Hoodsman: The Second Invasion

by Smith, Skye

  It had promised a lot of things, and so far Henry had delivered on those promises, despite his Norman feudal barons who all thought of themselves as the master race. The worst of the barons had now been banished from England. It was a good start, but it had been a lot of hard work. Finally the finances of the kingdom were getting better. Finally there was food for all.

  Not so in Normandy. Normandy was now a disaster area. Instead of four years of Henry's enlightened rule, often softened by Edith's caring hand, Normandy had suffered under four years of Robert's incompetence and now was ruled by local warlords and robber barons. Vicious, greedy buggers every one. The master race.

  Raynar had been sitting on the bow gunnels of the ship, and one of the river men must have recognized him because a call came from the bank, "Yo, Ray. Whassup."

  "Visitin' Maud," he yelled back.

  "Watchit," the call came back. "There's nobs about."

  He waved that he had understood the warning. Yes, he chuckled, and a king dressed as an oarsman on his ship. Henry had even taken a turn on the oars. There was no better exercise to build backs, shoulders and arms than a few hours on an oar.

  The heavy fog of the damp fens became a light fog as the river valley became dryer, and then a mist, and then no mist at all just before they reached Northampton. There was already a small ship tied up at the river bank near the river gate of the stone castle. Simon's castle. The other ship was flying Robert's colors, so the Duke had already arrived.

  Raynar did not escort Henry into the castle. He had no desire to be introduced, yet again, to Robert. No matter how many times he had been introduced to the man over the past thirty years, the man never remembered his name. It was if he had a mental block that allowed only the names of nobles to be marked to his memory. This despite both he and Robert having shared the affections of Maud's mother Judith for ten years.

  In his place the captain of the ship led the oarsmen as the king's guard into the castle. Raynar meanwhile went for a walk into the town. He noticed that the earthenwork and pale burgh wall around the town had now been almost completely replaced by a stone wall, while the castle had yet to be finished. He climbed up onto the wall to have a better view. There were hundreds of houses within the wall, so the town must be thriving.

  An old man on crutches limped along the wall towards him and called out, "Raynar, is that you?"

  "Oh Simon, what have you done to yourself?"

  "Same injury, just older."

  "Your town is thriving."

  "It's the burgh wall. I started it when King Rufus was killed so that the merchants would feel safe during the expected civil war of succession. It was Maud's idea, you know, because of what happened at Huntingdon back in '86."

  "How is the conference going?" Raynar asked preferring not to talk about Huntingdon in '86. Too many bad memories. He expected that there was nothing to report from the conference else Simon would not be out here checking on his masons.

  "Same, same. Robert wants Henry to give him gold so that he can hire mercenaries to bring the warlords of Normandy to heel. Henry doesn't trust him not to waste the gold. Henry has offered to cross to Normandy with an English army to help defeat the warlords. Robert doesn't trust Henry not to use them to claim the Ducal throne."

  "So, brother against brother, with closely tied fates but a lack of trust in each other. Reminds me of the Conqueror and his half brother, the Bishop Odo back in '82."

  "Ah yes. I rode for William during that um, confrontation."

  "I rode for the Pope," Raynar replied. Simon's eyes went wide because the aging hoodsman who was telling him this was not even a Christian.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  The Hoodsman - The Second Invasion by Skye Smith

  Chapter 2 - The Popes messenger in Normandy in March 1082

  "Yes, you are less than ten miles from Le Mans now," the carter told Raynar, begrudgingly, in the way of a typical French serf. It didn't help that Raynar was dressed as a monk, and all the male serfs hated the greedy churchmen who preyed on the women as they prayed for their men. "Take the next fork to the right."

  "But I don't want to go to Le Mans," Raynar clarified. "It is under siege. I need a way safely around the armies and their foragers. One that joins back with the road to Caen."

  "Le Mans isn't under siege. Not any more. They have upheld the treaty. The armies will soon be disbanded." The serf's face brightened, always happiest when misfortune touched another more than himself. "You'd better be well beyond Le Mans before that happens. There are no worse thieves than disbanded knights. As I speak I am on my way to hide my cart from them."

