, those of the red faced man.
He looked again. He wouldn't bother with the horses tracks. Any search party would be mounted and their horses would obliterate them. He looked again. Only when he was satisfied did he look up to the heavens and chant to the Valkyries on Richard's behalf, but he was not hopeful that they would take him. Suddenly exhausted, he picked up his own weapons, and the broken shaft and walked away along a tiny game trail that climbed the side of the valley, all the while pulling a branch of broom behind him.
When almost out of the valley, he cursed his memory, and had to back track down again to retrieve his line from the tree bough. While there he wondered if he should stay and try to kill William, for surely the red faced man would bring William here. Then it struck him who the red face belonged to. William's son William Rufus. Fratricide. He had witnessed fratricide. Royal fratricide.
Would Rufus bring his father here? Would he bring anyone here? Would he say that he witnessed a peasant ambush? Of course not. He would say he hadn't seen his brother since the beginning of the day's hunt. He almost wanted to stay in hopes of seeing the look on Rufus's face when the stag was blamed for the death. Fool, he told himself. You don't want to be anywhere near here. You want to be back in Winchester, or at least back at your hide.
At his hide, he found he still had the small invitation that had identified the man. He suddenly knew how he could hurt William even more than the loss of his favourite son. He pulled out his pack and pulled from it a tiny writing set. Using the pack as a writing surface, he though of what and how he would say what was needed, and in a code only William could read.
He sat still and thinking for almost an hour, and each time he went to start writing he stopped himself again. Finally he wrote on the back of the invitation, at the top, in French "from your Greek spy".
Then below it he wrote in Greek. "Today I witnessed Rufus stab Richard to death with a peasant arrow. I have made it look like a stag did the deed so that no one but you need know."
Only a handful of priests in Winchester would be able to read the Greek, and priests can be sworn to secrecy. The words were written on the back of a card that only Richard would have. The message was so bizarre that it must be treated seriously. N
ow all he must do is get it into William's hand, and no other's. He looked at the note again, and smiled at his own cunning. What was worse than losing a favourite son? Knowing that another son had murdered him. This could cause another Norman civil war.
* * * * *
Raynar had been waiting beside the main bridal path to Winchester for hours. Riders came and went but none were royal messengers. The rider now coming looked more promising. He decided to allow the rider to say if he was or not. He pulled his hood far forward to hide his face and then leaped into the path of the horse and drew his arrow. "Stop and be recognized, for this war arrow will easily kill either you or your horse."
The rider pulled hard at his horse and loose stones from the hoofs skittered along the trail. "Let me through, fool. It is a death sentence to interfere with a royal messenger."
"You don't look like a royal messenger. You are too short."
"Out of my way fool. Can't you see the badge on the saddle,” yelled the rider.
Raynar held the invitation forward to the man. "I am one of the kings spies. I have a message here that must be placed into his hands and only into his hands. If you are truly a royal messenger you will take it to him."
The man walked his horse forward and reached down to take the card. He looked at it and flipped it over and looked back down to the spy, but the man had already disappeared. He read poorly, and even knowing how to read poorly would mean dismissal from the Royal service if anyone found out. One side had the name Richard on it and some other names and dates, the other side had the name Greek and then a coded message. He put it in his pouch and was on his way.
Raynar rested and slept fitfully for two nights at his hide. The stag had bruised him badly and the vigor of the day had exhausted him. On the second morning he stretched out his aches and went in search of gossip. He carried only his knife, for if a Norman saw him with a bow, it could be the finish of him. There were no Normans to be found. Near to one of the hunting lodges, however, there was a throng of local men. He decided to join them and hear the gossip. He was consumed with curiosity about whether Richard’s body had been found, and about what had happened next.
He was quite close to the throng when he realized something was wrong. They all had slave collars around their throats and were all tied to a long line. Some of the men were waving him away. Shit, had William decided to take vengeance in any case. He turned to slip back into the forest, but even as he turned he realized he was too late. There were two guards blocking his trail, and a third with a crossbow emerging from behind a tree.
"Another one,” said one of the guards.
"No,” Raynar said, "Not me. I am from Winchester. I was only here to help with the royal hunt."
One of the guards held his short spear to Raynar’s chest while the other took his knife. The one with the knife then twisted his right arm and looked at his hand. "Another archer. Look at the calluses on the string fingers. Put him with the others.” He switched to poor English. "You have been called into the service of the king. You are now part of his army. Do not fear, do not fight, and do not try to escape."
A slave collar was put around his neck and when he again said that this was a mistake and that he was from Winchester, they cruelly pulled it tight to choke off his words. He was tied at the end of a line of twenty other men, all fit and healthy. He pulled at his collar to free his throat and asked the peasant beside him "What is this all about?"
"Ye 'avn't heard that they's goin' ta clear these parishes dis spring.” the man said hoarsely.
Raynar nodded. It was hard to talk.
