Hoodsman: Ely Wakes

by Smith, Skye

All the bowmen could shoot well enough from horseback if the horse was still. It was something all the wolfpacks practiced. They were using short bows with heavy arrows and were waiting for their horses to be still long enough to make their shots. It helped that the rich clothing on these men was not worn over armour. The first seven arrows that stormed into the group took them by complete surprise. They were still deciding whether to run, hide, duck, or drop to the ground when the second seven arrows whistled towards them.

  There was no time for a third shot. The very hue and cry that had given them their targets had brought too many other men close to them. They kicked their horses to a run and trampled two men who were reaching for them. They made it to the edge of the meadow, but at that point they were within sight of the guard post. The guards on the street could see there was something very wrong. They had plenty of time to draw their weapons. Luckily they drew their swords and not battle axes or worse, pole axes.

  There were two bowmen ahead of Raynar, and they would take the brunt of the first slashes of those swords. He still had his third arrow nocked. He pulled his horse to a violent stop, waited for it to gain it's balance again, and shot one of the guards in the face. It was a lucky hit. He had been aiming for the chest.

  The bowman on that side was through, but the bowman on the other side had lost most of one of his legs and his horse was rearing from the sword slash it had taken. The man was finished, and he knew it, and took his revenge by careening his rearing horse into the swordsman, which allowed the rest of them to safely pass through the guard post. Raynar was now last in the race.

  Once he was well beyond the reach of the guards, he pulled up to a walk so he could twist around in his saddle to see what he could see. The other bowmen slowed as he did, and one even turned back to see if he was injured. They could not stay and watch for long. The guards were running down the street after them. About thirty riders were at the edge of the meadow, giving chase and gaining fast. Over beside the large marquee there was a circle of men, and others kneeling trying to help the wounded lords.

  "I think we did some damage," said the bowman who had come back for him.

  They kicked their horses and were away. The race was on. Their axemen were waiting just over a mile away. They did not have much of a lead, and they had to keep it. If one of their horses misstepped, that man would be caught. They all knew that the last resort was to ride off the road and into the flooded field, dive off the horse, and leg it through the mud and away from the street.

  They were now at a gallop. Raynar never liked galloping, especially not on Roman streets. The risk of stumbling was high, and any stumble at this speed, onto cobblestones, could kill you. As he was thinking it the lead man did just that. They dodged around him but did not stop. A quick look over his shoulder was enough to see that the man had rolled and was up and was limping badly towards the side of the road. He made it safely into the water just before the cavalry got to his downed horse. He hoped the man could get far enough away from the street to save himself.

  On they raced. A half mile to go. The horses were flagging, not that they were winded, but because the winter rains had washed the soft surface from the road bed, and the horses legs were taking a beating on the hard and uneven surface. They should never have slowed to take a look back to the meadow. Those minutes could never be regained. A minute at this speed was a hundred paces. Far enough to save a life, or to cost it.

  Because they knew to look for them, they now began to see small boats floating near the bank of the street. Their bowmen would be lying flat in the mud behind the low wall that skirted the street. They crossed a bridge. He remembered this bridge. There was one more and then they would be at the axemen. He yelled and cheered to encourage his men. They yelled and cheered back.

  Finally they could see the axemen, and the axemen could see them. The axemen started running towards them, with their axes and shields held high to stop them from banging their own legs. At the last moment, Raynar and his men angled their mounts towards the side of the road, leaped the low wall and hit the flooded field with huge amounts of splashing.

  Raynar's horse stopped so quickly in the sticky mud that he was thrown over the neck and he landed face first in three feet of icy water. He stood dazed and then remembered not to stand too long in one place. He looked for his bow, and found it floating away from him. He oozed slowly towards it, grabbed it and then turned back to the road. The other four men were all dismounted, though obviously with more grace than he had shown, as they were covered in mud only to their waists while he was mud head to foot.

