Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  “There’s an inn we use for temporary stays, but you’d better make some enquiries for rooms hereabouts; prices are steep because of most being taken up, but some other people have let a room to make some money while the army is here. We won’t be here much longer though, we’re off to the port of Dives fairly soon. Ships are waiting for us there. You get seasick?”

  “No.”

  “Oh? Sounds like you been at sea before.”

  “Yeah, Mediterranean. Mercenary guard on merchant ships.”

  The recruiter snapped his fingers and grinned. “You’re from the Mediterranean coastal area, aren’t you? Didn’t think your accent was local. And you look darker skinned than most of the natives here.”

  “You got it.” Casca grinned back, best to let the man think that than ask any more awkward questions. The underling waited patiently until the recruiter nodded and Casca followed the younger man to the big armory off to one side of the castle. Swords and other weapons were being made at the rows of forges, and the constant beating of hammers on metal filled the narrow streets. The glow of the fires lit up the entire street and the smell of burning coal, oil and a number of other unidentifiable things hit Casca as he made his way towards the stone building alongside the forges.

  Hissing metal being quenched began, then ended abruptly. Two guards allowed them past and Casca was led to a room guarded by more stern looking soldiers and a clerk. Row upon row of spears, crossbows, bows, swords and sheaves of arrows stood in racks against three of the four walls. Other free-standing racks held more weapons in the center of the room.

  The clerk asked what to Casca seemed damned stupid questions so Casca kept it simple. Eventually he was handed a sword from the rack and his inventory was marked, so that the cost of the sword would be deducted from his pay. “You’ll be part of Walter Giffard’s retinue. He has a hundred knights and needs a few more infantrymen to flesh out his numbers. You’ll be shown where you are to muster once the word is given, and what standard to look out for.”

  Casca thought the whole thing was being well organized. He was shown the way to Walter Giffard’s nearest sergeant, a tough looking man by the name of Robert, standing in a small field behind a row of houses. He appraised the newcomer shrewdly. Robert was shorter than Casca by a hand’s width and almost as wide. His nose was broken and his eyes peered out underneath a pair of thick black eyebrows. “You’ve done some fighting.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Some. The recruiting officer said he’d test me.”

  “I can do that. We won’t wait for him.” Robert’s voice betrayed a lack of respect for the recruiter. “By the time he gets out of the nearest inn it’ll be daybreak tomorrow.”

  Robert waved Casca to back off to the other side of the small field while he drew his sword. A couple of Norman soldiers leaned on their shields and looked half interested at the test. They’d been through it themselves and seen it all before. “Okay, the idea isn’t to draw blood, but to block and force an opening. I’ll soon see how good you are.”

  Robert spoke in a bored tone; he’d done a lot of this recently. Casca breathed in deeply and felt the hilt of his sword in his hand. It had been a few years since he’d last used a sword, and the familiarity sent a thrill through him.

  The sergeant struck hard, but predictably for his head, and Casca blocked it easily enough. He stepped forward and swept his own blade at waist height, causing Robert to jump back. The sergeant was bringing his blade back for a strike of his own when Casca stepped forward again and with a backhand slash cut down at the man’s head. Robert hastily flung his blade up to block, and was off balance.

  Casca went for the kill. He swept again in from the right, the shield side of his opponent, and Robert backed off again. This time he came up against the fence and blocked the blow desperately. Casca pressed forward mercilessly, slashing down for the chest. Robert gritted his teeth and only just deflected it aside. “Okay, okay, enough!”

  Casca stepped back and flexed his arms, pleased he hadn’t lost much of his edge. He’d need to practice a bit to get used to the Norman blade, but it wouldn’t take long. “Good enough?”

  “Yeah,” Robert said slowly, eyeing him very carefully. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “Mercenary work down south. Spain, the coast.”

  Robert grunted. “With skill like that you ought to be a noble’s guard. Ever thought of being a squad leader?”

  “Done some.” Casca slipped his sword into the scabbard.

