by Tony Roberts
The last man looked horrified. He tried to get some distance in order to compose himself but Casca wasn’t going to let him get away. His sword executed two horribly fast blows; the first was only just blocked but the second came in under the weak guard and Casca’s arm shuddered with the force of the blow. The edge of the blade cut through the chainmail and bit into the soldier’s chest, breaking a couple of ribs. He cried out, dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Casca stood over him. “Your paymaster mucked up big time, sending you amateurs out to kill me.”
“What the hell are you?” the Norman demanded, clutching his slashed chest, wincing in agony. “I’ve never met your like before!”
“Someone you never would want to face.” Casca watched as the man’s face went slack and he slowly fell forward onto the churned up muddy ground. The only man left standing, he looked round at the mini battlefield. Four dead men, or men who would be dead in a short while, anyway. He wiped the blade and noticed a few nicks in it. He would need to use his honing stone when he got back to the army. What Robert would say was anyone’s guess. Casca decided it would be best to play down his role in the four men’s demise. But with most of his retainers dead, the sergeant would have to go easy now. He’d probably rely on himself to go do the job for Lesalles. Casca smiled. That would be perfect.
* * *
The army had moved around the lagoon and onto the larger peninsula to the east. It was mostly wooded but had a number of villages on it. Or, rather, it had. Casca walked through their remnants, the burned out shells of houses, the bodies lying scattered about in the careless abandon that death always left them. Women and children too. Casca’s mouth turned down. This wasn’t the sort of war he fought. It looked like the Duke was doing his best to provoke the Saxons into a fight.
The gossip from the army was that while the Saxon king, Harold Godwinsson, had been up north giving the Norwegians a hiding, the southern militia, the Fyrd, had been disbanded. But now Harold was coming down fast with the survivors of the battle and gathering what men he could on the way. He was in London and was about to come for the Duke.
Casca walked along the tracks through the woods, following the path the Normans had taken. It wasn’t that hard, really. Follow the burned out villages. Finally he reached the old road to London and the foot marks turned south. Odd. They went back towards the sea. Casca shrugged and followed. Here the land was clear and he could see, perched on cliffs above the sea, a town. The Normans were setting up camp there and building a castle of their own on top of the highest cliff. They were using some of the townsfolk as muscle.
He learned upon arriving that the town was called Hastings and that his group were camped to the west. He found them soon enough and looked for Robert’s reaction when he announced he was back. The sergeant stared in disbelief. “Where’s the others?”
“Dead. Saxons got them. I only just got away myself.”
Robert’s expression said it all. He didn’t believe him, but he also didn’t believe he could kill all four of his men. Either he was lucky, or a devil sent by God to punish him for his many sins. “If you want a job done properly, do it yourself,” he muttered under his breath. Besides, he’d taken money from Lesalles to get this man disposed of, and it wouldn’t do to disappoint the man. Especially one who had the ear of the Duke.
Casca grinned as Arnand shouted in glee at his return. “Thought you’d got lost,” the young man bellowed. “Or found a sheep you’d fallen in love with.”
“Not so lucky,” Casca replied. “But I could do with a drink.”
“Well, let’s go into the town tonight. Plenty of women and ales, so I hear. Most of the lads are going.”
“Can’t wait!” Casca laughed. He needed to blow off steam.
“That’s great,” Arnand slapped Casca on the back. “Geoffrey and Osborn here have already spotted a likely place when they went to fetch supplies from the harbor. It’s right by the waterside.”
“Perfect,” Casca agreed. Any place by the harbor of any port would be seedy, dark and just the place to get drunk. The women there wouldn’t be expensive either. And, Casca reflected happily, he just couldn’t catch the pox. The Curse ensured that.
The four made their way down the main dirt street into Hastings, passing the mud-and thatch houses on the outskirts, and then the stone and thatch houses closer into the center. Night was falling and the occasional fire lit the way down. Men milled about, keen to see what a Saxon town looked like. The locals were out of sight, quite wisely. Tempers could easily get frayed, especially as the Normans were already treating the Saxons as a conquered people.
