 
The Hoodsman

Killing Kings

(Book One of the Series)  
 **By** **Skye** **Smith**

Copyright (C) 2010-2013 Skye Smith  
All rights reserved including all rights of authorship.

Cover Illustration is a part of "Death of William Rufus of England"  
By Alphonse de Neuville (1835-1885)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Revision 4 . . . ISBN: 978-1-927699-00-3

# Cover Flap

An English arrow ended the Viking Era when it killed King Harald of Norway at Stamford in 1066. That one arrow changed the history of all of the North Sea kingdoms, and a month later William the Conqueror began his twenty-year reign of terror over England.

Thirty-four years after the death of Harald, when the Conqueror's son, King William II, had turned into a worse king than even his father, the same man who loosed the arrow in Stamford decided that it was past time to loose another arrow and kill another king.

This is the first in a series of historical novels about that English bowman, and about the brotherhood of English archers that became the core of the resistance movement against the enslavement of the English by the psycho ruling class of Normandy. The Brotherhood, the Hood, the Hoodsmen.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# About The Author

Skye Smith is my pen name. My ancestors were miners and shepherds near Castleton in the Peaks District of Derbyshire. I have been told by some readers that this series reminds them of Bernard Cornwell's historical novels, and have always been delighted by the comparison.

This is the first of my Hoodsman series of books, and you should read it before reading any of the other books. All of the books contain two timelines linked by characters and places. The "current" story is set in the era of King Henry I in the 1100's, while the longer "flashback" story is set in the era of King William I after 1066.

I have self-published twelve "The Hoodsman ..." books and they are:

**# - SubTitle  
**. . . . . . . . . . . . William I Timeline  
. . . . . . . . . . . . Henry I Timeline

1. **Killing Kings  
**. . . . . . . . . . . . 1066 killing King Harald of Norway (Battle of Stamford Bridge)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . 1100 killing King William II of England. Henry claims the throne.

2. **Hunting Kings  
**. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1066 hunting the Conqueror (Battle of Hastings Road)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1100 hunting Henry I (Coronation Charter)

3. **Frisians of the Fens**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1067/68 rebellions. Edgar Aetheling flees north with Margaret.  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1100 amnesty and peace. Henry recuits English bowmen.

4. **Saving Princesses**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1068/69 rebellions. Margaret weds Scotland (Battle of Durham)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1100/01 Edith of Scotland weds Henry (Battle of Alton)

5. **Blackstone Edge**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1069/70 rebellions (The Harrowing of the North)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1101 peace while the economy is saved from the bankers

6. **Ely Wakes**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1070/71 Frisian rebellion (Battles of Ely and Cassel)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1101 Henry collects allies. Mary of Scotland weds Boulogne.

7. **Courtesans and Exiles**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1072/74 English lords flee abroad (Battle of Montreuil, Edgar surrenders)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1102 Henry collects allies (the Honor of Boulogne)

8. **The Revolt of the Earls**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1075/76 Earls revolt (Battles of Worchester and Fagaduna)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1102 Earls revolt (Battles of Arundel, Bridgnorth, Shropshire)

9. **Forest Law**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1076/79 fighting Normans in France (London Burned, Battle of Gerberoi)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1103 fighting Normans in Cornwall (Battle of Tamara Sound)

10. **Queens and Widows**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1079/81 rebellions (Gateshead, Judith of Lens)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1103 Edith made Regent (Force 5 Hurricane)

11. **Popes and Emperors**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1081 Normans slaughter English exiles (Battle of Dyrrhachium)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1104 Henry visits Normandy (Duchy run by warlords)

12. **The Second Invasion**  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1082/85 power vacuum, peaceful anarchy (Regent Odo arrested enroute to Rome)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1085/87 Re-invasion and Harrowing of all England (Battle of Mantes, Conqueror dies)  
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 1104/05 Henry invades Normandy twice (Battle of Tinchebray)

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Prologue

This historical novel is as historically accurate as I could make it. I have even used the old names for towns, so for instance Burna rather than Bourne, Scafeld rather than Sheffield.

I did, however, convert the dates to our modern calendar to save the reader the confusion of January being the tenth month of the old year rather than the first month of the new year.

I have also corrected a few popular misconceptions about that period of history. For instance, William I did not conquer the Anglo-Saxons in 1066, he conquered the Anglo-Danes. The Anglo-Saxons were conquered in 1015 by the Danish King Knut the Great.

Knut created a North Sea Empire, with England as the jewel in the crown. During Knut's reign, all of the noble families of England became Anglo-Danish, either by direct replacement or through intermarriage.

By 1066 Anglo-Danes comprised not only all of the nobility and most of the land lords, but also most of the warrior class, and over half of the general population of England. York was the second largest Danish city in the world, after London.

Another misconception is that Harald of Norway was a bestial Viking. Before returning to Norway to become king, Harald had lived well in Constantinople and had commanded Byzantine armies. He was wealthy from the Baltic/Black Sea trade routes along the rivers controlled by his allies, the Kiev Rus.

William's Conquest of the Anglo-Danes may have begun in 1066, but it took him ten years of ceaseless genocide against the Anglo-Danes to eventually conquer them. By that time the Normans had killed off well over half the population of Anglo-Danes. Do the math; a genocide of well over a quarter of the population of England. In Danish Northumbria they made a desert and called it peace.

Normandy's culture was akin to a military dictatorship. England's culture was akin to a democracy with the rule of law. To put this in perspective, think about the changes in English life that would have happened had Nazi Germany successfully invaded and conquered England.

The most widespread misconception is that Robin Hood and his Merry Men lived in the time of King Richard and King John. That misconception is due to the borrowing and the sanitizing of earlier legends and stories by the romantic writers of the Tudor era. The original legends would have been based on the adventures of men like Hereward the Wake and the other Anglo-Danes who resisted William's conquest.

Another misconception is that the Normans brought Christianity to England. Not so. England had long had Orthodox Christians that believed in the true Church in Constantinople, and also Romanized Christians who believed in the excommunicated breakaway sect in Rome. The Normans favoured the Romanized sect, because the Pope in Rome would sell them forgiveness for the genocide of Orthodox Christians and of non-Christians.

The Caliphate of Al-Andalus is mentioned in this novel. This was a Moorish Muslim kingdom in what is now Spain. Cordoba was the second largest, second wealthiest, and second most advanced city in Europe after Constantinople.

This novel mentions the "hairy star" or "star of Bethlehem". 1066/67 had one of closest passings of Hailey's Comet ever recorded. It was in the sky for months, and passed closest to the sun in March of 1066. This date is another misconception, because on our modern calendar this would be March of 1067. Whatever the date, it was taken as a good omen by many would-be emperors, and triggered all sorts of invasions.

The most important one was not the invasion of England, but the invasion of the eastern provinces of the Byzantine Empire by the Seljuk Turks. This eventually led to the Crusades, and the picking to pieces of the Byzantine Empire, and Constantinople, and the true Christian Church; first by the Muslims, and then more insidiously, by the Romanized sect of Christianity.

Hardships in the Byzantine Empire hurried the spread of those Greeks' knowledge outward from Constantinople to all of the other kingdoms of Europe. This included their knowledge of luxury goods, health care, banking, building, geography, navigation, and warfare. Greek was the language of knowledge and history. Latin was the language that the Romanized sect had the Greek knowledge translated into, so that they could censor the knowledge.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Cover Flap

About the Author

Prologue

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Hunting in Ytene (New) Forest, Hampshire in August 1100

Chapter 2 - Healers of the Glade, Peaks Arse, Derbyshire in 1058

Chapter 3 - Killing a King, Ytene (New) Forest in August 1100

Chapter 4 - Lovers in Hathersage, Derbyshire in June 1064

Chapter 5 - Death of a Lamb, Peaks Arse in June 1064

Chapter 6 - Lamb's Revenge, Scafeld, S.Yorkshire in June 1064

Chapter 7 - Mourning Rufus, Ytene Forest, Hampshire in August 1100

Chapter 8 - Getting Away With It, Ytene (New) Forest in August 1100

Chapter 9 - Lovers Again, Hathersage in July 1064

Chapter 10 - Safe with Old Friends, Winchester in August 1100

Chapter 11 - Searching for Carts, Yorkshire in September 1066

Chapter 12 - Rejoicing in Winchester, Hampshire in August 1100

Chapter 13 - Mill on the River Ouse, Yorkshire in September 1066

Chapter 14 - John Returns to Winchester in August 1100

Chapter 15 - Hereward of Burna, The River Ouse in September 1066

Chapter 16 - Walking to the Coronation, Winchester in August 1100

Chapter 17 - Meeting a King, Tatecastre, Yorkshire in September 1066

Chapter 18 - Walking to a Coronation, Basingestoches in August 1100

Chapter 19 - Scouting Near Stamford, Yorkshire in September 1066

Chapter 20 - The Battle for Stamford Bridge, in September 1066

Chapter 21 - Killing a King, Stamford, Yorkshire in September 1066

Chapter 22 - Riding to Guildford, in August 1100

Chapter 23 - Riding to the Travelers Domus, London in August 1100

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 1 - Hunting in Ytene (New) Forest, Hampshire in August 1100

Raynar was too old for this. His scrambling climb up Bramshaw Oak was slower each time he made it.

For three days he had slept in the cover of this tree and watched out from the great boughs of this ancient giant. The giant was on the top of Bramshaw ridge, which was low, but had an all around view. The view was especially good south towards the winding stream that began as a spring at the foot of the ridge. The fresh spring water was why the original village had been built here, and why the village had been cleared away and replaced by the royal hunting lodge that he was watching.

The lodge was squat, the size of a village church but without a tower. It was post-and-beam filled with wattle and plaster, but with a slate roof. The kitchen fires were alive and smoking under another open slate roof twenty paces from the lodge. The defensive earthwork ring surrounding the lodge was probably as ancient as the original village had been. It had space enough within it for the lodge and outbuildings, plus a dozen large tents, so at one time the village would have been quite large. Now the ring was almost empty save for a few horses being groomed and a few small tents. Tents fit for grooms, not for courtiers.

The stream ran through a tunnel at each end of the earthen ring wall, but after such a dry summer it was now a dry bed. A groom was kept busy hauling buckets of water from the central well to the horses.

The increasing sounds of dogs meant the first hunting party was readying to ride. On the first morning, there had been but a single hunting party of a half-dozen men. Too many men for Raynar's purposes. Yesterday they had split into two different parties, each riding in a different direction. Unfortunately, he had followed the first party, the wrong one. These Norman hunting trips seemed to be just an excuse to get away from the complexity of castle life and women, and stay drunk, and exercise the coursers.

They obviously didn't need the meat from the hunt, because all deer within a Roman mile would be leaping away from all this noise and man scent. These ruling Normans were not stealthy huntsmen in soft shoes, clothed in verderer's green, keeping to cover while tracking their prey. These men stomped through life in riding boots, dressed in bold colors, and astride heavy horses. Their voices were loud with the insistence of those used to bellowing orders at their serfs. They hunted the same way they made war. They charged at full voice.

Over the days, Raynar had marked the look of each man and could now recognize the members of the parties even from this distance. The party leaving now was with Henry. Henry was always the keen hunter, leaving before the verderers and their lymers returned from their dawn scouting. It must be that Henry did not join the evening drinking bouts for he rose early and did not wait around for the rowdy assembly of the rest of the hunters. Raynar had no interest in Henry.

It would be another hour at least before his brother William stumbled into the sunshine. Raynar chewed on some of the roots and berries he collected yesterday afternoon. The strips of smoked rabbit were finished, as were the hard-boiled eggs. His aleskin was empty. He watched the August sun climb in the north east. He was feeling warmer now and he loosened his mud-colored homespun cloak. "By the fates, it must be today," he whispered to himself, "but I must be patient."

Two verderers arrived back at the lodge and in minutes were gone again, trotting eastward with four dogs. Enough dogs for only one relay, so the game they had found was not far away. Raynar had hoped for the east. This ridge ran almost east and not only did it have a fast path along its spine, but that same path had a view.

What a colossal waste of effort royal hunts were. The verderers were expert bowmen. They could have brought down the game and carried it to the lodge in less time than it took 'those born to the manor' to get dressed, fed and mounted. Raynar leaned out from the bough and had a long piss.

The sun felt good on him while he leaned out, but he cursed his own foolishness for breaking cover. He had lived outdoors, lived rough, for most of his youth, and was as good a tracker and huntsman as any of the verderers below, but he was out of the habit. Too much soft living. Too many years of cultured comfort. Too many years of having the coin to sleep in a bed and under a roof.

Slowly he pulled back into the dense foliage and adjusted his legs so he could put his back against the giant's trunk. His right kidney complained and he rubbed at it with his hands. The warmth of the rub felt good, so he reached for a rawhide cord that hung around his neck and pulled the quartz crystal pendant over his bushy blonde-going-to-silver hair.

After loosening the homespun tunic and pulling it up so his back was bare, he held the crystal butted in his right palm and pressed the crystal's iron cage against the skin over the kidney. Now he must channel the warm healing touch from his hand through the crystal and into his back. Focus the warmth, but not think of it. Think of something else so he would not think about the crystal.

With his eyes closed he thought pleasant thoughts, thoughts of the wooded glade where he had grown up, and of the women who had given him this crystal so many years ago in the mining valleys of Derbyshire. How old was he then? Maybe ten, but a tall ten compared to most of the miners and their families. They were Welsh and of the old blood. Small, dark and wiry.

The women were Welsh. Gwyn was his age. Ahh, Gwyn. Gwyn the healer. He felt the warmth from the crystal grow stronger. And her mother, also a Welsh healer and seer. What was her name? It was on the tip of his tongue, but his aging male memory failed him. Both mother and daughter had been lithe and handsome and quick-witted.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 2 - Healers of the Glade, Peaks Arse, Derbyshire in 1058

It was raining, as usual, and everyone who had stopped at the porter's resting glade was hiding from it under the rough thatched roofs. Good, the men wouldn't see him carrying water. Carrying water was women's work. Young Raynar pushed the hide door flap out of his way and got out of the rain himself. While his eyes adjusted to the dim, Gwyn took the pot of steaming water from him and flashed him a white smile of thanks.

The man lying on the pallet was speaking Welsh to the healer woman, Gwyn's mother, and though Raynar understood much Welsh, this man was speaking too quickly for him to understand. The man was a cave miner, and his foot was paining him so much that he could not earn his bread. The healer was poking, prodding, and kneading his foot as she asked him questions. "Your feet are growing mushrooms," she eventually told him. "You should have come sooner, before they were painful. I can heal you, but you must not walk for three days, maybe five."

"I will starve. My family will starve." The miner had a wild look, the look of a panicked animal.

"Not while you are here at the porter's glade," the healer said. "The brotherhood of miners will provide for your family while you recover."

"I did not join the brotherhood," he sobbed. "The leaders are not of my clan."

"Fool," she replied with a wave of her hand to confuse any of the fates that may be listening, "the hood is for all who have the risks of mining in common. This lad's father, you know him, the man with the twisted back, he will take your oath. There are enough miners in the men's shelter to witness it."

She turned to the tall fair boy. "Raynar, wash his feet, both feet, with the hot water and that lye soap, and don't be gentle even if he kicks you. When they are clean, I will start the healing."

The healer saw the boy's eyes go wide as he looked at the disgusting oozing sores on the foot. She grabbed him by the hand to stop him from fleeing. Softly, calmly, she breathed in and then raised his hand by the wrist up to her neck, and hovered it near the soft skin under her chin. "You have the touch," she told him and looked around for her daughter. "Gwyn, did you know that Raynar had the touch?"

Gwyn blushed and looked at the rushes on the floor, "Not for sure, but I suspected. I was going to tell you but I thought his sister would have by now."

"Boy," the healer told him, "get busy and wash those feet while Gwen and I prepare the salve. Gwyn, the poultice must draw the weeping, and poison the mushrooms. We will need the hot spring salts."

He was kicked a handful of times by the miner, but he ignored the howls of pain and the abuse and persisted until the feet were clean. After he had dumped the fouled washing water, he came back to watch the healing. First the healer took a crystal pendant from around her neck and spent a long time hovering it above the sores. When he asked what she was doing, three voices shushed him.

The miner fell into a deep sleep while the crystal was being hovered, and stayed asleep while the mother and daughter spread a freshly prepared salve over every inch of both feet, especially between the toes, and then wrapped them both in clean rags.

"Why do both?" he asked. "Only his left foot had sores."

"You who cleaned the feet ask that?" replied Gwyn. "Did you not see the scaled skin on the right foot. The mushrooms are growing on it too but he hadn't scratched it raw yet." She scrunched her nose at him as if his foolishness smelled of farts.

"Shhh," her mother scolded in a whisper. "Let a sleeping man lay. It's the only time they aren't causing more work for women." The healer grinned, and then again took Raynar's hand and held it near to her neck.

Raynar looked on in wonder and then in shock as the woman dropped the homespun from her shoulder and exposed a breast and then hovered his hand over the nipple. The nipple blushed and grew larger.

"Your mother died just before we came here, so I did not know her. She was a healer, yes? Was she Welsh?"

"Oh no," replied Raynar. "She looked like my sister Leola. Tall and slim and fair. She was a flatlander, not from the Peaks. But yes, she was a healer. The first healer in this glade. It was she who convinced my father that the spring that runs here would help injured miners to heal. She died in labour over two years ago."

"Ah, the healer's curse. It's hardest to heal yourself. Most unusual that an injured miner outlives his wife. I suppose that's why this glade is overfull with widows this year. It has been a bad year in the mines."

"He always tells Leola that he swore to mother that he would see her well married," replied Raynar still staring at the naked breast. He pushed his hand forward and squeezed it, and got cuffed across the back of his head for his rudeness.

"Be careful of this one, Gwyn," the healer chuckled, "a man with 'the touch' is a danger to all virgins."

"Mother," blushed Gwyn. When she blushed, not only her cheeks got rosy, but also the tips of her ears. Some of the men called her a charmed fairy because she was quick with an impish grin. She resented being so small and light. Leola was a head taller than her and two years younger.

"Go and bring the biggest of the crystals," her mother said, "and a lace to hang it with."

"But Mother, we were going to sell that one at the market in Hathersage," Gwyn complained. They needed the coin, and that crystal would sell quickly.

"Pah, it would be wasted on some fat merchant's wife." The mother was grinning. "It is the sister to our own crystals, so it is fitting that Raynar wear it. And choose the next best for Leola."

