Hoodsman: Hunting Kings Read online

  "I'm sorry Wyl. It would have all ended differently if I had been discovered and was forced to fight my way out of it. Then my training would have kicked in, and I would have chosen the leader as my first target. That would have been Henry." In their youth, both Wyl and Raynar had been trained as army skirmishers. Targeting leaders was what skirmishers did best. "Of course, if that had happened, I wouldn't be here drinking tea with you."

  "Well there is that," Wyl smiled. "It is quite amazing that you seem to have gotten completely away with killing a king. So what are your plans for today. It's coronation day. Are you going to be in the crowd cheering the new King Henry."

  "Perhaps." said Raynar thoughtfully. "I suppose if Gregos isn't taken as the guest of his ambassador, then I will be obliged to take him out into the crowd to see the coronation procession."

  "Well there won't be much of a crowd at the end of our lane, and you would have a good view," Wyl replied. The Domus was on Temple Lane which ended on the banks of the Thames. "Oh, of course, you came in late so you wouldn't know. The procession is to be by barge down the Thames from Westminster to the White Tower. It's a good idea. Everyone in London has quick access to the banks of the Thames. It means that everyone will be able to wave to their new king."

  "Hmm, it means that the kings guards won't have to worry about the king going through narrow roads with overhanging roofs. Well good, then Gregos won't need me whether he is with his ambassador, or at the end of our lane. In that case I can spend the day returning the ponies we rented yesterday. I was told to drop them off in Staines-Upon-Thames."

  "We have stable hands that could do that for you. Do you really need to spend more hours in the saddle after yesterday's long ride?"

  "The ponies were entrusted to me by one of the brotherhood. I will complete that trust personally, despite my saddle sores," Raynar replied.

  Wyl nodded and dropped the subject. Both he and Ray had been amongst the founding members of the Brotherhood of the Arrow, back in '66 after the disastrous Battle of Hastings Road. Since the ponies belonged to another hoodsman, then Ray did have an obligation. "Tell me more about the killing of Rufus."

  "You know I shouldn't. That would break the hoodsman's creed. I can tell you that his brother Henry and the other men in the hunting party left for Winchester immediately after finding the body of Rufus, and only a day later they left Winchester for London. The corpse could still be lying in the forest for all I know.

  I can tell you that every Norman family from Winchester to London is barricaded into their manors. They fear each other. They each fear that the Normans up the road will attack them and turf them out of their manor. Since to Normans their king is their law, apparently the lawless days between kings is a prime time to take possession of someone else's estate.

  I can tell you that the serfs are already beginning to work for themselves, now that they don't have slave masters cracking the whip over them. For sure there will be a lot of runaway serfs reaching the towns this week."

  Wylie was quiet, thinking. "Damnation. So with William's son Rufus dead, and the other son Robert still in the Holy Lands, then if you had killed Henry, then there may have been a civil war with greedy Norman lords killing greedy Norman lords. Now isn't that a pleasant thought."

  "Based on what I heard Henry say while he stood above his dead brother, I think we will have a Norman civil war in any case," replied Raynar. "Robert is already on his way home to Normandy, and he has just taken a wife to produce an heir. Henry even suspected that Rufus had been killed by one of Robert's men. Robert will think the same about Henry.

  From Henry's own lips I know that it is Robert who should be crowned, not Henry. Apparently Rufus and Robert signed a treaty after the last coronation that named each other as their successors. I suppose the treaty was designed to stop a civil war from flaring up."

  Wylie's eyes went wide, "That explains why Henry is in such a hurry to be crowned, and why he is being crowned in London rather than in Winchester."

  "I was told that Henry brought Winchester's treasury with him to London. Hmmm, money may be the deciding factor in who succeeds Rufus. When the Bastard died, Robert got Normandy, Rufus got England, but Henry just got money. No land to speak of, but lots of money.

  Rufus and Robert were both fools when it came to money. All of theirs was eaten by the cost of Robert's campaigns in the Holy Land, and both of them beggared their people with taxes to keep that campaign going. I wonder if Henry still has his inheritance?"

