Casca 41: The Longbowman

by Tony Roberts

  Will pulled his mouth down in a scowl. “The bastard. What do we do?”

  “I’m going to get even with him, but nice and quiet, like. I need Walt to help, too. We’ve got to get Ned over here so I can take care of him.”

  “Thought there was something odd about him; he’s no archer, that’s for sure.”

  “No – he doesn’t look like one, does he?”

  Will shook his head. “Can’t hold a bow proper, and whenever we’ve had to use them, for practice or whatever, he’s tried to fake illness. Soon as we stand down he’s back, as good as new.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Okay, go tell Walt and get Ned over here. I’ll deal with him.”

  Casca knelt and peered through a small gap in the bushes. The moon shone brightly, and the fires added to the light. It was almost like a dull winter’s day. It was essential to stay out of sight of everyone else, and this spot was the best he could see.

  After a few minutes Will had seemingly persuaded Walt to follow Casca’s wishes, and together they spoke to Ned, sat on the other side of the fire. The three came over, weapons drawn, including Ned, and Casca tensed, holding his sword. His heart beat faster. He slowly backed away so he had space, and when the three came round the corner, going out of sight of the camp, Casca stood up suddenly, surprising them, particularly Ned who was the only one who hadn’t been told who was awaiting them.

  “What…” he began, then turned to flee, but Walt suddenly had his blade at Ned’s throat.

  “Not so fast you murdering dog,” Casca said. “Tried to do me in back at that French village, didn’t you? No doubt you’d’ve gone for poor Pip, too, if she hadn’t been dead already.”

  “What you talking about?” Ned said, desperation in his eyes. “You…” he stopped, staring at Casca. He fell silent.

  “I, what?”

  Walt pushed the man forward, now minus his weapon.

  Casca glared at him. “You’re Cooper’s man; sent to take care of both Pip and myself. A bit risky you joining an army – I bet you’ve never been part of one before. You look more suited to the backstreets of Southampton, robbing people of their purses.”

  “You’re crazy. I’m the same as you,” Ned said, his eyes roving over Casca’s body.

  “Looking for the wounds you thought you’d made?” Casca said. “You missed, you amateur.”

  Ned opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He had about to say something that would have put him right in it, but he was too smart to fall for that one.

  “You’re no archer, so you made a big mistake in passing yourself off as one; it would have been better to say you were a squire or a page or something. That way you may have got away with it. I suppose you killed Wakely back in Southampton. You took his money, I bet. Our wages.” Casca had a sudden thought. “Will, go check his belongings in the camp – I’m willing to bet he’s got that secreted amongst it.”

  Will grinned and loped off. Ned swung round. “You bastard, leave my stuff alone!”

  “I think that’ll be enough proof to link your part in what happened to Wakely. Let me think this one through; Cooper sends you to kill Pip and myself, so you somehow separate Wakely from the rest of us. How, well it doesn’t matter, but maybe it was an offer of a drink, or maybe information. Whatever, you killed him and took his money and took his place on a ship. That should have been ours but you missed the boat, didn’t you?”

  Ned sneered. He remained silent.

  Walt fidgeted. “We can’t stay here all night, Cass. Someone’s bound to come along and then we’ve got to explain this.”

  “Won’t be long. A few minutes, maybe, then we’ll end this.” Casca pressed the top of his sword against Ned’s throat. “You tried to scare us after we landed, leaving that stupid sign on that farm door, but all you did was to warn me. That was dumb. Then, stupidly, you tried to kill Pip with that arrow shot at the barbican but you’re such a shit archer that you missed. That told me more than anything else you had to be disguised as an archer close by.”

  They waited a few moments, then Will returned and handed Walt a small leather bag that had coins in it. Walt nodded and showed Casca the money. “Our wages.”

  Casca grunted. “That just about settles it. Well?”

  Ned spat. “Stupid people. Don’t think about going back to Southampton, Cooper’s got the word out to kill you if you’re ever seen there again.”

