Hoodsman: Popes and Emperors

by Smith, Skye

  Raynar held up his knife again and yelled to the church instead of the sky. "Archangel Michael. I have been told that you are the prince of angels. My Anske is a North Sea angel. Send her our words. Make sure that she hears them."

  "Good one Ray," said Ned, and then he held up his own knife and began singing his clan's death song. The song that the folk in his village would sing to a funeral pyre in memory of all of the people they once knew, that were now dead. He had a terrible singing voice, but even so the words matched the tones and the song was haunting, like the wind through the trees on a dark and stormy night.

  Halfway through the song the galley mast swayed wildly again and Raynar reached over and steadied him. When Ned was finished his song they just stared out across the coastal plain at the huge wall of the city, and the sprawling and squalid army camp that surrounded it. "It does seem very calm for such a large camp."

  "The Norman army may still be chasing the stragglers," replied Raynar, "or for that matter, chasing the entire Byzantine army. It may be that this camp is almost empty waiting for the return of the warriors. I wish there was some way of warning the city that there may be a plague in the camp. That would give them a very good excuse to keep them from surrendering to Guiscard."

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  The Hoodsman - Popes and Emperors by Skye Smith

  Chapter 21 - Launching an English galley in London in February 1104

  "That’s as high as the tide is coming today," called the shipwright’s lad from where he was standing next to the pole that marked yesterday's high.

  "Let's do her then," the lead shipwright yelled up and down the lines of men standing around the refitted ship ready with rollers and lines and support blocks.

  A priest walked forward ready to sprinkle holy water on the bow of the refitted galley as it was launched. One of the oars mates 'accidentally' tripped him, and the priest went down into a mud puddle with a thump. By the time the mate helped the priest up, the galley was already moving away from them along the rollers towards the water of the River Thames.

  Raynar waved his thanks to the mate and gave him a wink. Even though England was now supposedly a Christian kingdom, no seaman wanted to anger Freyja, goddess of tides, by allowing a ship to be sprayed by water holy to a god of desert sands. He looked at the ungainly bulk of the ship he had just created and cringed. It was so ugly, and the longship had been so graceful.

  The shipwrights had taken a large Norse style longship, low and sleek and streamlined; and had raised the gunnels, and had added outrigged balcony decks along the length of each side and overhanging the bow. They had taken something as sleek as a seagull and turned it into something as ungainly as a pelican.

  Even though he knew better from seeing the same conversion from longship to galley done in the arsenal shipyard in Venice, he still expected the top heavy looking craft to tip over sideways and sink. It didn't. With a last haul and heave, the crew and the craftsmen floated it and it drifted away from the muddy shore until the bow lines stretched and then the stern slowly turned in the river current and it came alongside the shipyard's dock.

  It was floating high because it was an empty ship, not even a single oar or ballast stone was aboard so that it would be easier to launch down the rollers. There was only one man aboard, Thomas the captain, who had been almost positive that it would roll over sideways once it was floated, and therefore had wanted to go down with her. It would take the rest of the day to load it with everything a good ship needed, including oars and ballast stones and spars and sails.

  Raynar climbed up the steps from the shoreline of shipyard to the dock and joined King Henry and Queen Edith. They were dressed as befitted royals for the occasion, while he was in a muddy homespun jerkin. It was time to give them the tour.

  The royal party had reached Wapping shipyard, just downstream of London tower, by a smaller, but normal longship. Now they were comparing the two ships. There was no comparison. By lifting the oarsmen up onto the outrigger decks they cleared the true hull of hulking men and their hulking oars. In rough weather, a longship was a damp ship, and often a very wet ship. This galley would be a dry ship due to the higher gunnels that no longer dipped near to the water line in the center.

  Edith stepped aboard, stopped, looked at the tar that was already staining the hem of her flowing cloak, and stepped back onto the dock. After the men of the royal party were all aboard and exploring the galley, she walked over to Raynar and told him, "When will I learn to take notice of your advice. You warned me to dress for riding, not court. Now look at the tar on my cloak."

