by Smith, Skye
"See," Raynar called out. "Even your kitchen girls know better than Norman lords. Tell them more love."
The girl blushed and looked around. Every man's eye was on her. Perhaps this was the day she would win a husband. She straightened her shoulders to push out her breasts and called out in her strongest voice. "A kitchen hearth must be built wide for all the cooking pots and spits. Too wide for a heating fire. It is too easy to build the fire so high that it sets the roof alight."
"You are indeed wiser than Norman lords, love. Here, your wisdom deserves a coin," he said as he handed her a heavy silver coin. Then he looked out at the men and told them, "She is more right than she knows. During the coldest weather of the winter, every roof of every stone building in England burned. Every manor burned, every church burned, every castle burned, and taking with them every town, and half of London. The Normans, while trying to stay warm, harrowed themselves."
"That is not what I meant by good news," the castellan complained.
"Ah," said Raynar, "then let me try again. How about this. The Normans have stopped raping English women." There was a short silence followed by cheering from around the hall. The men laughed and smiled and began eating and drinking again. "Yes," Raynar continued, "the English women are so thin from hunger and so sick from disease that even the Normans fear porking them, lest they catch a plague."
"Enough said, Ray," said the castellan as he pushed his plate of food away. He would eat it later when he got his appetite back. "You may as well tell us the bad news. Why are you in such a hurry to reach Paris?"
This time Raynar stood to talk. "William the Conqueror took an army of twenty thousand to England for his second invasion, and most have been stranded there because we took his ships from him." These words brought cheers from the local men who had fought at that sea victory. They still hadn't spent all the prize coin from the captured ships.
"Yes, yes," the castellan waved his acknowledgement, "he invaded to defend England's North Sea coast against Canute's invasion. Please don't tell us more of the horrors of the harrowings. You can be sure that all of us here pity the English."
"Save your pity for the French, my friend. To keep his barons from rebelling after being stuck in England for so long, the Conqueror has promised them Paris. To that aim he has paid a fortune to the Norse fleet in Ireland to carry his army from Southampton to Rouen."
"You mean," the castellan sucked in his breath and motioned for his captains to be quiet again and listen. "You mean William did not disband the army after Canute was killed."
"He couldn't, not right away. The invasion of the Danelaw made sense whether it was led by Canute, or by the new king, Erik. Besides, until Olaf of Norway agreed to take their Norman coin, they did not have ships good enough to take them across the Manche. Flanders ships wouldn't ferry them, nor would the Bretons, nor the Danes. They liked that the Norman army was stuck in England."
"Oye," the archer captain called out. "I thought Olaf was on our side."
"Olaf wanted the bloody Norman army out of England. He charged them a fortune to make his dream come true." There were pockets of laughter as the more literate men appreciated the irony.
"How many?" the castellan asked, suddenly fearful. "How many are gathering in Rouen? Not twenty thousand. Please don't say twenty thousand."
"Not twenty thousand, not anymore. About four thousand Italian Normans left after their first English winter. At least a thousand more were lost to, um, unfortunate accidents. A few thousand are still starving up in the northern garrisons waiting for the Danes. Not twenty thousand, but certainly twelve thousand."
"Mon Dieux," whistled the castellan, "that is still far more than France will be able to raise on short notice." He walked over to a stone wall where was outlined a rough, very rough map of France, Flanders, Normandy and the border lands between them that was known as the Vexin. The western end of the Vexin was patrolled from this fortress. Rouen was only seventy miles south, two day's march for an army. "Do you think they will come to take my fortress first?"
"Absolutely not. That would just serve to divide their army or slow them down. Today they are still shuttling men across the Manche. As soon as the army is marshaled outside of Rouen, they will march up the Seine valley to Paris. They will ignore every fortress that is not directly in their way."
The castellan ran his finger along underneath the snaking line that was the River Seine. "Mantes. There is no fortress of any size until Mantes. That is just a days ride from Paris. Merde. I must send warning messages immediately."
