The Longbowman Page 5

  Casca faced the men. “Right, you heard the man; I’m Wakely’s replacement. Anyone want to argue this, do it right now, right here, and we’ll get it out of the way.” He eyed Sills who looked away. None of the others looked worried; one or two even grinned. “Good, glad you’re overjoyed. Right, we’re off to grab us farm animals – geese, hens, pigs, you know the routine. No killing, no raping, and that includes the women, if any of you are wondering.”

  The men laughed. Pip looked disgusted. Sills put up an arm. “And sheep?”

  Andrew spat at his feet. “Watch it, Sills.”

  Sills sniggered, his blackened teeth prominent.

  “Alright cut out the sheep jibes, Sills. Pigs are off limits to you, too.” The others laughed again and Sills scowled. “Stick close to me, lads – we don’t want to get separated and lost. No idea where the local levies are and you might get set upon if you’re alone.”

  They set off in the direction the captain had pointed to them, down a slight incline, over a rudimentary fence and across a track that had been clearly made by animals; their hoof prints were in evidence all round. Sheep. Pieces of wool were here and there, stuck on hedges, in brambles and on other shrubs. A small growth of trees marked some sort of boundary, then they were through another fence and onto a field of beet. “The farm shouldn’t be too far. Remember our route,” Casca said, and led the group over the rise in the center of the field. On the brow they had a good view of the countryside beyond. Villages could be seen in scattered locations and smoke from various fires drifted up into the air. Ahead, at the bottom of the hill they were on, nestled a farmhouse. “That’s our destination. Walt, you and Sills go for the chickens. Use whatever bags you have.”

  “What about us?” Andrew asked, staring at the farmhouse, a single building of wood standing apart from the other constructions, a barn, a piggery and a few other unidentifiable outhouses.

  “Check the other buildings and grab whatever’s edible.”

  They ran down the hill, noticing other soldiers coming close behind, clearly with the intention of grabbing their own food. It was a race. Liz – or Pip – hurried in the wake of Casca, struggling to keep up. Her legs weren’t as tough. The Eternal Mercenary grabbed her hand and they ran close behind Will and Gavin. Casca decided to go for the farmhouse. He didn’t knock, but wrenched the door open and came face to face with a hostile-faced farmer, alerted by the sudden appearance of so many men on his property. “What is all this?” he demanded, glaring at the attire of the two who had rudely barged in. He spoke in a Norman accent which Casca recognized at once.

  He responded in kind. “We are requisitioning your livestock, M’sieur.”

  “On whose orders?” the man demanded, apprehensive at catching sight of swords, knives and axes in the hands of the people rushing past. A scream came from one of the outbuildings. “My wife!” he exclaimed.

  Casca turned and bolted out, making for the barn from where the sound had come. Men were gathering in a knot and Casca barged through, followed by Pip and the farmer. Two men from another unit had grabbed the farmer’s wife and were trying to tear her clothes off, laughing at how they were going to give her a good English son. Casca’s mouth turned down and he grabbed the first one by the collar and hauled him to his feet. “Stop that crap!” he snapped and shoved the man across the floor. The other kept on holding the woman and snarled. “Who are you, Scarface? This is none of your business. Piss off!”

  Not waiting for anything further, Casca’s foot smashed into the man’s face, breaking his nose. The first one, the one he’d shoved, drew out his knife and came for Casca, screaming in fury. Casca slipped to one side, blocked the upward swing with his forearm and sent his other fist into the man’s guts. The soldier doubled up and sank to his hands and knees, retching.

  “Nobody does this shit in my company, got it?” Casca roared, swinging round and facing the others. “Now go and grab what you’ve come for and that’s not a piece of French ass. If the King finds out you have, then you’ll be strung up from the nearest tree, believe me!”

  The others muttered and drifted away, leaving the distraught farmer’s wife to be picked up by the red-faced farmer. Pip smiled at Casca. “You did the right thing, Cass.”

