Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  Dripping some of the water onto his face, Casca waited for him to come round. He held the point of the weapon right under his right eye. “Just so you understand, you’re already dead. But how you die is up to you. I want names. I want to know where I can find them. I want to know where I can find Lesalles.”

  At the name, the victim started and stared at Casca. Suddenly it was clear who Casca was. The man made muffled noises, eyes staring at him wildly. Casca understood, and grinned mirthlessly. “Yeah, you thought I’d been killed. No chance, you bungled it. Now I’m on your back and I’m worse than Satan. Now, who were the others, and where can I find Lesalles?”

  The man made a series of muffled noises and rolled his eyes. Casca pulled him up to his knees and went to loosen the gag, but as he did so the man lunged forward. What he had been intending to do Casca never found out, for he sank onto the point of the dagger and it speared through his throat. Hot blood spurted out all over Casca’s hand and he swore, holding the wild-eyed victim as he thrashed in pain.

  It was over in moments. The bound man fell sideways, off the bloodied blade, and hit the floor with a soft thud. Casca was left crouching, his right hand covered in blood, the dagger glistening in the candlelight. “Damn!” Casca said and checked the body. He was stone dead. Whether he’d deliberately killed himself or had been trying to somehow overpower his captor he didn’t know, but it was too late for anything.

  He wiped the dagger on the corpse’s clothing and searched him. Nothing of note. He then hauled open the cupboard and stood there surprised. A full set of man-at-arms clothing and armor dominated the space. Resting underneath was a sack and a pair of leather shoes, and a steel helm with the nasal guard. Casca pulled it all out and looked for any weaponry, but none were there. Disappointed, he checked the clothing. The clothing, thick cloth and linen, was too small for him. The shoes though fitted. His feet were almost the same size as the dead man, so he put them on. The sack contained extra clothes, none of which fitted him very well. He left those.

  The chainmail armor was well made; thousands of tiny links riveted together. The arms were just past the elbow mark, and the length looked like it would go down as far as the thigh. Pretty good stuff. Heavy, but good. Casca shrugged into it and pulled it down to his thighs. It fitted reasonably well, so it hadn’t been made to order, thankfully. The helm fitted too. Now he had a problem; he couldn’t walk past the patrons of the tavern holding or even wearing this stuff. He opened the window and peered down. It was dark but he could make out hay piled up for the horses in the back yard.

  Without waiting to think it over, he threw out the helm and chainmail and saw it sink into the hay. Satisfied, he then dragged the body up and through the window opening and watched the corpse land amongst the hay too, then he shut the window and hastily left the room.

  He found the way to the rear and retrieved the armor and helm, and covered the body as best he could. Then he made his way back to the workshop, swiftly crossing the street when he saw nobody coming, and hid the stuff in a corner that Lewis hardly ever used.

  Now he had to find Lesalles and get the names of the others who’d burned his farm and killed his people.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Lesalles lives in the citadel across the river,” Lewis told him the next day, “and is not someone who you can just go up to and speak with. Why are you so keen to meet the man? He’s nothing but a rapacious rent collector. Why the Duke tolerates him I don’t know, but Lesalles isn’t the most popular guy in town. Fortunately I don’t pay my rent to him!”

  “So who does?” Casca asked, pausing in the process of nailing cured leather to a wooden sole. Lewis had him making a pair of shoes for a reasonably well to do client.

  “Who? Some of the merchants by the river, and plenty of shopkeepers within the inner city. Some farms outside the town walls, but I don’t have the full list on me. I must have dropped it. Now get on with those shoes! He’s coming at midday to collect them. I’m paying you to make them, not to discuss rent collectors.”

  Casca grinned and bent to his task. It was useful work, learning how to make leather items. He was slowly assembling a nice set of clothes and items of equipment. Once he had gotten enough he’d say his farewell to Lewis and move on. There were times when he focused his life on some task, like getting his own back on killers. It was at these times he felt he had a purpose, some kind of cause to live. But there were too many times when he just drifted along, sinking into a melancholy state. He thought too damn much. It got him down.

