Cotard reported that his waiting out of sight behind some trees ensured the two fugitives had no escape route.
Scarlan bathed in his strategic brilliance, which ensured their enemies had once more been defeated. This time by a devious scheme to throw them into the hands of the hated Normans.
'Our enemies' enemy is another enemy,’ he explained.
Durniss nodded at this profound thought.
Sigurd son of Sigurd wanted his father to get up and play axes.
Sigurd the father wasn't going anywhere for a while. He had made it back to the camp, being sick against most of the trees on the way. As they were walking through a forest, this was quite a lot of being sick. Once in his tent he had collapsed and fallen asleep.
'Why don't we fetch a physic?’ Durniss suggested.
They all looked at one another and shook heads.
'We're lonely fighters against the evil invader,’ Scarlan explained. 'We don't have a physik.’
'Monks usually know a bit about healing and the like,’ said Cotard. 'We could get the, erm, oh…' He ground to a halt as he remembered they had just delivered their only monk to the Normans. 'I'm sure Sigurd'll get better,’ he concluded.
'You don't suppose the monk and Wat will give away our location?’ Cotard added after a moment's thought. There was worry in his voice and he looked like he was ready to start packing.
'Probably,’ Scarlan replied, 'not that they'll want to, of course, but Grosmal will get it out of them.’
'He will that,’ the small man said. 'You should see some of the stuff he's got in his dungeon. He could get a quack out of a chicken.’
'We'd better move.’ Cotard stood, ready to leave at a moment's notice.
'Oh, sit down,’ Scarlan was relaxed. 'It'll be hours before they've got any useful information. Then it'll be dark. Then they'll have to actually find us. We'll move at dawn.’
'I could go on ahead?’ Cotard offered.
'For goodness sake, Cotard,’ Scarlan was losing some patience, 'our camp is completely secret. The monk and Wat will have to think hard about the directions and the Normans haven't got the first idea where we are.’
* * * *
In the castle of Robert Grosmal, a map showing the exact location of Scarlan's camp was being studied by a large contingent of Normans.
The head guard was actually a Saxon called Carac, who had been in William's service since he was a child. Any parent selling their child to Duke William would have known he wasn't coming back.
Carac went over the map in detail and described the landscape as he'd been there several times himself.
It was quite a large gathering as volunteers had rushed to the task once it had been announced. When their lord's instruction to go unarmed was revealed, even more turned up.
'Are we finally going to finish them off?’
'Got to bring them back alive, boys,’ Carac responded, fierce with instruction.
Moans and boos rustled round the group and one or two slipped out of the room as they lost interest.
'Lord Robert will want to do something horrible to them here.’
That brought a few of them back.
As they got ready to go they filed past Carac, handing over weapons. Well, explicit weapons. There was a lively debate about what ‘unarmed’ actually meant. Several of the more intelligent argued that if something was permanently attached to them it didn't count as arms. You couldn't surrender your arms if it was impossible to let go of them.
Knuckle guards, sharpened elbow pads and gloves with large spikes sticking out of them all passed muster. One man who had simply tied a sword to his leg was made to put it back.
Crossing the open land between castle and woods, the expedition to conquer the camp of Scarlan was more like an outing. Guards exchanged victuals and even passed a wineskin round. They chatted with one another and discussed plans.
This one was going to grab Scarlan from behind and accidentally kick him hard in the groin.
Another was going after the big fellow, Durniss, and would bring him down with a special move he'd been practicing on some cattle.
The prize was going to be Cotard. Bets were laid on which of them would be fast enough to catch the man after he got wind of them and ran away.
There was more general respect for Sigurd. He was a real fighter, if a rather old and decrepit one. They would give him his due. Knock him out early and tie him up.
…
Entering the wood, their leader took the troop on a bee line for the camp. Once the smell of wood smoke from the poorly hidden campfire reached his nostrils, he crouched down.
His men did likewise and he signalled they should spread out left and right. He held a hand over his mouth, instructing silence, and scanned the landscape. The late afternoon smudged the shadows, and the grizzled old war horse shook his head at the complete absence of camp guards, look outs or even trip-twines to alert those inside that they were about to fall. He scratched his head, probably wondering what he could do to make this a bit more difficult. Strolling into the camp and accepting the surrender wasn't much of a test for desperate men.
He gestured for his right hand man to join him.
'Alard, we need a captive,’ he said.
The man Alard looked at him. It was the look of an experienced man being told to do something comprehensively unnecessary.
'No, we don't.’
Carac sighed. 'Look, if we just wander in there and take the camp, the men are going to be a bit restless, aren't they? No fight, no damage, no blood? You know what happened last time they got a bit restless?’
The look on Alard's face said he remembered very well indeed.
'Lord Robert wasn't happy was he?’
Alard shivered slightly. 'No.’
'Right. So we need some action. Get into the camp and catch one of 'em. A bit of underhand deception and cheating should give the men something to drink about tonight.’
'Why don't we just storm the place and let them get it out of their systems?’
Carac gave Alard a look now.
'Ah,’ he replied, 'bring them back alive. I remember.’