Gwyn rushed out of the hut to go and fetch the crystals. The healer stared at the boy. The boy stared at her still-naked breast. "Hover your hand over it again, but no touching," she whispered. "If you touch, the healing feeling stops." She watched her nipple swell to his non touch. "Now close your eyes and picture my breast in your mind and send it all of your good feelings, all your happiness."

She closed her own eyes to better feel the waves of gentle warmth and the tingles of his non touch. She had never met a man with 'the touch' before. Never. But she had heard stories. It was said that such men had a power over women, because the women fell so easily in love with them, or rather, mistook 'the touch' for love. She had always dismissed them as old wives' tales. Not any more. If she did not already know that this delicious feeling spreading out from her breast was his 'touch', she could mistake it for love.

And then the feeling was gone. He had cupped her breast again. This time she did not pull back, or cuff him, but let him squeeze, explore, sate his curiosity, that is, until she heard the footfalls of her daughter's return. Then she cuffed him and pulled her homespun back into place.

Gwyn ducked under the door hide and pulled back her wet hood from her face and stared at her mother and her friend. They both seemed to be looking at the rushes, as if they were hiding something from her. Shrugging she raised her hand and showed them the two crystals. The long one was very pure, the shorter one had a small crack near to the base. Both had the butt end snugged firmly into dried rawhide so they could be hung from a lace.

She pulled her own crystal up out of her clothes and showed Raynar that hers had an iron cage at the end rather than rawhide. "Your friend John's father down in Hathersage will fit them with iron cages if you ask him nicely." John was the smithy's son.

Raynar looked at Gwyn and smiled. "I will take you to Hathersage Market and sell one of my bows and give you the money. While we are there I can leave this with John for his father." Depending on how busy the smith was, it might be a week before he had time to fashion a small scrap of iron to fit it.

Gwyn giggled. Raynar was always fashioning bows and shafts after the Welsh fashion, and trying to flog them at the market. The shafts sold well enough, but he rarely sold a bow. There was too much competition from the Welsh miners. "No, you don't. You promised Leola that you would trade your latest bow for a new smock for her. She's growing right out of the one she wears. But I will come with you gladly."

The healer took the large crystal from her daughter and put the lace over the boy's head. "Wear it always, for it works better if you only take it off when you palm it to strengthen your 'touch'." The boy immediately grabbed it with two fingers and held it up to the light. "Swear to me now that you will never practice your 'touch' on virgins, and absolutely not with Gwyn or Leola. Do you swear it?"

"I swear it," the boy replied absently as he turned the crystal in the sparse daylight coming through a crack in the wall. He had never owned a jewel before.

"Swear it on your life," the healer repeated.

That shook him. He had never sworn any oath on his life before. That was serious. That was how you swore in court when you gave witness. Not that they would take your life if you lied, but the shame of being caught in a lie on your oath would ruin your life forever. He looked again at the crystal. "I so swear it." He looked around at the sound of someone entering the hut.

Leola was standing there. She was tall for eight, with long golden hair and greeny blue eyes, and pink cheeks. Her skin was not pink like her cheeks nor milk white like Gwyn's. It was more of a golden color, and in the summer it did not redden in the sun, but turned darker. As a poor girl, she had learned young of the power in the flash of a smile from a comely face. Smiling is what she was doing now as Gwyn walked towards her and put a crystal pendant around her neck.

The blonde girl stood still while she picked up the crystal and looked at it. By moving the door hide behind her she could see it better. Moving the door skin reminded her of why she was here, and she spun around and looked at them and said in a rush of words. "Da says come quick..."

"Shh" the healer hushed and pointed down to the still sleeping man on the pallet.

Leola started again in an urgent hushed tone. "Da says come quick. The rain is turning to ice. There's an ice storm coming over the ridge and down the valley. You have to round up the pigs and ducks and get them under a roof."

Raynar did not wait for the message to be repeated. He was out the doorway running as fast as he could. The Peaks were a land of steep ridges and steep valleys and vicious storms, and the most vicious storm of all was an ice storm. In minutes it could cover everything with a layer of ice. And it killed. People on the ridges slipped to their deaths. Animals froze to death where they stood. Crops were destroyed and everyone went hungry.

The smaller children were already chasing the ducks, so he went directly to the sow pig and tugged on her collar, and then tugged again, and finally she moved towards him. The piglets followed in step behind her. The closest hut had two widows and three children huddled keeping warm, and he pushed the sow in with them and told them to stay indoors. At the word 'icestorm' they all nodded knowingly. No explanation needed. No questions asked. No protest about the pigs in their hut.

He looked towards the big roof that leaned into the huge boulder that created this glade and separated it from the main road up the valley. There were men running in every which direction, but mostly towards the big roof. There were heavily-laden porters, anxious to be off the road before the storm hit. There were other travelers from the road, all kinds; tinkers, monks, lead merchants, miners, some with horses, or mules, or asses, but most on foot.

It was now as dark as midnight. Raynar looked around. Gwyn was waving to him from the sick hut and pointing down towards the edge of the forest. A very small child was chasing a duck there. The duck was playing foolish games, not realizing the danger. Raynar started running towards them. His ear stung as the first hail stone grazed it. He ran faster. The storm was here. Without stopping he scooped up child and duck into his arms and turned towards the hamlet.

Too late. The meadow between them was turning to ice. Every blade of grass was shining with it. He turned again and ducked under the cover of the forest. The leaves would shield them long enough to make it to the hollow oak where as a small child he had played hide-go-seek.

Safe in the hollow, with his wards still in his arms, he looked out at the storm from the shelter of the oak, through the tapestry of oak leaves.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 3 - Killing a King, Ytene (New) Forest in August 1100

He looked out through the tapestry of oak leaves and brought his eyes back into focus on the lodge below. The pain was gone from his kidneys now, and his back felt normal, so he put the cord over his head and dropped the crystal back down his shirt.

His mind was now a turmoil of thoughts, both old and new, and especially worries both old and new. Was he prepared to waste his life today, if that is what it took? Had he ever had a virgin and thus broken his oath on this crystal? How did he end up buying such a poor bow in the market three days ago? He had made better as a ten-year-old. Would it do the job?

He took a closer look at the bow, the closer look that he should have taken in the market, and sighed. For half a lifetime he had been spreading the knowledge of how to fashion bows in the Welsh style by carving a seasoned staff cut from the holy Yew tree. Ywen in the old languages. This bow was of ash.

He unsheathed the peasant knife he had bought from the same merchant and spent some pleasant moments improving the bow by whittling away some of the soft outer wood from the belly of the bow. He still had fond memories of the giant bow that he had crafted when he was, what, thirteen.

He had started with a long and heavy Ywen staff that had been set aside to craft a shepherd's crook only because the living branch had formed a natural hook at its narrow end. He had left the thick end blunt so that it would take the beating of being used as a walking staff. Then he carved the rest to make it slender and springy by removing the light wood from the back of the staff, so that the ironlike pith became the belly.

Then the carving became a slice and test process, taking away only the wood that did not help the spring of the bow, and then an even slower process as he found the best place to cross an arrow. In the end, it looked like a shepherd's crook, but could be strung in two ways, one for short arrows and one for long. Strung for long, he could not draw it. It took him another year, his first year of portering, before his back and shoulders had the power to draw a long arrow.

With the vision of his staff-bow in his mind, the one in his hand seemed like a child's toy. Well, it was too late to worry about the bow now, for the sounds from below told him that the men were assembling for the hunt.

Men were stomping around the compound, filling their faces with strips of meat and washing it down with wine, and shouting bawdy belittlements at each other. The grooms stopped grooming the horses and picked up the bridles and saddles. The shadows in the vale were receding and Raynar could now see the men slinging bows across their shoulders.

Raynar cursed. He had hoped the prey would be a boar, not a hind, so that the men would be armed with spears, not bows. A big man with a florid red face was now stepping out of the lodge. Raynar growled to himself, "There you are, William Rufus".

He slid to the ground with all his gear and landed in a crouch and then stood slowly, cautiously. He had misjudged the landing, so now his back ached, his kidneys ached, his shoulder ached, and his knees ached. He was in his early fifties and feeling it. Man was not meant to live so long. He stretched slowly and then stooped again to wrap his few belongings into his cloak and hide them under a bush.

He used to know the name of that kind of bush, in three languages, but now all he could remember was that if you chewed the leaves, the resulting paste could be used to take the burn from nettle scratches. He shouldered his quiver and his bow and loped along the ridge path. Instinctively he kept his body low and invisible from the valley floor below. He was dressed as a verderer to blend with the forest. The clothes were used and worn and had been bought in Winchester market at the same time as the bow.

The clothes were folk-made and cheap, like the selfbow and the arrows. The arrows were standard hunting arrows, but he had wrapped thin ribbons of lead around the shafts just behind the points, to give them more punch. He had also used charcoal from a fire to blacken the feather flights. Simply being caught with hunting arrows in the king's Ytene Forest could be a hanging offence. The minimum penalty would be the loss of his archer fingers.

The next bend in the ridge brought him directly above the lodge and then it led to the east. Raynar kneeled behind a bush and panted softly trying to regain his breath. "Too old," he whispered to himself and cursed that he had been living too softly.

Below, Rufus was now mounted and finishing a horn of wine. Once gulped empty, the horn was thrown at the groom who stumbled to catch it, and was almost trampled by Rufus who had kicked his courser to be first through the gate. Only one horse followed Rufus, and they both cantering along the eastern path at the foot of the ridge. Raynar increased his pace to a full run along the path. He must keep them in sight as long as possible to be sure of their choice of bridle path.

As the ridge ended, the easy path became multiple game trails through brambles. Raynar pushed through the thorny bushes. He stopped once in a low hollow where the moss on some stones was looking green and fresh. He pushed aside the moss and below was a trickle of fresh water winding between the stones. It took precious moments to fill his skin, but water was a must. He marked the place in his mind for his return journey.

Scratched and overheated, he at last reached the bridle path. Fresh hoof marks made the trail easy to follow. The bush along the path had thickened and the horses had slowed. After another mile of trotting along the bridle path through low bush, high bush, and large shade trees, he broke into a clearing and pulled back into the shadows immediately. In the center of the clearing the two riders were in discussion, perhaps deciding which of the paths out of the clearing to take.

Raynar squatted on his heels and tried to catch his wind. Sweat was irritating the bramble scratches and they stung. He searched the fringes of the clearing ahead and to the left. He moved secretly along the edge of the clearing, circling towards a cluster of bent grasses, where there was a path leading out of the clearing.

He ducked into the deep shadow of a beech tree close to the path, and squatted down onto his heels. He unshouldered and strung the bow and dropped the quiver to the ground, and then stuck three arrows upright into a handy pile of deer shit. He untied his belt and took some heavy lead shot from the pouch on the belt. As a shepherd boy, before he had learned archery, the sling had been his first weapon and to this day he always wore a sling as a belt.

Raynar looked up at the sound of hooves. The second rider was moving towards the bent grass. He turned in his saddle and yelled something like "here it is" back to Rufus. As the horseman reached the path, Raynar stood in the deep shadows and loaded his sling. The sling whirred once and the lead shot was released. It hit the horse's rump with a smack and the horse assumed it was the rider's signal to charge down this new path. Horse and rider were out of sight in seconds.

Rufus, the other rider, saw only that his companion's horse had disappeared from the clearing. The growing heat of the day and the brightness of the sun in the clearing were making him regret some of last night's wine. He tapped his heels to hurry his horse out of the clearing and into the shade of the path. The thick bush at the edge of the clearing gave way to the denser shade of the first large tree and he stopped to enjoy the coolness.

Raynar had his first arrow nocked and he drew the small bow. He dropped his left arm slightly and released the arrow. Rufus wore no armour, and at this range even this small selfbow was true enough and powerful enough. The arrow took Rufus in the chest on the heart side.

Rufus looked down at the shaft buried in him and froze for a few seconds in shock. Holding the pommel of the saddle he then slid smoothly from the horse and sat on the ground. The horse backed in a circle away from him, looked down at him, then moved forward cautiously with nose to the ground and sniffing. Rufus tried to lift his right hand to the horse, but the arm would not obey. He looked past the horse to a forest man walking slowly towards him with another arrow nocked.

"Do I know you?" Rufus whispered haltingly.

"I am of the Brotherhood," Raynar replied. He released the tension from the bow. Rufus was a dead man taking his last breaths. The arrow head was in or touching the heart. A deep breath or a rash movement would stop his heart. "You should know me. You owed me your life a dozen years ago in Normandy when my arrow saved you from a French lance."

"I remember the lance, but not you," Rufus admitted. "We shared a good day that day, a winning day".

"Stay alive a few moments more and I will give you your sword." Raynar laid his bow down and made calming noises to the horse as he approached it. He reached into the saddle roll, grasped the hilt of the light sword he knew would be there, and slid it out slowly so as not to startle the horse or Rufus. He then crouched beside Rufus's right hand and folded the weak fingers around the hilt. Rufus's eyes said thank you, though his lips did not move.

Raynar spoke instead. "And you owed me your inheritance since twenty years, here in this very forest. And now you owe me your entrance to Woden's hall for you will take your fine sword with you to the other side."

He gently lowered Rufus from sitting to lying, making sure he did not jar the arrow in the chest. Raynar patted down the dying man. He pulled a fancy purse from under the tunic. It was small but heavy, so it must be gold. He poured a dozen small gold coins and a golden seal into his hand. He put the seal back in the purse and tossed it over beside the dying man's left hand, and then continued the pat down. There was an unadorned purse on the belt containing only silver coins. He added the gold coins to it and snugged it under his own tunic.

Rufus was barely moving his lips. "Twenty years ago. Then my brother Richard? You witnessed that? You knew and did not speak of it?"

"Yes, Richard was murdered about two miles to the west of here. I made it look like an accident."

Raynar had to bend close to the mans lips to hear Rufus breath the word, "Why?"

"Why disguise Richard's murder? Because otherwise your father would have burned every village in this forest. Why kill you? Because this country needs a better king." But the explanation came too late. Rufus was no longer breathing and his eyes were closed. Raynar tugged a scrap of parchment from his own purse and wrapped it around the purse containing the seal before curling Rufus's left had around it. He looked to the sky and chanted a short prayer ending in, "The Valkyries can take him now. He is yours".

The sound of approaching hooves woke Raynar out of his prayer and he sprang to his feet. He had just enough time to grab his bow and roll into a hollow beneath some bushes and an enormous tree root. "Fool, to waste time answering the questions of a dead man," he chastised himself. "I should have been a mile from here by now."

The noise of hooves stopped and there was some soft neighing between horses, as if they were discussing how there happened to be a corpse now where there used to be a man. The next sound was a hunter's horn. Loud, insistent, over and over. Rufus's hunting companion was off his horse now and stomping around the corpse muttering; occasionally the muttering would stop and be replaced by the horn.

Raynar was trapped. There was no way he could back away from the root without digging. To get away he must first move forward into plain view of anyone beside the corpse. 'I am too old for this. I am making foolish mistakes,' he thought. He concentrated on calming his heart and his breathing. He ever so slowly brought his aleskin up to his lips and swallowed the fresh water tainted with the taste of old sour ale. All he could do was stay quiet and listen and hope that the companion went far enough away so that he could break cover and run away.

Worse, he was feeling mentally and physically drained. Not a healthy state for a warrior's mind. Not after assassinating a king. Not when he had snubbed the fates and thrown away the chance they gave him to escape. Why was he feeling like this now. Was it killing the man? No, of course not. William Rufus deserved to die a hundred thousand times over, for the blood on his hands was an endless river.

Was it relief that it was finally done. He had been hunting this man off and on for how many years? Ever since he had been crowned. What is that? Thirteen years. Thirteen years of allowing his barons to grind the English people into the mud. No. So long as a Norman sat on the throne, there would be another hunt.

His hand automatically fingered his crystal while he was engulfed in reflection. It was Leola. He hadn't thought of his sister Leola since he was last with Gwyn, years ago. Now thoughts of her were clouding his senses, dulling his instincts. This was not good. Not now. Not when a wrong move could cost him his life. He must lighten his mood. In his youth with Leola there were good times as well as bad. Think of the good times.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 4 - Lovers in Hathersage, Derbyshire in June 1064

Raynar did what any sixteen-year-old would do when he told he friend about his good news. He hopped up and down in a clumsy dance of joy. His porter contract with Brother Tucker of Repton Abbey had been renewed. The monk had mentioned how pleased he was with how quickly Raynar was picking up writing skills, and was even more pleased with the higher quality of galena that was being delivered to the carts by the porters.

Raynar had stopped at the smithy in Hathersage for a bath and to tell John and John's parents about his bright future working for the Abbey. Often when he was forced to wait for the carters to reach Grindel, the furthest up the valley that a cart could travel, he would stay at John's house. The family was Danish. They had always liked Raynar and appreciated his grasp of both Saxon and Danish cultures.

John's mother Hilde was a large blonde woman with a big voice and a big appetite. This summer Hilde was especially attentive, and Raynar guessed it had something to do with his sister Leola. John had been a bear waiting patiently for Leola to return from the high country. His father Remus would not let him go to her, because last month John had spent a fortnight in the hills, away from the forge, just to visit with her. This was a week longer than expected and yet he had sent no message to ease his mother's worries when he was overdue.

Raynar was fascinated with the forge and the techniques of working metals. Remus was a good teacher, and was always glad of Raynar's interest. John, having lived everything smithy all his life, was no longer interested enough to learn more. Except that is, for his current interest in arrow points. When John had passed through the glade on his way down from visiting Leola, Raynar had given him his old Welsh bow. Though a long bow, next to John it looked the size of a normal bow. With an hour's instruction John was hitting a target at twenty paces. He was much better now, having hardly set the bow down in the past weeks.

Today, he and John were to hike the smaller stream that branched off towards Stanage Edge, just north of the smithy. They were in search for ywen staves for John. The first step of making a bow was to cut staves and season them for at least a half year. There was no bowyer in his village, and John thought it would be a good side business at the smithy. At least that is what he told his father. In reality he wanted to make himself a John-sized bow.

They knew the gorge well. Over the years they had explored the hills and valleys around John's house looking for caves, and especially looking for traces of galena in the caves. More than one valley family had been able to put up a new big house with the profits from a new galena find. They knew that there were ywen trees around the pools half way up the gorge. The stream that fed the gorge pools did not come from the mines, so they were still clean and cool even at this time of year.

They found a likely ywen tree up the slope from the pools. John saw a dozen likely branches and took his hatchet and started climbing. Raynar had no hatchet, so he wandered off to look for other trees, and as he wandered he heard voices coming from the next pool along the gorge. He walked cautiously towards the next pool to see what was up. What was up was Raynar, as soon has he had a view of the pool.