  Robert nodded to himself. He’d guessed right. This man was something special, much better than the usual types he had. “Where you staying?”

  “Nowhere. You got somewhere to recommend?”

  “The Black Horse, next street over, by the river. Ask for Gerald. Tell him I sent you. And from now on, you follow my orders. I get them from the captain, and he gets them from Walter Giffard himself. You understand?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Casca was pleased he’d impressed the tough looking man, and gotten directions where to stay. Once more he was part of an army; it felt good. The Black Horse was a rambling, wooden building with lathe and plaster walls that bent and leaned in every conceivable direction and had that seedy, dirty look that Casca knew all too well. Perfect for someone like him. There wouldn’t be anyone there who was the sensitive type and if he needed to hit someone then it was probably because they deserved it.

  His room was a bare, tiny space. Obviously he was expected to provide his own furnishings. With no other possessions than the clothing he was in and the chainmail hauberk and iron helmet he wore, and the sword and shield he carried, the prospect of lying on a warped, hard floorboard was likely.

  Sounds of other occupants of the building came to him as he stood in the center of the room. Someone was shouting on the ground floor, possibly the landlord. The low hubbub of two people talking on one side was just audible, and the unmistakable noise of a wench being laid rather aggressively the other side came to him too. He put the shield down in one corner and went back out.

  It was past midday and he felt hungry. He bought an overpriced loaf of bread and chewed on it, thinking. He needed to isolate one of the four remaining hirelings and get access to Lesalles. That would be the tough bit. He decided to sit by the side of the road that passed the entrance to the castle and wait and see if any of them passed by. He was far enough away not to be noticeable, and close enough to see those who came out and came his way. Tough luck if they went the other, towards the north gate.

  Some of those who passed gave him a curious look but Casca glared at them and they hurried on. Many were townsfolk who wished to God that these uncouth and rude soldiers would hurry up and go. The town had suffered their presence for long enough, and although some of the traders were rubbing their hands, the soldiers were getting bored and fractious, and fights were breaking out.

  Casca spent some of the time examining his sword. After all, it would maybe save him in a fight. It was four feet in length and double-edged. The handle was of wood covered in leather and the pommel was a solid lump of iron shaped in a rough oval. The scabbard was a typical wooden type, lined with wool and covered in leather.

  One of the people who emerged from the castle he recognized, but it wasn’t any of the four warriors he had an issue with. It was the large merchant Roland. His daughter was not with him. Casca stood up and stepped in his way. Roland looked alarmed for a moment, but Casca removed his helm and greeted him. “Remember me? The leather workshop. Your shoes.”

  “Ah.” Roland visibly relaxed. “Yes, the fellow with the scar. You’re a soldier now? You certainly do get around! Whom do you look to?”

  Casca frowned for a second. Then he realized the merchant must mean who was his paymaster. “It’s Walter Giffard.”

  “Really? I’ve been asked to supply him with a number of belt buckles. It seems he was let down by one of my competitors!” The merchant chuckled. Then he cleared his throat. “I really must be on my way; such ur
gent business to attend to.”

  Casca stepped aside and watched him go. Then he caught sight of shadows ahead waiting in an alley. Roland was going to pass right by them and from their looks they were going to grab him and relieve him of whatever he had. The street was dark and overhung by leaning buildings and only a few passers-by hurried through. Clearly they were waiting for an opportunity and the fat trader was one too good to miss.

  Casca gripped his sword and rushed forward, using the nearside buildings as cover. Roland had just reached the alley entrance and arms snaked out to grab him. He cried out but a hand clamped down on his mouth and he was pulled out of sight. Casca got there seconds later and barreled into the narrow passageway that stank of refuse and sewage. The trader was down on his knees and one of the thieves, the nearest one, had a sharp and very pointed dagger in his fist and was about to jam it through the unlucky man’s throat.

