by Smith, Skye
There was a yell of alarm from the burgh wall and as the prior watched the well trained bowmen ran to their alarm stations above each gate. They had bows strung and arrows nocked and ready to defend the walls within moments of the alarm. They all faced out towards the cartway that ran along the riverbank towards Ermine street. There was no one on the road save for farmers and their wives making for home and a well deserved rest.
The prior looked down into the forecourt. The alarm had been from within. The last of the prisoners, the three who had been injured, were with the sergeant and they were waving their fists and walking towards the outer gate. The call went up to secure the gates, but the sergeant held a hostage tightly to him. The hostage was a woman, and there was only one woman that tall, ... Anske.
* * * * *
The bowmen all knew and loved that woman. Every point was aimed at the four men, but none would loose an arrow while Anske was in danger. Hereward, Alan, Raynar and John had been exchanging news with Rodor and they all reached the forecourt together. They stopped in mid stride and then Raynar walked forward towards the sergeant. "Speak, what will you trade for the woman."
"Horses, saddles, food, ale, and coin. Enough coin to start a new life," yelled the sergeant. Anske struggled and a dagger moved from her breast to her throat. She stilled. "You bring them to the outer gate and we ride away. We will leave the girl unharmed at the Ermine Street ford, so long as we are not followed."
The prior felt like yelling out, "Don't trust him," but it would be a waste of breath. Raynar did not trust Normans, any Normans, but he loved that woman and he would agree to anything to keep her alive. Hereward was at Raynar's shoulder and was probably telling him the same thing.
What Hereward actually said was, "Don't let him go. He will let her go unharmed if you refuse. What else can he do. If he harms her they will all be dead in the next breath."
"If that were you, or any of us, standing there with a dagger at Anske's throat, then I would agree. But not him. He is wrong in the head. He has a devil inside him. Do not expect him to react logically. I cannot risk it."
"And you love her too much to think clearly. Walk away Raynar. Let one of us handle this for you. Walk away."
"If you want to help," Raynar hissed, "then arrange for the ransom."
The ransom was quickly assembled and taken to the gate. Five horses were brought but the sergeant wisely did not trust Anske to her own mount. She was an expert rider and if she used her horse craft to escape it would cost them their lives. She was mounted in front of him with his knife pressed into the ribs under her left arm. He groped her while Raynar watched, just to make it plain who was in control.
They rode off towards Ermine street, and no sooner were they out of the burgh than Raynar ran for his horse. John had to physically lift him from the ground to stop him from giving chase. "In this flat land they will see you a mile away and she will be dead before she hits the ground." But that did not mean that John wasn't going to give chase. With Raynar struggling under one arm he called out for volunteers to rescue Anske. Every bowman volunteered.
Rodor overruled him. This could be a trap to lure them away from the walls. Rodor's suggestion was that Raynar take six men. No other leaders should be risked on what was likely a trap. Hereward looked hard at his old friend Rodor and said, "Fuck that, Rodor!"
Hereward was the first to saddle a horse and arrange his weapons on the saddle, beating Alan by seconds. The four bowmen that had adopted Anske in Huntingdon would not be refused. They had been caught napping in their vigilance by the sleepy quiet of the abbey. They saddled their own mounts and those of John and Raynar and the eight men rode out of the gate slowly and warily and then turned towards the Ermine Street ford.
There was no one at the ford. Not Anske, and no other person to ask. No one wanted to admit the obvious, that her body was hidden in the miles of thick bush alongside the road to reach here. They spread out and rode in every direction on both sides of the ford seeking any witness to the mounted men.
Alan found a woman who had seen horsemen and she pointed north along Ermine street towards Stamford. He doubled back to the ford to leave a hunter's trail mark, a pile of stones with a stick pointed north. He didn't wait for the others, but instead pushed his mount to a full gallop northwards. He could not see any riders ahead, for though this section of road was flat it was not as straight as Roman streets in other parts of the kingdom. Even the Romans had to make allowances for the Fen bogs.