Two women sat naked on the rocks. One was washing the other's hair. He sneaked closer, and then closer again, but the third time a branch snapped under his foot and the women covered their bodies as best they could with their hands and ducked down behind the rocks while reaching for their linens. He did not want to panic the women so he moved out into the sunshine and begged their forgiveness.

"Come closer," said the tall one as she wrapped her linen around herself, "let us see your face."

She had spoken in Daneglish, so he replied in like. They were most likely local women that would know the smithy. "It's just me, Raynar. I am a friend of John the smithy's son. I live up at the porter's glade up towards Woden Mine. " He walked closer until he was standing in front of them balancing on a boulder.

"He's just a boy," said the smaller one as she stood up.

"Older than you think," said the taller one. "Look below his belt."

"Oh my!" giggled the smaller one. She had beautiful light eyes and they were holding his in a trance. "Were you peeking?"

Raynar could feel the heat in his cheeks, and elsewhere. "I - I - I heard voices and came to see who it was." He had no experience in judging the ages of naked women, but he guessed that they were both in their mid-twenties, which meant they were married and had children. He started to relax. He was used to being teased by the wives and widows at the glade. It was only when he was teased by Gwyn, Leola and their friends that he got flustered. .

The taller one pointed to the bulge below his belt and said accusingly, "We know from the size of your lance that you were watching us. Did you come for a bath, or did you see us walking down the path and decide to spy on us?"

Raynar knew a trick question when he heard one. He stopped himself from answering the question, and said instead, "A bath would be nice. I just carried a load of lead down the valley and I am a bit ripe."

The women were whispering to each other. Some of it heated whispering.

"Well, go ahead then. Don't let us stop you. The water is warm enough, and you can borrow our soap," said the taller one reaching down for her soap. As she did so, her linen fell open beneath her waist. Her legs were long and shapely. He heard a stifled laugh from the smaller woman, and he forced himself to stop staring as the linen opened wider.

Raynar then realized that he had trapped himself. He couldn't undress without showing his now very stiff cock, and there wasn't time left in the sun to dry his clothes if he dove into the water clothed.

The woman with the soap now stood tall and offered it to him. She looked him in eyes and said softly, "Don't be so shy. You've seen ours, so it is only fair that we see yours."

He had to force himself to keep eye contact and not drop his eyes to where he wanted to stare. Her body was damp beneath the linen and her nipples were visible through the fine cloth. He took a deep breath and decided, why not. Clumsily he pulled off his boots and then his clothes, all the while determined to get waist deep in the water as quickly as possible.

"Not so fast," she said as she reached out and pulled him back by the elbow. She looked down and made a soft cooing noise and released his elbow so she could wrap her hand around his cock. He was stopped in his tracks by the pleasure of the touch and could do nothing but take a deep breath. She turned her head and called softly, "Ooh, Sonja come here. It is thick and heavy in my hand."

Raynar looked from one woman to the other. He had been told that the Danes were not shy of nudity like the Saxons, but he thought it was just porter talk. In his shyness he wanted to walk into the water, but her hand was gently squeezing his shaft just beneath its head. His own hand knew that place well, but it had never felt like this when he played with himself. He was feeling sensations he could never have imagined. Now the other woman was beside him and her linen had slipped so that one of her breasts was shining in the sunlight. Her nipple was large and erect. And then he could not hold back any longer and he felt his cock pumping and his leg muscles cramping.

"I had forgotten how quick it is with young ones," said the taller woman as she looked down at her own legs, "and how much they come. Look at this mess, I'm all sticky. Now I need another bath. "

Raynar acted on an impulse and reached out to pull her linen slowly away from her breasts and toss it on top of his own clothes. He reached out with both hands and held her by the elbows and slowly pulled her with him into the pool, saying, "Then we both need a bath."

Sonja sighed and threw her linen in the same pile and walked slowly into the pool with her back arched and her breast pushed high. Raynar had the pleasant dilemma of not knowing which woman to stare at. Finally he looked into the eyes of the tall one and said, "Thank you, that was amazing. It was as if you were caressing my whole body."

"Oh my, I think we have stumbled on a virgin, Sonja," the taller woman said and then to him, "go on, deny it and make a fool of yourself."

He kept quiet and just stared at the idyllic scene of the green canopy and the shimmer of sun across the ripples of the pool, and the green eyes of this tall shapely woman and the fullness of her lips and of her breasts.

She moved her lips towards his and then stopped and sniffed. "You weren't jesting, you do need a bath." She started to splash water over his chest and shoulders, and then reached up with a soapy hand and massaged the young hard muscles. Sonja stepped behind him and started washing his back. But it wasn't just her hands he was feeling on the skin of his back. She was also rubbing her breasts up and down his damp skin.

Sonja reached her hands up to his shoulder and pulled herself close and up to his ear. "Lean backwards into my arms and float and we will wash your hair and feet," she whispered. And he did, and they did. "Look, he's up again already. These young ones are always so ready. "

They were on either side of his floating body now, supporting his weight with the lightest of touch underneath his bum. He was getting very swollen watching the jiggle of their breasts through the veil of their wet hair. Sonja leaned ever so slightly forward across his waist and rubbed her breasts up and down both sides of his cock. It was so delicious, that he could not hold back and it was pumping again. They both instinctively leaned away, and then both were laughing aloud. The two women caught each other's eyes, and their lips mouthed silent words. And they smirked to each other.

"What do you think Sonja, is he clean enough now? Do you want to be his first or may I?"

"I shall be first, Britta. I have the greater need, and you will surely suck him dry." Sonja pulled him to his feet and led him hand in hand towards his clothes. Their words were filtering through his pleasant daze and he was slow to take their meaning. She grabbed the linen from the pile and led him to the sunny rocks where the women had been washing their hair when he had first caught sight of them.

She spread out the linen on the warm dry sand behind the rocks and knelt on it. Then she pulled him down to kneel in front of her. "Slowly and gently," was all she said and their chests closed together and she ever so delicately touched his lips with her tongue. He enjoyed the sensation and tried to return it, but now she had his lower lip sucked gently between both of hers. And so it went. Inch by inch. Exploring each other's bodies, caressing each other's skin. And finally, with him still kneeling straight up and sitting on his heels, she lifted herself astride him and lowered herself onto his swollen cock.

After two comes already, this time he had more control as she sat lower and he pushed deeper. They were kissing again. Soft gentle kisses. Whisper soft. He held her in his arms and supported her gently as he lowered her backwards down to the linen, in such as way as to not become disconnected. And then his hips started jerking, harder and harder. He could not help himself from pushing in and pulling out of her over and over, faster and faster. He tried not to look down at her breasts, which were jiggling erotically with the motion.

He tried to slow himself. He tried to keep himself from crossing the point of no holding back. He tried stopping and then starting again, until he could not delay it any longer. She felt the change and wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up so that her breasts were crushed against his chest. His cock, buried in her and swollen huge, began to pump. And now she was moaning and writhing and his cock was trapped as if a hand was clenched around it.

He could not pump anymore and she told him to roll onto his back. She rolled with him and kept them connected, and once she was on top, she started pumping him. The head of his cock was so sensitive that at first it was painful, but then he started watching her move above him. The wild hair, the swaying breasts, the laughing eyes, the ear to ear grin, the huge pleasure she was taking, and he started growing big inside of her again.

"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned, and kept riding him. His eyes regained focus and he glanced around. Britta was sitting naked sunning on a rock and watching them cavort. She was slowly massaging her own skin and the underside of her breasts, and the thought of being watched sent shivers of pleasure through Raynar's body. He was coming again and Sonja squealed in pleasure as he did so. And then they lay exhausted and panting together. Still connected, skin hot and sweating, breathless and both smiling ear to ear. She pulled her head off his chest and they watched each other smile.

"You, my dear, are going to make some woman a very good husband," Sonja said. He rolled to his side and lifted himself up to kneeling and then pulled her up into his arms. With both arms he cradled her and walked with her slowly into the pool. The water felt delicious on his skin. The air smelled delicious. The birdsong sounded delicious. The summer colors looked delicious. He felt more attuned, more alive than he had ever felt before.

Britta had followed them into the water and floated around them for a few minutes while Sonja relaxed in his arms. Eventually he sank down until they were both up to their necks, and Sonja pushed him away. The taller woman floated up to him and then found her footing and pulled him to his feet. She took his hand and led him towards the sunny rocks. Once out of the chill of the water, his cock started growing again. She encircled the shaft with her hand and began those gentle squeezes again.

She led him by the cock over the rocks and to the linen. They kneeled up on the linen facing each other and she looked into his eyes. Her eyes were green with golden flecks. She brushed his lips with hers and then started to kiss him more strongly. And still more strongly. And her tongue entered his mouth and he could not catch his breath in the ecstasy of the moment. She pulled back from his lips and smiled at him, and the smile turned to a smirk. She bent down and kissed the top of his cock. Her kisses moved down around the head and to the start of the shaft and she gently flicked the tip of her tongue against the underside of his cock just below the head.

There was a gasp from Sonja at the pools edge, "Britta, you are mean. You will ruin him for the Saxon girls." Raynar glanced at Sonja and she was watching him, watching them. "Close your eyes," she told him, "and enjoy".

He closed his eyes and waves of pleasure vibrated through all of his senses. "Thank you , thank you, thank you," was all he could say. He looked down and could not believe how swollen he was. It seemed to be twice a big as before. Yet when he closed his eyes it felt ten times as big. He watched as she took the whole head in her mouth and started moistening it. Britta then pushed herself up and kissed his chest and put her arms around his neck. With him still kneeling she lifted herself onto him. She was not as gentle as Sonja had been, and she was much larger inside, but her muscles were continuing the sensations that her mouth had begun.

The rhythm was slow and she was clamping him with each stroke. Britta did not want him on top of her, so she pushed him backwards, and he shuffled along the linen so that he could lean back against a smooth warm rock. And she rode him, and she rode him, and she rode him. And this time he had the control to hang back from the edge of delight. She was the first to spasm, and she kept spasming and washing his face with her breasts until he joined her. Afterwards, after they had slept in each other's arms for mere minutes, they all strolled hand in hand back into the pool and the three of them floated in the warm sun.

Britta was the first to stand. "Say 'Thank you', Raynar," she whispered, and then in a harder voice, "you will now leave this place and not look back, and not follow us." She pulled him to his feet and pointed him to his clothes. "This never happened, you have never seen us before, and if you see us in the village you will not approach us." She shook his arm strongly. "Do you understand? This never happened. A word of this would be our undoing." Then her face softened and she gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. "Now go."

The women sat naked on the rocks drying, watching Raynar fumble with his clothes. "Go," they said in unison. And he went. But he did look back. They were tidying themselves and dressing. He wondered who they were and where they lived, but he understood their caution, so he would not try to find out. They knew who he was and where to find him. If they were wives, then many common laws had just been broken at this pool, and the consequences of not keeping this secret could prove deadly to one or all of them.

He wandered dreamily back to the ywen tree and found John making twine from willow bark to bundle his staves. John was talking to him but he was still lost in reverie in his own mind as he reflected on the wonder of women, and the wonder of what had just happened. Only an hour ago he had been a virgin and yet now he was very much not a virgin.

And suddenly he felt embarrassed. He was such a fool, an ass. How many of those lonely widows at the glade had been thinking of him like this? How many times had they hinted and he had not responded? How could he have missed such obvious signals. Those widows and near widows were all missing being kissed gently, missing being held against the warmth and protection of a man's body, and they would grant sex to have those feelings, if only for an hour.

"Here!" John said it louder the third time as he again pushed one of the two bundles into his friend's arms. "Are you stunned? Where did you go, your hair is all wet."

"I went to the next pool for my bath. I couldn't stand the smell of myself anymore, " said Raynar. He must not ask John about the women. He would know them for sure, but asking about them would just make him curious, and that could lead to disaster. Thinking of the women made him think of other women and then of his sister, Leola. "John, when you were in the high country with Leola, did you take her."

"What do you mean? " John turned around and almost knocked him over with his armload of staves.

"I wouldn't be angry if you did, so long as it was gentle. But I would like to know." Raynar parried John's staves with his own bundle.

"You mean do her," John said.

Raynar reflected that those were the very words he would have chosen only an hour ago. But not now. Never again. So John was still a virgin. That means they hadn't. "I mean kiss her, hug her, caress her, and then join with her, and then lie with her afterwards and make smiles."

John looked at his friend as if he had gone soft in the head. "We held each other, and experimented with kisses, and I held her breasts, but no further. Why not? She is fourteen now. Old enough to wed. Are you satisfied?"

Raynar put his free hand up on John's shoulder and turned him towards home. "Well, next time be very patient, and be very gentle, and maybe she will go further. But it must be her choice and her timing. I trust you never to force her or to hurt her."

"Are you saying this as her brother or as my friend?"

"As both, of course. And maybe as your brother eventually. I would like that."

John thought for a while, then said, "I had a brother once for about five years. And a sister once for two. It would be nice to have a brother again. Even if he is a short little Saxon turd."

Raynar took his arm from John's shoulder so that he could punch him in the upper arm. "I feel the same, little John."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 5 - Death of a Lamb, Peaks Arse in June 1064

The next day John joined young Raynar for the hike back up the valley to the glade of the sick miners. Leola was due back, and John's mother knowingly overruled his father's brusque "No". They hiked with a dozen of Raynar's porters, and with Brother Tucker. Raynar was not carrying a load, whereas the other porters were carrying sacks of oats for the miners. Raynar asked John to bring along his bow and a quiver. John didn't need to be asked twice.

Though no one else knew but Bother Tucker and Raynar, Tucker was carrying a lot of coin to be deposited in the stone counting house up at the mine. Due to Raynar's competence, the brother no longer made frequent trips to the mine, so it would not be long before everyone in the valley figured out that his trips were always to carry the coin. Tucker had a long heavy staff, Raynar had his strange looking bow-staff, and John had his Welsh bow, so they felt safe enough.

The porters took a well deserved rest at the porter's glade and Raynar asked Gwyn if Leola had returned from the high meadows. She was overdue, but that was not unusual when working with Hugh the shepherd up in the high country. Anything could happen up there, and usually did. A thunder clap could have panicked the flocks across the peaks and it would take days to round them up again.

They continued up the porterway to the mine and waited to be let into the heavily-barred door of the counting house. Inside there was a large table and a heavy oak chest with two locks. That chest was where the tallies were kept. There was a second heavy door in the room that led to the chests of coin. That door was never open unless the tally man was locked up and alone inside the house.

Weapons were not allowed inside, so Raynar suggested that John take their bows and watch the path for Leola. This way past the mine was the easiest path down from the high country. Raynar went in with the good Brother as witness, and they bolted the outside door behind him. Once under lock, the Brother brought two heavy purses from under his robe, and started piling the coins in like piles of ten. Once the tally sheet was written and signed and witnessed, they left the house and heard the heavy bar dropping into place behind them.

This payment was for the galena lead ore itself. The porters were paid at the bottom of the valley once the galena was weighed and tallied and safe in the carts. The carters were paid at the smelter once the galena was weighed and tallied and safe in the barn. Sometimes, if there were rumors of footpads, some of the porters would accompany the carts for extra security. Usually extra security was not necessary due to the weight of galena. To steal any quantity of it required stealing the cart, and the carts moved slowly and left tracks.

There was still no sign or word of Leola, so John had asked after her to some of the women that were hammering at the raw ore to break off chunks of useless rock. No one had come down the high path since this morning.

When he returned to the counting house, John's face showed his disappointment so clearly that Raynar suggested that, since they were at the foot of the high path, they may as well go and look for her with Hugh in the high pastures. The good Brother had finished his business now and was feeling lighter without the purses, and asked if he could join them. He had never been up towards the Tor.

Raynar walked over to a group of porters and told them what they were about, so that word would spread down the valley. On the way to the foot of the high path, they stopped at the biggest house near the mine and talked to the miner's wife. She had known Raynar all his life and was pleased to lend him three winter cloaks for the hike, and all she asked in return was for the cleric's blessing on her home. No one questioned the need for the cloaks. Though it was closing on summer, the peaks could return to winter within an hour, at any hour.

The climb was steep and hard for John. He was a village man and did not spend his days endlessly walking up and down hillsides under load. The good Brother was ten years their senior, but he was not often in the Abbey and was well fit because of it. Once they reached the ridge where there was a view all around, they rested. While John caught his breath, Raynar's sharp eyes inched across the terrain looking for any movement.

"So, Brother Tucker," John gasped, "I've been meaning to ask. Down in Grindel the small smelter is hurting for business since you have been buying so much of the ore. Are you almost to the end of what you need? What was it for, a new roof on the abbey?" The large spanned roofs of church buildings had become the major use of lead. Rolled into thin sheets it was waterproof, weatherproof, lightning proof, and fireproof. Though expensive, it was a roof you only had to set once and it lasted for lifetimes.

The Brother wondered if he should be discussing Abbey business with a smith who probably did work for the competing smelter, but he shrugged his shoulders and explained, "Repton Abbey owns the mine in Wirksworth. That is halfway from Grindel to the Abbey. Two years ago we spent a lot of coin to build a smelter there, and a rolling mill. Our plan was not just to supply lead for our own roofs, but also to support the Abbey's finances by supplying lead to the Trent valley and perhaps as far as London. We, actually I, took on more contracts than our mine could supply. We will need Woden lead until we can dig a second producing shaft in our own mine. That could take two years, perhaps more."

He rubbed his knees and wondered to himself if he should have wrapped them in linen strips. He found that hill climbing hurt his knees, especially going down steep slopes. "I know the smelter in Grindel and I know the owner. Before we built our rolling mill, he would smelt for us. But with our new mill, we smelt and then roll it before the lead is completely cool, so we need to use our own smelter. You should walk with me the next time I go to our mill, John. The new mill would interest a man of metal such as yourself. In any case, I have an agreement with the Grindel smelter that I would buy only from Woden, and not from the Slitherstones mine. Otherwise we would have bid the price of lead up."

"I don't see anything yet," Raynar said. "Come along, let us stay on the ridge track towards the Tor, and keep a sharp eye. Hugh often uses the old earth fort at the Tor, and if not, at least it has the best view." Raynar started to walk. The ridge track was an easy walk compared to the climb up from the valley and they should make good time. "Can you say a prayer for us Brother? There are barrows of ancients hereabouts and it would be wise to settle their ghosts with a good prayer."