'Go on, then.’ Alard's superior nodded towards the camp.
Raising his eyes and shaking his head at this ridiculous situation, Alard stood up and walked off to the camp.
'Sneak,’ Carac hissed.
Alard stared at the man, his eyes registering the debt he was now owed.
With very little commitment Alard crouched down a bit and clumped off through the undergrowth.
There was some muttering from the line of men strung out in the woods. Carac smiled that they'd got something to talk about.
…
Less than five minutes later Alard was back. Cotard hung, whimpering, in his grasp.
'That didn't take long,’ Carac said, with some suspicion that his man had been cheating at the cheating.
'Found him sneaking out of the camp,’ Alard shrugged and threw Cotard to the ground.
'I wasn't sneaking,’ the prostrate figure responded, 'I was on a reconnoitre.’
'A reconnoitre?’ Carac's disbelief was explicit.
'Yeah.’
'Cotard, you couldn't reconnoitre your own bum. I doubt you even know what a reconnoitre is.’
'I do. I was determining the enemies' disposition.’
'You just copied that off Scarlan.’
'I never.’
'He may know what it means, but he's never done one. Bit too close to the action for him.’
Alard snorted.
'How do you know who I am, anyway?’ Cotard asked as realisation of his situation penetrated his self-preservation.
Carac and Alard both snorted at this. 'Cotard, we know all about all of you. You're the most useless bunch of dung sorters we've ever come across. Did you really think you've kept yourselves secret?’
'A traitor in our midst,’ Cotard wailed.
'No, we just look out the window and there you are, Sneaking about in
the woods, lighting fires, putting on stupid disguises and wandering into the castle thinking you haven't been spotted. It's no wonder we conquered the country with people like you looking after it.’
'Now, look here.’ Cotard rose to a seated position and took some umbrage.
'Shut up,’ Carac snapped.
Cotard shut up.
'We've got a mission for you.’
'I won't do it.’ Cotard was outraged.
'Yes, you will.’ Carac wasn't opening a debate. 'Alard, get a helm and shirt.’
Alard smiled as he twigged the plan. He went off into the wood to get the items.
'What are you going to do to me?’ Cotard wailed, looking nervously to and fro.
'It's not what we're going to do to you. It's what your own side is going to do to you,’ Carac grinned.
Alard returned with a helmet and chain shirt in his hands. He was followed by the owner of the helmet and shirt who was protesting in a stream of Norman French and, with flamboyant gestures, arguing that one of his colleagues was much better placed to surrender his clothing.
'Put them on.’ Carac took the items and threw them at Cotard's feet.
The man clearly thought of saying ‘I won't’ again, but he looked at three large and professional Normans standing over him, one of whom looked very angry at being without helmet and shirt. He put them on.
Even from the inside he looked ridiculous. The Normans had a hearty laugh and Carac showed Cotard up and down the line of men. Laughter giggled from the trees.
'Right, off you go,’ he gestured back towards the camp.
'What?’ Cotard didn't understand.
'Off to the camp. Go on.’
'But…'
'But quickly.’
'They'll think I'm a Norman.’
'That's right.’
'They'll kill me.’
'I doubt it. Don't think they're capable,’ Carac said in disappointment.
'Lord Grosmal said we had to bring you back alive,’ Alard explained. 'He didn't say anything about you killing one another.’
'This is,’ Cotard tried to think of the word, 'horrible,’ he said.
'I hope so,’ Carac responded with a hefty kick to Cotard's backside.
…
There was a gentle but audible slow handclap from the hidden Normans as Cotard made his wary way across the clearing. The way to Scarlan's tent was direct, but Cotard's route started to slowly drift.
'And if you try to run off,’ Carac's words drifted across the field, 'we will shoot you in the leg.’
Cotard paused.
'It won't kill you, but it will bloody well hurt,’ more laughter from the forest. 'Give it a few days to fester. Then it'll kill you. If Lord Robert doesn't finish you off first.’
Cotard resumed his course towards the tent.
When he was within twenty feet or so he coughed as loudly as he could. He tried to direct the noise to the tent and hoped the Normans couldn't hear. They'd probably shoot him for coughing.
There was no response from the tent so he coughed again.
This time the murmur of conversation within the tent stopped.
'What is it, Cotard?’ Scarlan called. 'We thought you'd run off,’ this time the laughter was from the Saxon side.
'We have a problem,’ Cotard hissed as loudly as he dare.
'Well, of course we do,’ Scarlan responded, 'the Norman invader has taken our lands and our liberty. The usurper has taken our throne and our rights and...’
'No, I mean a real live problem. A here and now problem. In fact an “out here” and “about now” problem.’
His walk to the tent had continued and he was now just a couple of steps from the entrance.
The flap was thrown back and Scarlan stuck his head out.
'Normans!' he yelled as he ducked back into the tent. There was much noise and bulging of the tent sides as the people inside scrabbled around with one another.
Eventually the flap opened again and the small man stood there with his crossbow. 'Just point me at 'em,’ he yelled.
'I don't have to point, he's right there,’ Scarlan called from the safety of the tent.