All of the bowmen save Hereward were foresters and hunters. As each one returned to the ford from scouting, each saw Alan's mark and each struck out north at full speed to catch him. Hereward was lucky to have seen one of them riding north else he would have been waiting at the ford all night by himself.
* * * * *
Alan punished his mount passed the point where he would have whipped any of his men who had done the like. The road surface had not been repaired since the flooding of the winter and the cart traffic had created leg breaking potholes. Still he did not slow.
It wasn't just Raynar who loved Anske. Alan had lost his heart to her from their first meeting in his house in Tideswell in the Peak's forest. At first he thought it was simple lust, for there was much about her to lust after, and she was a blatant cock teaser. But after riding in her company for many weeks with her dressed as a boy and trying her best to hide her womanliness, he knew it was not lust. He would marry such a woman in an instant and share a life with her for all his days.
Alan was not just a forester and a hunter, but also a man tracker. At one time he had made his living by tracking outlaws across the peaks, and those were men who knew they were being tracked. It was he who had saddled and included the rare white Frisian amongst the horses given to the prisoners, despite the cries of outrage at his giving them such a valuable horse. He knew the sergeant’s ego would not refuse such a horse. A white horse was easy to spot in poor light.
"Got you," he said to himself, as he slowed the horse to a walk. About a half a mile ahead he could just make out a white horse in the gloom. He had slowed the mare just in time. From her laboured breathing he knew that another few hundred yards of gallop may have killed her.
There was no choice but to dismount at the next low spot and lead the horse to some clear water. There he rationed the mare's drinks. Just enough to cool, not enough to bloat. He kept looking anxiously up and down the street. Without the height of the horse he could not see far from this low place. His nerves could wait no longer. It took all of his strength to fight and drag the mare from the water and then he had to kick and hit her to get her moving again.
Now the problem was how to trail the buggers without being spotted. He removed the white scarf, his hoodsman's badge of office, from around his neck and buried it in his saddle bag. He kept to the west side of the road, now in the shadows from the very low sun. His eyes glanced from side to side, watching for signs of an ambush. If he had seen them, then they could have seen him. If they knew that he was alone, then two of them would lie in wait for him.
He tried to remember what he had heard about the village of Stamford. Was it Norman friendly or was it one of Thorold's villages. No, it was an abbey holding. Would the huscarls be the prior's men or the abbot's. What a foolish question. All armed men would belong to the abbot. If he overtook them, would they stop and fight, or run for Stamford.
And there was the worst of the self questioning. If they still had Anske and saw that he was alone then would they stop and use a threat to her life to kill him. If they had already killed Anske, then they would run for sure. His mount was breathing more easily now. He kicked her to a trot, but the mare fought him when he tried for a gallop. A feeble canter was all she would permit.
He cursed the exhausted horse. He needed to overtake them, to taunt them into fighting him, to slow them so that Raynar could catch up before they reached Stamford. Despite the slowness of the gain, he was gaining on them. Soon they would see him for sure. He struggled to pull t
he shorter of his two bows from his bed roll, and then struggled again to string it while riding. The horse took advantage of his inattention to slow its pace. He loosened the cover from his quiver and pulled three arrows far enough out so that their fletching would not snag on their mates.
As he rode, he recognized the moment when they spotted him. At first they decided to run for it, but the double load on the white horse made it drop behind almost immediately. Double load. She was still alive. He whispered aloud, "struggle Anske, slow them down".
As he watched them, they stopped and turned. They must have realized that he was alone. They had the swords and lances that were part of the ransom, but none of these men had bows. He charged them and did not slow until he was within thirty paces. He pulled the mare up sharply but she was so exhausted that she would not stand still for a shot. He had made a mistake preparing his short bow. Since he had to dismount to loose, he would have been far better off with his long bow. He slid to the ground and put his first arrow into the chest of the closest horse. The rider instantly had his hands full riding the horse to the ground.
