by Smith, Skye
"A dozen fair Frisian lasses bathing in the shallows on our side," Garth chuckled. "Or a dozen coal black Frisian horses."
"That's about all I can think of," admitted Graham. "What else interests Normans other than war?"
"Praying," replied Raynar.
"I said other than war."
"The other kind of praying. On their knees begging their god of the desert to forgive them for all the evil that they do."
"Damn," whispered Garth, "We should have told Erik to look for holy places."
"Most of the villages are on the south bank, for reasons of defense. There will be few churches on the north bank."
"We've seen enough," Graham whispered, "And I don't like that there are pickets posted on our bank. If they spot us then an ambush will be impossible."
The four men made their way up the steep slopes behind them, keeping to the gulleys and to cover. Once they had crested the ridge they stopped and looked back down at the inky blackness that was the river. Now they could see an occasional fire which marked the small camp of boatmen beside the barges and the large army camp beyond it. They waited there until first light to get their bearings. They were back to the large bend in the river at Gaillord.
The rest of the wolfpack found them there. They had been keeping abreast of the army's progress but behind the ridge. Some scouts were with them carrying a rough map and messages from Erik.
"This bend below us," one scout explained, "was the only place we found where the barges will be forced over to our bank. It is such a long and narrow loop in the river, that the center of the loop is marshy land. The army will cut across the end of it, but the barges must go all the way around.
Yesterday we watched a small barge go around the loop, and even they had to stick to our side. Their tow horses walked in the shallows of a huge gravel bar. They keep to our side for about three miles, until the top of the loop, and then they crossed back. The steep hillside ends at the top of the loop and another river with a long valley joins in. There is a village upstream in that valley, but it is deserted."
"Is there a church?" Graham asked.
The two scouts looked at each other and each shrugged. "No church, but there is a huge wooden cross on the top of the ridge where it turns up the side valley."
Graham looked at Raynar with a face full of questions, well, one question. Raynar nodded. They would try to set up an ambush.
* * * * *
"Remember," Graham told the sixteen bowmen, "the big fat man is the main target. No one must be seen, no one must loose an arrow, until the fat old man is a sure target." They were fifty feet up the steep slope from the river, hiding in a cut formed by an ancient cartway. Centuries ago some road-maker had dug the road bed out of the hillside so that the grade was not as steep. High above them on the top of the ridge was the giant wooden cross.
Only Graham was watching, with his young eyes. "Relax, the current is strong and the horses are straining. You still have time to poison your arrows."
They had raced to get here and in position before the barges approached, and they were hot and sweating despite the early hour and the cool mist rising from the river. Some men were passing around a vial containing the sticky sap of the monkshood plant and dipping their points into it. Others were laying bets on whose point would hit the fat man first.
As the minutes passed, a deathly silence fell over the men. Graham kept whispering the progress of the barges. "The lead barge carrying the nobs is directly below us now. They are on deck on their knees praying to the cross, and they are not in armour." He motioned to the ten men furthest from him. "They are yours, but only once my point is on it's way to the fat man. Kill them all."
There were whispers of agreement from every lip. This was it. This was their chance to revenge their villages on the very men who had commanded that such Danelaw villages be savaged.
"The royal barge is in range .... no, stay down. I can't see the fat man." Graham was now mumbling towards the barge, "Come on you Bastard. Come out and pray to your dessert god. The flap of the tent is opening. Shit, it's just the son. The one with the red face. He isn't even praying. He's taking a leak."
Graham now had to shift positions to that he could keep the barge in sight. "Come on, damn you. Show yourself." He glanced along the row of bowmen. Each man was an expert with a Welsh style longbow. Each man was squatting low with their best arrow knocked and half drawn. Each man was ready to stand tall, draw the arrow to the full, and loose. He wanted to weep. Instead he said, "The fat man didn't show himself. His barge is out of range."
"He must be ill," Raynar suggested. "What else could keep him inside the marquee when everyone else was praying?"
"Something fatal I hope," hissed Gord. He could just see the bow of the lead barge coming into view at the top of the loop in the river. "Fuck, now what?"
Graham shrugged. "We race ahead and find a better place for an ambush." He sat down and sighed. They couldn't move from here for another hour else they would risk being seen. Then they had to cross the next open valley before they could run along behind the next ridge towards the east. He stood again and let loose with a piercing imitation of an eagles call, and then three more. The signal for the four men guarding their horses to start moving them down from the high country and across the next valley.
* * * * *
It didn't matter that this wasn't the best of places to ambush the barges. It was good enough, and it was the last place before the army reached the fortress town of Mantes. Mantes had to be taken before the army could continue. It no longer mattered if the army was warned of possible ambushes, so this time they would loose arrows for sure. Even if they could not target the fat man, they would hit other targets. Other leaders. Other Norman nobs.
They were all perched on a small hill of an island at the north end of the last full loop of the Seine before the river straightened to go through Mantes. In truth, in this summer drought it was no longer an island, for the channel between it and the north bank was dry. The island was new because you could still see that it had been a land slip down the steep north slope of the valley.
