by Smith, Skye
"Tell them that because you were battling William on their behalf, you have not been with a woman for weeks. Tell them that you want to be left in peace so that you can take the time to bed your lovely wife. Tell them to fuck off until you send for them,” answered Raynar truthfully.
"I like you, English, and it is too bad that your honesty will soon get you murdered by a Frankish opportunist,” chuckled Philippe, and then he bowed to his wife and returned to the great hall and to his court, but this time with Raynar in tow. He left Raynar at the front of the audience while he mounted the two steps to his throne and then he turned to face them all. There was an immediate hush of voices and the swish of fine silk as they all bowed.
"I have been told that it is unhusbandly to return home after an absence of weeks, and then be too busy to pay proper attention to my wife. All of you men are guilty of the same dereliction of your wives, so you are now all dismissed until we have all reacquainted ourselves with our loved ones.” He returned the bow of his audience and then pulled Raynar after him back to Bertha's receiving room. Behind him he left a roar of gossip and complaints, but also much clapping from the hands of the women.
The guard stepped after them to gently close the door, but Philippe grabbed the handle and slammed it loudly behind them. "No one opens a door slammed by the king, save the king himself,” he said to Raynar's quizzical look. Philippe's comely young face opened into a wide smile and he crossed to Bertha and swung her around in his arms as if they were members of a dance troop. After five minutes of this, her own broad smile made her look five years younger than she had before. He let her feet touch the ground again and then took her through the connecting door to her chamber, and slammed the door behind him.
It took Raynar three long strides to stand beside Gesa, "Has she had long enough to recover from the miscarriage?"
"There is nothing sure in these matters,” replied Gesa. "Yes, I think so. Whatever, it is beyond my control now. They will be rutting all night, and I wish them joy and a son."
* * * * *
Fulk was conspicuous by his absence from court, and so Raynar joined in some wine drinking sessions with some warriors who still had the stunned look of those coming down from the battle energy. They had been a part of Philippe's escort back to Paris.
"Fulk is still in Bretagne, mopping up,” said one of the drinkers. "Why, does he owe you money?” The table of men laughed with him. Fulk owed all of them money.
"Was it bad? In Bretagne I mean? Against William the Conqueror?” Raynar asked as he flipped a coin to the serving maid to keep her attentative.
"Very bad, but not so much for us. We arrived to turn the tide and never suffered like the poor sods in Dor did during that ugly siege. That William is a bastard. He crushes everything that is good and wholesome, in order to force terms."
"Did you punish him?” His question brought evil snickers from around the table.
"We humbled him,” said the man at the end, "captured his siege engines, his camp, even his treasury."
"We slaughtered his infantry,” said another. "The Normans are retreating with the Bretons on their tails as we speak."
"I hear that Fulk is holding forty of his knights for ransom,” said the first. "Ralph the Breton wanted to cut off their feet for some reason, but Fulk wouldn't allow him."
"I would rather you would have slaughtered his knights and held his infantry for ransom,” said Raynar. They all looked at him like he had two heads, and then laughed at the jest.
"The siege was almost over when we arrived. Dor was getting ready to surrender to William the Bastard. Fulk wouldn't allow us to rush in and flank the Norman's though. Instead he had us hide in the Andaines Forest. Do you know that forest. It is to east of Dor perhaps thirty five miles.
So we sat there in the rain for two days, and then the word came to us that part of the Norman army had decamped and was leaving Dor and rushing back to Caen. From Dor that means they would move towards where we were in the Andaines for about ten miles and then turn north to Avranches and then on to Caen."
"We should have attacked the third that was on the move. William himself was with them. We would have captured the bastard.” groaned the man at the end of the table.
"We did just fine. We let them get to Avranches and then we moved in to trap the rest of the Normans between us and Dor. The third that had just left, could not get back to Dor. We had the siegers under siege. A Norman sure victory turned into a Norman rout within two days. Once we got them retreating back to Normandy, our numbers swelled by all sorts of new friends."
"Greedy buggers from Anjou and Maine who had been sitting back waiting for someone else to do the fighting and the dying so that they would be alive to pick over the spoils of what was left.” said the man at the end.
"Fair enough, we took much that should have been left for the Bretons. They have been fighting William for two years now, almost non stop."
"Aye, and we only won because William withdrew is cavalry for some reason. Without the cavalry, we could flank the siege army."
"I heard that William's own son Robert had attacked and burned Rouen. That is why the cavalry withdrew. To race to Rouen."
"What, Robert Short-Hose? The one who has been hanging around Mistress Gesa. Well good on him. Never thought he had it in him. Must be more to him than I thought."
"Much more, if Gesa is riding him."
"So Dor is the first time that anyone has trounced William, then?” asked Raynar.
"First time here in France. I heard that he was trounced pretty good in England a few times. Hastings, York, Durham, The Peaks. Those are in England aren't they?"
"In England he has always come back from a defeat with brutal vengeance, and left a wasteland behind. He gets mean tempered when he loses, and orders his army to destroy everything. Most of the folk of Northern England froze and starved to death in winter storms after he harrowed them."
"Shit, do you think he will do that now in Bretagne?” asked a youngster.
