by Tony Roberts
“God has more than enough on his hands at the moment,” Casca had growled. “Carl is in your hands and I will judge his recovery or death as such.”
The Normans had returned to Hastings to recover and resupply. News of the victory would spread quickly so the Duke expected the local Saxons to submit to him. To his surprise nobody came, so five days after the victory he ordered the army out of Hastings and to march eastwards to Chent and Canterbury, where he was intending to install a bishop friendly to him.
Casca marched with the army, his four bodyguards in close attendance. Walter Giffard had loaned him a sum of money to be paid back as soon as Casca could afford it, so that Casca could pay the four men their wages. He also asked if Lesalles was with the army, and was told by Giffard’s advisor that he was, and in fact he was part of the immediate entourage of the Duke.
“Why is that? He was absent from the battle,” Casca frowned.
The advisor tutted. “A leader does not merely rely on soldiers. There are clerics, merchants, lawyers, and other professions just as important. Lesalles is one of the chief money lenders to the Duke and so without this sort of money all this would not be possible. Remember that. Remember your lord’s generosity.”
“Of course,” Casca muttered. The loan was almost like an enslavement. The advisor smiled in an oily manner and moved off.
Cursing, Casca made his way to the wagons where some of the wounded were being transported. Carl was lying on one of these together with three others. The rutted roads weren’t ideal for transporting the wounded but it was better than leaving them in Hastings where the locals might take vengeance on them.
Aveline was just as bound to her situation, but in her case it wasn’t so much financial as physical. A new guard had been assigned to her, a brute of a man personally employed by Lesalles. He was almost a jailer; she couldn’t go anywhere without the guard allowing it, and everything she did was reported back.
She approached her father one evening as they camped in a village that had been seized and the locals thrown out into the woods. “I’m a prisoner, father. Please can’t you ask Lesalles to give me some freedom?”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Roland patted her hand, “but he’s said that it’s for your own safety. With all these rough uncouth soldiers around and bandits and brigands in the woods, what would happen if you foolishly wandered off? No, Lesalles is right. You must stay safe and close. That way none of us can worry about you.”
Aveline cried herself to sleep.
The army moved to Dover. Casca had a pang of nostalgia. He’d been there hundreds of years ago when it was called Dubrae, and he’d stayed at the inn of Paetius the Greek. He chuckled at the memory of his night with all those whores. He sighed. Happier days. The white cliffs were the same and the Duke promptly put up a castle on the top, looking down on the town. It went up in a matter of a day or so. The castle was half assembled already and the ships that had sailed parallel to the army’s route of march now came into port and disgorged the castle pieces.
Casca was sitting at a table in the inn he’d appropriated; oddly enough it was, as far as he could remember, the same location as Paetius’ old tavern, when the priest entered the room. “What is it, priest?” Casca growled. It had been a bitch of a march to Dubrae – Dover, he corrected himself – and he was footsore and tired.
“My lord,” the cleric began in a high-pitched, reedy voice that Casca found irritating. “The man you call Carl has regained consciousness.”
Casca forgot his tiredness. Yelling for Arnand, he practically carried the priest downstairs to the rear room where Carl had been put. Casca didn’t want him too far from him at any time. And, besides, with the weather closing in and getting chilly at night, he wanted Carl in a warm place.
The three men entered the kitchen and saw Carl propped in a wooden chair with his feet resting on a stool. Blankets lay over him and he was looking round him in puzzlement. A young male servant was trying to thrust a bowl of what looked like soup under his chin but the soldier was too disorientated to take much notice.
“Thank you, Jean,” the priest said kindly. The youth retreated towards the huge fire, and the three men stood at the side of Carl. He looked ashen and black stubble covered his jaw and cheeks. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” Casca grinned.
“Ah,” Carl focused on Casca. “Where am I?”
“An inn in a place called Dover, but don’t worry about that. We won the battle, and I understand you have a message for me?”