Though the ridge provided a fast track and a good view it was also in the blast of the wind, and the wind was damp and cold. Raynar thought more than once of unrolling the cloak, but then decided to just quicken the pace to keep them warm. The Tor and the hill fort were empty save for the ghosts. A light mist was creeping around them and causing the men to see things out of the corners of their eyes. They all squinted around at all the other knolls looking for the beige blobs that would be sheep. John saw them first. Just a few on the crest of the next knoll.

"Hugh must have them in the dell beyond. There is a wide cavern mouth there. He must be expecting bleak weather to take them to that side. Let's be off. " Raynar knew the tracks from his summers as a child spent finding strays for Hugh. He set off in what seemed like the wrong direction, but the others soon realized that the track he had chosen stayed high and out of the boggy thickets of the lower land between the knolls.

Raynar was moving fast and John was trailing further and further behind. To Raynar it was a light dance along the narrow game trails, but John was too big for lightly dancing. At a word from Tucker, Raynar stopped and waited for John catch up. The sheep were obvious to the eye now. Lazy lumps of wool in no mood to do anything but lie and chew and watch. Once the sheep had spotted them, they moved as one over the ridge and out of sight.

Raynar crested the knoll first and stopped to look down at the dell below. He was right. Hugh and two boys were convincing the sheep to move towards the cavern overhang at the side of the dell. There was another man on the far side dressed in forest green who was helping them.

Raynar cupped his hands to his mouth and gave a howling call that started out sounding low and then changed pitch higher. He had to give it twice before Hugh looked up. Tucker and John were beside Raynar now, and looking down.

John said, "I don't see her," and his smile turned to a frown. "We've missed her and she is at the glade by now. I knew I should have stayed at the glade."

"You knew no such thing, John Smith," replied Tucker.

Hugh was waving and pointing them to the left. Raynar looked over and saw the sheep that had preceded them over the ridge walking down the slope in the wrong direction. "Come on then, we can herd those ones to the cavern and talk to Hugh." Raynar proved his strange staff-bow once again. The crook at the end meant his reach was long when he worked with sheep. After watching his technique of using his staff, Tucker and John started imitating his moves, and the three spread out around the twenty or so sheep and turned them towards the rest of the herd.

The temperature was dropping quickly as they reached the herd, and they were glad that the cavern was near. Low heavy clouds were swirling in downdrafts over the knoll that they had been standing on a short time before. Raynar walked directly up to Hugh, took him by the hand and arm and pulled him into a bear hug. "Hello old man. Why aren't you at home with your grandchildren and your dogs?"

"I love my grandchildren, but I can't stand their mothers," he cackled. "I don't know what is to become of this younger generation. They've got not respect." He turned to the Brother, crossed himself and said, "Welcome, and peace be with you Brother," and then back to Raynar. "Did you think me dying then that you brought a priest? You will know when I am ready to go, because I will have my grandfather's battle axe in one hand and a woman's tit in the other."

Raynar made the introductions. "This is Brother Tucker from Repton Abbey, and John Smith from Hathersage. We actually came in search of Leola. She is overdue at the glade, though she knows many ways down and may have arrived there by now. "

Hugh yelled some instructions at the two boys and they climbed up to some wandering sheep. "Leola left us yesterday, and that is bad news as she should have arrived at the glade on the same day before dark."

John whimpered, and Raynar held a hand to his chest. "Not to worry yet John, Leola has lived on these peaks all her life. She knows the trails, and she has a weather eye. She will have her pack with her, with warm clothes and cheese. We know where she was headed so we just have to find the trail she took and follow it to find her."

"I'll help you track her," said the stranger in green as he took long strides towards them. "I am Alan O'Dale, and a forester and a tracker by trade. I've been here two days and I watched Leola when she left. Wait for me while I get my bow and my pack from the cave."

"You can't leave now," said Hugh pointing to the clouds, "there is weather coming and a good chance of freezing rain".

"All the more reason to leave, Hugh," said Raynar. "If she has broken an ankle and she is on the trail somewhere, we need to find her before nightfall. I know all the shelters between here and the glade and we have winter cloaks. We are not at risk, but she may be."

Hugh yelled to Alan's withdrawing back, "Alan, take some green cheese from the tuck bag, portions for five."

"Who is Alan, and why is he here?" asked Raynar.

"He is sworn to my daughter's father-in-law. The lord's youngest son has run away and Alan was sent to fetch him back. He is the best tracker in the Peak Forest. He says that he followed him to Lose Hill but then lost the trail in the loose rock. He has been staying with me and searching a different line each day trying to find the lad's track again. If you ask me, he is waiting here because he doesn't want to admit failure and go home to his lord with no news."

Alan returned with his gear, and the Brother and John stood up from where they had been resting, and they followed Alan. Hugh waved and wished them Godspeed, and went back to securing his sheep and yelling at his helper boys.

When they reached the eastern crest of the dell, Allan stopped and crouched to the ground. "This is where she crested. Now we need a sign of which way she went from here. "

Raynar pointed to a track leading to the right. "That is the trail to the glade. She would have chosen no other."

Alan nodded and walked slowly along it a hundred paces. "You are right. Here is her print. Damn this wind, it will be hiding her prints as we walk. Keep behind me even when I slow. Her track will be faint enough without your heavy boots."

"Watch for sink holes along these trails, Alan." cautioned Raynar. "Not just so we don't lose you down one, but also because Leola may have fallen into one."

They walked three miles and crossed three low ridges following the same trail, and Alan was finding occasional prints. When they reached on the fourth ridge they could hear animal noises and the sound of a sheep in panic. "Look there," said John pointing down and to the south. "Wolves attacking a sheep". John started to wave his hands in hopes of saving the sheep.

Alan pinned John's arms to his sides. "That sheep is a goner. Let that one keep the wolves busy to give us time to close on them and kill them." He motioned them back behind the ridge, took his bearings, and then motioned them to follow him as he trotted along, with the ridge hiding them from the wolves. When they were about even with the wolves but still upwind, Alan dropped to his knees and crawled to peer over the ridge. "This is about as close as we can get under cover. Two hundred paces to the wolves. Too long for a shot."

Alan and John backed down the slope so they could stand and string their bows without being seen. Alan's was a Danish selfbow, John's was a Welsh longbow but looked small compared to him. Alan pointed to John's bow, and asked what the range was. John hunched his shoulders and replied, "I am just a beginner, but Raynar would know. It used to be his." Alan turned to Raynar and exclaimed, "What the Devil!" as he watched a shepherd's crook being bent out of shape and strung to become a monster bow.

Raynar had it fully bowed on the shortest knot of the bowstring. His arrows were in John's quiver. "Pass me the longest arrows, John, and hand your bow to Alan with some of your arrows." He looked at Alan. "Have you ever shot a Welsh bow? You cannot draw it with your arm like your selfbow. You must step forward and push the bow with your back. Two hundred paces is beyond its accurate range, so wait for my first shot, and then run forward.

It shouldn't take you more than two shots to figure the angle. It shoots true but the power and speed of the arrow tends to push it high. Now hand your bow and quiver to John. " He looked at his friend. "John. Stand nocked and ready to shoot if the wolves charge us. Aim low so that even if you miss you will at least scare them."

Raynar waited until the other men had swapped bows and quivers and then started forward on hands and knees over the ridge. He only got ten paces before the wolves spotted him. He stood up, locked the staff end in the dirt and stepped into his bow, then aimed, notched up for the range, and loosed.

The long arrow made a searing noise in the air. While it was still in flight, Raynar got off another shot, and then paused to see his range. The first arrow took the first wolf in the side at the base of the ribs. The second arrow took the second wolf in the front shoulder. Both were badly hurt and limping in pain, but now they were angry and scared and therefore, very dangerous. He had expected Alan to be sprinting towards the wolves to get a killing shot, but instead Alan was at his shoulder and was pushing down on Raynar's next arrow.

"Hold!" Alan warned, "those are not wolves, they are costly hunting dogs. See the collars?"

"It matters not," replied Raynar. "A dog that has tasted livestock lives under a death penalty. So says the law. You are a forester, you know that better than I."

"Then let me finish them. They are my lord's dogs. I will do it in his name so there will be no question of right," said Alan. "They are probably too badly hurt to be healed in any case." He walked over to John and swapped back the bows and quivers, and with his own bow walked to within fifty paces of the crouched and snarling beasts.

He put an arrow into each one's eye. Once they were dead, John raced down the hill with Tucker following him. Raynar stood frozen, watching them run, until Tucker yelled out that the wolves may have Leola.

Alan was crouched by the dogs cutting out the arrows. Raynar's arrows were set inches into the hides. Again and again he looked back to the ridge and the range they were shot from and breathed a low whistle. He removed the collars and stuffed them into his pack.

Just beyond the wolves there was a sink hole with a cave under the lip of the rocks. Around the wolves there were two other dead sheep with their throats ripped out. None of them were eaten. "These dogs were not hunting," John announced, "they were in a killing frenzy"

He shouted down into the sink but there was only his echo in return. He lowered himself over the edge but after a look, realized there was an easier way in, a bit further down the slope, so he pulled himself back up. Brother Tucker was already at the lower end and carefully walking up the sink hole. John nocked an arrow and held it in readiness in case of more dogs. He heard the Brother sob below.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Go get Raynar," was the answer, "go get Raynar now".

The three of them approached Tucker who was leaning on the wall of the sink hole and retching. They moved past him to see what he had seen. It was Leola, or at least the small broken body that used to be Leola. Raynar dropped to his knees beside her and started to wail. John shook open his cloak and tried to cover her nakedness, and wept in frustration when the heavy wool would not unfurl.

Alan arrived and pulled John out of the way and told him not to cover her yet. He tenderly raised her chin, and then raised her hand. "She is fresh dead," he said, "within hours". He reached his hand down between her legs, but Raynar's hand grabbed his wrist in a murderous grip.

"Calm yourself Raynar, I mean no disrespect. We need to know how she died." Raynar's grip loosened and he felt gently between her legs. His hand came up bloodied.

Tucker had himself under control now, though John was standing frozen in shock with the cloak in his hand, and Raynar had his eyes closed and was sobbing gently beside the body.

Tucker asked, "What do you mean by how she died? The wolves, I mean the dogs."

"No wolf did this Brother," growled Alan with steel in his voice, to hold back a sob, "she has been tied and abused and brutally raped over many hours, and then strangled before she was left alone." Now he had John and Raynar's absolute attention. There was silence as the words became pictures and the pictures sank in. "Not the dogs," breathed Raynar, "they had collars. The owner of the dogs. The dogs were still here, then so will be the owner. " He moved to stand, but three other men were in his way.

"Slowly Raynar, and carefully. Those were hunting dogs. He could have a bow." The three with bows moved slowly out of the sink leaving the Brother to cover the body and to kneel in prayer. John spotted the hoof print first. "Shod Dane style. A big hoof. The horse may be fifteen hands. We would have seen a horse first from the ridge."

"So he must be beyond the next ridge," said Raynar walking out of the hole and striking out towards the ridge.

"Or in the next sink hole," said Alan. Raynar stopped and ducked down low. Alan moved in front of him studying the ground. He motioned all for silence. He found and followed the freshest horse trail. Within five hundred paces it led them to another sink hole, a larger one. Alan inched forward and peered over the lip. He motioned to them that there was someone there and motioned them downslope to the entrance. The three of them stood in a line at the entrance with arrows drawn.

"Come out, " Alan yelled, "Come out with your hands where we can see them, and give yourself up."

Instead there was yell and the sounds of hooves and a horse and rider emerged from the shadows of the sink already moving quickly. Unfortunately for the rider the horse moved in John's direction.

John had been shoeing horses since he was a baby. He ducked down and rapped his bow hard against the shins of the horse, and then leaped up into the horse's face and came down with his ham fist hard between its eyes. The horse went down like a rock, stunned but not injured. In one fluid movement John's huge hand lifted the rider from the saddle and slammed him to the ground. The rider lay motionless, winded but still alive.

Alan leaped forward and shielded the body on the ground from John's murderous rage, and from Raynar's drawn arrow. "No, no! Back off. We have no proof yet. He isn't going anywhere."

"What do you mean no proof? The tracks led us right here," said Raynar.

"He was there, but so were we. He may have found her just as we did," yelled Alan.

"You are a brave man to stand between me and my sister's murderer, Alan O'Dale," hissed Raynar. "Make your case."

"This is the lordling I was sent to fetch. Those were his dogs. This horse is my lord's. My oath to my lord means I must protect this one. Raynar, you can't kill him in anger after the fact even if he is guilty. You could kill him to stop the crime but not after it is finished. My lord would demand a blood settlement of the Moot, and you would be a slave for the rest of your life to make payment. We must take him back, make the case to the folkmoot, and they will execute him. In that way there will be no blood feud."

Raynar eased the tension from the bow. He knew enough about Knute's in-common law and the power of the Moot to recognize the truth in the words.

John looked at Raynar and then Alan. "Give him to me. I won't kill him. A man can live a long time with broken legs and a twisted back." He stood up to his full height, and Alan suddenly felt like he was child-sized in comparison.

"No, John You won't hurt him, but you will help me find out the truth. Raynar, pin his arms. John, you pin his legs." When he was secured, Alan pulled down the struggling lordling's hose and separated his legs. He took a good look and then wiped his hand against the inside of the thigh. He held the hand up. It was bloody.

"Her blood!" Raynar yelled and released the man's wrists and moved his hands to the man's throat and started to crush it.

"John, pull Raynar off him!" Alan shouted. "Sit on him until his rage cools."

John let go of the lordling's ankles and pulled Raynar off him and to the side. "He is right Raynar. It is the business of the Moot now.".

"His name is Garrick Sweynson, and he has always been a shit. He was born to be hanged," Alan hissed as he tied the man's elbows behind his back with his spare bowstring. "We will load the girl on the horse and lead this one back to his Lord's Moot."

"No, he goes to the mine's Moot," said Raynar.

"The lord won't accept the judgment of the mine's folkmoot over this lordling. He must be tried in a lowland court."

"Well, we have to go by way of the mine anyway. It will be dark before we get there, and this horse needs the porterway."

The good brother had already bundled the body in a role of the cloak, and he lifted her across the saddle, refusing help. Raynar led the horse, Alan led Garrick, and Tucker led John who was so upset now that he could not see the path in the waning light. They only got as far as the second sink hole before the freezing rain started.

They sought shelter in the second hole, but it was long dark before the rain stopped.

"We are here for the night," proclaimed Raynar. "We have lost the light, and the trails will be treacherous covered in these ice pellets. Worse, there will be no early start, not until the ground warms." He looked over at Alan. "Since we are staying, I will go and dress the dead sheep. The glade could use the meat, and the skins."

"But they are Hugh's sheep," John objected.

"To Hugh, the loss of a sheep is a cost of doing business, but the waste of a sheep is a sin."

Luckily Garrick had already made a camp in the sink hole including some firewood and some peat, and luckily they had brought the winter cloaks along. Tucker who was warm enough in his hooded habit used the girl's cloak around his legs. They gutted and hung the three sheep. Two of them had unborn lambs, a shepherd's delicacy. Between the lambs and the green cheese, they all ate their fill, including Garrick.

Garrick was pushed to the back of the cave so that an escape would mean climbing over all of them. He did not speak, and no one wanted to speak to him. No one slept, they just dozed and dreamed. It was a night of howling winds above their head, and eerie mists, and unknown and frightening sounds beyond the sink. Peaks Arse was well named.

In the morning, they finished the steep path to the mine in bright daylight. The porters were curious at the strange procession. While Raynar was returning the cloaks, the wife asked for Leola's body to be brought into her house. The women of the house closed the doors on the men while they inspected the body and dressed it, and wrapped it in a shroud.

By the time they were finished, word of the rape and murder had spread throughout the mine area, and there was a mob of miners and porters demanding blood. Leola was known by all and a favourite of most, and it took the mine bosses to stop them from simply throwing Garrick down an abandoned shaft. The mine bosses agreed with Alan that the local moot was not enough, and a lowland court must try the noble Garrick. They also told them that the court would need to see the body.

That left only the serious problem of how to get Garrick and the body past the glade. The folk of the glade and the porters who used it would rip Garrick to pieces if they got hold of him. In the end only Raynar stopped at the glade to deliver the dressed sheep, while the others hurried past without speaking.

After the odd procession was well away, Raynar found his Da and told him the story, and he could never remember his Da looking so old and so frail. He left him with Gwyn and her mother and hurried down the path to catch up to the group.

At John's house it was a similar situation. John's father and mother stared at Garrick with daggers for eyes, and were all for drowning him in the pig slop. They were also upset for John and Raynar, and upset that John must travel with the body to give evidence. The way to Scafeld was up and out of the valley and over the last of the ridges and moors to the east. John's father agreed to carry a message from Brother Tucker to his head carter in Grindel, which basically said, "keep the lead moving" and nothing more.

* * * * *  
* * * * *  
THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 6 - Lamb's Revenge, Scafeld, S.Yorkshire in June 1064

They arrived in Scafeld in the afternoon, and took Garrick to the gaol, and Leola to the crypt of the church. The church verger offered them beds in a pilgrim's shed, which they all took save Alan. Alan mounted the horse and took it back to his lord's manor, where he would sleep. The verger took them to the town hall to make a formal request for a shire-moot. There they were told that because the body was still above ground, the moot would gather in the morning.

Back at his bed the full force of Raynar's grief attacked his sanity. He was inconsolable, no matter what John and Tucker tried. Finally they left him sobbing on his bed while they went in search of food. They didn't have to search far. The verger's wife had pushed her husband aside and provided a very non-pilgrim meal of wine and meat. "Anyone who can slip a noose around that lordling Garrick's neck will eat well at my table," she said with barely-hidden contempt.

* * * * *

The Moot was held in the Hall, and it was filled to capacity. Twelve ealders of the town were presiding and the first rule of business was for all those with a say to register to speak, and for each to swear an oath of truth on their life. Only freemen were allowed to speak and then only if they could vouch the value of their oaths.

Women and slaves could attend but never speak. When it was his turn, Raynar introduced himself with the words, "I am Raynar Porter, churl of Woden Mine, I swear that I will speak true. Brother Tucker of Repton Abbey will vouch my oath."

Leola was introduced by Raynar. Garrick introduced himself followed by his father the Lord Sweyn and his elder brother Osgar. So it was also with John, Alan, and Tucker.

As representative of the plaintive clan, Raynar had to summarize his complaint. Garrick had abducted, beaten, raped and then murdered his sister. He was asked to give the date, time, and place of the crime. Since the body was above ground, the twelve ealders and those registered to speak all adjourned to the church crypt to witness the body.