"He did it in Maine back when you were on your mother's tit, lad,” said the man at the end. "Why do you think there are so many barons in Paris right now. They are all wanting us to protect them from William's wrath."
"Aye,” said an older man who had been quiet until now, "and there will be hell to pay in Normandy and in England. And I mean pay as in coin. William owes large to the men who supplied his army. They will want to recoup their losses from him. William will tax and steal everything within reach in order to pay off his backers. I pity England for what is about to happen there to pay for his defeat in Dor."
Out of awe, or perhaps politeness to the old warrior, everyone had been quiet while he spoke. Raynar nudged the man next to him and whispered, "Who is he?"
"LeFevre. 'The' LeFevre,” was the simple answer.
"There is nothing left to take in England,” Raynar replied, staring at LeFevre, wondering if it was the same LeFevre he had heard stories about from the French of Montreuil. "The Normans have already taken everything."
LeFevre leaned forward with a serious look and looked around at the young men at the table. "They say that Norman mothers don't stick their babies on their own tits. They stick them on a peasant's tit instead. They want Normans to learn how to suck peasants dry, right from birth.” He looked around at the shock on the faces of these men and then laughed until he choked. "The look on your faces. I'll remember that until my grave."
Only Raynar joined him in his laughter, but stopped when he saw the others were not laughing. LeFevre poured him some more wine and said "Don't worry English. I have scratched a wound from their own birthing. They are all part of this new generation. They were all suckled by a peasant maid so that their mothers could quickly regain their figures and return to courtly life."
Once the rest of the men were too drunk to tell reliable stories, Raynar went back to Gesa's room. To his surprise he found his place in her bed taken up by Gertrude. Of course. Gertrude could not stay with Bertha if Phili
ppe was amorous. After checking that little Inka was still peaceful and dry, he slipped back out into the hallway and wrapped himself in a rug and lay out on a bench. The hallway because Gertrude snored.
* * * * *
Perhaps it was because his natural senses were still alert from living rough in the forest and dodging Normans, or perhaps it was because he couldn't get comfortable in the rug on the bench, but one of his senses forced one of his eyes to open just as a shadow moved. He froze and listened intently. There were the sounds of hushed movements, and not those of a sleepy servant on his rounds and trying not to wake anyone. The sound was more like the forced stealth of a hunter in the forest.
Long ago he had learned not to ignore his extra sense, his healing sense that noticed things that were hidden, so he reached under the bench and found the scabbard of his sword. His Syrian sword looked so much like one of the useless dress swords that the nobs wore to court, that the palace guards never seemed to take it from him. He eased the thin sharp Damascus blade silently from its sheath and rolled from the bench and onto his stocking feet.
He was cold to the bone so he kept the rug clenched tight around him. Bloody stone buildings. There was no way of keeping them warm when cold winds were blowing. The hunters, yes plural. He somehow knew that there were two and that they were halfway down the hallway and still moving. The hunters now became the hunted. He listened to the rhythm of their movements until he could match the rhythm. When they moved, he moved, so they never had a chance to hear him.
They had stopped in front of the door to Bertha's chamber. Damn. After King Philippe's announcement at court today, the whole palace knew that he would be spending the night in Bertha's chamber and that they would have sexed each other into deep sleep. Damn. Where was Fulk when Philippe needed his protection? Ah yes, everyone knew that Fulk was still in Bretagne.
He mulled his options. He could yell out for the guard, but then these hunters would surely get away and he would be found holding a sword outside the Queen's quarters. If he could somehow slash the leg muscles of one of them before he yelled out, then the slashed man would not get away. Damn. Where was Gesa when he needed her. The guards would obey her orders instantly. Being the Queen's right hand, she had them all wrapped around her little finger.
He had no choice. He needed a prisoner. Philippe needed a prisoner. Now that the hunters had stopped, he could no longer move to their rhythm. Damn. These men would be expert swordsmen. His own sword skills were weak, so he wouldn't stand a chance against them.
He felt rather than saw a change in the light. The door was opening. It would have been barred from the inside, so there must be another of them already inside. Would they now creep to the royal bedside with daggers raised, or would they charge forward. He could not wait any longer. He would have to rely on his secret weapon to protect him.
"AHHHH,” Raynar yelled with all the breath in his lungs and lunged towards the doorway while slashing his wickedly sharp sword at calf level. He ran into something invisible that did not give just as his own sword hit something that felt as solid as a sapling, and afterwards someone else was howling with him.
"Guard, Guard, to arms, to arms,” Raynar yelled but was shut up by a hit to his side by something invisible and powerful. It knocked him sideways off his feet, but his secret weapon had saved him from a mortal wound. It could only have been a powerful swing of a heavy sword, and now his ear was burning and he felt the sticky warmth of blood on his neck. His blood.
As soon as he hit the floor he began to roll. It was the only movement his secret weapon would allow. As best he could he rolled into their legs while flailing his blade. Meanwhile he was being pummeled and hacked at by their swords. His flailing sword must have done some damage because both of the hunters began to howl. His last slash must have caught them on the thighs.