  He needed a task, a mission. Other times in his past he’d had them, and those were the times he enjoyed the most, even if it was to mete out vengeance. He stood back and eyed the shoe, resting upside down on the wooden stand. He had to admit he did feel alive the most when part of an army or movement, marching to campaign or war. But too much of that sickened his stomach, and then he’d drift away to a life of peace and quiet, until again war called him.

  His recent life had been a perfect example of that; he’d come with the Magyars into Europe and settled with them in the plains of the Tisza and Danube, and gone raiding with them. He’d mixed home life with the raids, but he’d gotten tired of the constant plundering and burning – it wasn’t true war. He’d left for the rich glittering domes of Constantinople and joined the Varangian Guard, the elite corps of Byzantium. Here there were plenty of wars guaranteed and the long struggle with the Bulgars had sated his need. Then again he’d gotten weary of it and left for a life of wandering and adventuring throughout Europe for forty-fifty years.

  Finally he’d settled down on the farm with the French woman and the retainers, until the raiders had come. All for an argument over rent. Casca breathed in deeply through his nose. The senselessness of it ate at him. Lesalles had almost certainly ordered it or had been deeply involved in some way. And he’d been cut down from behind, the act of a coward. That made it personal. Nobody did that and got away with it.

  “Finished.” He lifted the shoe and placed it next to the other he’d made the day before. Lewis came over and inspected them by the light of the fire, and nodded in satisfaction. “Not bad. We’ll make a leather worker out of you yet!”

  Casca shook his head. “I’m a soldier, look at my hands. Look at my build. Look at my face!” He pointed to the scar. “I’m just broke. I need to buy weapons. I’m thinking of joining William the Bastard’s army for the invasion of England.”

  Lewis sighed. He knew that would be Casca’s preferred calling. He’d known it all along. “At least I’m teaching you a decent trade. And you’re right in saying you’ve done a little of this before. I can tell.”

  “I won’t miss the dog shit.”

  They both laughed at that.

  A little while later Casca noticed a couple enter the workshop. One was the fat man who’d ordered the shoes, the other a slim, dark haired girl of around sixteen or seventeen, her hair long down her back, a cream dress held up daintily by her off the muddy ground. She looked quite pretty, large dark eyes and smooth skin, and nice full lips. Despite himself, Casca eyed her hungrily. The farm had been good for him, and the rest he’d gained in the seven or so years had healed his soul, but something had been missing in his life. There had been no intimate relationship. The farm had been the property of a widow who’d taken him in one autumn day.

  Casca remembered the widow. She’d needed a man, but she was cold. There’d been no love, no affection. Just sex. Not that he had complained, but it had been odd the day after wild screaming lust the night before to be told to milk the goats or mend the fence and no warmth in her voice or face. Then she had died of some particularly virulent illness that had swept through Normandy the second winter.

  Still, he missed her, if only for the nights. Her death had been a waste. But here he felt a longing for a woman to show him some affection, if only for a while. His soul – his ego - needed it. Maybe she would? He sighed and looked away. She was just out of childhood. Probably already marked for a marriage to
someone by her father. Nothing to do with him.

  “Ah, Roland, welcome. And this is your daughter, the lady…?” Lewis fawned. No doubt the commission would be good, judging by the depth of the bow. Casca was irritated suddenly by the whole act of subservience. Lewis was a good man, a hard working skilled leather worker, and this fat slob was probably one who paid others to do the hard work while he reeled in the profits. Casca was almost sorry the moment he thought of it; the man, Roland, was probably nothing of the sort.

  “Aveline,” Roland proudly announced, turning to the young girl and beaming. The apple of his eye. Casca looked at her again and his eyes devoured her figure and her firm if slight breasts. He almost leered down at her hips that were not quite full, but well on the way to being so, and her long legs, imagined under the folds of her dress. He only just stopped growling with pleasure.