Raynar was horrified that she was displayed nude and worse, that she had become ugly and bloated and stinking. He steeled himself and pointed out the marks of strangulation, the bruising on the face and stomach, the rope burns on her hands, the skin under her fingernails, the bruising and dried blood on the thighs, the rope burns on her ankles. And then he broke down in sobs and was led out of the crypt. No one stayed much longer with the gruesome corpse.

Resuming at the hall, Garrick was asked to defend himself from the charges. He refused to speak. One by one, Raynar and John and Tucker and Alan repeated the story of finding the dogs and finding the girl and finding Garrick. The only comment made by the ealders was to ask the ownership of the dogs. Lord Sweyn acknowledged ownership, only to be told that he therefore owed three sheep to Hugh Farehyrde.

After their stories were finished, the elders declared that Garrick owed a Weregild of fifty shillings or fifty sheep to Leola's clan and on payment he was free to go.

Half the hall stood with a roar of disbelief. The clerk's hammer brought silence. Raynar asked permission to address the court and he was so granted. He turned around the hall before speaking to gage the audience. There in front seats beside Lord Sweyn and Osgar were Sonja and Britta. He tried not to stare and continued his full turn, suddenly feeling even more depressed than ever. "I do not understand the sentence. Garrick abducted, bound, beat, and raped my sister, and then murdered her to cover his crimes. He has not denied it. And yet he is to go free."

An Ealder explained. "If he pays the Weregild, yes he goes free, otherwise he will become your clan's thrall. As your thrall you can do with him as you please. I would remind you that this is an ancient and now, common law designed to stop blood feuds. The life price is half of the normal wife's price because she had not yet wed. There is nothing owed for the rape, as there is no evidence that it was not a rape for purposes of betrothal. The price owed for the life includes the price of the beating."

Brother Tucker motioned to John and they both grabbed hold of Raynar. He had seen the berserker look growing in Raynar's eyes and feared the worst. After John had pulled Raynar down to his seat, the good Brother asked to speak and was given permission.

"I believe that the silence from the defense is hiding the truth of the rape. I would ask some questions of the other witnesses." Lord Sweyn objected, however the good Brother was motioned to continue.

"A question for Alan O'Dale. Why were you on the peaks at the time of the rape?"

"I was asked by Lord Sweyn to find Garrick and to fetch him home."

"Why was Garrick on the peaks?" asked Tucker.

"He had run away from his lordship." Alan motioned to him meaningfully with his eyes towards the lord.

"Thank you."

"A question for Lord Sweyn. Why did Garrick run away?" Tucker asked.

There was silence until an ealder reminded the lord that he had registered to speak and so he must answer all questions from other speakers or from the court.

"He was to be whipped," replied Sweyn.

"Why was he to be whipped?"

The lord hesitated, but then looked at Britta and Sonja and others from his household and spoke. "He had raped one of our hand maidens. Repeatedly."

The hall was in an uproar again. It took five minutes of hammering to restore order.

"How many lashes was he to receive?" asked Tucker.

"Ten"

"Thank you, my lord."

Tucker paced closer to the ealders. They were nodding. "I would ask that beside the Weregild, that Garrick be lashed ten times for the rape of the hand maiden and ten times for the rape of Leola. The rape is a separate issue from the murder, and Garrick must be punished for assaulting our women, otherwise none of the women of this town will be safe." There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd, and a few more earthy comments from some of the women.

The ealders whispered amongst themselves. This was, after all, a lord's son. At last the chair spoke. "A separate sentence of twenty lashes' punishment for rape to be administered today in the town pillory by a reeve's man."

"Nooo. I will not be lashed," Garrick finally spoke. "She was a slut, a stinking shepherdess, and she refused me, her lord. She fought me and hurt me. See the scratches on my face."

John leaped towards Garrick but was held back by Raynar and Tucker and a few other men besides. John took some deep breaths and then said slowly and with an icy voice, "She was not a slut. She was a virgin, and I know this well, for I was to wed her. She was born free, and you, you shit, are the lord of no one."

Garrick pointed at Raynar and hissed, "I'll make you a better deal, porter. A chance for blood vengeance. You get the Weregild, but I get no lashes. Instead of the lashes you get one arrow shot at me while I run for freedom. Whatever the outcome, it is finished."

"A question for the court," challenged Tucker. He was motioned to ask it. "Is this legal, or would it simply be the start another blood feud or Weregild should Garrick be killed?"

"I can answer the court, may I speak?" shouted the lord. He was so motioned. "I swear here before witnesses that there will be no blood feud or Weregild claimed by my clan, but one arrow only."

"I will agree to all of this!" shouted Raynar.

There was more whispering between ealders. The chair finally said, "It is so ruled. Instead of the lashes in the pillory, Garrick will have the opportunity to run the length of the square. If he makes it over the church fence, he is free. Do all parties agree?"

They all did.

"So be it." The hammer slammed down and the Moot was adjourned.

The hall churned with activity and voices. Those at the front of the hall nearest the bench, were invited to leave through a side door, but even at that doorway there was a crush of people moving shoulder to shoulder.

Raynar backed himself against the wall and waited for it to clear in front of him. He blinked and found himself looking into green eyes that he had seen before. Sonja was pretending to be crushed against him. He held her by her waist to stop her from being swept away by the crowd. She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "Kill him Raynar. Kill the vile beast," and then she was gone.

He walked briskly to the pilgrim shed, to collect his bow and arrows. John caught up with him there and asked him if it would not be better to use the Welsh bow. "No," Raynar replied thoughtfully as he weighed and balanced each of the arrows in his hand, "I have only one shot, so it is aim and power that are needed, not the quickness of reloading."

They returned to the square. The church end of the square was empty, and Raynar walked along the fence. It was a temporary fence around some construction. It was a man's height and sturdy enough, and made from poles of softwood. There were large building stones randomly pushed against the fence to hold it steady. The easiest way over the fence was to use one of the stones as a step. He paced the distance from the fence to the pillory. About two hundred paces. The growing crowd started fifty paces beyond that and were being held back by the town watch.

Many of the food stalls from the market had moved to the open end of the square expecting a hanging. Business was always good at hangings. But this, this was even better. This was like sport. Already wagers were being laid. Some reeves men had cleared a space for the official witnesses. One of the reeve's men pulled Raynar's sleeve and said, "You're a fool. He would have died for sure under twenty of my best lashes."

John pushed them apart. "Don't believe him. That lordling would have been lashed with a feather touch by these sods. They are all in the lord's purse."

Raynar's head was spinning from all the yells aimed at him. The women yelling for blood. The men yelling advice. The pie ladies offering him pork or beef. He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes to relax.

"Hrumpf" the Lord cleared his throat. "I am Lord Sweyn, and this is my eldest son Osgar, and his wife Britta, and her sister, the Widow Sonja. On behalf of us all, I wish to express my horror and regrets at was has happened to your sister. With my heir as witness, I wish to say that if you should kill my son Garrick then I will treat it as God's work and not as yours. I will not hate you for it. I will just mourn for my son as you are mourning for your sister."

He grabbed Raynar's shoulder and he squeezed it. Raynar did not respond. "I am not here to plead for my son. Let your shot be guided by God, but do I have your promise that if he does make it into the churchyard, that he will live. That your clan will not ambush him tomorrow or next week or next year, or ambush any others of my family."

Raynar turned slowly on his heel and looked each of them in the eyes and to each he said, "I so promise". His eyes had difficulty breaking from Britta's. Her eyes had recent happier memories for him. When he looked into Sonja's eyes he felt drawn to her by an invisible force. Her lips moved ever so slightly to form the words, "Kill him".

They moved away, only to be replaced with Brother Tucker. He made the sign of the cross. "You are not a killer, Raynar. You spared him on the peak. Now spare him again. No one will think the worse of you for a near miss at this range."

Alan came up from the other side like he was hiding from the sight of his sworn lord, which he was. "Don't look at me, just listen," he whispered. "His family is a nest of liars and cheats, but my family's livelihood is at their whim. Expect trickery. He will be zig zagging when he runs. Only we two know the range that you hit those dogs. I have told no one else. Your best chance will be to make him think he is out of range, and then shoot when he stops to climb the fence to his freedom." Alan disappeared into the crowd.

There was a hissing in the crowd, and Raynar turned to see Garrick being marched to the pillory. The hissing was because he was wearing a shirt of mail. Trickery. John yelled a protest but Raynar pulled his sleeve to quieten him. The betting became heavy, and new odds were being yelled across the crowd. He walked forward to the pillory. The ealder spokesman ordered some reeve's men to drag a bench down the square forty paces. "Raynar, you may not shoot until Garrick is past that bench. Do you both understand?" They did.

"May I take a ranging shot?" asked Raynar. After being given permission, he strung his strange looking shepherds-staff-bow to the first knot in the bowstring. Until then the crowd had not understood that the shepherd crook was the bow. The murmur turned into a roar. Betting was already heavy, but now the cries of the gamblers became intense as men changed bets and laid bets off on this new information.

Raynar chose a long but light arrow and locked the staff on the ground and stepped into his bow. He loosed and the arrow dropped to earth short of the fence and bounced harmlessly along the flagstones. The betting chatter again became a roar.

Now, slowly he turned so his back was to the crowd and he readjusted the string to the last knot. He chose another long arrow, a heavy one this time. It had dried dog's blood on it. He indicated to the ealder that he was ready. Garrick nodded his readiness as well.

The ealder motioned for the crowd to be quiet. The ealder told them in a voice aimed at the crowd that he would count to three and then Garrick was to run. Raynar was not to loose until Garrick was beyond the bench. Garrick was not safe from the shot until he was over the fence. Once he was over the fence, or once the arrow was loosed, then it was finished.

He raised his voice to the witnesses, the reeve's men, and the crowd. No one was allowed to interfere so long as Garrick was on this side of the fence and so long as Raynar held his arrow. Anyone doing so would be gaoled for a month. The ealder motioned for quiet again and then called out.

"One", "Two", "Three!"

Garrick leaped forward in a straight line as far as the bench and then immediately ducked low and ran in a random pattern towards the fence. When he was almost to the wall, Raynar stepped into his bow. It took the full strength of his porter's back to draw the arrow fully.

Garrick turned and saw that the arrow was still in the bow, and whooped for joy. Then he faced the fence, put both hands on top of it, stepped onto one of the random building stones, and pulled himself up. Only then did he hear the hiss of the arrow that took him in the back of the neck, and feel the agony of the point ripping through his throat.

The crowd was silent. Why didn't Garrick fall to the ground. Wouldn't it be just a flesh wound at that range? Why didn't the man pull himself over the fence? Some of the lord's men ran forward, but Raynar yelled at the ealder, and the ealder yelled at the men and ordered the reeve's men to intercept them.

Raynar handed his bow to John and motioned to the lord and the ealder to walk forward with him. Raynar knew what to expect but when the ealder and the lord reached Garrick, they dropped to their knees in prayer. The arrow had gone completely through the man's neck and buried itself so deeply into the soft wood of the fence, that Garrick had been hung by the arrow.

The crowd went wild and ran forward to look. A few gamblers cheered but most jeered. Raynar ignored the crowd and continued around the fence and into the church. Brother Tucker was waiting for him. He took him in his arms and let him sob.

* * * * *

The three men sat in the pilgrim's shed waiting for the crowd to break up. They had just remade the beds and checked under them when there was a knock at the door and in walked Osgar, Garrick's elder brother and the husband to Britta. Or rather in limped Osgar as he limped badly from some past injury.

He handed Raynar a heavy purse. "I assumed you would want the shillings, as with the price of sheep this year, you could buy sixty with the coin. I advise you to stay out of Scafeld for a while, not because of my family, but because a lot of men lost heavily betting against you. It was a one in a thousand shot, and my father truly believes that God struck my brother down."

The bow staff was leaning against the wall by the door, and he reached out and picked it up. He hefted it to find its balance point, and flexed it against the foot of the wall. "A man in armour or mail is not safe from this bow, is he?"

"Not when it is guided by God, my lord," Raynar replied.

"And you are a porter, nothing more?"

"And a shepherd, trained in sheep by old Hugh. Is he not your man?"

"He is my father-in-law. He gave his lands to his son early because he refused the liege oath to Edward the Confessor." A slow smile spread on his face, "He said he would rather shovel sheep shit than support that lap dog of the Normans."

"Then Hugh is a lord."

"The fairest I ever knew."

Raynar offered his hand and it was taken. "This is finished, then"

"Yes, this is finished. Now the mourning can begin."

The next visitor was the verger wondering what to do with Leona's body. It was long past time to bury it. He took them to the churchyard and showed them an empty plot. The gravediggers were waiting for them. Raynar paid the grave diggers a small coin not to dig, and instead borrowed their spades. He and John wanted to dig the grave themselves as a farewell. He paid the priest not to say a graveside service. Brother Tucker wanted to say the words, as he had been first to the body.

After filling in the grave over poor Leola, they were given a tour by the stone merchant of his headstones, but none of them were fitting for an innocent virgin shepherdess. He offered to carve a fresh stone, but Raynar did not want to wait the weeks so they took his leave to return to the church.

The shortest way back to the Pilgrim's shed was around the back of the church where the construction and the wooden fence were. They could see the hole in the fence pole that was caused by digging the arrow out. Below the hole in the pole was a stone block, the mate to the one Garrick had used as a step on the other side of the fence. Brother Tucker said what they were all thinking, that it was the most fitting of gravestones, and so John started rolling the stone towards the grave site.

As it rolled over, Brother Tucker crossed himself and kneeled in prayer. On the underside of the stone was an ancient carving of a lamb. So Leola had her grave stone, and it spoke louder than any chiseled words.

They made their goodbyes to the verger and to his kindly wife. Forewarned about the gamblers, the three men snuck down the church street away from the square. They circled back through the quieter streets and made for the path to Hathersage. They were just starting to climb the first ridge, when Alan caught up with them. He had his pack and his bow with him.

"May I walk with you?" Alan asked politely, "I am on my way to my cottage over in Tideswell in the peak forest."

"Our pleasure."

"Did they pay the fifty shillings?" asked Alan.

"Yes"

"The old man wasn't going to. Once Garrick was dead, he could no longer be a thrall. I wonder what changed his mind," said Alan.

"Osgar paid it. He wanted it finished," answered John.

"It was wise for you to leave quickly and quietly."

"So we heard. Many men lost money on the shot," said John.

"They lost it to me and my kin," said Alan matter of factly.

"You bet on our tragedy?" There was an edge to John's voice.

"I bet on Raynar's skill with that bastardized bow. At ten to one. I am not popular in town right now, but all my girl cousins now have dowries. I needed some time in the forest anyway. Too much town life corrupts a person."

"We noticed," chuckled John, despite himself.

* * * * *

At the porter's glade, Raynar told the whole story to his Da and promised to take him to visit the grave. When Raynar handed him the purse of fifty silver shillings, the bent old miner threw it to the floor and started to weep. When he could speak again without sobbing he said, "It is not my coin, and it is not your coin. It is her coin. What would she have done with it?"

"I suppose it would have been her dowry, though she didn't need it. John was ready to ask and with his parents blessing too, without any dowry." Raynar hung his head and looked down at the purse. "I will hide it until we have need of it, or until one of the local widows has need of it. They were, all of them, mothers to her." He picked it up and walked down passed the pools and into the trees.

His Da died that winter as did most of the other injured miners living in the sanctuary of the porter's glade. Gwyn's mother announced to the hamlet that he had died from a broken heart. Without Leola to cheer him with her smile, he lost the will to live. Quietly and alone, she told Raynar that he and some of the other men had chosen to die using the warriors friend, the poisonous leaf of the ywen tree, rather than to endure more pain.

In his sixteenth year Raynar had learned to read, lost his virginity, lost his sister, killed his first man, and lost his Da. He was a man with a reputation, and he was alone.

* * * * *  
* * * * *  
THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 7 - Mourning Rufus, Ytene Forest, Hampshire in August 1100

His reminiscing about his sister Leola did not cheer his mood, but it did strengthen his resolve. He refused to die for executing a king who had caused the deaths of so many innocents. He would not die this day, and he certainly would not die for punching an arrow into an evil heart.

He looked up to the sound of horns. Horns answering Rufus's hunting companions call for help. An acknowledgement and an encouragement to the companion to keep blowing his horn to direct whoever was coming.

Horses and men were arriving at the corpse and still Raynar was trapped in his den. They seemed to arrive quickly, but Raynar had lost the sense of time. He listened to the noise of arrival and the yelling of the news of the death of the king. Only once the men had dismounted did he dare to shift a large leaf and take a peek. Now beside the corpse, there were five horses, with four well dressed horsemen and one verderer, presumably on foot.

Henry bent over his dead brother to test for life. There was none. He pointed to the sword in Rufus's hand, as if the others had not noticed. He uncurled the fingers from the parchment, opened it and read it to himself. He looked in the purse at the golden seal and shoved the purse into his own tunic. Only then did he point to the blackened flight of the shaft that had killed his brother, the king.

Henry handed the parchment to another who read out loud. "Repeal the Forest Law, Leave Wales, the Brotherhood" . The reader dropped low to the ground and moved quickly to his horse. By the time he swung around with his bow and a handful of arrows, the others too had dropped low to the ground and were searching the shadows with their eyes. Then they were all watching the verderer who was standing relaxed leaning against his bow, looking at the dead Rufus.

"Sire," said the verderer in the low burr of the local English, "if this were a Hoodsman's work, then he will be half way to the next shire by now. It is not like them to hang about once the shot is taken. They shoot only at leaders, and race away to shoot again another day. They barely stop long enough to see if they hit their mark. Mind you, if he were looking for a second target it would be you, sire, and none of the rest of us."

Henry, who had been slowly standing, ducked down again and asked, "You say IF this were a hoodsman?".

The verderer bent beside Rufus and looked closely at the fletching of the killing arrow. "Well firstly, this arrow is a hunting arrow, not a war arrow. It was shot from a hunting bow, not a longbow. The fletching is not from dark feathers, but colored with charcoal. Easy enough for anyone to do. And look at the sword. With that heart shot, the poor man would not have had time to draw a sword. That was put in his hand by his killer, as was that parchment, and that purse."

The verderer walked towards Henry who was still crouched low. "It is a strange archer that can write. A local ruffian would have taken his purse, his rings, his torque, and his neck chain. This archer left them all. A hired killer would at least have taken the rings to prove to his master that the job was complete. Aye, the killer is most likely a hoodsman, but was he acting for the cause, or was he hired by your brother's enemies?"