  Wyl nodded slowly, "You mean that Henry may do what Rufus did and buy Robert off and send him back to the Holy Land."

  "Perhaps, but I hope not," replied Raynar. "Call me a romantic, but I would much rather have those brothers start a Norman civil war so we could all earn good coin by helping both sides to slaughter each other."

  There was a knock on the heavy door. As Wyl's quarters included the office and safe for running this inn, the doors were extra heavy, with steel bolts. Raynar had been sleeping in Wyl's quarters rather than his own room, because he had loaned his room to his guests. Last night, every room in the Traveler's Domus had been taken due to the coronation.

  Wylie opened the door and welcomed Gregos in. The old Greek from Cordoba had been in England for less than two weeks, so he still had a healthy color to his skin. Almost as brown as a Moor in comparison to the pasty white look of the English.

  "Our escort from my Embassy is at the gate," Gregos told them in his heavily accented English. "So we'll see you later tonight, or perhaps not until tomorrow. We will be inside the Abbey for the coronation, and on a royal barge for the procession. The ambassador has been most helpful. Fawningly so."

  "Perhaps he thinks you have come from the Caliph to check up on him," laughed Raynar, but then, on seeing the change of expression on Gregos' face, stopped laughing and coughed. "Ahh, of course, I should have guessed."

  * * * * *

  An hour later Raynar was riding one pony and leading the other two away from the River Fleet on the first leg of his journey to return the rented ponies to Staines-Upon-Thames. Since there was a good chance that he would see some of the Coronation on the way back from Staines, he had packed some better clothes than those he was riding in. Since he was traveling alone, he was well armed with a short sword and a short bow from the collection of foreign bows that he kept hung on the wall of his room at the Domus.

  The ponies were not children's ponies, but tough sure footed mountain ponies. They had been trained to do a quick step walk which ate up the miles without exhausting either the horse or the rider. Raynar looked slightly ridiculous on his short legged pony, as would any tall man.

  That explained why you never saw Normans riding these comfortable, cheap, and easy to care for traveling ponies. Normans were completely self absorbed with how they were viewed by others. The way they spoke, the way they walked, the clothes they chose, the horses they rode, were all part of a pose to make others believe that they were important. No poser would risk looking foolish to others by riding such an efficient and useful pony.

  He did a short detour around Westminster to miss the worst of the crowds thronging towards the coronation abbey. The local watch from all the surrounding boroughs were working hard to keep the traffic moving, and to keep those with invitations to the abbey moving faster than anyone else. The ponies navigated the crowds with ease, and without much delay.

  At Hammersmith he was shocked at the number of people who coming towards him from the bend in the river at that village. He asked one of them what was happening and was told that the Thames ferry was doing a roaring business from folks on their way to Westminster to see the coronation.

  Since ferries created crowds of travelers for only moments at a time while they unloaded, he waited until the crowd thinned and then turned off the main road and rode towards the Thames and then west along the river bank. He was enjoying the day and enjoying watching the parade of travelers, and was in no great hurry, so once he was away from the ferry landing,
he dismounted and sat on the gunnels of a beached rowing boat to watch the river traffic.

  The ferry barge was running empty towards the South bank, but a nearby boatman who was painting a river punt, told him that on the return run, the ferry would be overloaded to the point of madness. It was likely the reason the boatman had chosen this day to paint the punt, so he would be here to watch the spectacle if the ferry tipped over.

  Raynar pulled out some small sticky buns that he had brought along, and offered one to the boatman. The boatman smiled back and wiped the paint from his hands and came to sit with him on the gunnels of the boat. They laughed and talked and ate while they waited for the ferry to load and come back across.

  "That punt of yours needs caulking, more than painting," Raynar remarked.

  "Aye, I'll get to the chinkin', but I am paintin' first so it has time to dry." There were two colors of paint, white and blue in narrow stripes along the gunnels. The boatman admired his work while munching on the bun.