  “Too right; I don’t like that sort of thing.” He switched to French again. “I am sorry about that. Keep your good woman indoors; we shall soon be gone. Tell me what livestock you have here and I’ll pass it on to my captain. The King will recompense you.”

  “Hah,” the farmer spat into the dirt, “you Anglais will take and never pay, just like always. May God strike you all down with pestilence.”

  Pip went to help but got brusquely slapped in the arm. She looked at Casca who shrugged. “Let them be. No point in making things worse; at least they have their lives.” He looked round the barn. The two men who had tried to rape the woman were nursing their injuries and pain. One had a broken nose, the other painful guts. They slunk off as Casca glared at them, one holding his ruined nose, the other muttering dire promises of revenge.

  The squealing of pigs caught his attention and he led Pip to the piggery. A large pink sow was protesting at being manhandled and was winning easily against three men desperately trying to wrestle it to the ground. The men were sent flying and the pig vanished into the shed. Will came out, struggling to keep a piglet under his arm. “God, this bugger’s a lively one!” It was making enough noise to raise the dead.

  Pip giggled, her eyes wide at the sound coming from such a small creature. “Come on!” Casca urged, waving his arm at Sills and Walt who were running all over the yard trying to catch a couple of squawking chickens, feathers flying into the air. “We haven’t all day, you know!”

  More men were arriving and sergeants were shouting orders, filling the air with a confusion of orders and counter-orders. Men wrestled with animals and the screams of the creatures were all anyone could hear and so orders went unheeded. “Come on,” Casca took Pip by the arm, “this is madness. I’m going to round up the group. Time we were gone anyway.”

  He paused as he made his way past the barn. Stuck into a post was a dagger, bloodstained. It was pinning a piece of cloth to the post, and when he lifted the cloth to examine it, found it to be a motif of three rams’ heads, the arms of Godfrey Fulk. It was what had been sewn onto Wakely’s tunic the last time Casca had seen him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Harfleur was a walled town. The walls were high and augmented by a series of watchtowers. Casca guessed the walls ran for over two miles round the city. Ditches protected the walls and around the western wall, in the direction the English army had approached it from, a river flowed, forming an extra defense. A second watercourse ran through the place, coming from the north, and exited out through the south wall via a series of sluices.

  There were three gates. One faced the English, a second stood to the north and the last the south-east. Each was protected by a barbican which made attacking any of them hazardous. In the middle of the town a second wall could be seen, rising even higher than the outer walls. Word was that this protected the inner harbor served by the river that ran through the town, the River Lezarde. This emptied itself into the Seine a short distance from the sea.

  Flags fluttered from the ramparts and soldiers were visible, watching them. The English army stood and surveyed the town from the top of the hill near the priory, where King Henry had set up his headquarters. Casca’s group was part of Henry’s ‘Middle Battle’. The English tended to form ‘battles’ when on campaign; the vanguard, the ‘Right Wing’, was a Battle under the command of the Duke of York, while the rearguard, the ‘Left Wing’, was under the Duke of Clarence.

  “Well, what a sight that is,” Will exclaimed, leaning on his bow, looking at the solid walls and deep ditches. “Crossing the river is out of the question, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, you got that right, Will,” Walt agreed. “Looks like the gate for us, don’t you think Cass?”

  Casca grunted. It wa
s very heavily fortified and would cost lots of casualties if assaulted. “Don’t think the King wants us to bleed to death against these defenses.”

  “Nah,” Gavin said. “Those cannons they’re taking off the ships today will sort this out, you see. Bloody great guns, those.”

  Casca pulled a rueful face. He wasn’t entirely sure how effective the newest form of warfare would fare. Many of these cannons blew up all too easily, and their rate of shot was very slow. Still, at two tons each, they would be able to hurl huge stone balls at the walls and that would do some severe damage.

  “So what now?” Andrew asked, scratching an armpit.

  “Wait for orders. No doubt someone will get tired of us sightseeing before long.”

