by Smith, Skye
By the time the bishop's men had filed out of the abbey and gathered their horses in preparation for mounting them, there were only four of them still near the abbey door. These were the only ones still armed, the arbalesters.
The villagers may have been out of normal bow range, but a dozen men were carrying longbows. At Johns signal the arbalesters were slaughtered by heavy arrows. A few of the village lads ran forward like hares and pushed the monks back through the open door and slammed it shut behind them. The rest of the bishops men would have become arrow bait except that John called out "HOLD" to the archers and then stepped forward towards the bishop's men.
No one else could have held the arrows from flight with one word except for the man who had handed out these bows. "Hold. We promised these men that they could ride to their bishop in peace so long as they came out without weapons. Those that came out armed are now dead. None of the others must be hurt." The archers did not loose their arrows but they kept them fully drawn and walked slowly and steadily towards the bishops men.
"Lie on your bellies on the ground," John bellowed at the bishop's men. "Those who remain standing may be shot." The men looked at each other, and then at the drawn arrows, and at the corpses of their own arbalesters, and they first knelt, and then lay on their bellies. They were beaten. "Don't fight us," John assured them, "and you will be riding back to the bishop before dark. Now take off your boots so you can't run away."
The smith still had Raynar’s silver razor in his hand. "These are men well trained in violence," he said. "I don't fancy living in fear of their vengeance. Hold them down while I nick their hocks so they can't run after our women." There was no shortage of villagers to hold these men down, and they were not gentle with them.
A half an hour later, a dozen men, lamed in the left foot by a quick nick to the muscle behind the ankle, rode away on horses lamed in a similar way to their left rear leg. Though furious about these lamings, the bishop's men were in no position to vent their fury in their usual brutish way. Half the men followed them along the road to make sure they did not stop until they were out of this valley.
The other half of the men followed John and Raynar inside the abbey to help the monks. Three monks lay dead on the alter with their throats slit. The three nominees of the chapter to become the next abbot. Twelve monks had been horribly injured by spears, bolts, and swords. Another eight bore light wounds. The call went out all through the monastery to bring those in hiding forward to help the stricken.
The smith came up to Raynar where he was kneeling beside a fallen monk, washing a wound and stemming the bleeding. "Ere, you don't have time for that. You and your big friend must pack up and clear out before the bishop sends some more men back here. Your big friend will get all the blame. He stands out, so he will be the first they point to."
The smith was right, of course. John stuck out like a mountain surrounded by mole hills. He finished binding the wound and received a blessing for his care, and then he snuck away to join John, Alan, Robin and Sleepy. They had already been told. They were ready to leave. They were cheered along as they drove towards the village in the cart.
"I think it's best that we get out of this bishopric," Alan said. "You know, I've never seen the Wessex coast. Do you think that will be far enough?"
Robin was all for it. This was his first time out of the Peaks shires. John smacked his lips and said, "It would be good to eat some fresh fish for a change. I'm a wee bit tired of horse feasts." They all laughed at the thought of John being a wee bit anything.
At the village they packed up and drove their three carts south. After about five miles they came to another village and were hailed by some of the women. Women who had just fled home from the fete. Fearful women who wanted news of the abbey and of their menfolk. The news that John told them brought such relief to their care worn faces, that they opened their houses to the small group, and made them comfortable for the night.
By the afternoon of the next day, when they were halfway to Chichester, the gossip about the abbey had already preceded them. What all the men were talking about was how ingenious it was to slightly lame violent men, and the horses they rode.
Their reasoning was sound enough. The problem with killing the horses was that you had to eat them right away. The problem with killing Normans, was that they always got even, and then some. Instead just lame them enough that neither man nor horse could be used for catching runaway serfs, raiding villages, and other mischief.
John had spirited discussions about it with the carters they met along the way. For twenty years the Norman's had been laming their battlefield prisoners. Cutting off the string fingers of an archer. Maiming or cutting off one of the feet of pikeman and shieldman. This was just their own tactic coming home to roost, and for the same reason. You didn't need to hold them prisoner or watch them, because it took away the Norman advantage of speed, surprise, and range.
A new era had come to the English anarchy. In the first era, the peasants had taken advantage of the lack of henchmen to break the bonds of serfdom, and to rid themselves of corrupt priests and greedy moneylenders. The realization that it was their fast saddle horses that had allowed so few Normans to control so many Wessex peasants, had now become the realization of how easy it was to hobble the Norman control without the bloodshed that would trigger deadly vengeance. Raynar was well pleased with all of this and made sure his spies carried this knowledge far and wide.
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The Hoodsman - The Second Invasion by Skye Smith
Chapter 15 - Saving a Duke at Mount Saint Michelle in April 1105
As word spread throughout the villages that Avranches castle had fallen, and the Viscount freed, people began to flock to the gates seeking protection from the retribution of the Mortainaise that would surely follow. With them came the captains of Raynar's ships.