  Casca grunted in amusement. “Like to see him try. We’ll distribute that money out to the group; time we were paid anyway.”

  “Think you’re going to live long enough to spend it? You’ve got no chance. The French will get you – all of you. You’re going to keep on walking till you all run out of food and then what? Nobody here’s going to help you one bit.” Ned laughed unpleasantly. “Might as well tell you that idiot Wakely died quickly, and I had to sneak aboard another boat since you were already on yours. So what you going to do now, then?”

  “Kill you,” Casca said and ran the man through. Ned fell dead at his feet.

  “That was sudden,” Will observed, staring at the dead man. “Now what? Someone’s bound to find him here.”

  “I’ll drag the body off a little way, while you two go back and dish out the coins to the guys. I’ll come back and rejoin you all. Tell them you’ve seen me and that Pip died. Some damned illness got her.”

  The two nodded and returned to the camp, leaving Casca to drag Ned off a little way. It had been best to kill the man quickly and not make any noise, or that would have caused some difficulty. Two men fighting to the death would have attracted the men from the camp and who knows what conclusions they would have drawn in the heat of the moment.

  He approached the fire slowly, and saw both Walt and Will looking at him, attracting the others’ attentions. All stood up and welcomed him back as if from the dead, and commiserated him on Pip’s death. Casca sat, warming himself by the fire. They’d all been given the run-down on the truth about Ned – or, to be more exact, the truth as far as Casca and Walt had decided. The story that the others had been told was that Ned had killed Wakely in Southampton for the coins and was keeping them himself, but Casca had found out and had dispatched the unlamented man. The fact the coins had been dished out had been enough for the others to believe that story. Again, as Casca realized, it was best to keep it simple and in terms the others would accept and not question. Best that rather than getting into difficulties trying to stick to a lie, because they usually led to bigger lies and eventually you’d fall over your own tangled web and get found out.

  As he slowly dried out and began to feel a little more human, he related his journey to the listening group, all agog at the stories of him besting groups of Frenchmen, and in particular bedding the buxom Carole in Boves.

  “You lucky bugger,” Sills grumbled, “we had to stay outside. Trust you to get a woman!”

  “Advantages of being alone. They didn’t feel intimidated. Still, I learned that the French are close behind, and are probably a day or so back. It wouldn’t take long for them to catch us now.”

  The captain, doing his rounds, stopped in surprise at seeing Casca there. “I was told you’d deserted, Long!”

  “No, sire, that was Ned. He’s gone,” Casca said confidently. The captain looked puzzled, then confused.

  “And Pip?”

  “Died of infection.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Look, word has come down from the King; we’re to raze the villages around to the ground. Nesle up ahead has turned out the red banners and are refusing to assist us in any way, and in punishment all the settlements around here are to be burned. All restrictions are off.”

  The men chuckled and cheered. At last they could vent their frustrations on someone. Casca pitied the villagers; they were going to suffer terribly for the actions of others, but that was case of people the world over. He didn’t have the stomach for those sorts of things. “Captain, any news on a crossing? I hear the French are a day’s march behind us and catching up.”
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  “Are they, by the devil?” the captain looked concerned. “I’ve not heard anything, Long. How did you come to hear of this?”

  “At Boves, the Burgundians had word from their scouts. They’ll probably be close to Boves tonight.”

  “Damn their eyes,” the captain said and walked off hurriedly.

  “Think you’ve put the shits up him, Cass,” Andrew said. “Don’t think he’s fit to stand in a battle.”

  “Probably not, but we’ve got to find a crossing point and damned fast or we’re going to be trapped like rats in a barrel.”

  They spent the next few hours discussing the situation but going round in circles and finding more fantastic solutions. Then a messenger came running up to them, shouting excitedly. “Great news! They’ve found an unguarded ford three miles ahead! New orders from the King – loot everything you can to make a bridge and causeway from the villages before you burn them.” He continued on to the next camp fire, spreading the word.