  And that was what happened. The captain came down and snapped out orders to clear the ground all round of houses and huts. The inhabitants had fled into the city, leaving their abodes to the English. With a whoop of delight the soldiers descended upon the houses and began ripping them apart. The captain screamed to bring the bigger pieces to the hilltop as the engineers wanted material for screens and other projects. Casca shrugged and passed the order on, then proceeded to tear open a roof. It was foul and festering and full of bugs, but he carried on, grimacing. It wasn’t as if they would harm him, as he was immune, but he didn’t care much for the feel of the wriggling bodies against his fingertips as he pulled the thatch and moss roof apart.

  Men ran into the abandoned houses and looted whatever they could find, whooping in delight as they came back out with a mug or jar or some small portable possession.

  What they couldn’t re-use they burned, and the clouds of smoke rose up from the ground, obscuring the town from their view for a couple of hours while the flames consumed the wreckage. They stood back, watching the flames. Pip kept very close to Casca throughout, her face reflecting a mixture of disgust, awe and shock at the destruction. Casca was happy to have her close as he was thinking hard about the bloodied cloth he’d seen. He was in no doubt it was Wakely’s, and therefore it had to be a message.

  His mind went back to a time three centuries back. He’d been in the Middle East at that time and had been enslaved by Arabs. Somehow he’d gotten mixed up with the Hashashin, the Assassins, and for a short while had become one of their number. When they wished to carry out an assassination, they had forewarned their victim by the use of leaving a small dagger where it could be found. Was this something along that line, that someone was warning Casca that he was next? The only possible person or organization he could think of was Cooper’s Thieves’ Guild. Somehow one of their number had crossed over on a ship, probably after killing Wakely, and was targeting Casca.

  And Pip.

  The thought made his blood run cold. He wasn’t too concerned about being hunted; he was a warrior, and could handle it. It was part of the danger of being a man of the sword, and he was used to it. But Pip was another matter; she was not a warrior, had never been in a war situation before, and was vulnerable. Casca had no doubt that if it was one of Cooper’s men on his tail, then Pip was also a target for daring to run away with Casca, turning Cooper down. Pride and ego would demand a permanent punishment.

  So who? Casca had no idea, but was fairly sure it wasn’t any of the other eight who had been on the same ship as he. There had been plenty of chances to do the deed during the voyage. No, it must be someone else, close by, who had sneaked aboard, probably disguised as an archer, ready to do the deed. It was also someone who was prepared to use fear, by telling Casca beforehand, just like the assassins had done. Was it an assassin? Casca doubted it; they were Ismaili Muslims, and the Mongols had smashed their headquarters in the Elburz Mountains some hundred and fifty years back. Some of the survivors had ended up near Mount Lebanon, near Beyrout, but he was sure none had come west, for what reason would any of them do so?

  No, it was probably a Guild member with a sadistic turn of mind, wanting to see his prey panic and worry, like a cat plays with a mouse. Well, Casca thought to himself, he was no mouse. He’d find out who it was and take care of the bastard.

  Over the next couple of days the cannons were sited and protective fences erected, made from the wreckage of the destroyed houses. The soldiers were put on digging duty and even Pip was given a shovel. She looked at it with a bemused expression. “Follow my lead,” Casca said quietly to her. “If you don’t look as if you’re pulling your weight you’ll get unwelcome attention from someone with no sense of humor.”

  She nodded and stepped into the embryonic ditch and watched as Casca dug a huge sod out of the ground. She looked horrified at the prospect. “I don’t have the strength to do that!”

  “Here,” Casca said, shoveling some loose soil in her direction, “throw that up over the edge onto the ground. That way at least you look as if you’re shifting some of this soil.”

  So they dug in that manner; Casca dug for the two of them, using his great strength in removing the earth and scattering it about them, so Pip could lift it easily enough up and over the lip of the ditch. The captain came past and grunted at the line of sweating men. They were all doing their bit, but then so they should, having been born into peasantry and ought to be used to working the land. More privileged people like the captain could not possibly get their hands dirty that way; they were not from Those Who Worked. He glanced at the slight figure next to the huge muscled and scarred sergeant. “You, boy, yes you,” he nodded as Pip looked up in alarm and fear. “How old are you?”