He reached down and pulled Henry to his feet. "In any case, sire, the killer stalked his prey purposefully, and made no mistake with the shot, and by now is on yon far ridge catching his breath."

Raynar looked at the faces of the other horsemen. From their blank looks, none spoke English save Henry.

Henry motioned for them to come close to him. "This was an unfortunate hunting accident," he said in French in a weak voice. The other horsemen laughed. He cleared his throat and using a stronger tone he repeated, "This was an unfortunate hunting accident." The laughter stopped. He continued in the same forceful voice, " You will all swear to me now that this was an unfortunate hunting accident. Swear it. Swear it now." While waiting for the response, he said the same in English to the verderer. They all kneeled to him and so swore it.

Henry turned to the verderer, motioned for him to stand, and switched to English. "Your name is Fenner, is it not?" The verderer stood to attention and barked, "Fenner Archer of Bradshaw, Sire".

"Listen carefully, Fenner," Henry continued, "the horns of the other verderers and the dogs are closing on this place. I do not want them here now . Go and cut them off and lead them back to the lodge, staying clear of this place." He paused until Fenner finished nodding. "You must never speak of what you have seen here. No one must hear of this accident from your lips. Not the verderers, nor the folk at the lodge. "

Henry paused again while he pulled the saddle roll from Rufus's horse and shook out a utilitarian hunter's cloak. Fenner helped him to cover the body with it. Then Henry continued his instructions. "Tell everyone that the king has returned to Winchester on urgent business, and that they are to pack up and go there." A pause and a nod. "Once they are packing up the lodge, you will hire a local cart and carry this body to Winchester Cathedral."

The cloak was not long enough to cover the corpse so Henry made sure the face was covered. " There is no hurry. Keep the body hidden in the cart and guard him personally until you see me again. If he arrives still clothed and with his sword, then you will be a wealthy man in Winchester. Heed me well, as your life is at stake. Take the cart on a different road from the rest of the lodge folk. Take the other verderers with you as guards and keep them out of inns. Do you understand? Repeat it back to me."

As Fenner repeated the instructions, Henry started counting out small gold coins for expenses. Fenner broke off his recital and said, "Sire, gold coins are useless to the likes of me. You have already counted out enough to buy me a new house. I would be clapped in chains as soon as I showed it. No one in a village or a market would have enough silver to make change. It is silver that is the true money of this land. Save the gold for Winchester. What I need now is silver to pay the carter and to pay for food and bridge tolls."

Henry motioned the others to their feet and explained in French his need for small silver coins. Everyone fished in their purses, resulting in a collection of fifteen assorted coins. He handed them to Fenner and asked him to repeat his instructions once more. Fenner recited quickly and well and was then sent on his way to intercept the other verderers.

The men all watched Fenner move silently through the woods. Someone asked, "Sire, what did the verderer say about a man named Hood?"

Henry was staring again at the corpse. He had never liked his bully of an older brother and yet he was a part of him, and that part was now gone. "He said that any enemy of ours could have hired this killer. Enemies from here, or from Normandy, or from Wales, or from France, or the Danes. The killer is a woodsman who will not be found."

He took the paper back from the man who had read it. "The Hood is not one man. It is a brotherhood of English freemen who punish our sheriffs and our bishops for their injustices. The bishops call them the Brotherhood of Robbers. The sheriffs call them the Brotherhood of the Longbow. The English call them the Hoodsmen, or the Robbing Hood, or simply the Hood."

He read the words once more before stuffing the paper under his tunic. "They are driven men, forest men, who work alone and in secret. I expect they are landless and familyless because of us, and thus their goal is vengeance and nothing else. They are the most dangerous men of all. Men with nothing left to lose. If a Hoodsman did this, he could be a local, or from the next shire, or from the north, or from Wales. We will not find this one. We have better things to do than to look. Besides, we have all just sworn that he does not exist."

"So," someone added, "he could have been any of the verderers, then. They meet your description. Arrest them all and execute them just to be sure."

Henry thought and then replied. "No, the verderers from the lodge do not meet the most important point in the description. Our verderers have too much to lose, and therefore they are true to the hand that feeds them."

When Fenner was completely out of sight Henry motioned to Rufus's hunting companion. "Walter Tirel," Henry's voice was calmer, smoother now. More in control. "Walter, you were with him. Hand me one of your arrows."

Walter complied in a quick motion of his arm. Henry reached down to the killing arrow with his knife in his hand and snapped the shaft across the blade. He then took the shaft offered by Walter and snapped it in the same place. He handed the flight of the killing arrow and the point of Walter's arrow back to Walter, and placed the flight of Walter's arrow on Rufus's chest. " Now Walter, what is your story of how the tragedy happened? As you tell it to us now, so we all will tell it forever."

Walter was silent, with his mouth open, and only a stutter on his lips. "What do you ask of me sire? Am I to say that it was my arrow that slew a king? Ordinary men do not kill kings and survive. Only the gods kill kings. What future would I have? My life would be forfeit. My lands and houses also. My family, should they survive, would suffer the poverty of outcasts. What do you ask of me? Why not tell the truth?"

Henry put a hand on Walter's shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Walter, nobles kill kings all too frequently, but nobles all know that never, never, ever must it be known that common folk can kill a king. If common folk can kill kings, then they can also rise up and throw off the yoke of their lords. We have the right from God and the Pope to rule these English. Rufus led us, but he ruled them. Do you want every yokel with a bow to be thinking he can kill us? For that will be the outcome of the truth."

He looked Walter straight in the eye. "Walter, I am your king now. You are now my man. No one can touch you. No one can call you false. No one can blame you for an accident. Your lands and family are safe and guarded by my power."

One of the other horsemen crossed over to Walter and said, "Don't be a fool, Tirel. It is only by Henry's faith in you that you do not stand accused of the murder yourself. The truth is, you allowed the king in your care to be murdered. The easiest believable tale would be that you killed Rufus and we shot you in the back when you tried to escape. Instead Henry has assured your life. Stop stalling, man. It is your neck he is saving."

Walter looked at the path and the bushes and the clearing and thought a few minutes before speaking. "I heard Rufus call out, a trouble call. I rode hard to his voice and saw him standing here with his sword drawn holding off a ten-point buck. A big bugger he was, with his rack down and ready to charge. I had no time to dismount, so I had to make the shot from horseback, from the brightness of the clearing over there, into the shadows here."

Walter walked forward pantomiming his tale. "I drew my bow and loosed quickly, thinking that any strike on the buck would serve to turn him away from Rufus. The arrow hit the buck but glanced off his antlers. The buck bolted as was my plan, and I gave chase to see if I could get a second shot. Only afterward, when I returned to Rufus, did I see that my arrow had glanced off the buck and straight into his chest. He was already dead. I howled in rage and then blew my horn in rage. That my arrow had killed my friend is something that will haunt me to the grave."

"You have a silver tongue, Walter," Henry said as he looked around at the others, "It makes a good tale, and it is simple. It is believable because you are his closest friend and a fine archer. You were blameless in trying to save him. As for why Rufus was on foot with a sword rather than a bow, leave that for others to speculate. You were not there to see. So be it. Strike it to memory. I declare it true."

He turned again to Walter. "Walter, the chains, torques, pins and rings that he wears are yours. Take them now, for they will not survive the cart journey to Winchester."

Walter bent over the body and slowly collected the gold and jewels. Meanwhile, Henry translated the orders he had given to Fenner for the benefit of the rest. When he next looked back at the body, Walter was holding forth Rufus's large signet ring.

Henry did not take it. Instead he grabbed Walter's wrist and pulled him to his feet. "Walter, stand up. You are to Normandy, to Rouen today. Go now and go directly. Your words, your story, must be the first that they hear of this. Take the fastest ship in the harbour. As soon as you land, spread the word officially in my name of this tragic accident. Tell Normandy that I have been crowned here with no opposition. Use that ring to seal your words as true."

Henry paused and thought, hoping for suggestions from the others. None came so he continued. "Aubigny is in Rouen this summer with his sons. Tell them to ensure the castles and forts are in friendly hands. If they are unsure of the loyalty of a garrison, then they are to order those men to the French border as reserves in case Philip decides to take advantage of our tragedy here." He looked around again at the others. "Anything else that Walter can do across the Manche?"

"And your brother Robert?" Walter asked.

Henry replied after a pause, "Robert is still on crusade. His knowledge of my crowning will be delayed, but once he knows he will make directly for France to get Phillip's help in enforcing his own claim to the throne via the Accession Treaty that both he and Rufus signed."

Everyone else waited for him to continue. They were awaiting orders from their new king. "Communications are slow. Ships are slower. He will be too late. The rest of us ride now to Winchester to secure the treasury. While Robert was crusading, he was dependant on Rufus for coin. I will stop those payments and keep it all until his intentions are clear. And if you, Walter, ensure the main castles are friendly to me, then I would think that Robert will see the sense of resuming his crusade in the Holy Lands. But first I must secure England. With England secure, then I can decide on what to do in Normandy."

Again Walter had a question. "And what of Wales, and the marches, and what of this brotherhood? This brotherhood has killed the king. Is this the start of a plague of rebellions?"

Raynar stilled himself to hear every word of the answer.

Henry had tried before to gain power by strategy and intrigue, only to be foiled by his brothers. He was now on the edge of total power, and his mind was launching down paths of strategy, as in a game of chess. He felt a surge of power as he stood above his brother's corpse.

"My father had a plan to bring the Hood to heel, but his barons rejected the plan as an affront to chivalry. The power of Wales and of the Hood is the power of their longbows. Their bodkins pierce the finest armour. A freeman costing me a silver penny a week is a match for any knight with a hundred crowns invested in horse and armour and supporting retainers."

"Agreed," concurred Walter, "these peasant bows are a threat to chivalry. They nullify the heavy cavalry that keeps us in power."

"My father once hired some bowmen and sent them to the French border. They did great harm to the French knights at their will, until in the name of chivalry our Norman knights refused to protect them and left them be slaughtered. I mean to hire every bowman who will taste my salt and send them to Scotland, and to France. I will protect them with shieldmen and pikemen and they will deliver to me victory upon victory without beggaring my purse. If they are a plague on the Scots and the French, then they will no longer be here to plague me."

Raynar's brain hummed. He knew the truth of Henry's words. He had lived it. But how would Henry's plan unfold?. Was this good or bad for his England of villages and folk? For his brotherhood? For their kin? Should he leap up now and loose a shaft though Henry's heart? He would only get one shot before he himself was cut down. He lay back frustrated by his own indecision. He well knew that indecision was also a decision. He cleared he mind and tried to think clearly. Cause and effect. Short term, Long term. By closing his eyes and forcing his mind to be still, he could better hear and translate the French words.

It was Henry's voice again. "Walter, mount up and be gone. Wherever I am I will organize daily messengers to you in Rouen so that we both know all that happens on both sides of the Manche. God speed." The sound of hooves marked Walter's departure. There were no more words until the sound of Walter's hooves were distant.

Someone said, "So did he kill Rufus, and if so, for whom?"

Someone else said. "Can you doubt it Breteuil, of course he did. His wife's father is Fitz Gilbert who was with Odo de Bayeux in the rebellion of '87 against Rufus. He is Robert's man. I would wager that Robert is already back from the Holy land and in France, and this is part of a plan for him to claim the throne under the Accession Treaty."

Henry's voice was easier to translate. "You may be right, fitzHaimo. Walter had the opportunity and the skill to do it, though I think it more likely that it was the Hood. I watched Walter's face and there was no guile there, only fear. The Hood hated Rufus as much as they hated my father. At the lodge we were a small party by design. We wanted to be able to talk freely of Robert's return. Rufus would not have invited Walter if he were Robert's man. Our being a small party gave the Hood the opportunity, and they made good on it."

Henry paused. No one else spoke, so Henry continued. "However, whether Walter did it or no, my wager would be that he stays in Normandy only so long as it takes him to cross it, to his lands in Poix, in France. In any case, he is a pawn, and not worth worrying about. I have given him leave to do what he would have done in any case, and flee across the Manche. If he is true with me, then good. If not, then it will go badly for him. Come, mount up. We must be away to Winchester with all speed. Control of the treasury is vital. With it I can buy the loyalty of London, and buy a bishop's blessing while he crowns me."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 8 - Getting Away With It, Ytene (New) Forest in August 1100

Raynar listened to the horsemen saddle up and hurry on their way, and then silence. He rolled out of his hidey hole and sat up facing the corpse. They were quite alone. He cursed softly. They had left so quickly that he had no chance to kill Henry. He was now convinced that his indecision had been an error. His life for Henry's would have been a good trade. Good for the villages and for the folk. An overwhelming sadness was pressing on his chest.

Sadness not for William Rufus the king, who richly deserved death many times over, countless times over, due to the famines caused by his taxes, and the executions caused by his crushing laws. How many children had starved so he could buy Normandy from his brother, or so his brother Robert could wave his sword at the Mussulmen?

Sadness not for William Rufus the man, as he had lived a full and licentious life, unlike his subject folk who knew nothing other than endless hungry toil in the fields.

And not for William Rufus the warrior with whom he once stood shoulder to shoulder, facing a charge, because for a warrior to die is normal and he had outlived most of the thousands that fought under his banners.

He was sad because taking this life had not changed anything. Henry had instantly replaced him and he would be equally burdensome to the common folk of this land. The "manor born" class would continue to bleed the folk to pay for their fine houses and fine clothes and fine weapons. The children would still be hungry while slogging to bring in the good harvests, and they would still die when the harvests were bad.

"No, that is not true!" Raynar yelled at the corpse. and then quieted "There is a difference. Rufus, you were evil and foolish and getting worse every year. Henry's reign cannot be worse. Perhaps he learned something today that will make him rebalance his rule and rebalance the food. Perhaps his accession will be contested due to the treaty, because of it the Normans will destroy each other in Normandy and leave the rest of us alone. Perhaps he will use English bowmen to slaughter Robert's Norman knights and thereby lighten the yoke of taxes that keep Robert's army in the Holy Land."

He should not be sad, he should be relieved. This day was not unfolding as expected. By now, whether his arrow had hit or missed, he expected to be a man on the run. A man chased by professional hunters and soldiers and perhaps even hounds. By now he should have been fleeing through dense thickets where horsemen could not go, and along the creek beds in order to hide his scent from the dogs.

He had planned for two days' hiding on the northern edge of the forest before making his way back to his stash of city clothing down near the Romsey road. He had expected that the direct roads from here to Winchester would be watched, so he had planned on traveling at night only, and for two days northward into the comparatively empty downs of Wiltshire, before turning South and East to Winchester.

Instead he was alone with a still corpse in a still forest. No hue and cry, no howling dogs. No one cared about Rufus the corpse, who yesterday was the most important man in the land. No one was seeking vengeance. No one was applying the law. Instead of now being in a panic and in a hurry, he was the only one who wasn't. Tirel was in a hurry to get to the continent. Henry was in a hurry to secure the treasury. They were in a race against the news of the king's death reaching the people.

He moved to the corpse and pulled back the cloak. He picked up the broken shaft with multicolored fletching and threw it into the bushes. He returned to his hide hole and reached in to retrieve his bow and quiver. On a thought he patted his clothing for the purses and found none. He dove back under the bushes and pulled out the purses laughing to himself. "Purses don't stay in place without a belt."

After striding over to where he had made his stand, he picked up and fastened the sling as a belt. He found the unused lead shot and pulled the remaining arrow from the deer shit. He scored an arrow shaft with his knife and snapped it in two, and then snapped off the point for use on a new arrow. Back at the corpse he laid the black arrow shaft on the body and pulled the cloak back into place. From his purse he retrieved a second parchment, the same as the first but a messy first draft, and put it into Rufus's now empty left hand.

He shouldered his gear, stowed his purses and looked over the area to ensure he hadn't left anything. "That black arrow should get the verderers' tongues wagging, and the carters', and the priests' at the cathedral as well," he thought. "I will spread the word at inns along the way to help the news travel." He imagined the scene of a town crier yelling out the news, "Hear ye, Hear ye: The Norman king William Rufus has been killed like a dog by an English bowman, a Hoodsman."

Finished, he started his hike back to the tree on the ridge. He was thinking hard as he walked. "Everything that Henry had said indeed made sense. The news that the Hood had killed the king must get out. Such news will make an immediate difference to the folk. All the Normans in this land and in Normandy will be keeping to their castles and manors for protection. Times of succession are risky times for them. Times when they won't sleep at night. Times when they will stay home instead of riding out to badger the real folk. The real folk may even be left in peace and allowed some happiness."

He kept his mind busy pondering the other changes, both immediate and for the rest of the year, that might result from his deed today. Thoughts such as, "What if the Forest Law is repealed or at least partially repealed? What if peace comes to the Welsh border and marches? What if the rule of folk-right came back, along with folkmoots and shiremoots as the legal courts for local law?"

The more Raynar thought, the wider he realized were the implications of his deed. Everything became surreal as if he was walking in a dream. He had just killed one of the most powerful men in Christendom. "What if the balance of power of Christendom was changed, would there be invasions and major wars?" He began to feel dizzy and unwell.

Only five days had passed since the morning in Winchester when he had accidentally learned that the tyrant Rufus was going on a hunting trip without his normal retainers and guards. Five days of a simple plan based on his patience, his woodcraft, and his skill with a bow. The simple plan had worked better than he had ever expected. Rufus was dead and the Norman world had been turned on its head.

His own head was buzzing and he was shaking all over, and he was forced to lean against a tree and retch. After washing his mouth out with the last of his water,he felt much better. He left the shadows and stood in the warm sunlight until he stopped shaking.

His mind started filling with thoughts again. "Henry won't dare enter the forests for fear of an arrow, a hundred arrows, a thousand. " He wondered how many thousands of bowmen now knew the creed of the brotherhood.

* Hunt alone.  
* Strike a leader.  
* Vanish.  
* Never tell.  
* Gold buys chains.

As for today's deed, he was now up to Vanish, and Never Tell. He automatically patted his purse. Never telling was always the hardest to do, because that task was never ending. Never telling was forever. It was so hard to keep quiet, especially for Raynar, who enjoyed his skills as a story teller.

Although he had cursed himself for not vanishing immediately after he shot the arrow, he now realized how much better off he was to have overheard Henry's plans. It not only told him that he would not be pursued, but it also gave him a direct insight into the problems that Henry and all Normans now faced.