  "The paint is worth more than the punt," Raynar observed.

  "Not to me. My brother-in-law wus paintin' the royal barges for the coronation, and he lifted a couple of pots for me." The boatman winked and rubbed his index finger along his nose. "It was all a bit hurried, the whole coronation I mean. If I'd had more notice I'd have finished workin' on it yesterday and by now it would be rented to some Nobs for the procession down the river. As the boat stands, leaking and all, they'd all end up swimming."

  "I doubt that most Nob's know how to swim. Perhaps you should rent it to them anyway." They both began to chuckle at the thought of a bunch of swanks flopping about in the river in their best clothes.

  "That's the problem with a flat bottom. Constant work to keep it sealed." Raynar said.

  "Aye," said the boatman as he finished his bun. "Well I'd best get back to work on it, if I am to 'ave any chance of rentin' it out. Ta for the bun."

  He looked across the river. Despite the crowding of people on the ferry, the ferrymen were still allowing horses aboard. It was a disaster waiting to happen, but this time it made it across the river without incident.

  With the ponies thirst now quenched, he mounted up again and waved to the boatman. It would take the man the rest of he morning to finish sealing the bottom of his punt. Meanwhile he was laughing and chortling as he watched the ferry.

  * * * * *

  The larger ferry at Staines was also overloaded when it reached the north bank of the Thames where Raynar was waiting to board it. Raynar watched in wonder as a hundred people walked down the gang planks towards him. Who would be so stupid as to ride on such an overloaded barge?

  The ferry south to Staines was empty save for he and the three ponies. After stepping off it with the ponies, it took him less than a half hour to find the paddock where he could return the ponies, and then walk back to the ferry landing.

  He was loath to join the crush and use the ferry to go back across, so he asked around for any small boats for hire to take him across. It was then that he found out that due to the coronation, there were no small boats available. He must swallow his smugness and wait for the ferry to come back across, so he could crush onto it with everyone else.

  He found a warm dry place to sit and wait where he could see the ferry, and since he had spent eighteen of the last twenty four hours in a saddle, he promptly fell asleep. Naturally he dreamed of long rides on saddles. Rides from his past. Memories triggered by Wyl's words this morning.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  THE HOODSMAN - Hunting Kings by Skye Smith

  Chapter 2 - The Highway to Hastings, E.Sussex in October 1066

  He should not even be here in Earl Edwin's camp. He was not a warrior, not a member of the Northern army, or of the Southern army, not a huscarl of any lord, and he was not even a fyrdman answering a levy call. He was just a young porter who earned his bread by carrying loads of lead ore on his back from the mines in the high Derbyshire peaks, down to the closest cartway, where he loaded it onto the Abbey's carts.

  Well not just a porter. The young monk, Brother Tucker had taught him his letters and his numbers, so now he was the head porter of Repton Abbey. The abbey ran a smelter and mill for creating sheets of roofing lead. He kicked out at the cart he was sitting on, one of the abbey's carts. Bloody thing. It was an expensive cart because it had smooth running metal clad axles, which were needed when the load was as heavy as lead.

  Bloody, bloody. The army had commandeered the damn things because their axles were so smooth running. At the time the army had been racing North to meet an invading Norse army under King Harald of Norway. Brother Tucker had given him a map and sent him after the Abbey's carts to find them and to make sure the carts were returned to the Abbey once the army had finished with them.

  They were costly carts, and because they had good axles they could be pulled not just by teams of oxen, but also by teams of horses, and horses moved them at five times the speed of oxen. So, he had found the carts and was watching them as the good Brother had told him to do. But then the army left Yorkshire and moved south to Sussex, and of course the army took the damn carts with them.

  Meanwhile he had been dragged into the horror of the Battle of Stamford Bridge and had seen more blood and guts than anyone should ever have to see. He was homesick for the Porter's Glade in the Hope Valley. It was the hamlet built by the Brotherhood of Miners for the common good. A peaceful place, a special place, with good people, hard working people. The Welsh who worked the mines, and the Saxon porters who carried the loads, and the Danish shepherds who ranged their sheep in the high country.