The next island west must have been formed by a land slip too, but it was much older and flatter, and contained a row of giant willow trees. It had been their original choice, but when one of the youngest, lightest men climbed a willow to see if he could loose arrows from it, he discovered a problem. Though the cover that the thick foliage gave him was excellent, it was too excellent. He could not swing his bow freely to make shots.
On this, the second island they would have to keep their heads low until the barges were in front of them, and then run up to stand on the top of the mound to loose their arrows. That put the arrows about thirty feet above the water level, which meant that the gunnels of the barges would not block their shots.
While they waited, Erik and his scouts found them and made their report. Yes there was a faster army, a mounted army, which they had tracked far enough to know that they were riding around Mantes without stopping.
"They will be going to block the Paris highway," Raynar interrupted, and everyone looked down at their own personal, but muchly simplified copies of Raynar's more detailed map of the Vexin. When they had joined Raynar’s company he had insisted that they carry the map and a purse of his silver, so that if they were ever separated, they would have some chance of reaching safety in Flanders.
"That means that Mantes is on their own," Erik pointed out. "Help cannot reach them."
"Did you get close enough to the town to see what was happening there?"
"Close enough to see throngs of folk heading towards the town," Erik replied. "The villages and fields all around are empty of folk. That is where the grapes came from." For the last few minutes everyone had been munching down on freshly picked grapes. Still not quite ripe, so tart, but delicious just the same when sitting in hot dust.
Graham was keeping watch. He called down to them, "First barge in sight. Second barge right behind it. Still no s
ign of the third or forth. These two should reach us by noon."
The advantage of this full and long loop in the river were the marshes on the other side, the inside of the loop. The army would bypass the loop completely, so there will be no reinforcements for the guard that traveled with the barges. Not only that, but it was such a long loop that it would put the barges hours behind the army.
Graham called down softly, "The marquees all have their side walls rolled up and tied off to allow the cool air in. The nobs are all sitting in the shade of the roofs." He was silent for a few moments, and then his voice called again with more urgency. "I see the fat man. Now, everyone, up, now, kill the Bastard."
Almost as one, the twenty five men raced up the short slope to gain the top. Almost immediately they were scanning the two barges for targets. Almost as one they loosed a dozen arrows at the lead barge and a dozen at the royal barge. The range was two hundred paces, so most of the first arrows did not hit their intended targets. That was to be expected. The second arrows would do more damage.
The second arrows were in the air as the sleepy noon time barges came alive with moving men, none of them wearing armour. Sitting ducks. Except they weren't sitting, they were diving for cover, or for their shields, or to the far side of the barge. Almost all of the intended targets had moved, randomly moved, before the second arrows reached them. And then disaster. Some smart ass servants at each marquee cut the ties that were holding the rolled up walls in place, and the walls dropped down.
"Fuck," yelled Graham. "I can't see. Did anyone put an arrow into the fat man? Did anyone put an arrow into any of them?" A few of the men replied with an aye. "Killing shots?" There were a few maybes. "Fuck."
"Mounted scouts," came a call from the end of the line of men. "Swimming the river. They'll be on us in minutes."
"Let's get out of here," Raynar called out, but it was a waste of breathe saying the obvious. Their heavy arrows were too precious to be wasted on mere scouts. Everyone was running towards the five men who were holding the horses out of sight in the dried up channel. If they ran for it now, while the scouts were still swimming the river, they would get away with no problem.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - The Second Invasion by Skye Smith
Chapter 25 - The Harrowing of Mantes in August 1087
The wolfpack had stayed north of the river and on the north side of the ridge along the river. Before night they had found a good hide on the north side of the last ridge closest to Mantes. They were less than a mile from the town wall that faced the river. They could clearly see the string of islands that split the river into two equal channels.
Downstream from the town, the south bank was a marshy wetland. Beyond that, and all around the town there were miles and miles of rich farmland covered with vineyards and orchards. The Norman infantry, thousands and thousands of them were in those fields feeding on the fruits. The wolfpack decided to keep to their hide and get a good night's sleep.
The watch woke them up before midnight to go to the ridge and have a look see. When they reached the ridge and looked out, there were many guttural curses yelled to the fates. The entire countryside was alight. Every field had been tinder dry. Grain was harvest ready, vine leaves crisp, the grass between the orchard trees long and brown. Now it was all burning.
The Danelaw hoodsmen were no strangers to harrowing. Since the Great Harrowing of '70 that had turned it into an empty wasteland, the Danelaw had been harrowed twice more. Once by Odo in '80, and then just last year by this very same Norman army.
"We've failed," Ray moaned in guilt. "The Conqueror still lives and we have angered him. All we did was poke a hornet's nest."
"Ray," Graham spoke out. "You'll never beat him. You always play it too safe. You fight from a distance with your bow, and always plan your retreat as the first step. He is a king. He makes the rules, makes everyone follow them, and then ignores his own rules for his own advantage. If you want to beat him then you must be like him, and ignore his rules."