  A buzz went up from the camp. Suddenly there was hope. Suddenly they had a chance to get out of the narrowing trap they were in.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Casca helped in ripping doors from posts, posts from the ground, and dismantling fences. The villagers cried out in protest but were helpless to stop the thousands of English soldiers destroying their properties. A line of men began marching untidily north towards the Somme to a place called Bethencourt, where a partly dismantled causeway lay. Whoever had been given the job of destroying it hadn’t done a proper job, because it was still capable of supporting the desperate army. The causeway passed through the marshes that lay near the river, allowing people to walk through the tree-covered approaches to the banks. Here was a ford and the scouts were already across, spreading out, watching for any French soldiers who were incredibly not there.

  Casca had left the village with an entire door and walked with it over his head. He would not burn the settlement; let that be done by those who wanted to. As they trudged through the tree-lined lanes and skirted the grassy banks that served as anti-flooding dikes, they wondered how it was the French could be so careless.

  Casca thought on it a moment, then had a burst of clarity. “The river swings in a huge loop here,” he nodded to the Somme, a grey-colored sheet to their left. “We’re on the inside of it so we’ve got less distance to travel to get to the far end of the curve, but the French, on the other bank, have to follow the course of the river. We’ve gone through the loop in a shortcut. The French will be approaching but they’ll be too late to stop us, and we outnumber them.”

  “Isn’t that their army, though, over there?” Will asked.

  “Nah,” Walt shook his head. “Just their vanguard. It was enough to stop us crossing, but won’t be enough to face us in battle. They’ll go running now to their main army behind us. It’s a case of whether they can cross elsewhere and intercept us before we get to Calais. It’ll be a straight run now, a race.”

  Men milled about on the causeway, directing the arriving soldiers to place their wood in given places, widening the path that could be safely walked on. A few engineers were working feverishly away, shouting out they needed more wood. Casca dropped his door across a gap and stepped back, surveying his handiwork.

  “Good man,” an engineer nodded. “You an archer?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “You’ve not got your bow. Have you lost it?”

  Casca frowned in annoyance. He’d forgotten about that. “My comrades have it,” he touched his forehead in respect to the officer. It was something that had developed in the recent years. Nobles and officers, talking to their men before a battle or at an assembly, often lifted their visors so they could speak clearly and see who they were addressing, and the hand to the face had developed into a kind of salute. “I’ll go get it. Is there trouble up ahead, sire?”

  “The Duke of York is over yonder with some of his men-at-arms but he needs archers to supplement them just in case the French turn up. Talk is of them being in the district. Take your men and get over there. There may be a fight and we don’t want to lose this one chance of getting over this blighted river.”

  Casca swung about. Walt was close by, divesting himself of the pile of wood he’d brought along. “Get the men over the river. We’re needed to support the Duke of York. Where’s my bow?”

  “Will has it.” Walt slapped Andrew on the back. “Come on you Taffy sheep-shagger, get your arse over that river and scare the bloody Frogs away.”

  “Go and bugger off,” Andrew said, grinning. “Typical English; when there’s a fight you need us Welsh to do your dirty work for you.”

  Walt chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d rather have Welsh bowmen alongside me than facing you bastards. I was at Shrewsbury, did you know that?”

  “No. Was it as bad as they say?”

  Casca cocked an ear. He hadn’t been around twelve years previously when the royal army fought a coalition of Welsh rebels under Owain Glyn Dwr and Henry Hotspur, the Earl of Northumberland at Shrewsbury, close to the Welsh border. The royal army under Henry, then Prince of Wales, had advanced uphill into a torrent of arrows from the rebels, and despite horrendous losses, had got through and butchered the coalition army.

  “Worse,” Walt said briefly. “I wouldn’t want to face that again!”

  They pushed through a throng of soldiers filing across, reaching the end of the causeway and plunging into the water, bow staves in hand. Casca sought out and took his bow from Will who’d kept it wrapped in cloth. He was passed his string too, and a quiver from Sills who had been carrying that. He hadn’t got a hat or helm but no doubt he’d get hold of one before long.

