Casca 41: The Longbowman

by Tony Roberts

  “Well, what are they waiting for?” Jacob spat, feeling the cold seeping into his hands. “I’m not going to be able to hold my bow at this rate.”

  “They can wait as long as they like,” Walt said. “They’ve got time and know we can’t afford to beat our heads up against their walls. We’ll need to build ladders, catapults and whatever else to batter them down. We’ve not got the time.”

  “Think they want to trap us here?” Andrew asked, his teeth chattering.

  “Maybe – but they won’t want the fight to take place right here; it might break into the town. The Somme is only one more day’s march ahead and that’s a better place to trap us.” Casca wondered if they could get to the ford first. It was a tough call.

  “Haven’t you heard?” one of the Welsh archers to the right said, leaning forward and peering across to the group, “word is the French are already at – what is the bloody place called?”

  “Blanchetaque,” Casca said, his heart sinking.

  “Yes, that’s it. Bloody silly name,” the Welshman complained, “why couldn’t it be something simpler, man?”

  “What, like Llanfairpwllgwngogerych?” someone else quipped.

  The archers chuckled, the sound rolling up and down the line, even from those who hadn’t heard; they were just glad to release some tension. Sir Thomas turned his mount round and eyed the line of archers. “Alright, quieten down, you lot. This is serious. The King is negotiating with those French scum over there and it won’t help with you acting as if this is a celebration. Time for that later. Now look nasty and threatening – I want those Frenchies to be intimidated.”

  “Alright,” Casca said, not feeling much like laughing anyway, “you heard Sir Thomas, look like your wife’s been taken by some poxed up neighbor.”

  “That’d fucking cheer me up,” someone said loudly. More laughter.

  “Alright, look like he’s returned her, then!”

  Sir Thomas glared balefully at the men who all went silent, then he turned back to watch developments at the gates where the King’s herald was speaking to the town elders. While this was going on, Casca felt cold inside; Blanchetaque already in French hands? Then they’d lost the race to the Somme.

  They were trapped behind the river.

  After a few minutes, the English argument appeared to win the day and the herald returned and bowed to the distant figure of King Henry, waiting patiently on horseback. After a brief exchange, the King nodded and waved to the various nobles in charge of the disparate sections of the army. Sir Thomas relaxed and spoke to his aides, who included amongst others, Sir Godfrey Fulk. These lesser nobles now made their way to the line of archers and addressed them. The French had agreed to allow the English passage in return for their town being spared any damage. The English were to pass straight through and not touch any property or townsfolk, on pain of death.

  They stood down and returned to their places in the column. Pip eagerly asked what the developments were and Casca brought her up to date. The dysentery sufferers slowly rejoined the group and they began to file into Eu, section by section. Food was being dished out to the supply wagons and as their group passed under the thick gates with its portcullis and murder holes, Casca saw a line of white faces in doorways, silently watching as the soldiers passed through. No doubt some were counting, to pass on the numbers to the French army in due course. At least they were over one obstacle, and Casca looked down from the stone bridge as they passed over the Besle with some relief. There again, perhaps the French were doing the clever thing; now the army was in between two rivers and so had a very limited space to maneuver. A neat piece of corralling.

  Dark was falling as they crossed and camped in the fields just beyond Eu, well within earshot of the men on the ramparts. A few exchanges took place overnight, but the English were disciplined enough not to try to go back to the town.

  Bread was doled out at first light, much to their relief. After a hurried breakfast they shuffled back into their groups and resumed their journey. Pip was looking tired and pale and Casca solicitously asked if she was alright.

  “Don’t know, Cass. I’m feeling weak. I didn’t have a good night, either.”

  Casca worried about that; if Pip was going down with something it could be bad. It could be a cold, or maybe a chill. He hoped to hell it wasn’t what he feared. They trudged through the damp countryside north, heading directly for Blanchetaque where King Edward III had won a famous army-saving battle all those years ago, and after about six hours after striking camp they came to a halt.

  Pip was looking very tired and Casca helped her to the ground. She was shaking and clutched Casca. “I don’t feel too good,” she said in a whisper. The others gathered round, concerned.

  “Is it dysentery?” Gavin asked.

  “No idea,” Casca said; “could be something else. Plenty going round this lot.”

  They waited round for a while, then word came that the ford ahead was blocked by a large French force. Not the main army, but big enough to block any possible progress across the Somme. They would now have to turn inland and find another way across.

  “That’s all very well,” Walt said darkly, staring across the country to the north, “but they’ll keep pace with us and shadow wherever we go.”

  “And drive us into the arms of the waiting main army, no doubt,” Andrew added gloomily.

  “Let’s hope they’ve left a bridge intact or a ford undefended, then,” Will said. “Come on, cheer up; we’re not dead yet.”

  “Might as well be in this bloody horrible place,” Sills growled.

  Pip’s shaking got worse. Casca shook his head in frustration. She was falling ill pretty quickly. He turned to the others. “Take my bow and quiver. I’m going to stay with her and see if I can get her better. She can’t carry on in this condition.”