  Casca’s sword slashed down and took the thief across the neck, cutting in deep and opening out the jugular. The blade, propelled by anger, desperation and exultation, carried on its journey through the thief’s body, severing the shoulder muscles and splintering the clavicle and a couple of ribs. Blood sprayed out, covering the alley wall behind him and a splash fell across Casca’s chest and face.

  He wiped it away with his left hand and stepped across the falling body. The sound of the knife hitting the alley dirt floor was almost lost against the sound of the death throes of the mugger. He fell face down across the shocked Roland. The second thief was still gaping in shock at the fate of his comrade, so Casca stepped forward and jabbed hard with the sword, sinking it deep into the gut. He groaned deep and folded over the four foot length of steel, and slipped slowly backwards to the ground.

  Casca twisted the sword out and stood there, breathing a little harder than normal, eyeing the two dying men. He then looked at Roland who was staring at his attackers, then he looked up at the proffered hand from his savior. “You are unhurt?” Casca asked, his voice deep but reassuring.

  “Y-Yes, thank you!” Roland grabbed the hand and awkwardly got to his feet, brushing himself down. He looked again at the dying men. “Who were they?”

  “Dregs of society. Those who prey on the defenseless and unsuspecting. They deserved to die.” Casca wiped his blade and looked at the blood on his hauberk and pulled a face. That would have to be cleaned. “Lucky for you I was around. A merchant like you ought to have a bodyguard, especially at times like this when money is abundant and lots of strangers are in town. Nobody knows their neighbor.”

  Roland guided Casca back out into the street and looked at the tough warrior. “As you’ve saved my life I’d be happy for you to act as my bodyguard from now on.”

  Casca grinned. “I’d love to, but I’m on the payroll of Giffard. I’m to leave Caen shortly.”

  “I know. I’m to accompany the army to Dives, and then across to England. I’ve secured a lucrative contract with a certain member of the Duke’s Council, and I’ve been asked me to come to England and set up business there once things have been secured.” He meant, Casca realized, once the fighting had been finished with and one army or the other destroyed. “You will still be with Walter’s retinue but I’ll be ah – borrowing – you for a while.” The merchant smiled and folded his hands across his considerable paunch. “Do we have a deal?”

  Casca looked doubtful. “I’ve been instructed to answer to my sergeant, who answers to his captain, who answers to Walter Giffard. I can’t just become your bodyguard without permission.”

  Roland smiled. “Don’t worry; I can arrange that sort of thing without any problem.”

  Casca thought it over for a few seconds. The chance of getting closer to Aveline was too tempting to miss. He’d be getting paid for it too. And he’d still be able to seek out Lesalles, and who knows, perhaps being a bodyguard could open a few more doors for him? Roland had come from the castle, after all. “Yes, why not? I’ll be a good bodyguard for you and your daughter.”

  Roland raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. She’s alone in her room at the moment. With you as a protector, she’ll be free to visit the market while I’m busy with the accounts! Agreed. I shall inform the payroll clerk tomorrow. Are you staying at the Black Horse?”

  Casca said he was. Roland snorted. The inn was notorious, even the merchant had heard of its reputation. He got Casca to pick up his belongings, such as they were, and come to his temporary lodgings a few streets away where he’d find it much more comfortable and warmer. Casca smiled as he went to pick up his shield and pack. Now he could divide his time in hunting Lesalles with seeing the lovely Aveline!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Aveline looked at Casca with a cool expression. It didn’t seem she was overjoyed, but she was cordial enough in her greeting. Casca guessed she was more like 17 or 18 now he was able to see her closer and in light. The rooms Roland had hired were those of an absent owner who was away in Flanders, and apparently Roland knew him professionally.

  They had the rear three rooms of the ground floor. The rest of the property was occupied by other tenants. It seemed the owner had done well for himself in hiring out the place to multiple groups. Roland had one room he used as a bedroom and office. Aveline had the proper bedroom, at the very rear of the house. The third room was a sort of dayroom and diner, and Casca was shown this as his lodgings.