  On the road, a fearsome fight had begun. He could see three of the rear most riders turning and kicking their horses for a run back to their camp to get help. Others were trying to turn to follow them, but the running axemen were amongst their leaders. Horses were falling to horrific blows from the battle axes. Men were being hauled from their mounts by pole axes. The sound of metal on metal. The sound of men screaming in pain, in fury, in terror. The sound of horses screaming in pain, in fury , in terror. The battle for Cassel, no, for Flanders, had begun.

  He was very glad to be standing up to his waist in water far away from the sharpened blades and the smell of blood. As he watched he had to remind himself to keep moving his feet. He tried to lead his horse out of the mud towards the bank, but she was stuck hard. One of his men yelled to him to help her to lift one foot at a time as he turned her. That seemed to work for her, but he was getting stuck doing it. At last he got her turned to the bank and with enough momentum to keep her from getting stuck to the point he would have to help with her legs.

  By the time they got the horses back to the bank, and to drier land, the Franks were mostly dismounted and were in an organized retreat fighting bravely to cover the blind side of any brothers in arms that were wounded. The warlord of the axemen, Habel, the man who had corrected his plan, was holding his men back. He did not want to finish these Franks too quickly. He wanted them dismounted and injured but still fighting so that the next wave of cavalry would rush in to save them.

  The second wave of cavalry arrived too soon to have been brought by a message. They must have joined the chase soon after it had begun. They gallantly tried to rescue their comrades, but their very arrival signaled the slaughter of the first wave.

  With this second wave, the axemen no longer had to charge the cavalry. The wolfpacks stood up in a line along the wall of the street and loosed at men and horses. After two or possibly three arrows each, most of the Franks were on the ground and a good many had serious wounds. Only then did the axemen march forward as if they were scything straw and slaughtered them.

  And so it went for an hour. Wave after wave of cavalry came and had the same thought. The road was narrow. They could hold it until help arrived. The bowmen were no longer a surprise, and they were no longer safe on the bank near the street. They had pushed away from the bank in their small boats, far enough to be safe from attack and yet still within deadly range.

  Wave after wave of cavalry came to save their own, and wave after wave had holes poked in their horses and in their armour and in their bodies. Riders tried to turn to take a warning back to the camp, but any who turned became the primary target of arrows.

  As the cavalry backed closer and closer to Bavinchove the drizzle had stopped and the clouds were rising and thinning. Raynar could see across the floods that reflected Cassel, and he could just make out that Roberts axemen were moving along the cartway on the far side of this flooded field.

  Raynar was now behind the front line of axemen versus cavalry. He led his horse up the street, and caught up with a group of lords who were hanging back from joining the butchery. From here he could see the fighting on the front line. The width of the street allowed only about twenty axemen to fight at a time but they were moving quite quickly through mounds of dying horses and riders.

  Habel, the warlord, was marching directly behind the front line picking out the men who were tiring. As soon as a man tir
ed he was sent to safety near these lords, and other axemen pushed forward to take their place. There was a shortage of pole axes, so they had become the batons of the front line and were handed from exhausted man to fresh man.

  The bowmen were now all in their boats. Those that had now been passed by the swift progress of the axemen were now further away from the bank and poling their boats towards Bavinchove. They were conserving their arrows for the inevitable finish of this battle with the cavalry on the meadows of Bavinchove.

  The trailing axemen were gleaning the fallen Franks as they moved through the bodies. Raynar kept yelling reminders that every arrow was worth gold to this battle and they should be cut free and collected intact and passed back to the bowmen.

  When they finally reached Bavinchove, and the dry meadows that widened and ran southward, there were less than a hundred mounted Franks left. At one point they must have tried a charge at the rear of Robert's axemen, who were still blocking the gates and streets so that Arnulf's infantry could not descend from Cassel. To do that they would have had to charge past the bowmen who were coming ashore in their small boats. There was a long wall of horsemeat just within the deadly range of these bowmen.