Usually the ships captains commanded the men, but during fights the wolfheads commanded the men. This because one man was a skilled navigator and businessman appointed by the ship owners, while the other was a skilled warlord who was elected by the crew to lead them into battle. It was an exceptional man who could do both. Raynar was such a man, but he had long ago given up on either role. He let the younger men fill those roles, while he stayed in the background and advised them in the role of an elder.
So it was that Raynar allowed the captains and wolfheads to decide on what to do about the battle between Normans and Bretons that they had been told would be underway on the southern end of this wide bay. They were unanimous that they should leave one wolfpack to hold the castle wall while the other two wolfpacks took the three ships and went to find out what was really going on.
The promise of true English silver coins hired them ten local fisherman for each ship. They replaced the ten hoodsmen from each ship who were now standing on the castle walls. In any raid that these ships made, ten of the crew were always left behind to guard and man the ship. This would now be the task of these locals.
The locals had another, more important task. They were bay fishermen. They knew the bay, the shoreline, the shoals, the rocks, the currents and especially the tides. Local fishermen always made the best pilots. The locals told them that the good news was that the Easter tides were over, and the waxing moon tides meant that the difference between low and high tide on the bay was now only about twenty feet. Only twenty feet. Not only that, but in these tides the shallow drafted Frisian cogs may be able use the channels that crossed the bay even at low tide.
The pilots kept the ships as close to the shoreline as possible to keep them out of the view of anyone beyond Mount Saint Michelle. This meant that they passed quite close to that island with its one great roof and one tall church tower-come-lookout tower. Raynar had once been told that the island was a favourite sanctuary for noblemen on the run. He had heard this from Henry, who had hidden on this island from his brothers when they were trying to rob him of his mother's inheritance back in the 90's.
Once they were passed the island, the pilots guided the ships closer in because the tide was coming in. It was then that a shout went up from the bow watch. "Men ahead, trapped on a sandbar." The ship's captain and Raynar hopped over the legs and dodged the oar shafts until they reached the bow, and then had a look for themselves. Ahead there were about twenty armed and mounted men quickly being cut off from the shore. They must have been trying to reach the safety of the island, because behind them, a quarter mile behind them, there was a pack of at least fifty mounted men riding hell bent in pursuit.
"Should we pick them up?" asked the captain.
"No room for them on this puddle jumper," replied Raynar mouthing his first thought. "Their trouble with the flood tide is not their immediate problem. The cavalry chasing them are. Lets slow down that cavalry so we have time to think, and so the other ships can catch up to us."
The captain raced back to the steering post hopping and dodging and yelling orders as he went. Raynar stayed in the bow as they passed the first group of men, who had now stopped on their horses and were watching as their sandbar disappeared under water. They did not look like Normans, and since this bay was the border of Normandy and Bretagne, it was a safe bet that they were the Bretons that the locals had spoken of. The ones that the Mortainaise had trapped.
"Yo, you on the bar," he yelled out at full voice in Welsh. "That's what you deserve for stealing those horses."
The answer came back across the churning water, "We'll trade you these wonderful and valuable horses for a ride on that scow of yours." That was all anyone could hear before the ship was beyond hearing because it was now being rowed at a double count towards the mass of cavalry racing along the ridge of the bar. The hoodsmen who were not on the oars were stringing their powerful bows and knocking heavy arrows.
"So Ray," the closest hoodsman asked. "Which group is the enemy?"
"They probably both are, but let's make friends with the Bretons by killing a few of Mortain's knights. Skirmisher rules. Kill the leaders first. If they wear good armour then aim for their horses instead." Raynar’s words were passed down the line of hoodsmen who were now moving chests and barrels to create enough space to stand with their bows without hindering the oarsmen.
The wolfshead had taken over the command of the bowmen, so Raynar just watched. The first man to loose an arrow was one of his personal guards. Six foot six of young, handsome Frisian, with long flowing blond hair that was wasted on a man, and shoulders so wide that he had to go through a normal door sideways as well as ducked low. His arm muscles were like knotted rope as he drew a bow that a normal man would not even have the strength to string. The comely giant held his breath and waited for the motion of the ship to peak and still, and then he loosed.
The yard long arrow arched slightly up and then slowly down and buried itself in the fore flank of the lead horse. The horse stumbled, the man was flung from the saddle and the two horse behind it trampled the man. Other arrows were now hitting the occasional horse, but already they had completed part of the mission. The cavalry charge had slowed to a crawl.
The fishermen on the oars were too busy putting their backs into the oars to watch what was happening so Raynar was calling out a description in the local lingo. At appropriate moments they were cheering. They hated the Mortainaise. Death was too good for them.
Death was exactly what was happening to quite a few of them. Without a leader, who had died with the very first arrow, there were no orders from one voice. Some men were turning their horses into the deepening sea channel that separated the sand bar from the beach. Some were turning their horses to run back along the bar. Some were prancing in place wondering what to do, and were dying of their indecision.
These were not just arrows flying at them, but heavy arrows perfected over thirty years of rebellion against the armour of Normans in England. They had the punch of an arbalester’s heavy bolt, but unlike a bolt with an effective range of thirty paces, some of these arrows had traveled two hundred paces before they hit their mark. Horses were screaming in pain and fear. Men were losing their saddles. Expensive armour was being punctured.
