Casca 31: The Conqueror

by Tony Roberts

  Casca reached the top and looked left and right. Right was likely. A man stood in the passage, wearing a sword. Casca charged at him, the man dragging his weapon free of the scabbard but having no time to defend himself. Casca’s fist took him under the chin and the man flopped to the floor, his legs suddenly boneless.

  Arnand kicked the door beyond open and a woman screamed. Casca recognized it straight away. He followed Arnand in, and saw a large man brandishing a huge sword blocking the way to the frightened looking Aveline. “You’re dead,” he growled.

  “Fuck off,” Casca replied and stepped past Arnand. “Go get Hugh and keep the way out clear!”

  As Arnand vanished, Casca attacked the big guard. The room wasn’t large and furnishings got in the way. A table leaped to one side with a crash and splinters flew as the sword missed the guard and bit into oak. The guard countered, his blade seeking Casca’s chest. Casca jumped back, then kicked a three-legged stool across the floor, striking the guard on the shins.

  “You’re no Saxon!” the guard exclaimed. “You speak French!”

  “Shuddap!” Casca growled and struck again. His weapon cut through air and the guard was pushed up against the wall. He swung clumsily in a huge arc which Casca ducked and came up, thrusting into the exposed gut of his enemy. The guard gasped and doubled over, Casca jerking the sword free. He stepped over the fallen man and reached for Aveline. She screamed again.

  Casca pulled the mask down. “Look, it’s me!” he said urgently, “we’ve no time to lose!”

  “Oh!” she gasped. “Thank God!” She took Casca’s hand and the two ran out of the room and down the stairs. Hugh and Arnand stood by the door, a couple of servants huddled at the rear in fright, and the four ran out of the house and down the street.

  “Damn!” Casca said, “anyone got a spare cloak for Aveline?”

  Hugh and Arnand shook their heads. They ran to the bridge and Casca saw the gatekeeper by the door, pointing to one side. “Have you got something warm for her?” Casca demanded, chest heaving.

  “Yes. Hurry, get into the boat!” he urged Hugh and Arnand. The boat sat on the mud underneath the bridge and the two men began to slide down to the waiting vessel. Aveline was handed a furry cloak and she wrapped herself in it. Casca took her by the shoulders. “I’ll join you in a few days at my new manor,” he said.

  “You’re not coming now?” she said in a lost voice. She was overwhelmed by the turn of events.

  “Not yet. It’s too dangerous for me to go missing right away. I’ll come in a few days’ time. Go with Arnand and Hugh; they’re my guards. They’ll protect you.”

  He kissed her hard on the lips, then guided her under the bridge and down the treacherous mud. Helping her in, he then pushed the small wooden boat out into the water, and watched as Arnand wrestled with the oars. The tide was coming in and pushing the boat upstream, which was good. Casca waved, then turned and made his way back up to street level. He still had the Saxon clothes to lose, and then make out he had been at his lodgings all along.

  He was certain all hell would break loose and if Lesalles was anything like his reputation, nothing would be left unturned. Casca wondered if he’d done the right thing. Too late to go back now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Two men and a girl in a boat. Cold, afraid, alone. The tide pushed the boat upstream which helped Arnand while he got used to rowing, something he’d never done before. Hugh sat in the rear, sometimes turning round in worry peering at the receding lights of London, his motions rocking the row boat. Arnand got fed up with this and snapped at him to keep still.

  Aveline huddled in the center, her arms wrapped round herself, trying to keep warm. Arnand’s bulk kept most of the westerly wind off her as long as they went westwards, but the Thames wound itself in coils and they turned south in a huge loop which exposed them to the wind on that dark night.

  “When can we get out?” she asked once.

  “When the tide turns,” Arnand grunted, sweating despite the cold. His hands were beginning to rub and he decided rowing stank. He much preferred the feel of a sword hilt to a wooden oar. If Casca had been there he would have agreed too. That effectively ended the conversation and Aveline huddled even more miserably into her borrowed cloak.

