Casca 41: The Longbowman

by Tony Roberts

  As he passed on the other side of the tree Casca suddenly slid round the trunk and closed in. The Frenchman spotted Casca’s horse and sucked in a lungful of air, a prelude to a shout.

  He never made it as the steel blade of Casca’s sword exploded from his chest, ending any interest in shouting. The man stared in stupefaction at the sword sticking out of his body, filmed with his blood, before sinking to the ground, helped by Casca. The eternal mercenary withdrew his sword, cleaned it, and took his horse and continued on his way, leaving the victim dying on the floor of the woodland.

  The woodland went on and on, and Casca plodded on grimly, hoping he’d been able to escape the net, but just as he crossed a small stream he bumped into another of the group. The Frenchman had seen him and yelled in alarm and fear. Casca cursed his luck and swung forward, narrowly missing the man as the blue-clad enemy leaped back in shock. Casca wasted no time and strode on, his blade cutting down once, twice, three times. Twice he just missed the screaming man, but the third time, just as the Frenchman was turning to run, caught him across the left shoulder and upper back.

  Cut deeply, the wounded man sank to the ground. He’d made enough noise to waken the dead, and Casca grabbed his horse, mounted up, and galloped off along a clear pathway running ahead through a thinner patch of trees. At the end there were two possible routes so he took the left hand one and crouched low to avoid branches that drooped.

  Droplets of water were still falling off the trees and some fell on his head as he made his way rapidly along the path, a regularly-used one by the looks of things. Pieces of felled tree were more in evidence here and logs could be seen stacked by the side of the path. This was a sign he was nearing civilization and the edge of the woods.

  Two men were suddenly behind him, galloping in his wake. Where in hell had they come from? One moment there had been nobody, the next two were there! Casca whacked his mount’s rump with the flat of his blade, encouraging it to greater speed, and the leaves on the ground were kicked up in clumps as the horse tore flat out towards the growing light of clear farmland.

  He had perhaps thirty yards when he burst out from the woods and skirted a small village neatly nestled by the end of the trees. Villagers stood open-mouthed as Casca thundered past, and in no time two others came past, faces fixed in determination to catch their quarry. There would only be two more and he hoped they weren’t too close, because he knew he’d have to deal with these two now. Two he could take on, four was pushing it.

  He stopped and turned, his sword raised above his head, a clear challenge to his two pursuers. They slowed, spread out, and prepared their weapons, both swords as well. Taking in deep breaths to steady himself, Casca gauged the right time to strike. Both Frenchmen were closing in on him, one to either side. The one to the right was the better armed and had a shield, while the one to the left was holding a sword and had a shorter mail hauberk and no face protection, unlike the other.

  Decision made. He dug his heels into his snorting mount. The creature sprang forward. Casca charged across the Frenchman’s line of approach. Swords slashed in the air. Casca leaned forward, bending low. His strike came up underneath the Frenchman’s and struck. The Frenchman missed.

  He turned sharply. The other had swung to attack. Blades met above their heads. The Frenchman passed and turned sharply, clods of earth flying up. The first Frenchman was sliding off his saddle, blood coating his neck and chest.

  “Die, cochon Anglais!” the remaining enemy snarled, springing forward again.

  Casca urged his horse forward. They met and exchanged blows. The blades clashed again. Casca hacked down, teeth bared. His opponent deflected the blow but was knocked back with the force. Horrified, he tried to regain his balance but fell. He hit the earth hard and rolled slowly onto his hands and knees.

  A quick glance at the woods. Nobody in sight. Good. Casca slid from his saddle and walked up to the groaning man. “Get up you dog fucker,” Casca growled. He had no stomach in killing the man in cold blood, but would happily dispatch him in combat. He was a warrior, not a killer. There was a difference and his professional pride called to him to dispatch the man honorably.

  The Frenchman took hold of his hilt and groaned again, his eyes shifting sideways to see where Casca was. The eternal mercenary wasn’t fooled for one moment. The man got to his feet, groaning, his body bent double. He wasn’t nearly as bad as he pretended and Casca waited for the strike.