And suddenly there were no more riders in range. The channel was filled with horse that almost needed to swim to make it to the beach. Even the riders who had turned to flee along the bar were now crossing the channel to the safety of the beach. The bar was disappearing quickly under the tide but it was still too shallow for the cog to cross it. If they could have crossed it they could have finished all of these horsemen just by knocking them from their horses with their oars. The weight of their armour would have drowned them.
The captain ordered the cog to swing around and head back to the other ships. It spun like a top and then set a course at a more leisurely pace back towards the mount. The Bretons were already off their horses, which were now up to their chests in water, and they were unbuckling and heaving their saddles and weapons over the gunnels. Raynar’s ship came alongside in time to take a third of the men over the gunnels, and just in time before the men lost their footing and were carried by the current, armour and all into the deepening channel.
Their horses had already decided that all these men were insane and had stepped off the bar into the channel and were swimming towards beach. The Mortainaise watching from the beach would capture them as they left the water. A shame to lose the horses to them, but at least the Bretons were saved.
All three ships rafted themselves together for a short time so the weight of the load of extra men could be distributed, and so it was that Raynar was introduced to Duke Alan of Bretagne.
"So you think me a horse thief?" asked Alan in heavily accented Welsh.
"You speak the blessed tongue, so I know you are a horse thief," replied Raynar. "An honorable profession in civilized lands where it is not a hanging offense." The Bretons around them laughed, partially from the old fashioned greeting used by all Brits, and partially from relief. There was no longer any clue that there had ever been a sand bar in this bay. They had been plucked from certain death either by drowning, or by Norman sword.
"We owe you, English," replied Alan as he kissed his saviour on both cheeks to secure the debt to the goddess of all Brits. "What ever is mine, can be yours for the asking."
"I am in the service of the Queen of the English," said Raynar, "and she would bid me only to set you down onto friendly shores."
"Then tell your queen that she is invited to visit Bretagne at any time, and that she will be most welcome and as safe as if she were in her own bed." With the courtly politeness becoming stale, Alan looked at the Englishman with the cunning of a warrior. "What news do you bring?"
"Henry is in Carentan with a fleet and is waiting for the Norman lords to join him to ride against Belleme. While he waits he has sent the fleet to push Mortain's raiders out of the Cotentin. The church has made him their champion and protector, and he has accepted the task of bringing peace to the entire coastal plain so that the crops may be sown."
"How did you come by us?" asked Alan.
"Avranches is now ours because the garrison was away chasing some horse thieves. These good bay fishermen brought us to rescue you." He motioned towards the ragged men hauling on oars.
"You have taken the castle, the great dungeon?" a younger man interrupted. "The prisoners are freed?"
"Aye, and not before time," replied Raynar. "They are in a bad way, but the school there teaches medicine, so hopefully they will regain their health before they are bled to death by the physicians."
"Forgive the lad's interruption," Alan said softly. "His father is being held there. We had heard of Henry's landing and so were on our way to the castle to gauge the current strength of the garrison when we ran into Mortain's raiders burning one of our villages. We drew them away from the village but then we trapped ourselves on a point of land at our end of the bay. When the tide went out, we decided to make a run for the mount. We weren't fast enough."
"So where can we put you ashore. Th
e mount? A port in Bretagne? Avranches? Carentan?"
"Avranches. We must claim our own and take them home to their women. Is this is a problem?" asked Alan.
"Not at all. I will even loan you one of my ships to take them home."
"We owe you, English," Alan told him, gripped his arm. "We all owe you."
Raynar smiled and returned the grip. It always amazed him how people so feared drowning, and how thankful they were after being saved. He had seen entire ships of men panic at the threat of drowning, and the panic had cost them their lives. Even hardened warriors feared it, yet drowning was a painless and easy way to die, if you were going to die anyway.
He took one last look at the Breton horses stepping out of the waves and onto the solid land of the beach before he lost sight of them behind Mount Saint Michelle. Horses were the same, they panicked. He should know, he had drowned enough of them back in '85. Just off Cherbourg at the tip of this peninsula, in fact.
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The Hoodsman - The Second Invasion by Skye Smith
Chapter 16 - Ferrying Normans on the South Coast in 1085
John and his family and friends had so much fun running archery matches last summer that this summer they were at it again. Not Raynar, however. One of the captains of his spy ships had sickened almost to death, and Raynar had taken his place as captain of the cog. She was typical of the Fens cogs. She could still be rowed efficiently even if she was designed to sail, and she had a flattish bottom so she could rest upright on a mud flat when the tide was out.
The false business they were in was ferrying Normans across the Manche to and from Normandy. Obviously they never refused to take any Norman back to Normandy, but they often sailed empty out of Norman ports unless the passengers looked likely to have some juicy gossip. The real business they were in was spying, and not just taking note of what was happening in the ports on both sides, but also taking note of what their passengers were gossiping about.