The harbor area was full of soldiers and hopelessly outnumbered enforcers. Men tumbled out of taverns and inns in all kinds of drunken states, and one or two even fell into the water. Laughter and shrieks could be heard and the rotting stench of fish and refuse filled the air. Just like any other port, Casca realized. The tavern Geoffrey and Osborn had identified had a carved figure holding a trident above the door. A Retiarius? No, they went centuries ago. Casca shook his head and followed his companions into the crowded tavern.
A few drinks later Casca’s outlook on life felt much better. A warm glow suffused him and he was swapping outrageous tales with his three comrades. Others, too, were bragging of their exploits in battle or in bed. Finally Casca felt the need to relieve himself and staggered out into the air. It was cold. October had come and in Britannia it meant cold, damp nights. Casca saw the harbor ahead and decided to urinate into it. He untied his breeches and stood there, his stream arcing into the dark waters.
He was just tying them up when he heard footfalls behind him. “I’m coming back,” he said, half over his shoulder.
“No you’re not,” Robert said, hate in his voice.
The steel blade of the sword shot through Casca and projected a foot out of his chest. Casca stood there in disbelief at the sight, almost oblivious of the pain. The bastard must have been waiting outside for an opportunity! Then the full agony hit him and he tried to shout but his larynx was paralyzed. Robert yanked the sword viciously out, and allowed Casca to drop to his knees, right on the edge of the wooden jetty. “Now, fucking die,” he breathed.
Casca would have argued but his vision was swimming and he swayed in a half drunken, half agonized state. He felt Robert’s foot on his back, then he realized too late that he was toppling into the harbor.
Then the waters closed over his head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aveline was eating breakfast, a frugal meal of bread and cheese, with her father, when there came a commotion outside their room in the large house that had been sequestered by the merchants who had come over with the Duke’s army. Before either Aveline or her father could speak, the door burst open and an excited Lesalles appeared, a rather flustered Carl being left in his wake.
“I’m sorry…” Carl began but Lesalles ignored him and leaned on the table, planting both fists on the oaken top.
“That scarred former bodyguard of yours was killed last night,” Lesalles said, glee in his voice. “Some tavern brawl he was mixed up in, and he was dumped in the harbor. Dead.”
Aveline stared at him in astonishment. Roland stood up, his face turning red. “Do you mind, we’re having breakfast!”
“My apologies,” Lesalles said, without sounding sorry. “But I thought you might be interested, seeing he was formerly in your employment and you told me,” he faced each of them, “that he said he was going to Spain.”
“What of it?” Roland said, sitting back down. “That’s what he told my daughter. He must have been lying.”
Aveline said nothing. She looked down at the table, completely uninterested in her remaining food. She was presenting the top of her head to Lesalles. Lesalles went over to her. “Nothing to say, my darling?”
Aveline looked up. Her face was white. “You come in here with shocking news, shouting it out while I’m having breakfast. You’ve made me feel quite unwell with your behavior.”
Lesalles stood still. His face went quite hard. “The sooner you’re married to me the better. Then you’ll learn not to speak to me like that. I’ll leave you now, but I expect you to attend me this afternoon.”
Roland stood up again. “How dare you talk to my daughter like that!”
“Shut up,” Lesalles snarled. “Or don’t you want that wool contract? I can easily cancel your agreement with one word to the Duke, and have another merchant take it. There are plenty waiting in the background. Well?”
Roland clenched his fists, then slowly sat down. “I’m sorry,” he said softly to his daughter.
Aveline pushed her chair back and ran from the room into her chamber, sobbing. She was trapped and the man she hoped would save her was dead. Senselessly dead in a stupid bar fight. She lay on her bed and cried her heart out. She now knew that she would have no life married to the boorish rent collector. He would treat her like a dog.
And she also cried for Casca. A man who had kissed her like she wanted to be kissed. “Oh Casca! Why did you have to die?”