  It came, the man pivoting on his heel and swinging two-handed at waist height. Casca deflected the blow up over his head, planted his feet hard on the ground, stopped the circular movement of his blow and countered.

  There was nothing the French rider could do. His sword was still moving up over his head. Casca’s sword sank into his guts and twisted, plunging deeper and out through his back. The eternal mercenary caught the man by the throat and held him close, pushing the blade in until the hilt rested against his reddening tunic. “Au revoir, tete a merde,” he hissed and pulled hard. Released, the Frenchman sank to his knees, clutching his ruined guts.

  Leaving the man to die slowly, he got back on his horse, cleaned his blade, slid it home, then turned away and cantered off away from the village and wood.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The journey eastwards was punctuated with frequent stops. He was hungry and the horse required water and forage. Finally he decided to leave the horse at a farm and exchanged it for some provisions from a suspicious but grateful farmer. He persuaded him thanks to his fluent French that he was a Burgundian mercenary in the service of the French but he’d stolen the horse from the English and was going to rejoin the French army close to Paris.

  The farmer was able to give Casca some information. The English army had passed half a day previously and was heading for a place called Nesle, but the defenders had been ordered to hold the English and wait for the main French army to close in on them. It seemed the trap was about to be snapped shut.

  There were scattered units of French soldiers following the English, picking off stragglers, hanging a few, mutilating others and taking captive any who seemed important enough to warrant a ransom.

  After getting the lie of the land from the farmer, he thanked the man and left, taking not the road to Paris, but the one that led to the nearby River Avre. The rain came again, lashing down hard, and he tramped on miserably, hoping to hell the river wasn’t blocked.

  It wasn’t, and the crossing was reached. Three gruesome corpses hung from roadside gallows, poor stragglers unlucky enough to be caught and punished for the looting that had gone on.

  The sign of the passing army was clear enough now. The town the crossing was by was held by the Burgundians, judging by the flags fluttering from the ramparts, so Casca called out to the guard atop the gatehouse. “Do you have lodgings for a lonely soldier?”

  “Who asks?” the guard leaned over, suspiciously.

  “An English straggler wanting to keep his head and hands!”

  “English, eh?” the Burgundian looked even closer at Casca. It was getting dark but the lone man seemed harmless enough and the gates were raised and the doors opened inwards. Halberd-toting guards stopped him as he passed under the first portcullis and he was searched. His sword and dagger were taken and he was curtly ordered to sit in the guardhouse until the officer of the watch came to inspect him.

  Casca rested his head against the cool wall of the guardroom, part of the ground floor of the gatehouse. A spiral staircase was off to the left, running left to right as all such staircases did, made deliberately that way in order to favor the defenders. Any attacker coming up the stairs would not be able to use their sword – unless they used their left hands, of course – whereas the defenders could. It wasn’t just by chance staircases spiraled that way. Apart from the open doorway through which he’d been brought, there was one more over on the far side and that was probably the entrance to the garderobe, the conveniences.

  Casca wasn’t too concerned he was in a French town
. The fact they looked to the Burgundian Duke John as their overlord meant they were more inclined to support the English. Burgundy and France were not the best of friends at present, and Duke John, while theoretically the vassal of the French King, was currently scheming to overthrow his lord and take the French throne for himself. A murder or two between the competing factions had thrown the kingdom into chaos and uproar, dividing it, and the English had invaded while this was going on. Casca guessed King Henry had done it knowing France was embroiled in a struggle with Burgundy and was not able to direct its full strength at once.

  Any Englishman would be allowed to stay a night, if not welcomed with open arms.

  A captain ducked coming into the chamber and surveyed his visitor. “Captain Fouvier,” he said neutrally. “Servant of Duke John the Fearless. Welcome to Boves. To whom am I addressing?”