  He beamed a smile at her and gave her a hug around the shoulders. She pushed him away, not because a commoner should never touch a queen, and not because her public was watching, but because the man's working clothes were filthy. "I wish I could tell you that she was a pretty ship, Ray," she mumbled, "but she is butt ugly."

  "Aye, well, that is because she is a war platform first, and a ship second. She will look less ungainly when she is weighed down under load, and when twenty oars a side are dipping in unison. Come tomorrow once she is loaded and fitted, and you will see a different ship."

  "Will you come and fetch me at Westminster in her?" Edith asked coyly.

  "No love, I don't trust taking her through the span of London Bridge. At least not until the crew are practiced and used to her." He reached over with a hand and patted the rich fabric that hung over her bum. "Dress for riding, so you can go aboard, and so afterwards I can give you a tour of the new public bath house at Queenhithe."

  "Oh," she replied, interested, "is it completed then?"

  "No quite, but close. Close enough for the men's bathhouse to be in use already. The water supply is still not finished for the rest."

  * * * * *

  "Prepare to come about," Captain Thomas called to the oarsmate and the steering post. "I think we've gone far enough to give our suggestions back to the shipwrights.” He looked along the bank of oarsmen. It had taken them a mile to get used to the exaggerated rowing motion required by the steep angle of the oars, but they were doing better now.

  "She's fast, and spacious, and dry," Henry told Raynar. "but I was expecting a more modern rig of rudder, leeboard, and sail.” The rigging had been left almost the same as the original Norse longboat rig of the Mora.

  After pretending interest in the shore for a moment while he hid his smile at Henry's new found knowledge of ships, Raynar replied. "My agreement with Thomas was that none of the changes to the ship would be irreversible, in case it didn't work out."

  "Everything seems to work."

  "We won't know that until we have a sea trial, but that won't be today. We have to correct some bracings, and change the oar benches to seat two if necessary."

  "Seat two?" said Henry thoughtfully. "That explains the length of the oar handles."

  "In truth we didn't plan it that way. The added length of the oar handles was for balancing the weight of the paddle end, but now we see that they are long enough for two men to row so long as the inside man sits higher. In Venice, they sometimes have three on an oar. Even in the Byzantine they are replacing the old galleys that had tiers of oar decks, with galleys with one deck and two or three men on each oar."

  "And this is an important change? Important enough to put off our sea trial?"

  "Aye," said the captain with a smile, "It means that we could have eighty men pulling on the oars rather than forty. We would be able to out race any ship in the North or Celtic sea, for short distance, if we practice. Think of it. Eighty men pulling to catch a ship, and then forty of them standing up and using their bows to cripple it. This one ship will control the Manche, that is, until someone copies it."

  "I'm going over the bow with the shipwright," Raynar told the captain as he stripped off his brynja and his boots and pulled a harness snug under his arms. "He wants to show me something about the prow."

  The galley glided to a halt and then the two men were lowered over t
he fore gunnels. Then slowly at first, and then faster and faster, the galley rowed up river. When Raynar returned he announced that the ship would need a bulging prow at the waterline.

  "But we weren't going to add ram prow," replied the captain. "Not without first strengthening the entire bow."

  "I know, I know, but the shipwright has convinced me. We don't need the ram, but we need the bulging prow that holds the ram. He says it will keep the bow more stable, and help to cut the bow wave that is grabbing at the first four oars."

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  It was nearly March by the time all the second thoughts on the design of the galley were made right. Finally they could do a sea trial. The first was a day trip to Margate and back. Raynar refused to allow the royals to come. The galley was surprisingly stable in the rolling waves despite the outrigged balconies.

  The second sea trial was not a trial at all, but a mission. They were to take King Henry and Baron Meulan, and some other nobility to Southampton where the men would meet with other nobles from the West Country and Winchester before making the passage across the Manche to Caen to meet with Duke Robert.