  “Ah, uh, f-fifteen, sire,” Pip said in as husky a voice she could manage, as Casca had advised her. Casca stopped and tensed, gripping his shovel hard.

  “Fifteen, eh? A bit young for being here, surely!”

  “Sire,” Casca straightened, “Pip is voluntarily here; he said God called him to serve in His army to defeat the ungodly French. He may not be as strong as the rest of us, but Pip says he will do whatever he can. I for one will not go against God’s will, sire.”

  The captain frowned, then cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, you’re right, Sergeant, indeed nobody here who is God-fearing would dare such a thing. You’re a blessed child, boy, if God is telling you such things. Carry on.” He walked on, towards another section of toiling men.

  “Thanks, Cass,” Pip said, a smile on her face.

  “Not a problem; you’ve just got to know how to play them. They’re too dumb to understand people. Tell them what they want to hear or what they ought to hear, and mostly it sorts anything out.”

  “But aren’t you afraid God might punish you for taking His name in vain?”

  Casca looked at her for a long moment. What could he say? That he’d been cursed already? “I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way, Pip. I can take it.”

  “Brave words.”

  “Maybe.” He bent and resumed his digging. They threw up a line of ditches across the western approaches to the town, effectively blocking all routes towards the Porte Leure. Once this had been done the engineers began to construct the gun platforms, level areas of ground surrounded by fencing and shelters. Then they dragged the huge cannons into position. Supplies and ammunition were next, some of it being brought up from the beaches, others being found nearby. By now the defenders had realized what was going on and were sending crossbow bolts arcing through the sky in an attempt to hit the men putting together the artillery, but the range made things difficult, although a couple of men were hit. It merely made the rest use the ditches and shelters and the shots from the walls fell harmlessly to the churned up ground.

  The camp was well out of range and Casca and his comrades retired to their tents once their work was done for the day. Although the camp was a haphazard collection of tents, buckets, bags, weapons, cooking pots, animals and poorly dug latrines, the banners fluttering above from poles showed where each noble was and their retainers were grouped round these.

  Sir Godfrey Fulk was a half-seen figure, stout, bearded, always at a distance. Casca had no desire to speak to the man; he was paying the
wages and that was all there was to it. He doubted Sir Godfrey knew most of those gathered to his colors anyway. They had been recruited by the captains.

  Casca’s captain was a frequent visitor, always ensuring the sergeants were keeping discipline. He constantly prodded Casca into acknowledgement of the Ordnances that had been issued by the King. No looting, no raping, the usual stuff. Hanging was the normal punishment for being caught. Casca wearily assured the haughty captain he had passed them down to the men, but was merely told to do it again.

  That evening Casca told them again to behave, especially when they took Harfleur. “I’ve known armies to go crazy when they’ve taken a town after a siege. Lots of killing, rape, plunder. The King wants Harfleur as his own after we take it, so by looting the place we antagonize the very people he wants to rule. He doesn’t want that, right?”

  “When do you think it’ll fall, then, Cass?” Will asked.

  “Dunno. Depends on the guns knocking the walls down I suppose, or them surrendering.”

  “You think they’ll surrender?” Walt piped up. “They look determined to hold out. I guess they think their king will send an army to kick us out of France.”

  “Yes, they’ll be counting on that. Depends on their food supply. They didn’t have much warning of our arrival so they won’t have stocked up much. That might have a say in how long they hold out.”

  “I hope it doesn’t take too long,” Andrew said. “Damned late in the season already.”

  “Yes, know what you mean. It’s mid-August now and before long it’ll be autumn. The weather will turn and being out here when it does is no fun, I can tell you.”

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Sills said. “Where did you serve?”

  Casca grinned. “Always someone in Europe wanting fighting men to help sort out some argument. Most of the time it’s down to sieges; you don’t get many battles. They tend to cost too much in lives. You gamble all on one throw and if you lose, you’ve lost your army.”