Carl frowned, then nodded, wincing. “Lesalles,” he groaned. “Has taken Aveline prisoner and is to marry her as soon as the Duke is crowned king. A senior bishop is to arrange the service.” The soldier grimaced. The pain in his side burned. “She fears for her safety. She asks for your help.”
“I see,” Casca clenched his fists. He now had some political weight but how much that counted against one of the Duke’s money men was open to debate. “And what happened to you?”
“Lesalles sent one of his dogs after me. I killed him.” Carl sighed and his head lolled against the back of the chair. The priest clucked like a hen and stepped forward. “Please allow him rest; he is very tired.”
“Yes, Father,” Casca said absently, already thinking of how to rescue the girl. He’d have to find out exactly where she was being held and by how many. “And consider yourself hired to my household. Father…?”
“Gilbert, my lord.”
“Very well, Father Gilbert. Look after him; he’s going to be another of my personal guards.”
Later Casca crossed the street to where Walter Giffard had his quarters. He was stuck as to how to rescue Aveline, so he decided to raise the problem with his liege. Giffard was eating and welcomed Casca, inviting him to dine with him. Eustace and Arnand took up sentry posts behind Casca, their faces reflecting their pride and seriousness they took in their job.
“The chicken is superb!” Giffard announced, washing the meat down with a fair swig of wine. To the victors, the spoils, Casca reckoned. He took a leg and began chewing on it, agreeing that it was, indeed, good. Without asking, he picked up two more pieces and passed them to his two guards, who took them and ate gratefully. Giffard looked on in surprise. “Feeding your men? By God, that’s looking after them! I couldn’t afford to be so generous, the size of my retinue!” He belched, laughed, and pointed a half-eaten joint at Casca. “Hear you’ve taken a priest into your household; good move! Keep on the side of the church. Bad bastards to piss off, I can tell you! Stay on their good side and they’ll ignore you fornicating with the servant girls, but get on their wrong side and you’ll be excommunicated before you can say fuck!” He roared in mirth.
The other men around the large oaken table chuckled. Even the priest there grinned and patted his ample girth. It was he who next spoke. “Regular gifts to the church, my son, sweetens the temper of the Lord.”
I bet! Casca thought sourly. One sure way of getting waist deep in shit was to piss off the priests. He was mentally ticking off the growing list of people to bribe and sweeten in order to make his way as a noble in the new regime that the Duke would bring to England. Not that he was new to this; he had been a wealthy landowner about two centuries previously in Burgundy under the successful reign of Charles Martel, Charlemagne’s father, in France. The number of people who expected their palms to be greased was mind boggling. You had to be rich to be able to afford being rich.
Two things were driving him in his desire to get there; the head of Lesalles and the loins of Aveline. “My lord, there is a matter which is on my mind.”
“Oh?” Giffard paused in mid chew, then resumed. His eyes shrewdly examined Casca. He washed the chicken down with more wine and then leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”
“Ah, well, there’s this woman….”
Giffard exploded into laughter. The others chuckled. “Ahhhh…. It had to be that! Is she beautiful?”
“Yes, sire. Trouble is, she’s betrothed to another.”
“Oh,” Giffard leaned forward, suddenly serious. “That’s not good. Who?”
“I don’t want to repeat the name aloud, sire.” Casca beckoned Arnand and whispered into his ear. Arnand nodded and made his way round the table to Giffard. The noble’s main guard stepped forward to intercept but was waved back by the Norman magnate. “Thank you, Gunter, but it’s alright.” Arnand then bent and whispered the name into Giffard’s ear. Giffard went still, then slowly shook his head. “Oh dear. Well, forget her, de Longeville. She’s as good as lost to you.”
Arnand returned to take up his position behind Casca. Casca tapped his fingers on the table. “She’s a beauty, sire. She’s asked for my help; she wants me, not him.”