  None of them knew where Stokeham was, or how far it would be. Arnand had been given brief directions and a rough map and knew once they got to the road heading north-west out of London they would be on the right path. The only problem they might experience was that the countryside could be hostile. Norman rule was fragile and nothing much had yet been done to impose the new order. Fortunately nobody really knew who was who and it didn’t seem any organized resistance had been put together. The submission of the local Saxon magnates had helped, but only around the south east and London. The further out from the capital, the less the locals were inclined to obey the new masters.

  Once the tide began to turn and Arnand had to fight the river flow and the wind, it was time to pull into the northern bank and start walking. The land was marshy and muddy, but as it had just passed high tide they were closer to the firmer soil and didn’t stumble too far in the dark before they got to a small copse of willow trees and rested.

  “Can’t we go on?” Aveline asked, afraid.

  “Not until I see where we’re going,” Arnand said. She was just a half seen shadow in the darkness. What moonlight or starlight there might have been was covered by cloud. “We could fall down into a pit, or some stream, or anything! We wait till dawn.”

  “Will we be pursued?” she persisted.

  “Probably,” Arnand grunted. “But where will they look? We could be anywhere. I would think they’ll search within the city walls. Nobody would think of taking you out here!”

  “I’m cold,” Aveline said softly. Her warm world had been ripped from her and, even though she was glad to be away from the oppressive presence of Lesalles and his household, yearned for the comfort and safety of an indoors, particularly at night. Especially in a foreign and hostile land. “Will there be wolves around here?”

  “Dunno,” Arnand shrugged in the dark. “Not heard any. You heard any wolves, Hugh?”

  “None,” Hugh said from the back of the copse. He was standing guard. Not that he could see anything, it was just a precaution. No village lights could be seen, and the wind whistled through the trees and rushes; a cold, unfeeling wind.

  “I don’t want to spend Christmas up to my knees in mud and water,” Aveline said after a pause.

  “Lady, it’s six days to Christmas. It will take us nearly that long to reach Stokeham, if we’re lucky. Pray to God we remain free from obstacles.” Arnand folded his arms about him and leaned back against a tree. It was not something he wanted to do, but he took his position seriously, and as Casca’s chief retainer, he believed he must do the job he’d been asked to properly.

  Dawn came hesitantly, a slow brightening to the east, beyond the city of London. As soon as the sky turned from black to grey, Arnand had them up and moving. They had some water and no food, so he didn’t want to hang about any longer than necessary. He could make out a path through the reed beds and fields, and they made their way north away from the river until they came to a crossroads in the path.

  He stood at the junction, unsure. The way was either north or west, but which one? Finally he decided to take the north path, and they walked on, three cold and wet travelers, not knowing where they were or where the path led.

  Daylight was fully on them by the time they saw their first sign of life; a small village clinging to the side of a steeply banked watercourse that flowed towards the Thames. The locals were out repairing their homes or sorting out stored food that had gone rotten, and drovers were taking beasts yoked to a cart out north, piled with hay. Either they were going to replenish the animal food in the barns, or they were going to London to sell the stuff for some badly needed money.

  Arnand nodded in the wake of the cart. “Come on, let’s go the other way. I bet h
e’s going to the road that leads to London.”

  The other two obediently followed, passing through woodland and plowed farmlands alternatively. Then as they were passing through another small group of trees, two men stepped out across the narrow twin-rutted track and barred their way. Both were carrying swords. One, the taller of the two, dressed in a brown cloak and dull colored leggings and tunic, raised his hand and spoke to them in guttural Saxon. None of the three travelers could understand what was said but guessed it was a command to stop.

  “What do we do?” Aveline asked nervously, looking around. Hugh, behind her, turned round to see two more men closing in from behind. It was a trap.

  “Damn it,” Arnand growled, dragging his sword free and weighing the weapon in his hand. The locals were unarmored whereas he and Hugh had mail and helmets, but they were outnumbered and on unfamiliar territory. “Hugh, take care of those behind you. I’ll deal with these two peasants.”