  The others voiced concern about Casca being left behind, but the eternal mercenary was adamant. Pip was too weak to go on, and he had to remain behind. “I’ll carry her to the next village, but then I’ll find a hiding place and when you move on, just act as if I’m lost or something. We’ll try and catch up later.”

  “What if the captain finds you?” Walt asked, concerned.

  “He’ll be too busy making sure everyone’s up and on the move – you see what he’s like in the mornings. Take over in my place; you’re the next in seniority and the others respect you.”

  Walt grunted and looked away. Will squeezed Pip’s shoulder and moved off while Andrew, Sills, Gavin, Ned and Jacob gave them both long sympathetic stares. After a short wait, the order came down the line to get going again, this time to the east. They were, indeed, marching inland along the southern bank of the Somme, hoping to find a crossing place.

  All through the rest of the day they went on, Casca carrying Pip who seemed to weigh hardly anything. Will and Walt took some of Casca’s equipment, mostly the bow and arrows and quiver. They passed a bridge near a place called Abbeville but it was broken, and in the distance, across the river, they saw the French vanguard keeping pace with them, making sure the English could not even try to cross. It was very depressing and the army began to look like a hunted animal.

  That night they camped in two villages next to one another, the one the archers used was called Mareval. They lit fires and rested as best they could, but there was a growing feeling they were marching towards a trap prepared for them by the French. Rumors and counter-rumors flew back and forth, ranging from three armies closing in on them from the north, south and east, to one of a huge French force ahead of them blocking any further progress.

  Casca took Pip off to a house and, despite the ordnances in force set by the King, knocked on the door. After a few moments a small, frightened face illuminated by a flickering candle appeared. “Oui?” a female voice asked nervously.

  “Madame,” Casca began in fluent French, “I have a very sick friend here. I would be grateful if I could tend for her in your home?”

  “No!” the woman snapp
ed angrily, “no Anglais are welcome here!”

  “But she is no soldier,” Casca objected, nodding to the wan figure in his arms. “I fear she may die.”

  “So why is she dressed as a soldier?”

  “There were no other clothes and she is my woman; I did not wish for her to be parted from me.” Casca looked at the woman beseechingly.

  The Frenchwoman hesitated, then made an exasperated sound and jerked the door open. “Come, quickly!”

  Passing her quickly Casca paused in the entrance. The woman shut the door, bolted it, and passed by, heading for a room ahead. “You may stay here for one night only. You must go in the morning, understand?”

  “Thank you, Madame,” Casca nodded. He placed Pip on a rough wooden table, and guessed the room must be the kitchen.

  “She does not have plague?” the owner asked, whispering in fear.

  “No – it is a chill related ailment. I do not know exactly what it is. I wished her out of the elements. I fear if she spent a night out there she would die.” He examined her. There was a sheen of sweat on her face and her eyes looked large and sunken. She was very ill and he was afraid for her life. “I need cloths and heated water. May I?”

  The Frenchwoman sighed and slapped his hand aside. “Oh, you men are all the same! I shall fetch them myself!” She went off, taking the candle with her, and Casca was left in the darkness with Pip, stroking her hair. It wasn’t long before the woman returned and together they tended Pip, who had slipped into unconsciousness. Casca had seen a few cases like this in his time and had seen all too easily how quickly they died. Pip was not that big a woman and her strength had faded rapidly. Now she just seemed to be sinking into death and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “M’sieur,” the Frenchwoman said softly, taking his hand, “I regret your woman is near death. I have seen this before.”

  Casca sighed and nodded. If he had the power he would stop it, but death had a will of its own and Pip would be just another life it claimed. Her’s wouldn’t be the last. It was after midnight that Pip breathed her last while Casca held her to him, his eyes closed in pain and sorrow. The Frenchwoman had retreated respectfully to the back of the room, wrapped now in a blanket to keep the worst of the cold out of her bones. Casca guessed she was a widow. There was nobody else there in the house.

  He mourned the passing of yet another of his lovers, the latest in a huge long line. This was one of the reasons he hated his Curse; immortality was not a blessing. They always died. He lived, yet he wished himself dead, so many times over.

  As dawn began filtering through the windows, Casca asked for and received a shovel. He would bury Pip in a corner of the village away from the camp. In any case, the English were leaving, packing up and marching off, so he was unseen and unnoticed.

  He dug the grave swiftly, having done so too many times in the past. Pip lay next to the hole, wrapped in a single blanket, donated by the Frenchwoman generously. It was old and had holes in it, and she said she had no further use for it.

  He had just about finished when suddenly, without warning, a shaft of pain shot through his back. He jerked upright and the blade was pulled out, then plunged into him again. The bastard had crept up on him, his movement masked by the sound of digging.

  “Compliments of Mr. Cooper,” a voice whispered.

  Casca grabbed him by the arm and tugged with all the strength he had left, forcing Ned to his knees. “You bastard,” he breathed, “I’ll find you and slaughter you for this!”

  Ned grimaced and stabbed Casca again, this time through the chest. The eternal mercenary flopped to the ground and felt himself roll into the hole he’d just dug. His last view was of Ned standing above him in triumph. Then all went black.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Immortality doesn’t prevent pain or suffering, and Casca had known more than his fair share in his time. It was always disorientating and painful, and sometimes full of blind panic.