  The Glade was a healthy place with clean spring water where injured miners could go to heal, or to die. Clean water was rare in a land where rivers ran with the foulness of the mining. He missed his friends. Here with Earl Edwin's army he was surrounded by rough warriors and foul mouthed fyrdmen.

  He missed Gwyn, the fairie-like Welsh girl who he had grown up with, and her widowed mother who was the healer at the glade. He missed John, his boyhood friend from down the valley in the town of Hathersage. John, the smith's son whose arms were as hefty as a normal man's legs. John, whose father had designed and built these bloody axles for the abbey, which were the cause of all his current woes. Bloody, bloody, carts.

  He missed his first lover, Sonja, and his second lover, her sister Britta. He sighed as he brought them to mind. They were both so comely. Not that they would seek his company anymore. Not since Sonja had married the local lord.

  In the Glade his help and company were sought after, especially by the sick and broken miners who lived there with their families while they recovered. They welcomed his company not just because Gwyn and her mother had taught him some healing skills, but because of his skills as a story teller. For one thing, he spoke Welsh, and most of the miners were Welsh. And he spoke Danish English and Saxon English.

  He missed the peaks, the tors, the ridges, the valleys, the open spaces, the fresh air. Army camps were crowded and smelled of shit. Mind you, he didn't miss the storms. There would be winter storms in the high Peaks by now.

  He saw Earl Edwin's aide walking between the rings of fyrdmen who were busy cooking their break fast barley. He seemed to be searching for someone. Raynar ducked his head down and closed his eyes and pretended to snooze on the cart's bench.

  "Ah, still here then lad? Still guarding your abbey's carts?" a voice said. It was the Earl's aide. "Raynar, wake up. The Earl wishes to speak with you." He pulled on the lads sleeve and hovered around him all the way back to the Earl's giant marquee tent.

  * * * * *

  Edwin had a problem, which meant that Raynar had a problem. Six messengers had started out from King Harold's camp some twenty miles to the south, and only two of them had arrived safely at Edwin's camp. Those two most urgently must return to Harold, and needed guarding. All of Edwin's regular skirmishers were out scouting or foraging, but all that Raynar was doing was keeping an eye on his abbey's carts. Edwin nee
ded him to be a mounted archer to guard Harold's messengers.

  Raynar shuffled his feet as he looked down at them. He could feel Edwin's eyes, and the eyes of the nobles around him, staring at him. He had tried explaining that the last time he lost sight of his carts, it had taken him three days to find them again, because they were every carter's favourite carts. He had tried to explaining that he wasn't really a skirmisher, wasn't even a warrior fyrdman. He had been attached to Hereward's unit of skirmishers only because he could read a map and use a bow.

  The giant of a warlord to his right guffawed loudly, "So says the lad who killed the Ogre of Stamford Bridge." The other warlords laughed with him as the giant rubbed at his hair affectionately. "You are the right lad for this mission, no mistake."

  Raynar and three other men left Edwin to carry the message to Harold. A simple message. "Stall the Normans. There are two thousand shieldmen and archers within a days march, and supplies carried by a thousand more men within three days march."

  Two of the men were the Sussex messengers that Harold had sent to Edwin. The other was a skirmisher from York whom he had never met before. They left camp at a gallop with Raynar in the rear. Being a porter, he was not so good with horses, though he was learning. At the first fork in the highway they split up to take the two different routes towards Harold's camp in case one way was blocked by the enemy.

  Raynar followed the Sussex man he was paired with along the western way, while the other two went along the eastern way. His messenger whined that this western way was longer so he would be late reaching the fork where the two ways joined together again, and therefore he would be later reaching Harold.

  The messenger explained that the two roads towards Hastings joined again at a second fork, and after that there was only one road to Hastings. That road went straight down the hill of Senlac Ridge and towards the coast. Once they reached that second fork they would be safe, because Harold controlled Senlac ridge.