The other two lone men charged him, each with a cavalry lance aimed at his body. Alan grabbed the reins of his exhausted horse and swung it around to block most of the road. Perhaps it was lucky he had chosen the short bow after all. He knelt behind the horse and looked at the charging horses from beneath the horses belly. From this position the next arrow had but half the power of the first, but the range was closer and it flew true into the chest of the western most horse. It barely slowed it. The point had not enough power to push through to the heart. It did make the horse turn sideways and at a full run the horse had to hop to keep it's balance.
Alan had no time to watch. The other horseman pulled his horse up behind Alan's horse and jabbed at him with the lance. Alan rolled under the horse and pushed his third arrow up at the belly of his own horse. The reaction was immediate. The horse kicked out at the other horse. It didn't connect but it gave Alan time enough to reach the bushes along the west side of the road.
He could do nothing but dive deeper into the bushes. His arrows and sword were still hanging from his saddle. All he had at hand was an empty bow and a long dagger. "Please, please be enough to slow them down." he thought as he crawled and rolled through the bushes towards Anske and then stopped to listen. By wriggling further over the damp ground he could see up the road. The two men who had charged him had grabbed his horse and were racing north towards Anske. "Of course. They don't know that I have no arrows."
"Bugger" he said as he realized that they still had four horses even though one was wounded. He crawled out onto the road and stretched. His body ached. It wasn't just the ride and the crawl through the bushes. His damn horse had clipped him with a hoof. He had been left the horse that he had killed, but he had also been left the arrow that had brought it down. They had made a critical mistake. A mistake that no bowman would ever make. He looked south to where he had been charged and whooped with glee. The other two arrows were still lying on the ground, and the fools hadn't even broken the shafts.
He hobbled along and picked up the other arrows, then half trotted north and spent some minutes digging out the third point from the dead horse and checking the saddle for anything of value to him. He began to walk, or rather, limp north. He kept his eye on the hoof prints just in case they turned off.
The sun was gone from the sky and it would be dark soon. He took a good look at the hoof prints so he could pick them out from other horses. There was a black spot in the dust. He squeezed it between his fingers. Blood. The other wounded horse must be slowly bleeding to death. Soon they would either have to slow to it's weakened pace, or leave it.
As it happened, it was a good thing that Alan was walking, else he would have missed the track where they had turned off the street. He followed the track until it joined a cartway going west. A cartway now, but from the look of the road bed it was another Roman street. It was getting too dark for good tracking, so he doubled back to Ermine street with some haste to make sure that the other bowmen did not pass the turnoff before he got there.
The last to arrive was Hereward, but they were missing three men. This meant that three bowmen must have passed this turnoff while Alan was scouting it. They built a large pile of stones in the center of the road and pointed a stick to the track. It was new moon and once the twilight was finished, the night was black. They went as far as the Roman street and decided it would be foolish to continue until first light because they could not track in the dark. At this time of year that meant a forced rest of six hours. They made a camp without fire and set a watch for the other men.
The lost men pulled into camp after midnight. They had ridden almost all the way to Stamford before an old drunk crying into his ale at an alehouse told them that no one had ridden by. They didn't join the somber talk of the other men, but collapsed into sleep.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - Ely Wakes by Skye Smith
Chapter 3 - A possible husband for Mary in the New Forest in October 1101
The verderer had already begun to gut one of the boars. It would take him more than an hour to gut both boars and the dead hunting horse. The faster the cavity was emptied, the less chance of spoiling the meat. With the dogs taken care of and tied, the lad was walking over to the dead horse with his skinning knife unsheathed. "And the meat?" asked the verderer. "To the lodge or to the village?"
"The horse to the village for sure," replied Raynar as he drank some of the ale he had been using to cleanse wounds, "the venison is the Duke's say."