"Your couriers wouldn't get through," Raynar warned. "By now the Normans will have every road blocked. Couriers would be ambushed. That is why I ride with a full wolfpack."
"But we must let Paris know. They will need as much time as they have to gather a defense."
"Paris will know. One of my other ships has taken the same news to Hereward and Robert the Frisian in Brugge. The roads of Flanders will still be open. Robert will send men in every direction with the news. His couriers will reach Paris within two days."
"So are you to Paris?" the castellan asked. "Why didn't you go through Brugge?"
Raynar thought for a moment and then lied. "I have come to warn you, and then warn the entire Vexin. If I escape ambush, I may get as far as Paris."
His hoodsmen skirmishers smiled at each other through greasy lips as they listened to their wolfhead's very believable lie. That was not why they were here. They were here to stop the army, and there was only one way to stop this Norman army. Kill the leaders. Kill the nobs in charge. The French castellan would never think of that. He would be a Romanized Christian, and therefore would wholly believe that only nobs could kill nobs, and only royals could kill royals.
Every one of these wolves had just spent a year killing Norman leaders up and down the coast of the Danelaw. Ambush after ambush after ambush until the Norman leaders had learned to lead from behind, or lead from behind walls. The Norman army now gathering in Rouen had spent the winter hiding in their fortified camps. Cold wet camps. When word came that they were to march south to catch ships to Normandy, they couldn't leave England fast enough.
The castellan saw the nasty edge in the smirks of the hoodsmen. He had seen these kind of men fight before. There was no one he would rather have on his side if it came to battle. "Do you think Robert the Frisian will loan us some of Hereward's wolfpacks to help us patrol the border of the Vexin?"
"No. Sorry, no. Don't even bother asking. He will be sending them along the Flanders border to watch for the Norman army. I told you before, Montreuil is of no interest to the Conqueror, at least not until he captures Paris and claims Philip's throne."
* * * * *
The wolfpack rode fast inland for a half a day and then set a course south to the River Seine. Of them, only Raynar had ridden this same overland route back in '76 when Philip of France had sent the Conqueror's own son, Robert, to worry the Norman lords of the Vexin.
Robert's prancing knights had been just a blind to the real mission in that year. A combined force of a few French knights and Raynar's wolfpacks had raced across the Vexin to the Seine. Once upstream from Rouen, they had torched the Seine barge fleet and sent them drifting downstream into the port.
The burning fleet had set Rouen's docks alight, which tricked the Conqueror into withdrawing half his army from his southern siege of the burgh of Dol in Bretagne. While half his army raced north to protect Rouen, Fulk and his Angevins rescued Dol, and defeated the Norman siege army. It had been the Conqueror's first defeat, ever. That defeat was the first of a string of defeats in the counties of France that he had never recovered from.
After one night of sleeping rough in the bush, the wolfpack arrived at the range of hills on the north bank of the Seine valley across from Gaillord Castle. While keeping to the trails of the high ridges, to stay out of sight of the river, they rode towards Rouen. Every mile there was a viewpoint, so every mile they took a rest while Raynar and the youngest, brightest e
yes scanned the river below. They were searching for the Norman army.
You wouldn't think that such a large army would be hard to find, but they could not find it. Their greatest fear was that they had not ridden far enough along the Seine before doubling back along these river ridges. They had almost given up and admitted that the army was already further east of them, when they saw it. Or rather, they saw its supplies.
Even in this dry August, the Seine could still float a good sized barge, and so the army was using barges rather than carts to carry their supplies. The Seine had so many twists and bends that the army itself was marching rather than use the barges. They could march in a straight line that ignored the bends. The barges had to travel twice the distance, at least twice the distance, but there was no better way of transporting the supplies for such a large army.