* * *
Deep throbbing pain. Agony. The transition from unconsciousness to awareness was a long and painful one. Casca lay on his back, face to the sky. He was wet and cold. Where was he? His arms were sluggish and it took a few minutes to gather the strength to roll over onto his side and get his limbs moving.
The pain in his chest went through to his back. He got onto his hands and knees and remained in that position for a while, panting. His eyes focused on his hands. They were sinking into dark, viscid ooze. Mud. Grass sprouted from it and Casca realized he was in a swamp or marshland. He looked about. It was mid-morning, judging by the light and the position of the sun, low in the south-eastern part of the sky. How did he know it was the south-east?
He thought for a moment. Oh yes. That bastard Robert had run him through from behind while he was drunk. Coward. He had been in Hastings harbor. He must have drifted with the outgoing tide and been deposited some time during the early hours onto the marshy shore to the west. The town could be seen in the direction of the sun. He squelched to his feet and staggered onto a hummock of grass. His legs gave way and he sat down painfully on it.
“Aw hell,” he groaned, clutching his chest. The material covering the center of his chest was ripped. The sword blade had burst through it and it hung limply apart, a four-inch rip. There was no blood stain though, which was just as well. The immersion into the cold waters of the harbor had washed any blood away. What the back looked like was anybody’s guess. The linen was ruined and he’d have to get another. His leggings weren’t much better, and once they dried out he’d have to see. He was cold, wet and half covered in mud.
He began to stumble towards Hastings. During the night the tide had washed him about half a mile down the coast, and it would take him an hour or so to get to the town. The sun was shining weakly and the sea breeze ruffled his hair. It would have been a morning to enjoy but for his situation. He could hardly go up to camp and announce his arrival. Robert would just find another way to try to dispose of him. It would get boring and ridiculous. Robert had to be disposed of, and then – somehow – Lesalles.
He reflected soberly on the likelihood of getting to Lesalles as he slid and stumbled his way to the town. He was too well protected and had the ear of the top dogs. All he would have to do is open his mouth and Casca would be in deep weeds. But experience had taught him one thing; eventually time would give him a chance, and he was prepared to wait. That was his big ally, time.
Hastings ignored Casca, as he expected. He was just a disheveled looking street bum and belonged in the sewer. Casca had to get rid of his ruined clothing fast. He hid in a handy alleyway that stank of night soil and refuse, and dead cats and dogs. It was very unpleasant. He made his way down and clambered over a fallen down fence, then pressed past a wall that was leaning out drunkenly and found he was at the other end. This looked out onto the main street. The camp was up to the left.
Opposite was a large building and as he watched, a few well-dressed men came and went. Some stood on the corner opposite and were talking about something he couldn’t catch, and with surprise he noticed one of them was Roland. His heart leaped. That meant Aveline was almost certainly in the big building. Maybe she could get him a change of clothing.
He waited, shivering. The alley hid him from casual passers-by, but he stepped deeper into it just to make sure. He kept on checking but the merchants were still talking the first two occasions, then they had gone and he quickly scanned left and right and scampered across the rutted dirt road to the doorway of the building. The door was unlocked and Casca pushed inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.
The place looked as though it belonged to a member of the privileged ruling elite, possibly the town elder. Clean floorboards caught his eyes, as did the thick beams that rose up to hold up the ceiling. Trophies hung round the walls, a shield here, a spear there, an animal’s hide elsewhere. A set of stairs climbed ahead of him and Casca decided this was the way to go.
The landing went left and right, and for no other reason than there was a narrow window at the end, he turned right. There were two doors along here and he tried the first; it was locked. The second opened and he came face to face with Carl once more. Carl stood and stared in shock at him. “You’re dead!”
“Am I?” Casca replied. What else could he say? “Then I must be a ghost. Does this scare you?”
Carl grunted. “You’re a mess. What happened?”