  The Frankish heavy cavalry were trapped between Robert's axemen on the street to Cassel, and the axemen who were now pouring into the meadow from the west. The cavalry did what they always did when faced with an unexpectedly dangerous fight, rather than an easy one. They sought terms.

  Habel had stepped forward to discuss the terms. He was having a difficult time containing the axemen and the bowmen in the lead, who were all in a battle rage and wanted to keep killing and killing the hated cavalry. From his throat, Raynar took the fine white scarf that every wolfshead wore as a badge of command, and tied it too his bow. Then he mounted his horse. They were both mud spattered from foot to head. While waving the scarf and bow high in the air he rode between the infantry yelling to them to take a rest.

  The men who had ridden the race with Raynar, mounted and joined him as a body guard. The other wolfheads, seeing Raynar's signal took the opportunity to gather their wolfpacks and recover arrows. Raynar stopped his twisting ride close to where Habel was being introduced to the enemy. He did not dismount. He gripped his bow and nocked an arrow and held both in his left hand.

  A Frankish Knight commander was stating what he expected. "We wish to leave this field and this battle. You may have the possessions of the fallen, but we must be allowed to leave with our own possessions."

  Habel was about to begin the bargaining processes, when Raynar interrupted. "You have two choices. Surrender or die. There will be no terms."

  Another knight was incensed at this peasant having the effrontery to speak to his lord. "You have no say peasant. Be gone and let the men of worth decide." The man was wearing a fortune in modern alloy armour that shone like moonlight and had not yet been spattered with blood on this brutal day. At such close range, Raynar’s arrow pushed through the breast of the costly armour, through the mans heart, and through the back of the armour. The man slumped, dead in his saddle and slid to the ground.

  The closest knights pulled for their swords, but Raynar’s guard already had arrows nocked and the arrows fully drawn before their hands touched the hilts. "You should teach your knights to listen," Raynar hissed at the knight commander. "There will be no terms. Surrender or join him."

  The knight commander looked long at the peasant bowmen and he suddenly realized what must have happened to the rest of his force. "The rest of my knights, how many are prisoners?"

  "The men you sent west up the street," Raynar replied holding the man's stare. "They were brave men and skilled. They are all dead."

  The cavalry surrendered with no terms. Habel called to his chief huscarls to gather around him, but he allowed Raynar to give the orders. This battle had been won with this peasant's plan and they had all become wealthy today by following it. They would listen and obey him.

  He spoke loudly so all around could hear. "Strip the cavalry of armour and weapons. That which is plain is to be shared between the axemen. That which is fancy is to be set aside." He looked around and spotted the large marquee from earlier that day. "Put the fancy inside that marquee. The same is true for purses. Any silver is to be shared amongst the men, any gold or jewels is for that marquee. Being caught with other than silver in your purse will cost you a hand. If you find any fancy lords amongst that lot, they go to the marquee as well."

  Raynar took a deep breath and looked around and the faces of the warriors. Their blood rage was still overruling exhaustion. "We don't have enough men to waste many watching prisoners, so I want prisoners bound tightly. Not just the warriors but their followers as well.

  Let them sit in the center of this meadow. I will leave a wolfpack to guard them, and they will need fifty axemen to help them with this task. When the prisoners are organized, then all the rest of the axemen must hurry to join Robert at the gates of Cassel. Cassel is where the real spoils are to be won, and you should all hurry to share in that glory."

  He looked around at the sweating and stained faces, searching for his wolfheads and nodding to them. He motioned them to one side. "Habel, while your warriors do that, I will take the rest of the wolfpacks to stop Philip of France from advancing closer. The wolfpacks will need most of these horses because they must move quickly if they are to stop Philip. Give them their choice of horses and guard closely any they leave behind. Kill any prisoner who gets too close to a horse."