The creed was designed to keep alive an ongoing independent resistance to the Norman invasion. A resistance that did not need leaders or armies or costly weapons and armour. A resistance that would survive because it could be joined by anyone.

It was kept alive by those who refused to just suffer the invaders. As he walked along he wondered how many of the Hood knew when, and where, and by whom the creed was created. He knew. He was there at the beginning. Most of the others from that time and place were now dead.

It was back in '66, after the fyrd had been ordered to disband, rather than finish off the Normans. Oh, and yes the fyrd could have finished Duke William off. By then the tactics of fighting heavy cavalry had been figured out and they had been training themselves in how to drag those Norman knights down off their coursers and slaughter them. Ah, but then the politics of the Pope's bishops took a hand, and they favoured the Normans, and the fyrd had been dispersed so that the Normans could ravage the South.

The original brotherhood was formed between the scouts of the English army. They were the skirmishers who were already using hit and run tactics to weaken the enemy, and their main target was to kill their leaders. When the orders came to disperse, they had created the brotherhood and with it, the oath that would keep what they had seen and learned forever fresh in their minds.

There had been many versions of the creed in the early days, but the longer versions slowly became simplified. Rules such as "never harm women and children" and "Take from the rich and give to the poor" were dropped as the creed evolved. After all, women and children would not be the leaders so therefore under the simplified creed they would not be targets.

Then there was the last point of the creed. Gold buys chains. This was a warning that if you suddenly showed a lot of wealth, you would be noticed and caught. It was better to give the wealth away to those in need, than to be caught because of it.

Gold buys chains. Over the years it was that last point that had been used to sound out strangers to find out if they were of the Hood. A simple pun or a jest or a side remark that used the three words was a clue, a lure that you could cast to see if the stranger knew the creed.

Raynar chuckled to himself. Of course, and he of all people had missed it just now. That old verderer Fenner had put 'gold buys chains' into his discussion with Henry. Was Fenner another Hoodsman? Was he warning me because he knew I was still there? Was he mocking me for not being miles away? He certainly did me a good deed by telling Henry that I was long gone and that they would never catch me.

He was suddenly feeling much better. The uneasiness and surrealness had left him. He stepped up the pace and even started to whistle. He stopped mid-tune as soon as he realized that he had been whistling and he ducked off the path and into the shadows to watch and listen. Fool.

He chuckled again and remembered how when he was in Constantinople, his whistling would gather odd looks from the myriad of cultures in the markets of that mother of all cities. It was as if only the English whistled tunes. Other cultures only whistled warnings.

His mind was so filled with new ideas and old memories that he missed the game trail that would lead him to the toe of his ridge. He had no choice but to back track. Even then it took him three tries before he found the game trail that led him to the mossy trickle of drinking water. By the time he was trotting along the ridge path and peering down at the hunting lodge, the heat of the day was full upon him.

The tents were down and there was a lot of activity. There was no cart and no sign of verderers or men at arms. He kept out of sight and walked onward to the giant oak where he had spent the night. His cloak and bundle were still in the bushes by the ancient tree. Shading his eyes, he looked to the northeast to pick out landmarks that would lead him back to the Romsey cartway. Before he started down he took note of the angle of his shadow.

By the time he found the trail to the main cartway, the heat of the day was finished and the shade was cooling down. The trail joined the cartway near a ford and footbridge over some unnamed brook. Upstream and around a bend from the ford there was a pool where the water was slower and deeper, and beside the pool was the hollow tree where he had stashed his traveler's pack and his city clothes.

It was a pretty place, this pool, and inviting after his hot and scratchy scramble along game trails. Before fetching his other gear from its hide he enjoyed a quick plunge in the pool. After finding his gear and changing into his city clothes, he once again looked like a traveling merchant. He bundled the soiled forest clothing, the hood, the soft soled shoes, the cheap bow and the quiver, and then shoved them into the same hollow oak he had used to store his city clothes. If all went well he would never need them again.

With a second thought, he decided to keep using the homespun cloak along the dusty road in order to keep his good cloak clean. Only then did he succumb to his hunger. He had hung a package of food by a cord up in the tree to keep it safe from animals, and now his stomach rumbled in expectation.

Looking up the run of the cord made him curse. The end of the cord was shredded. The packet of food was gone from where he had suspended it up high and out of sight in the boughs of the tree. His efforts to keep it safe from animals had failed. Something had gnawed through the suspending twine and had dragged the entire package away.

He spoke aloud to himself, "Well it's a good thing they are not in hot pursuit. Without some food it would be damn hard to stay hidden and travel at night along a roundabout route through Wiltshire." He would have laughed but his empty stomach churned.

Grumbling, he tied his sling belt around his waist, hid his gold purse well, shouldered his traveler's pack, put his rolled hat on his head, picked up his stout staff and wandered back to the ford. He felt naked and defenseless without a bow. Not that he was defenseless. The staff was strong and he knew well how to use it, and it did have a trick end that concealed a long thin steel bade.

At the ford there was nothing to do but to wait for other travelers. It would look suspicious to be traveling this forest road alone and so close to sunset. If anyone was tracking him, he would be too easy to spot, alone. Unfortunately, sunset turned to twilight and then to night and still there had been no other travelers.

There were some local folk heading home from the fields. As they passed by, their looks of fear and suspicion convinced him to quit his perch by the ford. He stumbled through the dark back to where he had stored his forest cloths and made a bed from dried grass and his two cloaks under some bush willows. Hunger tried its best to keep him awake but exhaustion eventually won out.

Folk who sleep out, and not behind strong walls and locked doors, never sleep well. One ear is always tuned to hear a crack of a twig. Raynar's trick was to encourage dreams rather than sleep. He needed a comforting dream, so his last thoughts were of Sonja and Britta, the two sisters from Loxley. They and their children had always been such an important part of his life.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 9 - Lovers Again, Hathersage in July 1064

June had become July and the skies became blue, and the sun warm, but young Raynar was still locked in his grief over his sister's murder. Porters tended to think a lot. It came from spending long days trudging the roads with your body fully taxed, but your mind not at all. Some days it was if Raynar's sadness weighed more than the lead ore he carried. As if the summer sun did not shine on him, but was blocked by a dark cloud.

On Sundays, the day of rest that the abbey demanded of all its porters, he would go hunting, alone, and would always return with meat. He found that he no longer regretted the killing the handsome forest beasts. All he had to do was pretend that each was Garrick, Leola's murderer, and his bow would aim itself.

He was not alone in his grieving. John moped around his father's forge satisfied to do the most menial chores and without a complaint to break his silent brooding. He and Raynar now rarely sought out each other's company, for their sadness swelled at the very sight of each other.

One day, a Friday it was, John's mother Hilde watched for and stopped Raynar in front of her house. Raynar expected her to yet again tell him that he should not be ignoring his best friend at such times as this, but that is not what she said this time. Instead she handed him a folded and sealed paper and told him that it had been left on their doorstep that morning.

Raynar just stared at the wax seal on the folded paper, and for the longest moment did not move, but then he crouched by a bench to set his load of ore down, and then took the message from her. Hilde stood still, wishing him to open it immediately and tell her what it said, but no. He did not. Instead he left his pack with her and walked down to the river and sat on the bank and carefully opened it.

The message was brief. "Urgent Sunday Noon Pool Sonja." His first emotion was anger. The last time he had seen her was the day that he had executed Garrick in the church square in Scafeld. Sonja was connected to Garrick's family, as was her sister Britta.

Then his anger turned to curiosity because of the word 'urgent'. Sonja's last words to him on that fateful day were 'kill him'. Was she now in trouble over those words? Urgent. Had someone found out about their tryst at the pool?

His curiosity now turned to concern. Sonja had been his first sexual partner. He quite liked her, and her sister Britta. Besides, from what Britta's husband Osgar had said, both must be the daughters of old Hugh, and he had worked with Hugh for years in the high pastures. If they were in trouble, then he owed it to Hugh to help them.

On Sunday well before noon, he was waiting at the pool for her. Though he was waiting, and expecting her, she surprised him when she arrived. This was because she did not come down the main trail along the stream that led from pool to pool. Instead, she emerged from behind a thicket of brambles and was suddenly, magically, standing in front of him.

Sonja saw his surprise and her first words were to explain, "Behind that thicket, there is a game trail up that winds up the layers of the cliff to the top of Stanage Edge. The grazing land at the top of the edge belongs to Lord Sweyn. There is a path that leads from his manor near the village of Loxley, to the edge. Not many know the way down the cliff. From the bottom it is hidden by the brambles, and from the top it looks like it drops off the cliff."

He kept his silence and stared at her. She was so comely, even dressed as a farmer's wife rather than in the fine clothes she had worn at the Moot. He took a deep breath and kept his mind away from the vision of her without her clothes, but the vision was too strong and he did not trust his voice to speak.

Sonja read the worst into his silence. She walked slowly towards him, and then sat to share the boulder he was sitting on. "I wanted to thank you for killing Garrick, but I could only do so if I was alone with you."

"There is no need," he said with a frog's voice. "I did not kill him for your thanks. I did not kill him because you asked me to. I killed him because he was still alive and Leola wasn't, and she was far more deserving of life than he. It was between him and me and no one else."

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?" she whispered and reached over and took his hand in hers and held it.

She was confusing him, both mentally and emotionally. He wanted to leave, sort of, but not really. He wanted to smile just because she was holding his hand, but that seemed like a betrayal of his grief. He wanted her to stop talking and kiss him, but how could she tell him what was so urgent if she didn't talk. "Make what easy? Your message said urgent."

"If you won't accept my thanks, then will you accept your reward?" She pulled his hand from his lap to hers and squeezed it down between her legs. "Garrick made me fear for my life. I was terrified of him, every day, terrified. He was capable of doing horrible things, wicked things, and afterwards he would laugh as if the wickedness had been his noble right."

"There is no need for a reward," he whispered and tried to stand, but she pulled him back down beside her and wrapped both arms around his neck to hold him down, hold him to her.

"You are grieving," she whispered ever so softly into his ear. "You need to hold someone close and feel another warm, living body beside you."

Her touch felt so good. Her hair smelled of summer flowers. He felt a bit dishonest accepting her hug, for many of the women at the porter's glade had been giving him long full hugs to comfort him. At first he had pulled away from them, until Gwyn had scolded him for not allowing himself to be comforted by poor women who had little else to give him other than their comfort.

So he allowed himself to be comforted by Sonja. He allowed her hugs. He allowed her soft kisses on his neck. He allowed her to press his face into her bosom. He allowed her to undress him. He allowed her anything and everything that she gave.

Later, as they lay in each other's arms, naked on the warm sand in a very private place behind boulders, he felt happiness for the first time in weeks. The warmth of the sun, the warmth of the woman, the touch of her skin against his, the sound of her gentle breathing as she dozed, it was all good.

A shadow flicked across his eyes, and that was the first he knew that they were not alone.

"Shh," came a soft voice. "Don't stir, you will waken her." It was Britta's voice. Then there was silence for a moment, and the rustle of cloth, and then there was another touch of warm soft skin sliding along beside him on his other side from Sonja.

"You poor man," whispered Britta when her head came up next to his. "You poor man," she repeated as she softly kissed his ear, then his cheek, then his eyes. She reached for the pendant that lay on his chest. It was just a local crystal but it felt good in her hand. "Is this a healing crystal? Does it help?"

The words woke Sonja and she looked over him, at her sister, just once, and then rolled away from him mumbling something about going to pee. He didn't see her again until Britta had had her way with him. Britta used the same word, 'reward', but she did not go slowly, softly, sweetly as Sonja had. The two sisters were very different in that way. Britta was a joyous fuck.

Again he lay between them, all three naked and feeling delicious as they were licked by the warm sunlight. Britta was now the one dozing and her ample breasts were gently wobbling with each soft breath. Raynar reached over and hovered his right palm above her closest nipple. Eventually the nipple began to swell, and the skin around it turned pink as if sunburned.

Good. During his weeks of grieving, he had feared that he had lost his healing touch. Good, it was back. He smiled to himself and he felt the smile all the way down to his toes. It was as if an old and dear friend had returned from a long absence.

Britta moaned, "Oh that sun feels good," and opened her eyes and saw his hovering hand. "Oh, it was you. How do you do that?" She moaned again. "Never mind how you do it. Do it again." She pulled her arms together so that her breasts formed higher mounds.

Raynar was taken aback. He often used his 'touch' when he was tending the aches and pains of the crippled miners at the glade, but not since the first day he was told by the healer that he had the 'touch', had he used it on a woman's breast. He had never thought of using it during sex.

Feeling ever so naughty, he did what Britta had asked of him and hovered his hand over her breasts. The effect was almost immediate. Britta was moaning again. He moved his hand to the other breast, and down across her belly, and then lower.. Now she was writhing and then gasping for breath and uttering prayers to her goddess between the gasps. Then she spoiled it all by grabbing his hand, and the feeling disappeared.

"Oh, what was that?" sighed Britta as she rubbed her breasts with both hands, "and more important, when can we do it again?"

"Oh no, you don't," hissed Sonja, who had sat up to watch. "It's my turn." She grabbed Raynar's hand and pulled it towards her breast. "My turn."

The scene quickly turned into a three way wrestling match where tickling was the weapon of choice, and afterwards, after they finally managed to quell their infectious belly laughter, they all had turns, of everything.

That afternoon as he strolled back home to the glade, he didn't stomp in anger, and he didn't walk quietly with his eyes on the ground, ignoring the hails of friends. Instead he strolled in the sunshine, and helped others with their loads, and returned the wishes of good cheer from the regulars along the way. The old happy helpful Raynar had come out of his mourning and the whole porterway soon knew it.

Over the weeks of summer that followed, he became addicted to Sundays at the pool. He could not wait for Sunday to come, and then resented that his time with Sonja was so brief, for they always parted before noon. Britta came or not, but Sonja always came.

His new found joy was wasted on John, however. His friend resented that Raynar was no longer grieving for his sister. John was still morose, silent, brooding.

The three lovers were fools to think that their poolside trysts could go unnoticed forever. Unluckily for them, or perhaps luckily, the route Raynar took to the pools passed close to the mill at the smithy. One Sunday, John followed him up the gorge and discovered them cavorting and splashing about in the pool.

It had been a dry summer, and the pool was now barely thigh deep at its deepest, and was a bit scummy. When John came out of hiding and walked up to the three frolickers, there was no way that the women could protect their modesty. The four of them just stood still and stared at each other.

"You," John pointed at Raynar as if he was pointing an arrow, "you would do this, with them. They belong to the same family as Garrick." He was trying to ignore the women's breasts, so that meant keeping his stare hard on Raynar.

"John, John, don't judge them so harshly," Raynar begged. "They were old Hugh's daughters long before Britta was betrothed to Osgar. They wanted Garrick dead as much as we did. He was living in the same house. He was a danger to them every day."

"John," cooed Britta, "you have grieved long enough. Come in with us and I will wash away your grief so you can begin living again."

John turned to her ready with some words of anger, but her smile warmed him and stopped the harsh words. As he watched her she stopped covering herself with her arms and hands and stood tall and leaned forward and arched her back and took a deep breath and reached out to him with a long and graceful arm. At that moment he was in love.

After a stunned moment he started pulling at his clothes and dropped them and his boots on the bank and then waded in to the pool to join them.

Raynar turned to Britta to whisper his thanks, but she was frozen in place watching John. He turned to Sonja, but she also was staring at John, or rather at John's john. Both women gasped a breath. John was a big man and his work at the forge was building his arms and shoulders to the size of other men's legs, but that is not where their eyes were looking. Not what they were admiring. John was a big man, everywhere.

"You must take him, Britta," Sonja whispered urgently. "He is too big for me. He will tear me."

"First we must wash the soot off him," replied Britta in a normal voice. "John, how do you get so dirty?"

"Charcoal, coal, smoke. What do you expect? I am a smith," John said, comforted by having something ordinary to talk about to two comely and naked women. Comely naked women who were now walking towards him through the water. Coming to wash off the soot. For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

After John was clean, sort of, Britta took his hand and led him over to the boulders, to the private place. Raynar was glad that Sonja did not pull away from him to go with them. He felt possessive of her, and for a few minutes he was fearing that she also would go and 'reward' John.

When he said as much to her, she smiled back and said, "No. Not me. Britta can manage him by herself. Besides, she has already had a larger head than his inside of her. I have not, not yet." She looked at Raynar's blank look. "Her daughter Marion, silly."

Late that afternoon, both lads shared Sunday meat at Hilde's table. John's braying laugh was a joy to her ears. She had her son back, both her sons, for Raynar was as close to John as a brother. The boys were sharing some new secret that had them quick to laugh and quicker to smile. Life was good again.

John, however, did not have Sundays enough to become as addicted to them as Raynar was. It was only two Sundays later that the women announced that they could no longer come to the pool. Raynar was immediately heartsick. He loved Sonja, deeply and truly. John and Britta were more like friends who thoroughly enjoyed each other's bodies.

While Britta led John behind the boulders to their private place for one last good old-fashioned shag, Raynar led Sonja to a sunny boulder where they could sit side by side and hold hands and talk.

"Why?" Raynar asked the obvious questions. "Why now? The weather is still warm. Why this Sunday and not next?"

"Because next Sunday is my wedding day," Sonja blurted out, immediately regretting the saying. She held Raynar down so he wouldn't run off before she could explain. "Don't blame me. I am manor born. Our marriages are arranged. If you want blame, then blame the Neb Storm. Do you know of the Neb Storm?"

"Of course I know of the Neb Storm. I am born of the Peaks. The Neb Storm is what everyone measures every killing ice storm against."

"I was but eleven at the time and Britta thirteen. We had just attended the wedding of my eldest brother. It hurt our family more than any other. My father, Hugh, lost half of his sheep, all of his lambs, two shepherds, a wife, and a son. All in one hour to one freak spring storm. And the losses didn't stop there. We lived like paupers while he tried to put his life back together.

Eventually he gave up, withdrew into his grief, and threatened to become a monk and leave us. At that point my oldest brother, on his thirtieth birthday, petitioned the Moot to take his inheritance early so that he could save the estate. Considering Hugh's state of mind, the Moot agreed."

"Ah, so that is what happened," Raynar went suddenly quiet thinking of his friend, old Hugh. What a tragedy to have to bear. "I have heard other gossip from those that did not know the truth."

"My brother had a new wife and it was her family who provided the loans that saved the estate. Unfortunately she became the head of the household, replacing Britta. She resented both of us. We were seventeen and fifteen and not yet betrothed. Not unusual in a Danish family. We tend to keep our daughters close to home longer than Saxons. She was quick to find us husbands to get rid of us.