Casca pushed past him and stood in the room. A woolen rug covered much of the center. “I fell in the harbor. Drunk. I need a change of clothing and thought your good lady might help.”
Carl snorted. “She ain’t seeing nobody. She ain’t in the mood.”
“Maybe she might see me.” Casca dragged one of the chairs around the table out and flopped into it. He was tired and fed up. He badly needed a bolt-hole to gather his thoughts.
Carl stood over him uncertainly. It seemed everyone could push past him. He was a warrior, not a bodyguard, but the pay was better. Still, he decided to try rouse Aveline. He knocked on the door to her chamber and spoke softly. “Lady Aveline, you’ve got a visitor.”
“Tell them I’m not well.” Her voice, muffled and faint, still came to Casca.
“Neither am I,” Casca said loudly.
There came a pause, then the door flung itself open and Aveline was framed there, her face wide in disbelief. “Oh, thank God, you’re still alive!” She came running over and only just composed herself in time not to fling her arms round him. She clasped her arms together in delight. “What happened? You’re in a terrible state!”
Casca briefly kept to his story of falling into the dock drunk. He said he was lucky and had been washed ashore in the marshes to the west. Aveline tutted and shook her head. “Drunk! Lesalles said you had drowned! A tavern fight?”
Casca snorted. “Don’t know where he got that idea from, or who told him. Or to that matter, why anyone who was there would tell him. I do recall someone pushing me as I was by the dockside, but I thought that was a figment of my drunken imagination. Perhaps someone did, and told your future husband.”
Aveline looked at Carl. “You won’t breathe a word to anyone that he’s been here.” Carl nodded. What was it to him? She looked in disapproval at Casca’s clothing. Then she turned to Carl again. “Go get a complete set of clothing for him. There’s a tailor’s shop down the street. I’ll pay. Get a promissory note and I’ll settle up with the tailor later. I’ll write you a letter.”
Carl waited until she’d written the note. Casca gave Carl the approximate size to get – big – and the general type of clothing and colors. Nothing gaudy or rich. When Carl had gone she ordered Casca get out of the ruined clothing. He was still shivering. “Everything?” he grinned.
Aveline put her hand to her mouth. “No! Just your leggings and shirt. You can change out of the rest when Carl gets back and I’m in my room!” Casca smiled and peeled off the
clinging shirt by simply ripping it apart. His muscular torso was revealed to her as were the many scars, including the latest one, a vivid red mark just to the left of center. Robert knew exactly where to strike, so it seemed. “Oh dear God,” she breathed. “Look at your body!”
He looked down and pursed his lips and nodded. “Eye catching, isn’t it? Torture does that to a man.”
“T-Torture?”
“Yeah.” Casca thought fast on his feet. “I was unfortunate to fall into the hand of the Moors of Spain. Nasty bunch. That’s why I came north, to get away from them as far as possible.”
Aveline gaped at the criss-cross of scars and marks. She also noted how his muscles rippled under the skin, and a tingle went up her spine. She always had noticed how big he was, but now his physique was revealed to her she noticed that much more. Her heart began to race and a flush came to her face. She turned away. “I think it best I return to my room until you change into clean clothing. Dispose of the rags out of the window there.”
“Sure. One thing before you go to your room, though.” He stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, and bent to kiss her. This time she didn’t fight but responded, making a small noise of pleasure. Their kiss lasted a full minute before he pulled away gently. “That’s worth falling into the harbor for any time.”
Aveline smiled, then burst into tears. Casca held her close, letting her cry. After a few minutes she subsided and he looked down at her. “Like to tell me what that was all about?”
“I don’t want to marry him! He’s a pig!”
“Yeah, he’s that. And I’ve got a personal reason to deal with him. I think I’ll have to do it before he gets you to the altar, won’t I?”
She sobbed again. “I hate him! He’s not a civilized man, he’s a filthy monster! Father’s obsessed with this contract and unless I marry Lesalles he won’t get it, so father’s going along with the marriage. Lesalles has bought him!”