  He reached the water’s edge and plunged in, sucking in his breath at the chill. The ford was clearly marked by the edges of the causeways on either bank, and they stayed within the line of those. The far bank was similar to the one they’d left, marshy, full of sedge and willow, and it rose gently until about thirty feet from the river where firm ground began.

  A man on horseback spotted them coming up past the line of swordsmen marching wearily. “You men, archers, go to the line of trees over there,” he pointed. “We’ve got a picket of archers keeping guard. We’ve got word the French vanguard is closing in, so hurry!”

  Waving the rest on, Casca broke into a stumbling run. Other archers were making their way to the distant line of ash trees and the glint of metal could be seen. It was early afternoon and it would take until dark for the entire army to cross over. Lord Camoys, commanding the rearguard, had been ordered to destroy the causeways once they passed, so that their rear was secure.

  Gasping for breath the group reached the trees. They saw the armored figure of Sir Thomas Erpingham astride his horse directing men to positions. “You men, over there!” he threw a gauntleted hand wide to his right. “Hurry now, the enemy are approaching!”

  “Shit,” Casca said and trotted off, dragging the rest in his wake. They reached their place, on the extreme right of the line and knelt in between the thin line of trunks. Beyond was farmland, criss-crossed with fences, paths, roads and hedges. A line of men was coming along the nearest road, led by three on horseback. Shiny armor showed these were dismounted knights, heavy infantry. Nasty.

  Casca’s mouth went down. “Bodkins, men. We’ve got to stop those knights getting to us.” In each quiver were forty arrows, with differing points. Some were the needle pointed ‘bodkin’ type, designed to punch through armor. These had different lengths, so that they could pierce most types of armor. Other blades were wide barbed, these were to cause maximum damage to horses, made that way to bring down the animals and unseat their armored riders in one fell swoop.

  They tested their six foot staves, and fitted their strings, looping one end around the horn nock, placing that on the ground, then leaning with all their might to bend the bow so that the string could loop round the nock at the other end. It took some strength to do that.

  Now they pulled experime
ntally on their strings. Any weaknesses would now have to be found or there’d be trouble if the string broke in mid battle. Casca was satisfied with the bow and now picked an arrow from his quiver. Behind the line of archers a group of armored men-at-arms were gathering, ready to engage the French if they reached the trees. The archers would withdraw out of harm’s way. The eternal mercenary looked to the nearest captain, a large-nosed dark haired individual, a man who was wearing the livery of Sir Thomas, the green with white martlets that was identical to the flag fluttering from the pole being carried by Sir Thomas’ squire, standing next to the commander of archers.

  The captain held out a cautious hand and shook his head. Casca waved his hand to his group, indicating they hold. Closer and closer came the French, marching in double file, clearly ignorant of the waiting English. Casca could now make out the individual faces of the soldiers, all making good time but with visors up and helmets in some cases not even being worn.

  Arrows flew out from the center, close to where the French were heading. The enemy line shivered and backed up, the men blundering into one another. A few toppled at the front and shouts and screams went up. ‘Les Anglais!’

  The captain now raised his hand and Casca fitted his arrow, nodding to the rest to do likewise. The hand chopped down and Casca loosed off at the pack of confused and milling soldiers. More missiles flew at the group and men fell, their screams adding to the chorus of voices.

  The line of Frenchmen scattered wide. At less than a hundred yards they were in the murderous killing range of the feared great warbow, even with armor on. Shields were raised and they backed away, wanting to keep as much distance between them as possible. One rider galloped across the field and spotted the line of men-at-arms behind the archers. Swearing, he wheeled about and, yelling for his men to withdraw, raced off, pursued by a few desultory missiles that missed.

  The rest of the French force ran for their lives, leaving a score of their number lying on the field, either dead or feebly moving. A few limped after their fleeing comrades, clutching wounds. The captain snapped a curt order to cease shooting and the archers stepped down.