  “Cass Long, archer in the service of King Henry of Lancaster,” Casca said, standing up and bowing. It never hurt to show a little respect. It tended to make things easier. “I was separated from the army near Abbeville and have been trying to catch up ever since. I understand the King passed through here recently?”

  “Last night. They stayed overnight and left this morning. You’ll probably catch up with them before dark if you make good time tomorrow. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay, although I’d advise not making it too well known you’re here. Some of the inhabitants have sympathies with the French King. We’re trying to steer a neutral course here, but it’s easier to be accommodating to a few thousand than one lone straggler.”

  “The three dead men outside?”

  “A French patrol happened on those luckless people mid-morning. We didn’t intervene, since we don’t want the French to turn on us. They were late leaving – I think they had a heavy night of drinking, you see.” Fouvier, a tall, fair-haired man with a strong nose and heavy jaw muscles, showed Casca out into the courtyard that lay between the gatehouse and the town proper. A few curious eyes turned their way, then hurried on to their homes for the night. “Speaking of drinking, there is a tavern and I suggest you find lodgings for the night, then leave pretty quickly tomorrow. Some may not be too happy to see you here.”

  “Thank you Captain, you’re very kind. Any news of the French army?”

  Fouvier chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, I regret I cannot take sides in this struggle. If it became known I assisted one of the invaders with military information, I may be punished. After all, you English will soon be gone and we will then have to face the consequences with our overlords, and we are outnumbered.”

  “Not a worry, Captain. I was only curious. I didn’t want to run headfirst into the French King and his army once I left here.”

  “The King is insane and not able to lead his army. I am told he believes he is made of glass and refuses to leave his palace for fear of shattering himself against an object,” Fouvier shrugged. “His son is too young and incapable of leading an army so the Duke of Orleans is leading the largest part of the army, but he is assisted by the Marshal and the Constable of France, and the Dukes of Alencon and Bourbon. The trouble is they do not agree on a policy so you English have a chance of escaping to Calais, providing you can cross the Somme.”

  “I hope so,” Casca said. He bowed once more to Fouvier. “My thanks. I’ll be grateful for a bed, at least for one night!”

  Fouvier waved him off and watched as the man loped up to the tavern door, pushed it open cautiously, then vanished inside. A second figure detached itself from the shadows next to the guardroom and stood expectantly next to Fouvier. The captain turned to him. “You heard everything?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Fouvier grunted, thinking. “How far are the French?”

  “A day’s march, no more. They are coming from the south and are heading for Amiens.”

  “Make sure he is gone by daybreak; I do not wish for any Englishmen to be here should the Duke of Orleans turn up.”

  “And if he should and our guest is present?”

  Fouvier sighed. “Then you would have to kill him.”

  Casca paid for a room and a jug of ale. It took almost all his small reserve of money but, hell, he had no idea when he’d next have the opportunity to enjoy both. He tramped upstairs, watched silently by the innkeeper and the few guests, and found his room, a small chamber that overlooked the main street and the gatehouse. Darkness had fallen fully by now and he threw himself onto the bed, a small straw-filled pad atop a wooden frame.

  He filled his small flask and took a swill of the ale. It wasn’t the best he’d drunk, but it was passable. He leaned against the wall and sighed. The English army was running out of space and couldn’t carry on marching inland forever. Eventually they’d run out of food and become too weak to continue, then the French would come for them and that was it. Capturing the King and the cream of the nobility would be a coup that the French would take full advantage of. It was a horrible thought. Ah shit, if it happened Casca would find his way out of the mess and find another paymaster and war sometime, but he wanted some closure to all this; he hated taking part in a campaign that had no ending or satisfactory outcome. He supposed getting to Calais was the target, so he would give it his best throw. After killing Ned, of course. After that? He’d have to find work elsewhere if he was to earn any money to be able to stay somewhere and eat. There again maybe he’d stick with the army, if there was another campaign in the offing.

  The door began to open slowly and he tensed. He had no weapons; the guards had taken both and they were in the guardhouse. The jug of ale was his best bet if he needed some weapon, but it would be a terrible waste of alcohol.