  Any situation Casca found himself in that involved being buried gave him nightmares, and his first waking thought was that he’d been covered over in the grave he’d dug for Pip. How long had he been lying there? He had no idea, but it was dark and silent. This, too, added to his growing feeling of panic and he tried to move his arms. Bad move. Pain shot through his body, helping to wake him fully. Three stab wounds, all giving him intense discomfort.

  Something was lying on him that was cold and hard. He fought to move his right arm and finally got it to push aside a sod of earth that slipped underneath his hand. That freed his arm up to the elbow and he felt the object on top of him. Pip. It had to be. A cold and solid limb. Poor woman.

  She was stiff so death had to be around ten to twelve hours, or something like that. He found bodies stiffened with rigor mortis after death and then went soft again after a while. He didn’t study it that much and he wasn’t interested, frankly. Other people’s deaths made him resentful and envious, since he was denied his; once someone was dead to him that was the end of it. What remained were the memories and he’d prefer to remember people he’d loved that way rather than the broken and empty corporeal shell they had become.

  Pip was lying right on top of him and that bastard Ned had thrown earth on top of both. Casca gathered his strength, and pushed. Nothing. He wasn’t strong enough yet.

  His right hand began seeking more clumps of earth and he moved a couple, pushing them to one side and freeing up more of his arm. Now he could use the entire arm, if only partially. He tried to push Pip aside but there was too much earth there, so the only way he could go was up.

  He thrust his arm up and was pleased to see the filling move aside and his arm rose up into the air, allowing in daylight. So it was less than ten hours since he had been ‘killed’. He heaved again and Pip moved, allowing Casca to gather his legs together, and one more convulsive movement forced what was left of the in-fill to one side and he was out.

  Looking sadly at the rigid form of Pip, he decided to re-bury her. The spade was lying close to the grave and he used it again. Once that was done he looked around. The house was silent and he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped in.

  The Frenchwoman who had kindly taken him in was lying on the floor, her throat cut open. Ned had clearly done the deed. Another reason to hunt the swine down and deal with him.

  His sword was where he’d left it, resting against the pantry. Ned had clearly missed it. A mistake on his part.

  Checking the house, he found some bread and cheese and stuffed it into pouches and pockets. With one last pitying look at the dead woman, he left the room and made his way to the front. He heard voices and bent to listen.

  The villagers were holding some sort of meeting in the street beyond. It appeared their local landlord had turned up with a small group of hirelings and was interrogating his tenants.

  “How long ago did the Anglais leave?”

  “Eight, nine hours, m’sieur,” one of the villagers answered nervously. “We could do nothing as there were too many. Margareta here took two in last night. She has not appeared today.”

  “What? Then why did you not check on her?”

  There was silence. Clearly the villagers were too afraid to find out for themselves.

  “Serge, Louis, go find out what has happened in there!”

  Time to be gone, Casca decided. He made his way out to the back and loped past the grave to a space in between two fences that marked off pig pens and ran alongside a house, emerging onto a side street. The village ended a short distance away and the road climbed up to a low rolling hill.

  He had got just beyond the limit of the village when a shout went up and two figures were seen standing there pointing at him. Now trouble was going to begin; they would blame him for the death of Margareta and no amount of protesting would change that. He put his head down and ran up the hill, wincing at the pain in his side, back and chest. That fucker Ned had really stabbed him good and proper. There were bloodied holes in his tunic and that would t
ake some explaining away. He would have to find new clothes somewhere.

  He kept on glancing back and saw to his dismay three men on horses riding out from the village, heading his way. Now he was for it. He got to the top and saw the Somme ahead and to the left, and the road the English army must have gone on to the right and ahead. A line of trees lay ahead so he ran down the slope towards them. Against men on horseback he had a better chance amongst trees.

  The trouble was it took too long to reach them, and he was only half functional due to his injuries. The pounding of hoofs told him his time had run out, so he turned to face his pursuers.

  A horse crashed into him violently, knocking him over onto his back and sent him rolling down the hill. His sword flew out of his hand. That’s it now, he thought, I’m for it.

  Rough hands took hold of him, swearing in French, and hauled him to his feet. He was only half aware of things and sagged in their grip. “Stand up, cochon Anglais!” one of the men snarled. Casca tugged angrily at the man to the right who was far too enthusiastic in pulling him to his feet, and the man staggered in surprise at the strength from the prisoner.

  The other cuffed him round the head, knocking his helmet off, and pressed a sword blade against his throat. Casca glared but stood on his own two feet at least, rubbing his head and trying to focus on the whirling scenery. A third man came up slowly on horseback and looked down at him, a well-dressed Frenchman with a pair of dark eyes, black curly hair and a black beard.

  “So who are you, Englishman?”

  Casca decided to play a game. “I’m not English,” he said thickly. He wasn’t quite completely with it, but at least the countryside had stopped swirling. Any more and he might have thrown up. “I’m a Gascon.”

  “Huh, one of those traitorous dogs,” the rider said dismissively. “That explains your shit accent, even if you do speak my tongue well.”