  “A pleasure, Lady Aveline.” Lewis bowed again. He turned to Casca who swiftly looked back to Roland, his eyes becoming more neutral. “This is my assistant, Casca. He has your shoes ready.”

  “Indeed?” Roland studied Casca for a moment, noting the strong arms, thick torso, scarred face, dark short hair and stubbled face. He then looked at the goods on the shelves behind him, dismissing him as no one of consequence. Aveline looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, then she looked away haughtily. Casca sighed. He’d just been put into the same category as dog shit.

  “The shoes,” Lewis reminded Casca.

  “Ah, yes.” Casca decided to adopt the guise of a dim-witted hired hand. “The shoes I’ve made this morning.” He picked them up and handed them to Roland who critically examined them. He slowly wandered back to the doorway and held them up in daylight and pursed his lips. “Good, good. Yes, Lewis, a fine pair. I shall pay you as agreed, and I shall pass on to my associates the quality of your work.”

  Aveline followed her father and Casca caught sight of her ass swaying and he felt his heart begin to race. Hold on, fellah, slow down! God but she was desirable. He wondered who the lucky bastard was who was earmarked to marry her. Lewis was paid and the two left, again thanking Lewis but Casca was ignored, except for one fleeting moment when Aveline looked at him, then tossed her head and pointedly looked away.

  Casca watched them leave, standing behind Lewis, then nodded at the fat man. “Who is he?”

  “A merchant. One of the men recently arrived to deal with the supplies to the growing army. He sells small iron and metal items, like buckles, clasps, even daggers. Made a name for himself already in Caen. Seems to do well for himself. Didn’t know he had a daughter, though. Must have set up home somewhere here.”

  “Hmm.” Casca turned back into the shop. He might have to find out where. Not that Aveline seemed to want him anywhere near, but he would like to see her again.

  The next few days went quickly. Casca got enough coin in his pocket to wander across the river into the center of Caen, next to the citadel, and spent a little time pacing along the narrow, cobbled streets, looking up at the white colored stone walls of the castle. The stone around these parts was excessively pale and caught the sunlight beautifully. No wonder they liked to build with it.

  There were more soldiers here and Casca also checked them out. Most had swords, and virtually all had the kite-shaped shields that were all the rage these days. Gone were the round shields of the last few centuries. Fashions being what they were, no doubt in time these would go, but what would replace them? The helmets were almost all of the conical type with the nasal guard, and the main armor was the knee-length chainmail.

  The rough, raw accents of the Normans was still new to his ears. He’d spoken French on the farm. The woman had been French-French, rather than Norman-French. The Normans were still looked on as outsiders by the French, recent imports from Scandinavia who’d adopted the local language. They still spoke it, as someone had once said to him, like foreign peasants chewing gravel. But they were tough, rough bastards, and took no nonsense from anyone. Recently he’d heard a few had gone down to southern Italy and Sicily and were carving out land for themselves there.

  The Viking blood still ran through their veins and traces of Nordic blood could still be seen, in the blue eyes and fair hair of a few.

  He wandered to the market and through it, listening. Gossip was gossip and he may pick a few things up of use. Talk was of the coming invasion, and more than a few traders were hoping it’d come sooner rather than later. The number of soldiers was becoming a problem, it seemed. Some traders were being hit hard, either by other traders suddenly arriving from the countryside, or by the fact not much was being spent on their products while much was being bought from those who supplied military goods.

  He examined the swordsmith’s wares and liked a few of what he saw, but he hadn’t enough coin to buy any. Still, it gave him a figure to keep in mind.

  Three men came marching through, all scowling and mean looking. They looked to be on a mission and Casca, intrigued, tagged along behind. He followed them almost to the castle entrance. They stopped in front of another soldier who had been standing on guard by the gatehouse. Casca pretended to have a stone in his shoe and sat by the side of the street shaking his shoe and peering into it, while listening to what they had to say.