  There were sixty oarsmen-come-bowmen aboard and by running two shifts with a switch every two hours they made the three hundred mile journey from London to Southampton in just over forty hours. Thus they learned another advantage of all of the oars having their own deck, for there was space and shelter and peace down below for men to grab some sleep when not on the oars.

  The journey to Southampton was such a success that Henry decided that the new Mora would be the ship to take him to visit his brother Robert in Caen. Raynar's mind went into a turmoil. He so wanted to go with this ship on the extended sea trial, and yet while Henry was in Normandy, he so wanted to stay with Edith in London and make sure that no harm came to her.

  All his life Raynar had faced this dilema. Does he stay home and protect his women, or does he trust them to take care of themselves and go off adventuring. There was never an easy answer. Whichever way he chose, the fates would be ahead of him and make a mockery of his choice.

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  The Hoodsman - Popes and Emperors by Skye Smith

  Chapter 22 - A pilgrim again in Rome in November 1081

  "I'll leave my shares in Venetian galleys in trust with you and Ned," Raynar told Maria.

  "Ned is staying so why can't you?" Maria asked softly. "At least for the winter. The passes are already closed. Flanders will be cold and damp. Stay here until spring."

  "Ned is staying because his village and all his folk were destroyed by the Normans. He has the choice of living here, or in Flanders, or anywhere. He has made his decision, or perhaps Magda made it for him. I, on the other hand, have folk that I care for deeply living in Flanders and in England. I have not seen them in over half a year. I must go and make sure that they still flourish."

  "You have folk here in Venice and she cares for you deeply," she replied.

  "Ah, but you are flourishing, and you will flourish even more with my shares. You must understand. I know you understand. This is not about you and me, but about many others, others who are at risk, great risk."

  Marie stopped arguing. Venetian women were always bidding their men farewell as they sailed off to ports near and far. This was no different. She could not take issue with his leaving. All she could do was give him fond memories to hurry him back to her.

  "So which route will you take?" she asked. "With the passes through the Alps closed, and Emperor Henry's army ranging along the northern edge of the Alps, then you cannot go back the way you came. Besides, you no longer have your three pilgrim brothers to keep you out of trouble."

  "The abbot has arranged it, well as far as Rome anyway. He is sending some monks to Rome and they leave in two days. He is allowing me to travel as one of them. I will be a pilgrim again, though this time in a monk's habit. From Rome there are always pilgrims returning to France. I will find some and join them."

  "I've never been to Rome," Maria hinted.

  "No, don't even think it. If I took you to Rome, then I would feel obliged to bring you back here."

  "Would that be so bad?" her eyes glistened as she spoke. "Alright, go, but you must promise to take me to Rome another time."

  He laughed. Maria was always bargaining. It was what made her such a successful merchant. "I will miss you."

  "You will miss my brothers, that is who you will miss. You leave in two days, and they have sent word that they will be home within the week with my cloth. They will be angry that you did not wait for them to return."

  "The timing is not mine, but the abbots." He said, but then said no more because she was undoing her blouse, and he did not want to miss the show. Maria knew him so well. She knew that the fastest way to wash away the violence of battles from his being was to nurture his healing sense. The fastest way to nurture his healing sense was to soothe his eyes and cheeks between her breasts. It was a magic place, a healing place, a goddess place.

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  For the abbot's three monks, the first leg of the journey to Rome was to catch rides on Venetian ships that would take them to the fishing village of Pescara halfway down the Italian peninsula on the Adriatic coast. Make that four monks because the abbot had allowed Raynar to dress as one of his monks, as that would simplify travel for the other three.