"We's the first. They's clearin' all the archers first, so there will be less trouble wid de rest. They wus afraid of us, see, so we's the first."
"Where are they taking us?"
"T' be archers guarding a castle. Some new castle up north."
"Where?” Finally the collar had loosened a bit, and he took a deep breath and a swallow.
"Some river, Tyne I think dey said."
There was a hail and they all looked. A wealthy looking priest was riding towards them. He stopped beside the sergeant in charge and looked slowly around the assembled men. "Have you captured any holy men or ealders?"
"Any that are not archers are over there,” the sergeant pointed to another group of men sitting on the wet ground. "We are only holding them so that they do not spread the word that we are looking for archers. Once we move on, they will be allowed to return to their homes."
"I am looking for any men who can write."
"Hah,” laughed the sergeant, "in this village. Not likely."
"I realize that he would be a cleric or an ealder. Were you not listening."
"Let's go and ask the ealders. They would know if a local could write. Which language, English or French?"
"Greek", said the priest .
Raynar stooped and hid behind some other men. He had been taken so easily because he was dressed like a peasant and had carried nothing save a knife. Luckily that meant that he carried nothing to identify himself as a man of learning and wealth. There could be only one reason this priest was looking for someone who knew Greek. The royal messenger had delivered the invitation.
He calmed himself. If they were not being rounded up to be killed, and instead would be walked over three hundred miles north, then there was no hurry to escape. His main focus must be on staying healthy. So long as he stayed healthy, he would eventually escape. The main rule for staying healthy, of course, was to never anger the guards. Become invisible to them. Do what he was told, no more, no less, and whatever happened, don't show anger, and never speak French.
He looked about him. He had an advantage over all these other archers who were about to be marched north. He was not leaving family and loved ones in villages that existed on borrowed time. These other archers had every good reason to escape, and the sooner the better. This was the worst possible time for them to be separated from their families.
They were first marched to Romsey to join other archers who had been rounded up. Raynar kept his head down in fear that Cristina would come to inspect them. The nuns never came. He supposed that since they were all healthy men, they were of no interest to them. Two days later they were led onto a cartway that went north east to join the main highway north from Winchester.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - Queens and Widows by Skye Smith
Chapter 28 - Marching to Newcastle-upon-Tyne in February 1081
The walk north was endless.
For the first five days, on each day more of the archers were killed. No matter how well they planned their escape, they were always caught. Those that were injured badly enough that they could not continue to walk, were killed. Those that had hurt a guard in order to escape were killed. The message was clear. Keep walking north. Don't try to escape.
During those first few days Raynar had been desperate to send word that he was safe. He had his chance when they crossed the Thames. There was a cart with metal hubs pulled up on the north bank waiting for them to get across the ford and out of its way. As he passed it he called the message to the carter. "Tell John in Winchester that Raynar is on his way to Scotland. Tell him not to worry."
"Why should I?” called back the carter and rubbing his thumb and finger together asking for coin.
Raynar had no coin other than the two coppers that every warrior always sewed into their boot to pay the boatman. "Because John has the gold and I have the chains,” replied Raynar. That is all he could say, as now one of the guards was taking an interest. His last image of the carter was of the man tapping his nose, the signal for "understood."
During that first week, they were joined by other lines of archers marching north. Not only were all the archers being rounded up, but they were all being sent far away from their homes to where they knew no one. This would not only make it near impossible for them to run home, but it also meant that they were more likely to target the locals where ever they served, wh
en so ordered.
Raynar had heard of this strategy before where one conquered people were used to police another conquered people. It was the Roman way. It was likely Canute who had told him of it, because Canute was the youngest son of a king, and had been therefore trained for the clergy. He smiled to himself, as he wondered if the new king of Denmark had gathered an invasion fleet together yet.
Each day was a monotony of endless walking, but at least they were fed. Raynar kept his head down and kept out of trouble. After the first week, there were no more killings. No one tried to escape any more. They were all far from home, except for Raynar. Even as they passed through Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire, where Raynar had many friends and where he knew the highways and towns, he did not try to escape.
The guards were very good at their job. The slave collars and the connecting lines made it easy for them to do that job. The archers did not even have privacy when they relieved themselves. If you tried to disconnect your collar from the line, then the men next to you would probably call the guard, for the rule was that the two men strung next to an escaped man were punished.
It took two weeks of walking to reach Robert of Normandy's new castle on the Tyne. It was strange for him to cross the familiar bridge at Gateshead wearing a slave's collar. He saw folks that he knew by name, but he did not call out to them. That could be disastrous. No one recognized him because no one noticed a slave's face. Just his collar.
At the new castle, the wooden palisades that had originally been thrown up by Robert's army last fall, were already being replaced by stone. And why not when there was so much cheap labour to do the work, and when the site had once been a Roman fort and therefore was a mine of dressed stones. The slave masters even jested that there was nothing like a good harrowing of the folk to bring down the cost of labour.