  A figure appeared in the doorway and slipped in, closing the door quietly behind it. It took two steps to the bottom of the bed and Casca could see it was a buxom wench. Probably a barmaid or something like that. She had a white blouse and black dress, and her hair was dark and fell past her shoulders. He couldn’t make out any other details where she stood.

  “You’re the Englishman,” she said in French.

  “Yes,” he replied in the same tongue. “Do you always visit the rooms of your guests in the night?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, moving round to where he lay and looking down at him. He could see she was fairly young, perhaps of twenty years or so, and had smooth skin except for a mole on her lower jaw off to one side. “Sometimes the guests have money and pay me to sleep with them.”

  “I have none,” Casca said, looking up at her.

  “Sometimes that doesn’t matter,” she said and slipped off her clothing, shivering in the cold air. Casca allowed her to slide in under the blanket and felt her soft skin against his legs. Her hands slid over his body, feeling the rough, coarse fabric of his soldier’s leggings and tunic. “Are you cold?” she asked.

  “I don’t think I’ll be in a few moments,” Casca grinned, shifting position to a more comfortable posture, sitting up so that he could drink the ale, his legs under the blanket, the girl lying on top of his legs. “So why visit me? Is it because I’m English and you find us irresistible?”

  The girl smiled. “No – most of you English are drunken, rude and have no idea what turns a woman on. I’m here to make sure you’re looked after.”

  Casca eyed her ample breasts pressing against his waist. “You’re doing a fine job – Miss?”

  “Carole,” she said, “Carole Fouvier.”

  “Fouvier? Any relative of the good Captain out there?”

  “He’s my older brother. He wants someone to keep an eye on you, as you English say, and he felt I was the best qualified to do that.”

  “I can’t argue with him on that. You don’t want me to go walking round the town and fall foul of some of the more French-orientated citizens?”

  “Not that, no,” she said, beginning to unfasten his breeches. “He wants you out of Boves before dawn. He worries the French army may turn up at any time and if they find you being sheltered here, they may punish us all.”


  Casca allowed his leggings to be pulled down, exposing him to the delighted woman. “So I’m to leave early tomorrow. The gates will be shut until daylight, you know that.”

  Carole shook her head, sliding up onto his stomach, rubbing herself against him. “My brother will arrange for a sally port to be unlocked. I am to show you where.” She stroked him under the blanket, making him hard. She coo-ed in delight, and moved again. “In the meantime I am to make sure you do not leave this room.”

  “I doubt I’ll do that,” his words ended with a gasp as she slid him into her. “You make a very convincing argument to remain here.”

  Carole giggled, then began to ride him slowly. “My brother thought so. I shall arrange for food….ooohh…. to be left …. for you…” she couldn’t carry on, her face screwing up in dark pleasure as she increased her tempo, and Casca put his flask down and took hold of her waist as she began shaking the bed.

  Later, he lay there idly sipping his ale, a warm glow having spread through his body. Carole was lying against him, her head on his chest, a secret smile on her lips. He seemed to go from having diabolically bad luck to incredibly good in a short amount of time. It hadn’t been the only time this had happened to him. Old Shiu Lao Tze’s wheel of life thing again. Good-bad-good-bad. Only it tended to be good-shit-good-terrible with him.

  Carole had hinted that the main French army wasn’t far away, hot on the heels of the English. They would be two days behind at most, which was nothing. The English were trying to find a way across the Somme while the French were marching hard, with full supplies and health. The gap would close and if the river remained a barrier then the Duke of Orleans would have his victory in a few days.

  Before the day came, Carole roused Casca. His mouth felt furry. Too much ale. Too bad, he was thrown his clothes and a cloth bundle that contained food. He slung it over his shoulder and followed the now well-dressed Carole to the back door of the tavern. A high wall stood outside across a narrow courtyard. Carole, wearing a dark cloak and boots, waved him to follow her along the yard to a small almost overgrown door in the wall, barred and bolted.