by Smith, Skye
"No," she whispered back, "they sent for me but he was dead when I arrived. I could not return to Cassel because of the axemen at the gates."
"Who was with him when you arrived?" asked Raynar.
"Only Gerbod," she wanted to stop discussing her life and her sorrow with this filthy peasant, and yet there was something in his eyes that kept her talking. "He told me that Arnulf died almost immediately from the arrow wound. Was it your arrow?"
"I may have shot the arrow, but your son did not die of such a shallow wound. He was strangled." He watched her eyes brim with tears and would have pulled her head to his breast if it had not been caked with mud. The other women came closer to help her, but a flick of his eyes warned them back.
"This may sound like an odd question to pose on a battlefield, from the man who shot your son, but is there any reason that Gerbod would wish him dead?"
She pulled away from him so she could look into his eyes. He could almost see her mind working. She was a royal. Her mind would always be scheming. It was the world she survived in.
"William FitzOsbern, my new husband, rode with Gerbod but he did not trust him. He told me that he owed much coin to the Flemish goldsmiths for buying his earldom in England, and that he had wasted much of it, or had lost it. William had a great treasure with him here, not just to pay the warriors, but our wedding gifts as well. There should be a chest of silver, but also a small chest of wondrous items."
"Thank you, my lady." he whispered, "I think it almost certain that Gerbod has murdered your child, his lord, and for reasons of greed. I will place him under guard until more sanity prevails in Flanders."
He walked back to Gerbod. The man was still twisting the arrow and staring at the corpses.
"You ask that I treat that woman with respect?" growled Raynar to Gerbod. "Do you mean with the same respect you treated the women of Cheshire?"
"You would not dare," Gerbod protested.
"Why shouldn't I. Did you spare any Cheshire women from rape and murder? Did FitzOsbern spare any in Herefordshire?"
"But they were nothing. Welsh peasants," hissed Gerbod.
Raynar leaped towards Gerbod's throat with one hand while finding the hilt of his Valkyrie knife with the other.
Two bowmen were watching Gerbod and they were just as fast and they dragged Raynar back by the arms. "No. You told the wolfpacks to respect the temporary truce, and so you shall. Even you shall."
Gerbod had pushed himself backwards away from the wicked looking fish knife, and because he moved, two other bowmen rushed to him and held him.
Raynar allowed his temper to cool. There was business to do here, and quickly. Philip must be closing on Cassel by now. He stared hard at Gerbod "Where is this army's treasure?"
"In Cassel behind the walls. Where do you think. This was just a staging area for the cavalry. Headquarters is at the top of the hill and is run by Eustace of Boulogne and my castellan Wulfric Rabel. They will never surrender," replied Gerbod smoothly.
"FitzOsbern would not keep his treasure up that hill while his men were down here," countered Raynar. "Tell me where it is. Either way you will not have it. If you tell me, I will have it. If you don't tell me, you won't need coin ever again." He let Gerbod think about that for a minute. The wolfpack was relaxing outside. He called to the Wolfshead, "Please have all the other fine tents searched, and have any chests or anything that looks valuable brought here. Anything."
He returned to Gerbod who immediately began to bargain with him. "You can have FitzOsbern's treasure and also the chest that the Franks had left with him, but I get to ride safely home to Saint Omer with my small chest."
"Done," agreed Raynar.
"See the carpet over towards the women. Lift it and dig. It is not deep. The smallest of the chests is mine, for I had just a small force here."
It took mere minutes for three bowmen to uncover and pull three chests from the shallow hole. The largest contained many small purses of silver coins, each presumably a standard count. The second largest contained the same, but some of the purses were of a finer material. They contained gold coins. The smallest chest was grabbed by Gerbod as he rose to leave.
"Before you go." Raynar took Gerbod's arm and led him to the open flap. "Which of these fine tents was yours?" Gerbod pointed to a smaller marquee. Raynar turned to his diggers. "Go to that marquee there, and check under all the carpets. Bring back anything you find." He looked at Gerbod. The man had turned pale. He was now holding the arrow like a dagger. Raynar reached out and grabbed the shaft and pulled it through his hand. Gerbod winced as the point cleared his fingers.