  “Sure,” Hugh said and watched as the two men, one carrying a woodsman’s axe, the other a stout looking spear, stepped apart, one to either side of the path. He waited, and that was his undoing. The two Saxons briefly conversed, and then the spear man drew his weapon back and Hugh realized he’d made a mistake. Yelling wildly, he ran desperately at the two men, only to receive the spear clean through his chest before he’d gotten halfway.

  Arnand heard the yell, and Aveline’s scream of horror, but he was busy with the two others. Both had come at him and the Norman deflected the big man’s blow aside and slashed down on the second. The local had tried to block it but had been too slow. Now he was sinking to the frozen ground, a huge gash carved out of his chest, his lifeblood soaking into his woolen tunic.

  The big Saxon snarled and hacked at Arnand. The blade blurred and Arnand jumped sideways hastily. The blade sliced down his left arm and Arnand cried out in pain, then struck back in a reflex. He saw to his delight the blade sink deep straight into the Saxon’s gut, so that two feet vanished, the tip ripping through the back of his tunic and out into the air. The blade steamed with hot blood.

  The axeman came at Arnand, ignoring the wailing woman who was grabbed by the unarmed spear thrower, and swung it at waist height as Arnand tugged at his sword. He saw the weapon whirling at him and ducked in a desperate reflex, but the heavy head crashed into him edge first, splitting the mail apart and burying itself into his left shoulder. He screamed and fell backwards, coming up hard against the trunk of an oak. Lights flashed in front of him and waves of nausea threatened to engulf him, but he pulled the axe free, threw it to the ground, and leaned limply against the tree.

  The axe man stepped forward, his face full of intent, and he reached down to pick up his fallen weapon and to administer the coup-de-grace, but Arnand wasn’t finished yet. He growled deep in his throat and straightened, swinging his sword with every scrap of strength he had left. It cut through the surprised man’s throat, opening it to the frosty December air, and blood sprayed out in an arc. The Saxon sank to his knees, his front a mass of red, then fell face first over his weapon.

  Arnand staggered and looked round for the last Saxon but the man was beating a retreat, dragging an unwilling Aveline with him. She kept on pleading and screaming until she received a blow to the head, then was picked up and carried down the path until the man suddenly turned right and vanished into the wood. Arnand lurched after him, seeping blood, and fell to his knees where the man had turned off. There was a faint path but no sign of either captor or captive.

  He wept in frustration and pain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Casca was busy making sure everyone was packing up ready to move away to Stokeham when the visitors came. The door shook to the violent hammering of someone outside and Aelfgar muttered in disapproval as he shuffled to the door. The door crashed open the moment the valet unlatched it and three very big and bad tempered men pushed past him, ignoring his protests.

  “Where is this ‘Baron de Longeville’, then?” Lesalles’ voice roared.

  Casca leaned over the balustrade on the landing and peered down. The Norman rent collector and two very muscular guards stood peering round. Others were coming in now, much more leisurely, and Casca recognized Walter Giffard amongst them. “Here. What’s the meaning of this intrusion?” he demanded, making his way down to the room.

  “You!” Lesalles’ gasped, then jabbed a gauntleted finger towards him. “You’re supposed to be dead! You cock sucking bastard! It was you who took her!”

  “Took who?” Casca demanded, arms on hips, glaring at the enraged man. He decided to let the ‘dead’ comment slide.

  “You know who, don’t play games with me!” Lesalles looked ready to kick ass and take names. His two guards looked uncomfortable, though, and Casca knew the reason.

  “You watch what you say to me,” the Eternal Mercenary growled, taking another step forward. Out of the shadows both Carl and Eustace appeared and took up station on either side of him. “I am a Baron,” Casca continued, “you are nothing. You come into my home and make groundless accusations. I could have you hanged, you turd.”

  Lesalles’ face went purple. His unshaven jaw worked soundlessly. Casca hoped the guy would have a coronary on the spot and drop dead. That would solve one huge pain in the ass. Sadly, luck wasn’t smiling on Casca – or the human race – at that moment.