  "So there is peace? How is this possible? I thought that Fulk had arrived with the French army and there would be war." Nothing was ever easy, was it. He had been counting on the Conqueror being entangled in a costly war so that his own scheming plan could come to fruition. Despite that, he couldn't be angry or sad at the news. War was hard on real folk. This peace would mean that a lot of women and children would be spared a lot of tears and hardship.

  "It was William's son Robert who made the peace," the carter told him. "He arrived not three days ago from Paris with his fancy tart. He has agreed to be the Count of Maine, but with fealty to Fulk of Anjou rather than to his own father. He has also agreed that Le Mans will continue to be run as a commune. Good that. Towns are best run as communes."

  "Robert and his tart?"

  "Saw them, didn't I," the carter replied. "He's a short twerp, but he must be hung like a horse to keep that lass with him. That or he crosses her palm with gold every night. Fair she is, and tall. They say that she is the Queen's own witch, but I'd shag her. Who wouldn't."

  "When she refused your kind offer of a shag, did she mention her name?"

  The carter was silent for a moment, until he got the jest, and then he laughed until he coughed. "Gesa. Fulk's men call her the wonderful Gesa, and swear that they would die for her. She's got that Robert twisted around her finger."

  "So it was she who brought you peace, then. It certainly wouldn't be Robert's idea." He said it as another jest, but as soon as the words left his mouth he knew they were true. Gesa would not want the commune of Le Mans to be trampled by armies of knights. She had seen too much of that as a child in the Fens.

  The question crossed his mind of whether she was with Robert by Queen Gertrude's order, or by King Philip's, or as part of Fulk's strategy? No, not Fulk. He brought an army here to kill the Conqueror, not to make peace with him. Fulk hated William.

  Until Robert had been named, Raynar had half decided to go to Le Mans and visit with Fulk. Fulk and he had shared some times, and some battles. Now he dismissed the thought. It may put Gesa in danger if Robert recognized him. The carter was speaking again, and he had to pay attention to understand the local dialect of Manseaux French.

  "I said," the carter repeated, "If you take the left fork to La Fleche and then head west of north until you are well north of Le Mans, you will find a road to Alencon. That will put you back on the road to Caen."

  He thanked the man. Carters everywhere were a glum and secretive lot, but once you got a laugh from them they were usually willing to help. Before the carter could start his team, Raynar ripped apart the cooked pheasant that he had bought at the last village and passed half of it to him, and then they each went their own ways.

  * * * * *

  By the beaten look in the eyes of the serfs, and by the number of grand and fortified stone manors, he knew he was close to the border of Normandy. He did not enter the walled town of Alencon, because he had been warned that the Conqueror and his nobles were spending the night there. Instead he kept moving north towards Caen to stay ahead of the royal party.

  He stopped for an hour in one village because it was market day. An hour was all it took to eat and to find and buy the things he needed, including filling his wineskins, and then he climbed back into the saddle for the short ride north of town to the forest that the farmer with the wine ha
d told him about. A forest where he could camp in secret, and therefore safety.

  He was inside the Forêt d'Écouves within the hour. It was a large and ancient forest of mostly birch trees, but the forest floor was a tangle of broom bushes. Perfect cover for a man sleeping alone. He followed a cart track until he found the eastern edge of the forest, which was bordered by the main road from Alencon to Caen. The birches were younger and smaller here, but they grew so close together that his mare Sylvie could travel only on the larger game trails, despite her being small and tough. He made camp beside a clean pool of water, a favourite of the game, which was only about two hundred paces from the main road but completely hidden.

  After a short rest and a long swig of wine, he unpacked his purchases from the market. First he tried the bow. It was a peasant's tool and small. A bow for hunting rabbits and quail, and therefore small enough to swing about in the bush. The five small arrows were not tipped with metal points, but with chips of flint.