The diggers soon returned with another small chest. They opened it, and it contained purses of silver.
Raynar pushed Gerbod down onto his stool and told the bowmen to bind him tightly. "You are a snake, Gerbod. That lie has cost you your treasure and your freedom." Raynar took the small chest from his hands and turned his back on his men before opening it.
It was filled with finely worked gold with jeweled settings. He closed it softly and took it back to the hole in the ground and placed it there. He dumped the purses out of the largest chest and placed the empty chest in the hole on top of the small one. Then he used his boot to push back the dirt on top of them. He signaled to the diggers to finish the job.
While they tidied the mats, he asked his bowmen, "If you got lost in these marshes and had to make your own way back across the sea to the Fens, how much silver do you think you would need?" The answers ranged from five shillings to ten marks. No one really knew. The silver coins in the purses were marks.
"Hear this then men. I want every hoodsman to have ten of these marks in his own purse in case he gets separated from our force. Grab the saddle bags from our horses and fill them from the purses on that mat and from that other chest. We will distribute them on our way to meet Philip and make sure that each man gets theirs."
The men did not have to be asked twice to collect silver. The saddlebags were fetched immediately. After stepping outside the Marquee to stand beside the wolfshead they signaled the rest of the wolfpack to come near. While the wolfshead passed out the silver, Raynar told them what was happening.
"I am taking the woman to Robert. She is the key to the gates of Cassel. Then I go to visit Philip of France on the highway. As of now this marquee now belongs to the wolfpacks. Everything inside it belongs to the wolfpacks. Any prisoners in this marquee are theirs. They are not to escape and they are not to be killed, but you can bruise them a bit if need be. No one, especially no lords, are to be given anything from it without my say. Understood. Swear it." They all swore it eagerly.
"Countess," he called to Rachilde, "we leave now to ride to your brother in law, Robert. Bring your women. I will allow you one dagger each for your personal safety. Conceal it in your clothes. Leave all other weapons here. Take any jewelry that you have with you, and your warmest cloaks. You will not be returning to this marquee." The women came forward out of the shadows. Rachilde had stopped close to Gerbod and she was staring at him. The man bowed his head.
Raynar turned and looked at the wolfshead. He pointed to Gerbod. "If that man tries to escape, kill him. If anyone tries to rescue him, kill him. Do not hesitate, just kill him. Trust me in this." He looked at Rachilde. "Lady, do you agree with this order?"
"You can kill him now if you wish," she said. The women walked past Gerbod's bent head without another glance. The three women filed out of the tent and allowed themselves to be lifted onto saddles. They were surrounded by mounted bowmen so they did not even think of escape.
* * * * *
The three women were escorted through the camp and through Bavinchove towards the mass of axemen gathered beneath the closest gate of the burgh. As they rode, wolfpacks gathered in behind them. Every wolf was now mounted. As each wolfshead joined them, he was handed purses of coins to distribute to his men, ten coins apiece, and they did so as they rode.
The captured cavalry were bound and seated on the wet grass
in neat rows. The aides and peasants that did the work of the camp were all being rounded up and bound and seated in another damp field with longer neat rows.
The difference between those workers who were Flemish and those who had come with the French and the Normans was very noticeable to every bowman. When they rode towards a Flem he stood tall and looked directly at you. Not as a challenge, but ready to communicate and interested in what was happening. They were from lands that were still mostly populated by freemen, in the way of the North Sea kingdoms.
When they rode towards a Norman or French peasant, he bowed his head and made himself smaller and would not meet your gaze. They were from the Southern kingdoms that used serfdom and slave masters to control the peasants. Even if they were not actually serfs, they all had the beaten look of slavery to them.