To prove their theory they rode along a ridge that ran south like a nose poking into a loop of the river. Sure enough, from the end of that nose they could see the army, or rather, the dust of the army. The Normans were on the march towards Paris. They also saw something even more important. Four of the barges were carrying Marquees, the grand tents of generals. These barges were all riding high in the water and moving more quickly than the barges laden with supplies.
"The bugger nobs have a floating camp," Gord said, now shading his eyes with his hand to cut the summer glare. "Now that is traveling in style. Always set up. No dust or muck. In the cool of the river. Do you think they actually ride on them barges, or will the nobs be marching with the army?"
Gord was one of the three G's. Gord, Garth, and Graham. While huddled for warmth in their longhouses last winter, the folk of the Danelaw had sung songs about the three G's and how they had ambushed the knights who had led last year's harrowing of the coasts. Gord was the eldest, perhaps twenty four. They all fought for only one reason, revenge.
In truth, Raynar's entire wolfpack fought for that same reason. Raynar had chosen these thirty specifically because they had nothing left to lose, and dearly wanted to reek vengeance on the Normans. Wanted it more than life itself. He had come to kill the leaders of this army, and especially the Conqueror, and none of these men would think twice about ending a king's life, or a count's, or a general's.
Even more important, they had no interest in killing the rank and file. That was just a waste of a good ambush. They wanted to kill the men in command. The men who had ordered their villages razed, and their folk slaughtered. Raynar had brought them here, not to lead them, but to give them a chance at the very commanders who had sat safely in Winchester last year during the harrowings.
"So Ray," said Garth in a hushed voice, "this could be really easy if all of the nobs are on those barges. All we need to do is cause an interesting distraction to draw them to the gunnels for a look see, and then pump points into them. If we time it right, they won't even be wearing armour." His eyes gleamed at the thought of how many of these bastards he could kill. There was nothing more dangerous to the great men of power, than a skilled warrior with nothing left to lose.
The one thing that had caused Raynar to fail in his many attempts at killing the Conqueror, was that he had too much to live for. At this moment in their lives, these thirty men had nothing to live for. Absolutely nothing. By next year, if they survived, that would no longer be true because they would have begun to rebuild their shattered lives. But right now, any one of them would gladly throw himself onto a spear, if by doing so he could take down the Conqueror.
"We can't make plans until we know everything about those nob barges," Graham always spoke with reason. "How they are used, when they are used, how they are guarded, do they travel all night to keep up with the march, are they always towed by horses? We need answers, not wild plans." Graham was the youngest, but the brains of the three G's.
"What do you need?" Raynar asked Graham. He hadn't brought them here to lead them, but to enable them.
"For everyone to stay out of sight, while we go down and shadow the barges from the river bank. Oh, and for a scouting party to go upstream and make a map of the bends and loops and shallows in this river. We need a good place to set an ambush, and the best place would be where the barges are forced to travel closest to our bank."
"Aye," added Gord, "and tell them to keep an eye peeled for any small boats, and anything that we can use to block the channel, like a big root of a tree."
Erik, Raynar's second, crept forward to hear. Erik also had songs sung about him in the Danelaw. The wolfpack had elected him second because he spoke Norman French like a local, but it helped that he personally, by himself, had killed twenty Normans last year on the Yorkshire coast. Not all at the same time, of course.
Erik spoke to Gord, "Remember that you are not on home ground. The folk around here will not help you. If anything they will try to hurt you, or point you out to the Norman scouts."
"What folk?" Gord replied. "We have seen no one. They are in hiding with their women and animals. Wouldn't you hide if this army were passing close by. Besides, we are dressed like French peasants." At Montreuil, they had not just begged horses and saddles, but also local clothing.
"Erik," Raynar interrupted. "I need you to take a scouting party along the river. Tell him Gord." When Gord was finished explaining what he needed to know about the river, Raynar continued. "Send men back with that information, but you keep going with the scouting party. I want to know if there is a smaller, faster army moving ahead of the main force."