  His other purchase was some powdered leaves, that the market woman had sworn to him contained a black dye. Just mix it with water she had told him, and then use it to turn any smock into a widows smock. She had warned him that it would rinse out quickly once the grieving was finished. Perfect. He had bought all the leaves she had. Also in a bundle were his new clothes, or rather old clothes. Forester clothes in duns and greens.

  He stripped to the nude, and while shivering in the cold winter air, he began to use the black dye. Handful by handful, he mixed it with water and then plastered and wiped it onto Sylvie. Her skin was naturally dark even though her hair was white, so it took just a bit of effort and a lot of mess to turn her into a black mare. She kept looking at him with accusing eyes.

  Once she was done, and while he was still nude, he took another handful of the powdered leaves and this time mixed it with his piss. This mixture he rubbed into his beard and his hair and all over his skin. All over. He was sure that Sylvie was laughing at him, or perhaps she was just trying to pull her nostrils closed to the smell.

  His skin was now so cold he could not stand it, but he had to endure it longer before he could rinse the excess dye away. Up and down he jumped, trying to keep warm. Often he stared longingly at his warm wool cloak, but he did not dare put it on for fear of staining it. Finally, when he truly could stand the cold no longer, he rinsed himself and Sylvie off in the pool. The rinsing turned the water around him dark like charcoal, but he was splashing so much that it quickly dispersed.

  After drying himself somewhat by dabbing himself with his new-to-him green shirt, he dived into his cloak and began to leap around again for warmth. By this time, Sylvie had resigned herself to being owned by a mad man. She forgave him that night however, for he slept curled up beside her, with his cloak over them both.

  * * * * *

  The scouts had gone by a half hour ago. Where were the nobles? He was to the point of stepping out onto the road to have a look when he heard their voices. Something still wasn't right, because there was no tell tale clip clopping of hoofs. The voices were bantering about something. The nobs must have stopped for a rest.

  Raynar crept away from his roadside broom bush and kept low until he was into the birches. By switching game trails twice he kept moving towards the voices. As he approached the voices he nocked one of the bird arrows into the small bow. All of the points had been poisoned, two with one kind of poison and three with another.

  The hunters of D’Oc who had sold him the two types of poisons used them to cripple and slow their prey. The one that was made from the oils of Monk's Hood and Buttercup, they used to create an irritating wound that would first slow down, and eventually kill a deer. The other poison, the one made from the kind of cave slime that glowed in the dark, they used to create a sore that would not heal. This poison was not for hunting game, but for purposes of vengeance.

  The knocked arrow would have glowed in the dark, if it had been dark. It was a gamble. This was all was a gamble. A gamble that the Conqueror would not be riding away from a peace treaty wearing full armour. A gamble that Raynar even got a shot off at him. A gamble that this light bow wouldn't snap under load, and that the fletching of the cheap arrow was true. If he couldn't escape cleanly, he wouldn't shoot. It was more important to take the scrolls he carried to Earl Odo, the Bishop-Regent of England.

  The scrolls he had left with Sylvie. They were precious. Agreements vital to Odo if he wished to become the next Bishop of Rome, the next Pope. The men who had originally set out from Rome carrying the scrolls were now buried in the mud of the Camargue just west of Arles. The bishop had been sending English treasure and English garrisons and English ships to Italy. These scrolls promised the support of the current Pope, and the aid of Duke Guiscard of the southern Italies. They would set Odo out on a journey to Rome to claim the Pontiff throne. They must reach Odo, and soon.

  The sooner that Odo and his army left for Rome, the sooner the Danish fleet would land in the Danelaw and then take control of the kingdom back from the Conqueror and his Normans. Not only must scrolls reach Odo, but the Conqueror must never know of them. The Conqueror must not be allowed to stop Odo from leaving England. Therefore the Conqueror must be weakened. If a war with Fulk over Le Mans was not going to do that, then he must be weakened in some other way.