Giffard smiled sadly. “Be that as it may, she does not have the choice. I understand a little of what has gone on there, and her father has agreed the match. I also understand the Duke himself has approved. Do you want to piss him off? Not a good idea, especially as he’s just made you a baron!”
“Yes, there’s that.” Casca thought furiously. “Then I must challenge this – ah – rival suitor. A duel.”
Giffard looked long and hard at Casca. “See me after this banquet. Enough has been said here. This is to continue between the two of us in private. Now, to more important things, wine!” He raised his goblet high. “A toast!”
All grabbed their goblets, and Casca found one suddenly slid in front of him, red wine slopping around within. Giffard stood and looked round, forcing the others to stand. “To Duke William of Normandy, the new King of England!”
“Duke William!” the others chorused, and drank deeply. Casca found the wine fairly pleasant, and reasoned it was from Bordeaux. They had good wines there.
“Now,” Giffard boomed, “eat, drink!”
As the guests attacked the food, Casca was beckoned to follow the noble to a back room. The attendant guards followed and all were allowed to stand outside the room, two on each side, where they glared at each other. Within the room, Giffard threw himself into a chair and waved at Casca. “Alright, you horny bastard, what’s this all about?”
Casca briefly told Giffard about the attack on the farm, the growing rivalry between Lesalles and him, and the attachment Aveline had to him. Casca also recounted the injury to Carl. “This man is no respecter of anyone. He’ll stab in the back anyone who gets in his way, and the higher he goes the higher his targets become. You might be next, sire.”
“I have plenty who wish that already,” Giffard remarked dryly. “To challenge a fellow noble to a duel is a serious business and a man who has given money to the Duke for this venture is untouchable. But,” and he swung a leg over the arm of the chair and slumped even further, “I can’t stand that sow’s bastard and would love someone to bring him down. I can’t do anything, of course,” he said, “as I’m too well known and close to the Duke. I have too much to lose. But you, on the other hand, are an upstart, a man with no pedigree – rather like Lesalles – and are still unknown.”
Casca leaned on the thick oaken post that held up the ceiling. “But how am I to rescue her? He has her under guard.”
“Do nothing for the present. Keep quiet, follow my lead. Nothing can be done anyway until London is taken and the Saxons submit. Both could take some time. Once the Duke is crowned, he’ll have his hands full in distributing titles and land. He’ll give me plenty, and I’ll assign some of that to you. The more you follow my lead, the more you may well get. Be a good boy and get lots of nice land. Be naughty, and you’ll get the nastiest cess pit of England.”
“But the Duke has promised Lesalles can marry straight after he’s crowned. He’s even designated a priest to do the service with the bishop’s blessing.”
Giffard wagged a lazy hand. “Wait. Not even Lesalles can rush things. You’ll get your chance, Casca de Longeville. I’ll let you know the time and place. But if you want to hold onto your balls, say nothing to anyone. Now go and get drunk.”
Casca nodded and slapped his thigh in irritation, but his die had been cast. He knew now he had to trust the Norman noble.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The army moved along the old Roman road to Canterbury and the Duke received the surrender of all of Chent. Now the road to London was open. But fate intervened and struck the Normans down with dysentery. Casca watched as one after another the men fell to the shitting illness. Even the Duke suffered but he insisted the army move on, fearful that the Saxons may reorganize if they delayed.
Those who had fallen ill were left in Canterbury with a small guard, and the losses were made up with reinforcements sent from Normandy. Casca had never been this deep into Britannia, so the march was a new experience for him. The road, a crumbling uneven surface but still useable, cut straight through the forests as they climbed, then they passed the highest point and began to descend towards the Thames valley.
One evening he was summoned to Walter Giffard’s tent, and he went quickly, heart pounding. Maybe the word to rescue Aveline was to be given? But he was disappointed to see a general gathering of unit commanders; so it was a council of war.