There was a clap of thunder which caught their attention. The door being slammed shut. Followed by the sounds of a bar being slid into place. Good, Bertha and Philippe were safe for now. It was time to retreat and yell blue murder. Unfortunately, what was left of his secret weapon was now trapping him and stopping him from running and saving his own life.
Looking around in panic, he suddenly realized that he was seeing shadows. To have shadows there must be light. A man was calling from the other end of the hallway, and he must have been carrying a candle lantern.
One of the hunters hit the shut door with all his weight, but it was shut solid and he bounced off it and made a moaning sound. The hunters were speaking in urgent whispers to each other. "Kill me and save yourself,” said the man who was on his knees and leaning against the wall. The light was getting closer.
"First I will kill this bastard,” said the other man. The one who had just bounced off the door.
"There is no time. Finish me and be gone,” said the kneeling man.
"Bless you,” whispered Raynar to the kneeling man as he tried again to roll away from both of them.
He looked up at the man still standing, and in the brightening light he saw a great sword rising up for a decapitation stroke. His decapitation.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - Forest Law by Skye Smith
Chapter 14 - Assassins in Paris in November 1076
The look in the eye of his executioner was unmistakable. He was poised to swing his heavy sword down across Raynar's neck and there was not much he could do to stop it for he was twisted up and tired and beaten. He must wait for a telltale blink of an eye and roll away at the last minute. As he was staring at the man's face, the man suddenly dropped the sword and covered his face with both hands and screamed a horrifying sound.
Between the screams of agony he heard another sound. The sound of soft footsteps running towards him from behind. Then his face was filled with silk and a woman’s bosom.
"Let me have your sword you fool. I need it,” said Gesa reaching over him grabbing at his weapon. He released the hilt to her and she picked it up in both hands and shoved it with all her might at an angle upwards into the belly of the standing swordsman, who didn't see it coming because he was still holding his face and groaning in agony. The sword went deep up inside him and stuck fast so she let go of it and then, staying low, she twirled on one foot and extended the other foot and kicked another sword away from the other man, the kneeling man.
The leaning man had been trying to use his sword to lean upon and stand, but now he came out of his daze to break his fall and then squirmed along the floor reaching for his sword, which was now skittering along the stone floor. Gesa leaped at his face and clawed at it viciously with her long womanly nails, but he grabbed hold of her. Raynar spun his bruised body around and kicked the man in his bloody leg with all his might. He howled in pain and let go of Gesa so he could hold his leg.
Gesa rolled away from him and ended up back on her feet and facing both of the hunters and with one of the heavy swords in her hand. "Stay still, all of you,” she barked hoarsely, weakly, out of breath. The man with the lamp was now standing just out of reach. In the yellow light, he looked old and frail, so it must have taken him much courage to approach such a deadly fight armed only with light. The man with Raynar's thin sword up his belly was beyond caring, lying as he was in a pool of his own blood.
Gesa put two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle over and over until two guards found them in the maze of hallways in this huge palace. The two arrived with pikes and one of the pikemen made to finish off the second hunter.
"Touch him and you die,” screamed Gesa. She was naked save for a white silk bed shirt, which clung to her body enticingly and would have been very sexy if it hadn't been splashed with gore and blood. Her blonde hair was untied and hanging long down her back and her eyes were wide and intense. She pointed at the pikemen with a sword that was twice as long as her arm and already blooded. The pikemen backed away from her.
"Light the wall candles,” Raynar said calmingly to the old man while he struggled to rele
ase himself from his secret weapon, the costly Mussulman rug that he had wrapped himself in for warmth while asleep on the bench. The fine patterns and tight knots of the rug had been shredded by the repeated slashes and stabs of two swords. He was now untangled enough to stand and the rags of rug fell to the floor.
He reached forward and tugged his own sword from a man's belly. The lack of reaction told him the man was dead. The dead man had something sticking out of where his left eye should have been, a small dart perhaps. He flicked his gory sword towards the pikemen and motioned for them to back against the wall and to drop their pikes. One pike clattered to the floor but the other guard hesitated so he flicked the tip of his sword across the man's hand. The second pike clattered to the floor.
A band of men were clattering down the hall, and slowed their pace and pointed their drawn swords at the grizzly scene. Raynar recognized some of them as the evening's drinking companions. They asked him for an explanation, but while doing so, none took their eyes from Gesa's silhouette.
"These three men are my prisoners,” Gesa said pointing to the wounded man and the two pikemen. "Take them to the guard room and wait for me there. I don't want them talking to anyone, especially not to each other. You will have to carry that one."
"Wait,” yelled Raynar. He slashed the dead man's tunic to create two long ribbons and then he bent down over the wounded man and cinched them tight around both of his upper legs. "I don't want him to bleed to death before we question him."
"Is Philippe in that room,” asked the oldest of the rescuers. It was the man known as LeFevre.
Raynar nodded, "yes, but the door is barred now."
"Philippe,” the man yelled through the heavy door. "It is me, LeFevre. Are you injured?” They heard the bolt being drawn back and then the door was swung open quickly as a man's body leaped backwards from it and pointed a sword towards them. It was Philippe.
"Status,” Philippe commanded.