All of the bowmen were thankful to be mounted as they rode through the thickening crowds of axemen hemmed into the Roman streets and along the few dry cartways. All but one of the wolfpacks were left outside the crush of axemen, and Raynar pressed forward towards Robert with only that one. When they reached the front ranks of the axemen, they were welcomed by Jarl Osbard and Prince Canute, but there was no Robert.
"In the latest foray from the gates, one of their leaders, probably Arnulf, swept down directly towards Robert and carried him back to the gates," explained Canute. "Robert is a man who leads from the front. We could not reach him to rescue him."
The Jarl was more interested in the women Raynar had brought, than telling the peasant any of his own news.
Raynar did not dismount. "It was not Arnulf who captured him, but Eustace of Boulogne. Arnulf is dead and laid out back in Bavinchove. Most of the cavalry have joined him in death. We have taken less than a hundred riders as prisoners. Bavinchove is ours."
The Jarl pointed to the women and cocked his head.
Raynar explained, "This is Arnulf's mother Rachilde, once Countess of Flanders and still Countess of many other lands. She is the key to unlocking these gates. Raise a white flag and call for a truce and a parley. She and Robert should meet and work out terms." He looked at the woman "Lady, this man beside me is Prince Canute of Denmark and I leave you in his care."
Canute laid his hand on her calf and gave a short prayer for her losses.
The Jarl spoke while Canute prayed. "And the other nobles. FitzOsbern and Gerbod and the others?"
"Only Gerbod survives. He is mine. Hear me well. He is mine. He is not to be traded," growled Raynar, "I take my wolfpacks to meet Philip of France on the Eastern street. It has been many years since I have killed a king, and I am in the mood to kill another. Once this truce takes hold, send me a host of axemen to guard my back. "
Rachilde finally spoke out and she was haughty. "Who are you to give orders to Countesses and Princes while you are covered in mud and shit and are dressed like a farmer?"
Raynar ignored her, but the prince spoke out, "Why lady, this is a man from the legends that we Danes sing while we drink ale. This is Raynar Kingkiller from the Peaks of Valhalla. It was he who slew King Harald of Norway. He was sent to us by Thor to be a blight on the Franks." The Jarl looked at Raynar with an open mouth. Canute crossed himself for invoking the name of a false god.
She looked at Raynar with wide and fearful eyes. "Sir, I beg you, I have but one son left, my youngest, Baldwin. He rides with Philip. Kill Philip if you must, but please spare my boy."
"Lady, if Cassel holds out against Robert," Raynar explained, "then I will have no choice but to slaughter the French. In such a slaughter all men are targets for all arrows. If Cassel accepts Robert as the Count, then the French will turn and few arrows will be loosed. I will protect your son if I can, but you have more say in his wellbeing than I."
Raynar turned his horse so that he separated Canute from Rachilde. "Canute, when I told you the story of Harald's brave death, you swore secrecy. Now you tell it on a battlefield."
"If telling it to that woman," Canute said in a low voice, "will end this day with less bloodshed, then yes, I do tell it. Forgive me." He reached up and grabbed Raynar’s arm. "Take care my friend. This day will fill many nights with good stories, and I do not want the fates to cheat me out of hearing yours."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - Ely Wakes by Skye Smith
Chapter 25 - Meeting Philip of France near Cassel in February 1071
It was less than two miles around the base of the mount to the cross where the first street east came down from Cassel. Despite the shortness of the ride, young Raynar felt his muscles complain. It had been a long day that had started well before dawn and now it was close to sunset, or he thought it was close to sunset if these heavy low clouds would clear. Instead of riding east on the street to find the wolfpack that had been sent to block it, he pointed the mare up the hill and had her climb until he was just outside the arrow range of the archers on the burgh walls.
One of the wolfpacks followed him up, for they were afraid that men would race through the gates and capture him, as Robert had been captured. From halfway up the hill the view was impressive. This would save him a lot of time, and perhaps some lives. He first scanned eastward along the street he was on. He could see for miles.
The first group of men that he picked out, must be his wolfpack. They were lined up across the street and there were horses hobbled this side of them. Just beyond there were an equal sized blob of men that he assumed were French army scouts. Well beyond them, perhaps two miles beyond, was the start of a huge line of moving blobs. That must be the French army.