A wave of nausea made Raynar feel dizzy. He knew where this talk was leading. The men had lost confidence in him and were about to take a vote on a new wolfshead. He took a deep breath, and soothed his pride telling himself that it was for the best. How could a man with as much to lose as he did, lead a pack of men who had absolutely nothing to lose. "I nominate Graham as wolfshead," he said in a shaky voice. "Does anyone else want to nominate someone?"
"I nominate Erik," said Graham. There were no more nominations. There was hardly a need for a vote. By his own words, Raynar had made it clear that he was willing to follow whomever they chose. By Graham's own words he had made it clear that he did not want to be the wolfshead. The vote was unanimous for Erik. Now they needed a second. Perhaps out of respect they chose Raynar. The two men switched their scarves of authority in silence.
For hours and hours they watched the countryside burn all around them, and luckily they were high enough on this ridge to be out of the smoke, but they could still smell it. Erik was thoughtful. "Ray, what will the army do next?"
"Lay a siege. The townsfolk will fear that the army is after loot and rape, so they will defend their gates to the death. If they are wise they will hide behind their walls and not ride out to challenge such a large army. The Conqueror doesn't need to take this fortress, just trap it. He will leave a thousand of his lesser men here to keep the garrison trapped behind their own walls, and meanwhile he will continue the march to Paris."
"So it was a mistake then to harrow the farms," Erik observed, "He could have fed his own army with the crops that were burned."
"He is trying to frighten the fortress into surrendering. You know, the usual Norman threat. Surrender else there will be no quarter when we eventually beat you."
The men all around him nodded in agreement. For years they had lived under the Norman law that stated than any Norman life was worth ten English lives. Make trouble for the Normans, and they slaughtered your village. There was a flaw in that Norman tactic, however. If any strong men escaped the slaughter, they became uncontrollable, and would fight to the death. Around Raynar sat thirty such uncontrollable men.
"Time to change the watch and go back to sleep," Erik called out. "We must wait to see what the morning brings."
* * * * *
"Those effing French fools," Raynar hissed as he, and the others, watched what was happening down at the town. "They've opened the fortress gate." Sure enough, now a long troop of cavalry was filing out of the fortress gate. "What are they thinking?"
It was Graham who answered him, with the only logical explanation. "They think that this is just another Norman border raid. They are sallying forth to check on the damage and to chase the raiders away. They don't have any idea how big this army is. How is that possible?"
"Remember, when we returned from scouting," Erik replied, "I told you I trailed cavalry that were circling the town to block the Paris road. The fortress has been cut off from couriers."
"Aye, and there they are," Raynar yelled out pointing to the far side of the fortress. "The Norman cavalry you trailed are no longer blocking the Paris road. They are charging along the fortress wall from the Paris side. If the Mantes column don't get back to their gate soon, they'll be cut off from the fortress."
As they watched from their high perch on the ridge, Raynar’s words come true. The fortress slammed their gate shut, stranding their own riders outside of it, who then raced ahead of the Norman cavalry in an attempt to reach the town gate. In what seemed at first to be great good luck for the fleeing men, the gatekeepers at the town gate saw the danger they were in and opened the gate to let them ride into the town and to safety.
That good luck immediately turned sour. The Norman cavalry were right on the tails of the French, and they used their horses to block the town gate from closing. A fierce fight began between men trying to close, and men trying to keep open the town gate. The defenders seemed like they might win for a few momen
ts and the gate was slowly swinging shut. Unfortunately the Norman infantry had been watching and were now racing forward to secure the gate. The defenders were lost in a wave of running warriors, and the gate was lost to them, and therefore, so was the town.
Hand to hand fighting in the narrow lanes of walled towns was a job for the infantry not the cavalry. The Norman cavalry withdrew to make room for the stream of infantry that was now running towards the open gate in hopes of being first to the houses of the rich burghers. First to the loot and first to the fancy women.
Raynar's heart sobbed for the town folk. He had seen wealthy towns being sacked before, and now he explained it to these country men who knew only villages. "The infantry will break into small groups and go from house to house. They will slaughter anyone who blocks them from reaching the richest of the shops and houses. Once inside a house they will loot it of everything of value. Hiding the wealth will not stop them because they will kill the children one by one, or torture the women one by one, until the men show them to their treasure."
"And then what?" Erik asked. "Once they have the treasure."
"Don't ask," Raynar replied not wanting to think about the horror upon horror that would now be weighing down the souls of those townsfolk.
"Oye, looky at what I see," Graham was pointing down onto the plain beyond the marshland downstream from the town. It was the Royal party, now mounted, and riding towards the town to meet with the Norman cavalry that had kept the gate open. "What's that all about?"
Raynar took a look, sighed, and then explained, "Sacking the town is the work of infantry. Mopping up those folk who have escaped the town is the work of the cavalry. It's the kind of work the cavalry like the best, ... charging through fleeing women and children and carving them up. All of the nobility and royals will join in with the cavalry because it is the safest way of bloodying their swords in battle."