  There was something large and white just ahead. He silently moved some branches of broom out of his view. There was a cloak hung over a branch. A purple cloak worthy of a king. Then it came to him what the white blob was ... William was bent over to take a shit. His huge ass was a big white target. He wasn't in armour. Damn the fates. If he had been holding a real bow with a real arrow instead of this toy, William would die in the next breath.

  "Keep to the plan," he cautioned himself. "If William dies, Odo may stay in England and claim the throne for himself. Odo must leave England and take his army with him." He drew and loosed. The arrow slammed into William's big white butt. William howled in pain and surprise. Raynar ran, ran low through the bushes to find Sylvie. By the time a hue and cry had begun, he and Sylvie were almost out of ear shot. Oh, there were some choice angry words in the forest behind him as Williams men caught site of him racing away.

  He followed a wide game trail deeper and deeper into the forest. It ran generally in a northerly direction. Yes Sylvie was leaving a track that any man could follow, but it was more important to reach some deep water, a pool, a river, anything before he was caught. He saw a lightening in the trees ahead. Damn, almost out of the forest. Too soon.

  The lightening was a clearing and inside the clearing was just the pool he needed. As quick as he could he dismounted, stripped out of his forest clothes and used them to scrub the dark dye out of Sylvie's hair. Her hair came up white again almost immediately. He gave himself a quick scrub and then he sank the forest clothes under a heavy stone along with the toy bow and arrows.

  First he jerked his silk shirt down to cover his skin, and then his coarse monks robes down to cover his silk. Oh the silk shirt felt so good next to his skin after the scratch of homespun. When he climbed back into the saddle, and swung his winter riding cloak over him, he was again a pilgrim. A cold, damp, pilgrim with black hair and a black beard mounted on a grey-white mare.

  It took only moments of riding along the banks of the pool to find a cart track and a ford and Sylvie’s hoof prints joined those of other animals that had recently churned the mud of the ford. Once through the ford he pressed on along the cartway, thankful to have Sylvie's warmth rising under his cloak to warm him.

  It was another mile before he was hailed by some scouts. Instead of fleeing from them, he stopped and waited for them to catch up. As he waited he took some deep breaths to build up his courage. "You were calling me?" he asked the scouts when they were close enough for a cautious hail, "How may I help you?"

  Two of the men stayed mounted while keeping their crossbow bolts pointed at him, but the third, the youngest, dismounted and threatened Raynar with a sword. "We've got you, com
e peacefully," the swordsman warned.

  "But of course, but first tell me what is happening?"

  The crossbow men began to laugh at the youngster. "Have a good look at the monk, fool. Does he look like a forester riding a black horse," said the closest, and then to Raynar he said, "Go carefully monk. There is a footpad close by. Have you seen anyone pass this way?"

  "Before I reached the ford, a youth on a farm nag was riding fast in the other direction. But the game strung from his saddle were only rabbits. You cannot be hunting a man for killing rabbits, can you?"

  The swordsman remounted and turned his horse back the way they had come. The other two were already riding away. "Give it up," the youngster yelled after them. "It was just a local lad playing a mean trick on a noble. We'll never catch him now."

  Once the men were back in the ford, Raynar urged Sylvie to canter. He needed to trade her for a passage to Southampton, and be gone from Caen before William and these scouts arrived there.

  * * * * *

  "I came with pilgrims along the pilgrim routes, sire." explained the monk Anso, carefully. Raynar had practiced being Anso the monk, and had memorized these lies over and over again until he was sure he would not be caught out. His life depended on not being caught out. His life depended on always and only answering to the name Anso. The name was the male version of Anske... Frisian for Eagle.

  "And you never saw Roland again?" Regent Bishop Odo asked for a third time.

  Odo was interrupted by the arrival of a royal messenger. The messenger delivered a scroll to the clerk sitting at the recording table. The clerk checked the seals to see if it was private. It was not so he opened it, read it, and then approached Odo to whisper the summary of it into his lord's ear.

  The two letters that Anso had presented, one from Pope Gregory, and the other from Guiscard the Duke of Apulia, had definitely not been read by the clerk, but passed directly to Odo, who alone knew their contents.