  Pescara was the starting point of the Via Tiburtina. The monks told him that the Via was the ancient Roman highway that crossed the Abruzzese mountains and would take them all the way to Rome. Pescara was a tiny fishing village built within the ruins of a much larger town, once called Aternum as it was the port at the mouth of the Aternum river. He found it almost disturbing to see such a squalid little village surrounded by the vast and humbling ruins of ancient monuments, and columns, and buildings.

  It was in Pescara that he heard the most recent news out of Dyrrhachium from some seamen just off a Venetian galley. These were men who were now on their way home after months of duty patrolling the Otranto Strait.

  From them he learned that what was left of the Norman army, led by Guiscard's son Bohemond, were chasing what was left of the Byzantine army, back to Salonika. They told him that during the battle, both sides had lost about the same number of men, about five thousand each. It amazed Raynar that men could speak so glibly and uncaringly about the violent deaths of so many men.

  "So the Normans won the battle then?" asked Raynar.

  "No, I did not say that," said one of the men. "The Normans still have not breached the walls of the besieged city. They lost half of their knights in one battle, and have lost a lot more men in total than the Byzantines have."

  "But you said five thousand each."

  "Fifteen thousand Normans are dead," replied the seaman. "Half of all the men that Guiscard ferried to Illyria this spring. I said five thousand died in the battle. Ten thousand more died after the battle, from a plague."

  Raynar shook his head in disbelief at the numbers. The beginnings of a cruel smile curled his lip. So a thousand English lords lost their lives to kill five hundred Norman knights on the battlefield, yet two peasant lads from Yorkshire have killed ten thousand.

  He still had trouble with the numbers. A total of twenty thousand men were suddenly dead just because Duke Guiscard wanted to rule Illyria. Again the cruel smile at the thought of fifteen thousand dead Normans. Fifteen thousand dead rapists. Fifteen thousand who would never rape English women.

  "You say that Bohemond is leading the Norman army. Is his father dead, then?" It occurred to him that this Norman army was still stranded by a lack of ships, and could not return to Guiscard’s duchy of Apulia. Eventually the Norman army would be picked to pieces by the Byzantines. He smiled again.

  "How the hell should I know?" replied the seaman. "Do you think any of us stepped ashore once we heard that there was a plague about. Nasty sort of plague, from what I hear. The men that died of it were mostly those who were wounded in the battle. Even those with slight w
ounds died of them. Instead of healing, all the wounds turned black, and then the men died from fever."

  "And the horses. Did the plague kill the horses?"

  The seamen were no longer wondering why this curious monk had been so eager to buy them wine. He was pumping them for information. "Why don't you go there yourself and find out?"

  Raynar wondered if it was worth showing these seamen his Venetian medallion, which named him as a captain. Would that make these men reveal more of what they knew? No, it wasn't worth the risk of betraying his disguise. He would find out more in Rome.

  He and his monks were waiting in this fishing village for enough travelers to gather so that they could set off towards Rome in a large group. The highway wound through mountain valleys and through forests that were known for hiding bandits. People always traveled this Via in large groups. It was the monks' hope that by tomorrow morning there would be enough travelers to start out.

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  One of the problems with traveling with a group for safety is that your pace is set by the slowest, oldest, weakest. It was a hundred and twenty miles to Rome, and by the look of some of the group that had assembled, they would be lucky to make twenty miles a day. Raynar, however, had lived and worked with carters for decades, and he had learned much about the carting business and the way carters thought.

  "So how much to charter a cart to go to Rome?" was the first of the questions he posed to the local carters. After much discussion and bargaining, he presented the best price to the other travelers. "So how much is it worth to those of you with spare coins to shorten this trip from six days to three?"

  And so it was arranged for the slowest, oldest, weakest to ride in horse carts. Raynar and the monks walked, as did most of the others. Like the monks, most of these folks had stepped off ships and therefore had no horses to ride.

  For three days of November, Raynar walked through the peaks of Abruzzo, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself while doing so. It reminded him so much of the Peaks of Derbyshire, well not the buildings, which were all of stone and brick, but the hills and dales and ridges and gorges.