  At least it had furniture and a rug. He picked out a bench to sleep on and rooted around for something to rest his head on. It was warm enough not to need a blanket. He slept well that night, sword close to his side. Whether Roland and his daughter did he didn’t ask, but early the next morning the merchant was up bright and early and making enough noise to wake the dead. Casca sat up and hoped to hell he wasn’t on latrine duty; Roland’s bowel movements sounded like the worst eruptions of Vesuvius.

  Aveline appeared a few moments later, combing her long hair. Casca greeted her with a smile but she ignored him, tossed her head and pointedly turned her back on him. He pulled a face and got up, wondering if there was a latrine for him. Roland appeared, adjusting his belt, and smiled widely. Casca decided he hated him at that moment.

  “Good morning! Good morning! Another bright and sunny day, another day to make money!”

  “Fuck off,” Casca muttered under his breath, groping for his hauberk and shrugging into it.

  “What?” Roland smiled.

  “Where do we eat?” Casca asked, his head popping out of the chain mail, “and where can I relieve myself? I’m bursting!”

  “Why, you can either use mine or ……” the trader glanced at Aveline who looked at Casca with such disgust that he changed his mind mid-sentence. “Ah…. the one outside.”

  Casca remembered the noise Roland made. “I’ll go outside.”

  They ate in the communal dining room and Casca said little; Roland was droning on about the prices of buying and selling which the Eternal Mercenary really wasn’t interested in, and Aveline did her best to ignore him. Just as they finished Roland announced that Casca was to accompany him to the castle in the morning, and in the afternoon go with Aveline to the market where she could pick a new dress. The girl gave Casca a withering look and said nothing.

  It looked like it was going to be a great shopping trip.

  Casca dutifully walked with the merchant to the castle, and passed through the four guards on duty. None of them were the swine Casca wanted. Inside they climbed a wooden flight of stairs against the outer stone wall and passed through an archway to a passage, lit by torches. A few men were going to and fro, and against the inner wall were some doors. Roland picked the second one and they entered a small room that looked out onto a courtyard. Here stood a clerk of some sort behind a table with writing implements, parchment and paperweights. There was also a small pair of scales.

  Roland waved to Casca to go stand outside so the warrior did as bid, not wanting to listen to more uninteresting financial babble, and stood bored looking out through the arrow slit in t
he wall opposite.

  A few people passed, then suddenly he recognized the thug Roger striding alone down the passage. Casca moved just as the soldier was passing and barged him into the wall. “Hey, what the hell…?” Roger stopped when he recognized the grinning face of Casca. “You again? What are you doing here?”

  “None of your business, you ugly dog. You licking Lesalles’ boots?”

  “I warned you before…” Roger began but stopped when Casca’s hand went to his hilt.

  “Yeah, I’m armed this time. Want to try me for size, you little weasel?”

  Roger shook his head and skipped away. “This means trouble for you. Don’t cause trouble with Lesalles, or you’ll regret it.”

  “Big deal. Now get out of my sight before I throw you out of that slit.”

  Roger moved off quickly, but turned at the top of the stairs and pointed a gauntleted finger at Casca. “You’ll suffer for this.” He went on his way. Casca resumed his place by the door and leaned against the uneven wall. He didn’t care a damn about Roger’s threats. What could he do to him? Kill him? No. Casca was beyond all that. The immortal warrior had eaten bigger people than him for breakfast. Who he really wanted was Lesalles, and that toad was somewhere in this very castle. It ate at him. If he knew where he was, he might just find him and cut his head off.

  He breathed in deeply. Take your time; you’ve got all the time you need. He shut his eyes and relaxed. He’d learned not to go off wildly and barge in without checking things out first. Lesalles was almost certainly guarded. He’d need to find an opportunity to get at him alone and unseen and deal with him.

  Roland emerged a short while later and smiled in satisfaction. “It’s all sorted; you’re to be my bodyguard until we sail for England. Walter Giffard’s retinue won’t want you until then. I hear you’ve impressed the training sergeant; he thinks you’re the best he’s faced. I did well in choosing you.”