'It's not Normans, it's me,’ Cotard called.
His call was too late. The anger and hatred in the small man's eyes, coupled with the dangerous weapon in his hands, sent a crossbow bolt screaming into the air.
Cotard felt it fly by his ear and he ducked, far too late to be of any help had the shot been on target.
The bolt headed off for the wood.
'Arrgh,’ came back from the wood as a Norman who had just had his helmet and shirt taken off him, stopped the bolt with his chest.
'The bastards have shot Le Prevost,’ the cry went up.
'Get 'em, lads,’ Carac called, aware that he wouldn't be able to contain their enthusiasm any longer. The entire Norman force leaped from its hiding place and headed for Cotard, the small man with the crossbow being hidden from sight.
'Oh, bloody hell,’ the small man said as he dropped the crossbow and headed off across the camp ground, making for the opposite woods.
'What the hell is going on?’ Scarlan demanded as he stuck his head out of the tent flap, and around the bulk of Durniss, who he had made go first.
He caught sight of Cotard once more.
'All right, we surrender,’ he said, as he glanced from Cotard to the advancing horde.
'It's me,’ Cotard said, removing his helm.
'Cotard?’ Scarlan was stunned.
'Yes.’
Scarlan drew himself up to his full height and emerged from Durniss's shadow. 'You traitor,’ he spat, 'no wonder they found us.’
'I'm not a traitor. They dressed me up like this.’
'Why would they do that?’
'It's a trap.’
'I can see that.’ Scarlan waved an arm to indicate the thirty-odd Normans, who were now very close.
'I don't think they're very happy,’ Cotard helpfully observed.
'You don't say.’ Scarlan folded his arms and waited for death.
'Alive remember,’ Carac's voice called out, 'Lord Robert wants them alive. Any man who kills one of them will be spending the rest of his short life helping his lordship test the equipment in number four.’
The charge faltered to an amble as the Normans took the threat seriously.
'Where's Sigurd?’ Carac demanded as he reached the tent. Here were the trembling Cotard, the resigned Scarlan and the puzzled Durniss.
'He's not well,’ Scarlan reported, 'he got injured in a fight with some outlaws.’
'What? Real ones?’
The conversation was interrupted by a very large Norman appearing out of the gloom behind the tent. He was carrying something under his arm.
'Let me go, you bastard,’ the something under the arm cried out. 'I'll cut your bloody head off.’
The large Norman deposited the small man at Carac's foot.
'All safely gathered in then,’ he observed as he peered into the tent and saw the slumbering figure of Sigurd, guarded by the son of Sigurd with his wooden sword.
Carac looked back at his men with puzzlement.
'What are you all doing?’
Alard spoke. 'We aren't supposed to kill them,’ he shrugged.
Carac nodded in recognition. 'I said I didn't want them dead. I didn't say they couldn't be a bit damaged.’
Alard smiled and the group advanced, spiked gloves at the ready.
Caput XXVI
Five-o-clock: Bed to Dungeon
Eleanor and William woke up in bed. Foella's bed.
After a bit of groaning and moaning as their heads relayed events from the log store, they opened their eyes.
Eleanor was the first to risk a blink or two and she quickly took in their surroundings and their situation.
'Ahh,’ she squealed and sat upright, clutching the bed cover to her neck.
'What, what?’ William came fully to his senses. He too looked around, saw where he was, grinned, an
d rested back on the pillow.
'We're in bed,’ Eleanor wailed in anguish.
'Yeah,’ said William with a good deal of something that certainly wasn't anguish in his voice.
'This is awful,’ Eleanor went on. 'In bed?’
'We must've been put here after the logs business. Nice of 'em.’
'We can't be in bed,’ Eleanor said, although she made no attempt to stop being in bed. She seemed frozen in place. The bed cover was clutched even tighter to her neck, protecting her from the outside world.
'Oh, I don't know. I can think of worse places to be.’
'Don't be disgusting.’
'What now?’ William was puzzled.
'We can't be in bed, it's not decent.’ Eleanor was sincere in her horror at the situation.
'Decent?’ This took William back a bit. 'We've done a good number of things that aren't decent. Bed's the normal place for most of 'em.’
Eleanor risked a peek under the bed clothes. 'At least we're dressed.’
'Soon put that right.’ William tried to give her a nudge, but the bulk of bedding got in his way.
'You're filthy,’ she accused.
'I'm filthy?’ William was aggrieved at this accusation. 'What about you at the top of the tower in the rain? That was filthy.’
'But this is bed. You don't do bed 'till you're married.’
'What?’ William really was stunned. 'You've done everything there is to be done when you're married. And you ain't married. What difference does it make doing it in a bed?’
Eleanor wasn't listening. 'I've been in bed with a man,’ she howled, and her wails got louder. William looked anxiously to the door, expecting someone to come in and see what the noise was about.
He sat up. He couldn't get a comforting arm around Eleanor as she was hunched up tight.
'It don't count for nothing,’ he said, trying to be encouraging.
'I'm not pure any more,’ Eleanor cried through her sobs.
William had a response to that comment on his tongue, but thought better of it.
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