  Habel and his huscarls began yelling orders. The Frankish knights threw down their weapons and dismounted. Raynar called the closest wolfshead to him. "This is a temporary truce for this field, only while the future of the burgh is decided. Your wolfpack is to guard the prisoners. They are not to escape, and they are not to be set upon by these axemen. Your task is to make sure that none of our side breaks the truce without reason. If anyone from either side breaks the truce then shoot a warning arrow. If they heed it not, then wound them."

  Another wolfshead had claimed a horse, and now rode over to him. Raynar nodded to him and said, "Please gather your wolfpack and go over and guard of that large marquee. It will be our storehouse of treasure and lords. " After waiting for him to gather his men, they rode together to the marquee. It was the large rich one where the bait had been set. There seemed to be a standoff in front of it. A dozen Norman looking men-at-arms with pikes were holding a patrol of Frisian axemen at bay.

  "You, your commander has surrendered," Raynar growled at the men-at-arms. "You are prisoners. Drop the pikes and step aside." He turned to the huscarl of the axemen and said in a lighter tone, "Please back away a bit and give them room to disarm, and then escort them to join the other prisoners. They are not to be hurt."

  The axemen backed off, but the guards did not drop their weapons. This was nonsense. The wolfshead gave an order to his pack and thirty heavy arrows were aimed at the men-at-arms. They relented and one by one dropped their weapons.

  Once the guards were led away by the axemen, the wolfpack surrounded the large tent. Two of them pulled open the side flap wide so they could see in and ensure there was no ambush. Inside there were four bodies laid out, with four lords and a fancy woman standing close by. Some of the lords were wounded.

  Raynar recognized Gerbod immediately. The Earl of Chester who was also Lord of Saint Omer just up the road from here. He was sitting on a stool holding a heavy arrow in one of his hands.

  Gerbod, with a shock, realized who Raynar was. This was the same bowman who had savaged his army on the Welsh border. "I thought this arrow had a familiar look. This attack gave me a strong feeling of deja vu. I should have known this was your work, Raynar."

  Gerbod stood and bowed to the fancy woman. "This lady is Rachilde, Countess of Mons and Hainaut, widow of Count Baldwin, and you will treat her with respect. She is in mourning today. On the ground lie her oldest son, Arnulf and her new husband, William FitzOsbern."

  Raynar did not bow, but he looked cl
osely at FitzOsbern. This was the wealthy Earl of Hereford whose men had chased him across Shropshire. He looked at the plump old woman, well passed her prime, probably almost forty and asked her softly, "Do you have any women in attendance?"

  She straightened herself to her full height. "In the back of the Marquee."

  "Please go to them, but don't leave the tent," Raynar said and waved her gently away with his hand.

  For a moment she looked incredulous. This muddy peasant was giving her orders. Then Gerbod pulled gently at her skirt and nodded to her. She walked deeper into the shadows of the tent and women’s voices could be heard greeting her.

  Raynar looked beyond Gerbod, who was still nervously twisting the arrow that he held in his hands, and to the bodies laid out on the ground. The sight tugged at the healer in him. He walked to them and knelt. He put his hand to the throat of each to ensure there was no life. The last was the body of the lad, Arnulf. There was something strange about his neck.

  He pulled down the collar and looked more closely. The throat was black and blue and raw. He had once seen the like after an alehouse brawl. This lad had been strangled. He looked for the arrow wound. All of these men presumably had been struck by the arrows loosed by he and his pretend horse traders as they were setting up the bait. The puncture wound in the lad was under his right arm. He stuck his finger in the wound. It was shallow.

  Each of the other bodies had the broken shaft of an arrow still sticking from their chests. This lad had none. He looked towards Gerbod and the arrow he was twisting in his hands. He rose and walked past the man and into the rear of the grand tent to where three women were kneeling in prayer amongst chests of clothing and unopened barrels.

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  The Hoodsman - Ely Wakes by Skye Smith

  Chapter 24 - The murder of a Count in Cassel in February 1071

  Young Raynar touched Countess Rachilde on her shoulder and touched his fingers to his lips to warn her to speak softly. "Were you with your son when he died?" he whispered.