  “You may ask me if I’ve seen whoever it is, but you cannot demand anything. What are you? A rent collector. One, I may add, with the manners of a goat. Now, speak to me as I would expect, or I’ll have you thrown out into the gutters where you belong.”

  Behind Lesalles, Walter Giffard was trying to keep a straight face. Those with him, other lords and nobles, were clearly enjoying the whole scene. Lesalles suddenly recognized Carl. Again, he pointed forward. “And you! You’re supposed to be dead!”

  Carl grinned and looked at Casca. Casca stepped right up to Lesalles. “Dead? How? This is one of my household. You making threats against him? You’d better explain yourself.”

  Walter Giffard decided to intervene. “We are looking for, ah, this man’s betrothed. It appears that she was forcibly abducted during the night by bandits or Saxons. We’ve been making enquiries of all households in this area to see if they’ve seen anything. Monsieur Lesalles here asked for a list of who was close by and your name is just one of many. I’m sorry about his conduct, but as you can understand, he is overwrought with worry.”

  “And has he been this uncivilized at the other places? I bet not.” Casca stared at Lesalles from a distance of a foot. “Listen to me, Lesalles. I don’t like you, I’ve never liked you. Your betrothed is not here – Lord Giffard and the other fine gentlemen here can search as much as they please – but I promise you she isn’t here. And once they find I’m telling the truth, I want you out of here and you’re never to return. You get it?”

  “I’m going to be ennobled very very soon,” Lesalles growled in a low, ominous voice, “and once I’m made a Count, I’m going to wipe the floor with you. Then you’ll be sorry for crossing me. And I know you have her. If she appears anywhere, I’ll get her, and then I’ll burn your pathetic Stokeham down to the ground with you and your household still within it!”

  “You hear that, Lord Giffard?” Casca said loudly, “he’s threatening to burn down Stokeham. That’s under your overlordship.”

  “He won’t,” Giffard said in an unconcerned manner. “If he tries that I’ll have his balls for breakfast.”

  Lesalles went red again. “Bastards….. all of you….. Christ’s Blood!”

  Casca went cold. “Don’t say that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Bad memories….” Casca shivered. He angrily dismissed the image that had plopped into his mind of Jesus on the cross. “You don’t go any further in this place.”

  Giffard and the others made a quick search. The building wasn’t huge and it was done in a few minutes. The Norman nobles came sauntering back and shook their heads. Lesalles snorted in disgust a
nd left, taking his guards with him. “Bad thing, you know,” Giffard said in a warm tone to Casca, putting an arm over his shoulders. “A lovely Norman woman abducted right under our noses. I hope she’s safe and sound. The Duke sent us all to look for her on Lesalles’ request. Go careful with him; he has the Duke’s ear.”

  Casca grunted. As far as he was concerned, Lesalles could have the Duke’s penis; it would make no difference. “I’m going to leave for Stokeham tomorrow. I’ll let you know that she’s safe and sound there.”

  Giffard lingered a moment longer. “In that case I’d best give you directions to get there. I’ll have one of my servants deliver it by the end of the day. Watch Lesalles; he’s a nasty piece of work and he’ll want your head. Stay in Stokeham and I can protect you. Go outside that Manor, and he may well eat you alive.”

  “I’ll remember that, sire.” Casca was left with his guards and servants; the atmosphere heavy and laden with tension.

  “Well, he was no different than the last time I saw his ugly face,” Carl said to nobody in particular.

  “Know what you mean,” Casca muttered. He turned round. “Alright you lot; let’s get packed and out of here. I want to spend Christmas Day in my new home and not on the damned road.”

  The house exploded into life. Eustace hesitated and faced his master. “Think we fooled him?”

  Casca laughed briefly. “Lesalles? Not one bit. He knows we’re behind her abduction. He’ll be paying Stokeham a visit once he’s been elevated to the nobility.”

  “What if he finds her?”

  “Then I’ll challenge that bastard to a fight. I’ll cut him to bits.” Casca relished the thought; killing Lesalles would be the best thing he’d done for a long, long time.