"I have had enough of hunting," replied Duke Robert, who was more bruised from his fall than he cared to admit. He turned to the verderer , "If we leave now, can we make Winchester before night?" There was a nod of heads. "Good, then send the meat to the village. I'll borrow your horse as far as the lodge and send a cart back to fetch you and the meat."
The duke limped away to grab the verderer's horse and as he lifted himself painfully into the saddle he moaned, "I want to keep moving until I get to a bed. If I stop the bruises will stiffen up and the ride will be agony."
Raynar hoisted the Duke's forgotten saddle onto the back of his own horse and returned Eustace's lance to him. Eustace thanked him. "I must remember that trick with the cloak. How many hunters have been mortally wounded by such a charge, when their lance bounced off the boar's skull, or when the boar side stepped the blade. You used the cloak to turn his head and his angle, which offered his full flank as a target. Even if you had missed you would have had a second chance."
"When your folk are starving, you must hunt with a certainty. I learned that trick when I was a lad, and feeding a village of widows." Raynar tied off the Duke's saddle. "Wait for me and we can ride together and talk." First though, he turned to the verderer and handed him his decoy purse that contained only his walking around coin.
"Here is a small reward for saving the Duke. It would have embarrassed the King greatly to have had yet another brother fall to a hunting accident in this forest. If the king were here he would give you more, but this is all of my silver, and I would not give you gold for fear it would land you in chains."
The verderer saluted him his thanks, and then knocked the side of his finger against the side of his nose. It was a signal that he had understood the reference to the creed of the brotherhood. The combination of the words gold and chains in a phrase was a common signal of recognition from one brother to another.
"Henry did not send you with us," Eustace said as they rode together to catch up to Duke Robert. "Edith did. It was not to protect us. It was to spy on me."
"Spy on you?" Raynar tilted his head with the question. "I was not sent to spy on you. Why do you think it?"
"Mary. The queen's sister Mary." Eustace replied. "Henry is trying to get Robert's supporters to change sides. He was willing to give Mary to William of Mortain to bring him to his side. Do you know Mortain? He is the Earl of Cornwall and on
ly Robert Belleme, the Earl of Shrewsbury is richer than he. Well, something went wrong with that match. Either Mary wouldn't have him, or he wouldn't have her, or the queen vetoed the match."
"What was Henry thinking?" replied Raynar. "If I were Edith I would have certainly vetoed that match. Mortain is rich, yes, but he has a nasty reputation with women."
"Well in any case, my name came up as a possible husband for Mary. I am willing. I am searching for a wife. I need an heir else on my death, my brother Baldwin will become the Count. I cannot do that to my people," Eustace dropped his voice. "Just as Henry should not allow Robert to rule Normandy. Our brothers have both been twisted inside by the crusades, and perverted in their thinking by the Holy Land."
"But Mary is young enough to be your daughter. Younger," said Raynar and felt queasy. Mary was his love child with Margaret, as was Edith. Of all of his secrets, and he had many, that one was the deepest. Even though King Malcolm and Queen Margaret were long dead, joining with their bloodlines was the main reason that Henry used to justify his choice of Edith as his queen. Justify to the church and the barons, that is, for he need not justify Edith to any Englishman.
It was a secret that must be kept. Neither of the sisters had ever hinted that they knew the truth, and he wasn't going to tell them. "You know that their mother Margaret was forced into her marriage with Malcolm of Scotland. She was a fair beauty and he was a foul beast. It is beyond belief that Edith would agree to Mary being forced into any such marriage."
"Oh come, Raynar, I am far from a beast, and I am of the age to cherish her company, rather than chase other wenches. I keep no stable of mistresses." The remark was an open criticism of Henry and it was well justified. Henry was surrounded by handsome women and kept more than one mistress. "Edith certainly knows that I am looking for a wife, and now Henry has mentioned Mary. Why wouldn't I think that it is no coincidence that you are riding beside me today. Aren't you her Uncle Edgar's man. Aren't you standing his duty while he is in the Holy Land."