  “He’s dead! Stabbed through the throat! Killed in Hrodbehrt’s! Nobody saw who did it, but his stuff’s been taken. Dumped out the back in the hay! Only found this morning when they moved it. Look like he’s been there a few days.”

  Casca’s ears pricked up. The guard looked shocked and asked for more details. The others shrugged. “Nothing much else to say. Must’ve been killed for his armor. Stupid swine should have been more careful. I did warn him to keep his stuff in the castle but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “So what do we do? Who tells Lesalles? He was his favorite enforcer.”

  “Shit. You’re on guard duty, so you’re lucky. It looks like it’ll have to be me.”

  “You’re the most senior of us anyway, Roger. It should be your responsibility. Maybe you’ll become the senior enforcer?” the guard said.

  “Yeah,” Roger said. Then he turned and saw Casca still fiddling with his shoe. “Hey, you. Fuck off. This is the Duke’s property and he doesn’t want trash hanging round outside making the place look untidy.”

  “You talking to me?” Casca put the shoe on and stood up. He flexed his arms. The four men suddenly snapped into an aggressive stance and hands moved to swords. Four men. Four men who knew the dead man and who all worked for Lesalles. Casca was certain these four were the men he was after. He looked at each closely, making sure he’d recognize them again.

  “Yeah, I am. You want to end up in the river chopped to bits?” Roger stepped forward, his jaw jutting forward.

  “Brave man. I’m unarmed.”

  “Don’t worry me one fucking bit. Now piss off or I’m going to slice you up like roast hog.”

  Casca eyed him for a moment, his grey-blue eyes boring into the Norman’s. Roger hesitated. Something in the man’s eyes told him to be wary. Then Casca grunted. “If I had a sword in my hand I’d teach you something about using one.”

  “Well, you haven’t and I’m not going to let you have one. You might cut yourself.” The others laughed.

  Casca snorted. “Okay, you get your way. But next time I might not be this generous. Especially if I have a sword in my hand.” He left, followed by cat-calls. Casca felt rage build up inside. If he’d had a sword he’d’ve filleted Roger. And probably his pals too. But then the garrison would have come thundering out and kicked his sad ass into the river. He may be damned good with a sword, but not that good. He may be a former Roman gladiator and legionary, and have centuries of combat experience, but there’s only so far his phenomenal strength and abilities could go.

  On the positive side, he’d now spotted and recognized the four men he was after.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Casca was torn between spending his hard earned wages on getting drunk and loose women,
and in saving it for a sword. His thoughts about Aveline didn’t help; and he soon found out where she and her father lived, close to the big church in the north of the central area. His excuse to Lewis in spending more time in the market area was to find out both the price of the competitors and the cost of purchasing the raw materials they needed to make more goods.

  It took another week before Casca finally had enough. He bade Lewis farewell and left the leather worker a disappointed man, and made his way into the main part of Caen, dressed in his armor and helm. He asked the way to the local recruiting officer and was pointed to a man standing in the corner of the square.

  He was a wide-bodied man, ruddy cheeked, bearded and wore a red surcoat over his mail armor. Casca went right up to him and looked at the limply hanging flag stuck to the pole he was holding. The flag seemed to depict some sort of mythical creature in black. “Yes, my good man?” the man asked, looking at Casca with interest.

  “I’d like to join the army.”

  “You got a sword?” the recruiter asked, looking at the bare belt.

  “No.”

  “Very well. You’ll have to go get one from the armory and pay the Duke back from your pay. You done fighting before?”

  “Some.”

  The recruiter waved a subordinate over. “You look strong enough. There’ll be a bit of basic practice under my eye to see how good you are, then we’ll get you on the payroll. You got anywhere to stay in Caen?”

  Casca shook his head. As far as he was concerned the leather workshop was not a place to return to. It had served its purpose, now the time had come to move on. He was now close to the four killers and Lesalles, and staying in this quarter of Caen was better to keep a look out for them all.