"You mean cavalry?" Erik asked. "But Ray. The Normans always march on foot to a battle and only then do they mount their horses to fight. That is how they keep their horses fresh for a charge."
"That is if they are traveling to do battle with another army. I am talking about a raiding party to surprise the villages before they can hide."
"Agreed," Erik nodded. "What? Ten men?"
Gord spoke up. "Take a dozen so you have extras to send back with news." Raynar nodded in agreement. He was quite happy to have the men run themselves. In that way, if they got split up, they would take care of each other.
"Oye," interrupted Garth. "If Erik's leading the scouts, then we need someone else to go down to the barges with us. Someone who understands the lingo. You Ray. You can come so long as you promise to do as we say.""
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - The Second Invasion by Skye Smith
Chapter 24 - Ambushing the Conqueror on the Seine in August 1087
After a dozen hours of crawling along the north bank of the Seine to shadow the four passenger barges, Raynar and the three G's had seen enough. The barges were being well used. Commanders were coming and going to and from the marching column, but were sleeping aboard. The barges continued to move upstream even after dark, until they were abreast of that night's army camp. The towing was mostly done by horses but there were plenty of bargemen along to help out.
The lead barge of the four seemed to be for the use of the nobles. The second barge seemed to be for the royals, and the Conqueror was on board. Always on board, never leaving, never riding out, rarely out of his marquee. His son William was with him, but not his son Robert. Robert would be in Paris partying with the queen's court. The third barge was also for nobs, and the forth was for the kitchen and the servants. It was constantly billowing the smoke of the cooking fires, which was why it traveled last.
Each of the barges had watchers, for and aft, armed with crossbows. When nobles boarded for any length of time, there were servants to help them shed their armour. The tents were more for shade than anything else, so the sides of them were usually rolled up to allow what breeze there was to cool the men inside. There were always some men laying in the shade of the tents, dozing.
They could pick out the king's form by his girth. As King Philip had once quipped, the man looked like a pregnant woman. Unfortunately, of all of the tent sides, the king's were the ones usually rolled down for privacy.
The barges were not so long as a longship, and stout
of beam along their full length. They had very short masts but no sign of sails. The masts must be used for lifting cargo, and their shortness must mean that there are bridge spans somewhere on this river. The barges hugged the south bank of the river where the main tow path was.
Boats heading down stream towards Rouen hugged the north bank where the tow path was not so wide, and was not so needed because the sluggish current helped to drift things downstream. Once the barges stopped, just after midnight, pickets were sent across the river to keep watch. By the time the pickets were on the north bank, the hoodsmen had already moved further upstream in hopes of seeing the size of the main army camp.
They couldn't see the actual camp, as it was on the other side of a low ridge of trees. They couldn't even see the glow of hundreds of fires, because in the hot August evening, the cooking fires had been put out once they were no longer needed. They knew it was there because of the smell. The smell of thousands of men, and thousands of horses.
The smell was making Raynar feel ill, or perhaps it was fear. Not fear for himself, but fear of what an army of this size was capable of doing to the rich farmland of France, and to its poor downtrodden serfs. It was cruel irony that the Normans, who ripped at the folk like human wolves, had chosen to call his bands of honest rebels, 'wolfpacks'. Armies acted, rebels reacted. Were the rebels evil or just a reflection of the evils of armies? He had argued this with clerics, but they had hidden from the logic of it.
"Ray," Graham's whisper brought Raynar back alert, "one thing is obvious, we cannot ambush them after they stop for the night because of the pickets. The other thing is not so obvious. If there is little chance of killing the Conqueror, then the ambush is wasted. He bloody never comes out of his tent."
"Up on the hill," Raynar replied, "Gord mentioned a diversion to bring everyone to the gunnels and turn them into targets."
"Aye, but such a diversion cannot be in the form of an attack. An attack would make the nobs take cover. It has to be a peaceful diversion. Something that will interest them, not frighten them."