He switched his view further north and found the ribbon that must be the other eastern street. Again he saw the first blob which must be the wolfpack sent to block that street. Well beyond them there was a larger blob. Those must be French army scouts checking whether the other street was also blocked. There was the tink of metal on the street in front of him. A crossbow bolt. Someone on the wall was taking wild shots at him.
The men of the wolfpack grumbled and swore at the inconvenience and the waste of a bolt. "Botha," called out the wolfshead, "D'ye thin' you or your brother can silence that arbalester from here."
Two men dismounted. They were each big enough to make their mounts look small. They hung their short, riding bows on their saddles and strung their true long bows. The shot had become a contest between them. They took their time inspecting their arrows until each had selected the truest. Then they chose another each.
Their first shots were ranging shots and rather than warn the arbalester, they loosed them at some men not on the wall, but standing just outside the watchman’s door in the gate. Both arrows hit the gate with enough force to split the wood and lodge firm, and the men by the door quickly disappeared and the door could be heard slamming shut.
Raynar spent this time scanning the flood plain for signs of men or horses. He could see none, and neither could he see any high land other than the streets which were built like causeways. The rough jesting of the other men told him that the contest was about to begin. Another bolt skittered down the cobble stones of the street.
"Watch this," said the wolfshead enjoying himself. "They are sons of my miller, rest his soul. Spent their youth packing hundred weights of flour and corn. Backs like mules."
Both men stepped into their bows with the arrows aimed at the clouds and then as one, dropped the points and loosed. There was silence among the hoodsmen as they watched the heavy arrows fly. The arbalester on the wall was watching and saw them loose and simply moved to one side, a mans width from where he had been standing. Botha's arrow took him in the chest and he disappeared backwards from sight. The two bowmen slapped each other's hands. Botha gloated, "I knew he was going to step to his right. He wanted to protect his right arm and right eye more than his left."
Raynar looked at the two. "You mean you knew he was going to step aside. That is why you loosed together at either side of the man."
"Too right," laughed Botha, "we played odds or evens
for the first choice of side, and he chose wrong." The wolfpack roared with laughter. Raynar felt quite guilty laughing at the misfortune of the crossbowman, but these men had been strung taught like bow strings all the day, and this laughter was just the relief they needed.
"Here," Raynar said as he reached into his saddle bag and pulled out some purses and handed them to the wolfshead, "take those men holding the North street," he pointed to them, "their ten marks, and make sure they realize it is a get-home purse and not a get-wench purse." He pointed out the larger blob of men making for them. "Don't let them through, but don't risk your lives to hold that street. You can always retreat and destroy another bridge to create another gap in the road."
The lone wolfpack rode north and Raynar rejoined the rest of the wolfpacks and led them eastward. They crossed the first bridge soon after leaving the cross. He understood why his men had chosen not to block that bridge. It was too close to the burgh gate. Instead the men had chosen to block the second bridge, or at least, where a bridge used to stand. The reinforcements left their horses with those already hobbled, and walked forward to find the wolfshead.
"It was a real shame to pull the bridge down," said the wolfshead as he grabbed at the purses of marks that Raynar was handing him. "It was made of curved stones that fit together without mud or mortar, an arch I think it is called. We used these spades and bars to lift the surface cobble stone and threw them to the side of the street and then it took us hours to free the carved stones, but once they were loosened, we just picked it apart stone by stone until it collapsed." They were standing on a wide trench that used to be a bridge. "Must have been ancient, but it was still standing strong. A shame."
"The Romans would have built it when they built the street," Raynar guessed. "Who are the jesters on the other side?"
"They say they are the king's men and that we should not be breaking the king's roads. They have no crossbows, but I'm sure they have sent for some," the Wolfshead pointed down into the flooded fields beside the street. "They've sunk now, but that is where we threw the bodies of the messengers that Cassel sent. There, did you see that arm though the murk. That was one of them."