“The Duke is to send the main army west towards Winchester. Our scouts tell us that the bridges across the Thames are guarded and blocked, and so another crossing point will have to be found. In the meantime,” and he looked straight at Casca and smiled in a way Casca didn’t care for, “a small diversionary unit will demonstrate against the Saxons at a place called Southwark. Their task will be to keep the Saxons from sallying out and attacking the flank of the army. By the time they see what’s happening, it will be too late to do anything about it.”
Casca felt the eyes of all on him. He sighed. As the newest ‘noble’ he had to prove himself to the others, and Giffard had decided this was to be it. “What force will I have?”
“A unit of cavalry and two hundred men. You might be lucky,” Giffard smiled, “and break through to London on your own. Then you can have your pick of the city!” The assembled men laughed; clearly they all knew it was something highly unlikely. “Don’t do anything stupid. Just keep them busy and behind their nice safe barriers. You have one day, then rejoin the army. Follow this road west. Any questions?”
Casca shook his head. Events then moved onto details of the advance to Winchester and Casca took little interest. Finally the meeting broke up and Casca returned to his camp to pass the good news round his small band of men. The next day they gathered on the edge of camp and Casca surveyed their disposition. There were three groups; a cavalry scouting unit, a larger group of foot soldiers and a supplementary group of archers and an odd assortment of suppliers, messengers and other so-called ‘support’ staff.
They turned off north towards London. Casca still didn’t have a horse, and foot slogged it with the men. The riders he sent out ahead and to the flanks to make sure nobody ambushed them. About mid-morning he ordered a stop and called the various unit leaders to him. They were a mixture of tough professional soldiers and mercenaries. No part-timers here. “Okay, some of you are new here, others have fought all the way from Hastings. Get to know each other. I’m under orders not to take stupid risks, and you’ll do the same. Anyone trying to show off will be disciplined. We’re a small group in a foreign country and the population aren’t pleased to see us.”
The five commanders said nothing. They all were assessing their leader’s ability to command. Did he have the presence to inspire them? Did he know his stuff? He looked the part, but only in battle would he prove himself. Until then, they’d wait and see.
“Good. Any questions, see me. I’ve done plenty of fighting so I know the drill. Stick together and don’t go off into the woods alone. Keep your men under control. Got it?”
He got grunts and nods. He dismissed them and sat down on a fallen tree along the roadside. Arnand put one foot up on it and looked into the woods. The leaves were falling and the reds, yellows and browns made a spectacular sight. “Winter’s coming. Won’t want to be in the open when it arrives.”
They tramped through the autumn countryside and soon the scouts rode back, reporting a village up ahead. It was undefended and the locals had fled at their approach. Casca nodded and ordered the men to continue on and enter the settlement. It was a typical Saxon village. Wooden houses of all shapes fixed into the ground by posts, gathered loosely in a haphazard manner around the road running through it. A small stream served as a local water supply.
Off to left and right animal pens stood, some fenced with wood, others with stone walls. The stone looked like it had been looted from more substantial constructions that had fallen into ruin, and not too far away a ruined villa could be seen. Casca pulled a face. The old Roman buildings were being destroyed slowly and surely.
Some frightened faces peered out from doorways and Casca called a halt again. He ordered one of the locals to be brought to him. Arnand and Eustace crashed a door open and pulled out a struggling, protesting youth. He looked in his late teens. He was cursing and shouting and Casca cuffed him round the head. “Shut up!” he barked in the best old Saxon he could remember.
The youth lapsed into sullen silence, rubbing his head. Casca pointed at the animal pens. “How much?”
The youth looked at him defiantly. He got a second whack for his pains. “What coins do you have?”
“Florins,” Casca answered, showing him one.
“Two florins for a pig,” the youth grumbled.
“Two florins? What the hell?” Casca didn’t have a treasury on him. “Here’s one, you thief. Now go slaughter one. We’re hungry.”
The youth said something under his breath but pocketed the coin and walked off in outrage. Casca called his commanders to him. “Select one animal for your men, and pay for it. I don’t want tales of stealing and plunder. I’ve got to answer to the Duke.”