Britta was wed to Osgar. Her dowry was the grazing rights to our lowland pastures until she bore him a son. Within the year she had a daughter, Marion, but then Osgar was injured in a brawl in Scafeld and there have been no more children since. That is why Hugh must still pasture our sheep in the high meadows of the Tor."

Raynar nodded. So much about his shepherd mentor, old Hugh was now clear. "And you?"

"I was married to an old friend of Hugh's, a widower who needed a mother for his two children. He took me without dowry, as a favour to Hugh. The marriage was barren. He was old. He died three months ago. I became a young and comely widow without a child of her own."

"So that was good for you, then," he whispered.

"Are you really that naive?" she hissed. "Without a child I had no role. I was no longer a wife, and could not fill the role of a loving mother. I could not become guardian to his children, nor trustee to the estate. His younger brother, another older man, took over the main manor, the children, and the estate. I inherited an old manor, abandoned and with no land. An empty place with no income. As I came into the marriage with no dowry, so did I leave it.

I was viewed as nothing more than a drain on the estate's coin. I had a decision to make. Find another husband - difficult without a dowry. Stay on as governess to my step children, and therefore mistress to the new lord. Go back to my own family. Or, the way of most childless widows, depend on the generosity of men, and eventually end up as an alehouse slut."

"Sorry, love, I didn't realize," he whispered softly. "So you went back to your family's manor, back to Hugh."

She moaned, "Hugh had become his own shepherd. My brother is lord there now. His wife would not suffer me to cross her doorstep. I had only two realistic choices. Become a mistress to my husband's brother, or live with Britta until I found another husband.

Britta was worried about me from the moment I entered Sweyn's household. She had long known what an evil shit Garrick was. Luckily for me, I was not his type. I was four years older than he, and very much not a virgin, and I no longer had the skin of a young teen.

Unluckily, I didn't know that I was not his type until after Sweyn had asked for us to wed, and until after I had rejected him. Any rejection turned Garrick into an instant enemy. He never wanted anything so much as that which he could not have. Suddenly he wanted me, but not as a wife."

"Is that when he raped the household maid?"

"My maid. He raped 'my' maid. He went to my room to rape me, but I was not there, so he did her in my place. Oh," she sobbed, "he used her cruelly and beat her face so as to ruin her beauty. When she accused him, he blamed it all on me for not being there. I began to fear for my life but where else could I go. It was Britta who told me what to do. I seduced the lord, her father-in-law Sweyn. Britta arranged for our coupling to be 'accidentally' witness. Together we convinced him to offer to wed me."

"So that is who you will wed next Sunday?" Raynar almost cried. "Lord Sweyn? But he is so old, over fifty. You cannot do this thing. Marry me instead."

"You, a shepherd, a porter, a man who breaks his back everyday carrying lead ore. I love you dearly, darling, but you cannot afford me."

"You said you have an old manor. I can work it. We can make it pay. Life will be good, you will see. I am not just a porter, I am a head porter because I can read and write, well, at least I am getting better at writing. I can do sums and ledgers. Please, marry me."

She took a deep breath. He was so young, so eager to please, so simple. "The logic and desires of women confuse men. You probably know this already," she whispered. "But the logic and desires of women born to the manor are even more confusing. I desire you, desire to be with you. More, I love you. You will be the love of my life. But marry you? Never.

It would not be logical. I have an empty house with no land. You have no land. To those of the manors, marriage is all about land. I am betrothed to Sweyn. My dowry was that empty house. The terms were that I must be pregnant before the wedding date is set."

He stood and dragged her to her feet and looked down at her pretty face and voluptuous body. "You are pregnant?"

"Of course. That is what happens when women have sex. Haven't you noticed me gaining weight? Well, perhaps not me. I am still slim. But you must have noticed Britta."

"Britta is pregnant? But I though that Osgar ...." his eyes went wide. "It could be John's child."

"Pah, she wouldn't have ridden John if she weren't already pregnant." She watched his eyes widen even further. He was such a child. "The fates have woven us together, love, whether we are married or not. On that day that we first met, here at this pool, Britta and I had just decided that we both needed sons, and moreover, that our sons must share a father. After all, they had to look alike, if we were to pass mine off as Sweyn's, and hers off as Osgar's.

Mere minutes after we had made that pact, you discover us bathing. It took us seconds to realize that you must have been sent by the goddess to solve all of our problems. When I look back on it, I am convinced that the fates must have foretold to the goddess that it was you who would eventually kill Garrick, and so she arranged to have you meet us here on a day when we were both mentally ready, and physically fertile."

Raynar grabbed his crystal and held it between his hands and looked to the heavens to pray to the moon goddess, the goddess of fertility. He did not know whether to curse the fates or to applaud them, but he prayed for the goddess to keep these woman safe from more of their mischief.

"Yes, pray to the goddess for sons," she whispered as she led him towards the private place behind the boulders. "We will give her one more fertility offering to ensure it. A son to either of us will complete Britta's dowry and then poor old Hugh can come down from the peaks and enjoy his grandchildren."

As they passed the first of the sandy, private places, they watched for a moment while Britta rode John into ecstasy. Raynar whispered. "Does John know?"

Sonja's spun about and stared him in the eyes and in a hushed voice replied, "I told you because you are the father and have a right to know. No one else suspects and we must keep it that way. That is the main reason to stop these trysts, and now. We all enjoy them, but one of these days we will be caught out."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 10 - Safe with Old Friends, Winchester in August 1100

Raynar was woken out of his pleasant dreams of his trysts with Sonja and Britta by the early morning river midges. They drove him from his forest bed. They pestered him all the way back to the cart ford and they made it impossible to wait by the footbridge, so he started walking along the cartway towards Romsey. His legs and hips and back ached from his long day yesterday. He was too old to still be hunting men in the forest.

After the sweet spicy air of the forest, Romsey was an assault on the nostrils. Putrefying odors announced the town well before his first glimpse of it. Saxon towns always seemed to be surrounded by refuse and night soil. An old shepherd had once told him that sheep did not smell until they were penned too closely together. To Hugh the shepherd, who lived in the fresh air of the high mountain valleys, towns were just places where people were penned too closely together.

Some local folk told him that the best food was at the inn on the Winchester side of the town. He pressed on past two other inns and a rough-looking ale house. The food at the Boar Inn was good, but then all food is good if you are hungry enough. There was no talk of kings at the inn.

As travelers finished their food and ale, they would stand close to the cartway to wait for others walking the same way. Once a group was large enough, they would strike out together along the highway. He went and stood with the next group that was Winchester-bound. There was little talking amongst them, as if each member of the group was traveling by themselves. There seemed to be no husbands and wives, or brothers, or cousins , or even two from the same village.

As an afterthought, Raynar doubled back to the inn door and said quietly to a group of men who were just arriving, "So is it true? Has the Hood killed the king?" He ignored the replies as he sped his pace to catch up to his own travel group.

When his group stopped for a rest and an ale about an hour west of Winchester, a horseman rode up and drank an ale without dismounting. Raynar heard him ask the serving girl, "Is it true, has the Hood killed the king?" She ran into the kitchen without answering. By the time he reached Winchester, there was only one topic of conversation at the city's west gate. Bad news travels fast.

Henry, on his fleet horse, would have arrived at Winchester almost a full day ahead of him. The bustle and din of the city was a shock after the serenity of the forest. His tired feet were complaining about the change from soft country road to cobblestone streets.

Winchester was a thriving city and still considered the crown's center in spite of London's size and financial power. Compared to London, it was well organized and clean. It had been in a nonstop building boom since the Normans arrived thirty- four years ago. It was also, therefore, expensive.

Luckily Raynar did not need to pay an inn's prices for a dirty dormitory bed, because an old friend here had done well for himself as a wool merchant and had a large household in Winchester. Of course, neither friend John nor his son were in the city right now because there was less than a month left before the Winchester Wool fair would begin. Both father and son would be with their carts visiting favoured sheep farms, collecting wool and homespun for the fair.

John's wife Mar, however, was still in Winchester keeping an eye on the business and making good and sure that the fullers and weavers that John had contracted were working long hours. Raynar had kissed Mar goodbye six days ago, with the full expectation that it would be his last kiss on this earth. At the time, the tale he had told her was the truth, or a stretch of the truth. How had he put it? Ah yes, since his business in Winchester was delayed, he was off to the country to fulfill a promise made long ago.

Along he trudged on aching feet as the Romsey cartway became High Street, until at Market Street a bouquet of summer flowers leaped from a barrow into his hands. The flower girl had a delightful smile, and he made such a bad bargain that she added more flowers to the bunch.

Within a few paces he was also carrying a plum tart, despite the horridly craggy brown smile of the tart lady. The tart was tart and then sweet. Quite pleasing, but finished too quickly. She sold him a second for half price. It was late in her business day and what she didn't sell was her supper, which explained her teeth. The second tart was also gone by the time he pushed through the throngs on the Broadway and turned onto Eastgate.

Mar's house was in view now. It had been a continuous construction project for years, converted and expanded and now being remade of stone with the business at street level and rambling quarters above. At night with the heavy gates closed, it was like a fortress, but now in the brightness of the afternoon sun, the gates were open and welcoming.

Raynar turned in off the street and stopped at the gate. He had a wave of welcome from the building watcher who left his seat and put down his staff to open the small inner gate for him. He was now in the business level of the building. He continued walking to the landing at the bottom of a wide staircase, all the while looking up to the upper floor. The upstairs door was closed, so he swung his pack to the floor and rang the chime at the foot of the staircase.

There was a flick of a shadow across the door's peep hole, and then the rattle of a door bolt sliding. A smiling woman in a dark red apron came through the doorway and paused on the landing to look down. Mar had a twenty-year-old son but she was still slim and fit, and therefore very different from most of this city's merchant class women. Most of them were fat as a sign of their respectability, for there was nothing like a broad ass to prove to everyone that they never went hungry.

Mar was a shepherd's granddaughter and had often helped the old man in the high country with the sheep. She took pride in still being able to keep up with her men. Her good looks had captured a good husband, and she kept those looks to keep him faithful. She danced down the stairs to Raynar and threw her arms around his neck and pulled herself up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

"Welcome back Ray," she whispered. Then she dropped back on her heels and brushed his dust from her apron and snatched the now crushed bouquet from his hands. "You have timed it perfectly." She was beaming at the flowers and at him and giggling like a girl. There is nothing better than a gift of posies to bring the girl out of a woman.

She stepped back but then came forward and hugged him again, and then took his hand and led him upstairs. He reached down and dragged his pack along with them. Once they were up the stairs and inside, she closed and bolted the door, which was very unusual during daylight hours. Only then did she lead him across the great hall of the house towards the back set of rooms.

She turned to face him and said, "Your two friends from Al-Andalus convinced me that they needed to bathe, uh, properly," her smile was wide and knowing as she tugged him along again, "and other things. So I have sent my serving girls on lengthy errands to keep them away from this house, and I have invited two respectable young widows to come and help your foreign friends to bathe. All four of them are right now in the back room with barrels and buckets and kettles. You timed your arrival well for they just started, and you are covered in dust and smelling of the road."

She looked down at the cloak folded and hooked into his pack. "Where ever did you get that disgusting homespun cloak? It looks like the one I first met you in. No matter. Go, go and join your friends. The good widows have about another hour to get you clean again before I must send them home. And mind you keep the noise civil else the neighbors will have the priests knocking on the door." She gave him a very naughty wink, and a saucy look, a look that no one else in the city would have ever seen on this hard-nosed business woman.

Ever since the Norman invasion, England always seemed to have an abundant supply of young widows. The Normans were professional warriors, and warriors begat young widows in one way or another. The lucky ones were taken care of by family. For the others, well, life was a constant scramble for rent money. Luckily, Winchester had a constant supply of respectable visitors. Respectable visitors did not frequent the seedier inns and brothels that catered to soldiers and working men, but they still had needs.

Raynar paused by the door to the back room. Mar pushed him forward, giggling. He could hear giggles from the other side of the door as well. He turned to Mar and smirked. "So Mar, I am assuming that you will be washing me, as the widows already sound fully busy". Mar crossed to him and pulled herself up to his lips for a lingering kiss. "Some other time, when there is just we two. Now go and get ... uh ...clean."

Raynar handed her his purses and she nodded in confirmation that they would be put in a safe place. He then opened the door a crack, but knowing her curiosity he then opened it wide so she could enjoy the complete view. The scene in the room caught his attention immediately. In the room there were two naked, olive skinned, Mediterranean men, and two naked, blonde, and much younger Saxon women.

The older man, Gregos, was being dried by one woman over beside the pallet by the wall. The younger man, Risto, was standing in a quarter of a barrel while the other woman poured water from a kettle over his head. Raynar turned towards Mar, who was leaning into the room staring at the body of the younger man, blew her a kiss and gently closed the door in her face.

"Raynar, you are back." Gregos pulled himself away from his attentative widow, and crossed the room with both hands open, and with no thought to cover his nakedness or his sexual arousal. Though a member of a trading family from Cordoba in Al-Andalus, he was of Greek heritage and in the way of Greeks he was not embarrassed by his nudity, or even aware that others might be embarrassed.

In marked contrast, the widow had shyly covered her abundant breasts with some linen and seemed to shrink back into the shadows. The older man grabbed Raynar by one hand and pulled him to the center of the room and showed his good breeding by starting formal introductions.

"Annis my sweet, come here and meet my old friend Raynar. Oh, and bring him that cup of wine, if you so please, for he looks thirsty.... Now, don't be so shy. Raynar may be English, but he lived enough months in my country to enjoy bathing and cleanliness. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wash the grime off him before he gets the rest of us all dirty again."

As Annis was still meekly hiding in the linen, he pulled Raynar towards the young man in the barrel whose widow was now also hiding her nakedness by hiding behind the young man. "And this vision of the angels is Annis's sister Maida. Oh, come out from behind Risto. Raynar is a gentle man." He took a look at Raynar as he was speaking. "Though I must admit that right now he looks more like a bear from the woods."

Risto reached out for Raynar's arm and they clenched in the way of warriors, hand to elbow. Risto was also a Greek and unabashed. "I am pleased you have returned, Raynar. Gregos has been grumpy since he was put off by the officials of the Treasury. Hopefully these fair flowers will lighten his mood." He turned in place in the barrel. "Maida dear, please finish rinsing the soap from my hair, my eyes are stinging and I would hate for Raynar the think I was crying with joy at his return."

Maida and Annis exchanged glances and nods. Annis brought Raynar a cup of wine, and began loosening his clothes. She was hurrying, as if her own embarrassment would be relieved once this new man was as naked as the rest. Maida stood on a stool and slowly poured water over Risto's hair. Her rosy nipples were at the same level as Risto's eyes and each time she swayed to keep her balance, they brushed against his face.

Raynar replaced Risto in the barrel and Annis stood on the stool with a kettle of water. As he was being bathed and having his face massaged by young breasts, Maida was drying off both of the other men. Gregos was speaking quietly to her and showing her something involving a cup of wine.

It soon was evident that he was showing her how to sanitize a cock by washing it with wine. In the Mediterranean, this always preceded a sensuous licking. Gregos explained to Raynar's raised eyebrows that neither widow had been willing to risk a pregnancy by them, but they were willing to please them in other ways.

Over the next hour all three men were very pleased. More important, Maida and Annis were also very pleased, for when they left Mar's house walking happily arm in arm, the each had a fortnight's rent in their purses.

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The kitchen girl had yet to return from her stay-away errand, so Mar set the table for a simple meal of this morning's meat pies, and a selection of August fruits and berries. When the men returned from waving their fare-thee-wells to the widows, Mar motioned them to sit and she sniffed at Raynar's hair as she walked passed him. "Ah, that is much better. So nice to see men so clean and, um, so well-polished."

Raynar and Gregos sputtered with chuckles while Risto, whose English was certainly not good enough to understand puns, opened his hands quizzically.

Gregos smiled at Mar and thanked her for her generous hospitality. "When we are in Cordoba, we forget that other lands have forgotten the graces of the Greek culture. Nothing relieves my homesickness better than a sensuous bath. I thank you."

Once the four of them were seated at the table and thanks said, Raynar stunned them with his news. "I entered the city by the west gate, and on everyone's lips was a rumor that King Rufus has been killed. Whether true or not, such news may cause unrest in the streets. Once your house folk have all returned, I think it would be prudent to lock everything up and keep a continuous guard at the gate.

By morning the truth or falseness of the news will be known. If the king is truly dead, then the streets may become lawless and dangerous." His words had stopped everyone in mid bite. "Mar, when is John due back with his next load of wool?"

Mar counted on her fingers and replied, "Tomorrow or the next day, depending on the tracks and the carts. John takes all the carts to the furthest village and they distribute that load evenly across all carts. At each village on the way home, the load is heavier but the cartways are better. The effect is that all of the oxen are evenly worked, and the carts all stay together for protection."

She saw the questioning look on the faces of her guests and explained. "A lone cart piled high with bales of wool would be a profitable target for local thieves. The farmers are loyal to John because his service includes picking up the wool and assuming the risks of delivery." Her eyes widened and she put a hand on Raynar's. "Should I be worried for him? Do you think I should send a man to warn him?"

Raynar was thinking that this discussion would be much easier if he could just tell them that he knew for sure that the king was dead. "We can leave that decision, most decisions, until the morning when we know the truth."

Gregos shrugged his shoulders and crossed himself. "Raynar, if the king is dead then is our expedition finished? It has been so frustrating so far. At the Southampton the excise men told us we would need permits from the Treasury if we wished to export sheep, so we came to Winchester. At the Treasury the clerks told us that the minister of trade must issue the permits.

Since that minister was the king's brother, Henry, it was difficult to set up a meeting. Then that meeting was postponed and it was only through the grease of coins that the clerk told us that Henry had gone riding and hunting with the king in the New Forest."

Gregos pointed a chunk of bread at Raynar. "Then you, our host in this country, and out guide, suddenly leave us to fulfill some old promise. What now? If the king is dead, then there is no government, there is no minister, there is no one with the authority to write the permits to export sheep. Moreover, now you tell us that the streets may become dangerous. It has taken six weeks to get this far from Cordoba. Has this now become a hopeless quest?"

Raynar tried to calm the man. He excused himself to Mar for switching to Greek so that Risto could also understand his words. "Gregos, you came to England to buy some long-haired sheep to take back to Al-Andalus for cross-breeding with your Merino sheep. You could have done that as a simple merchant. I have always felt that all this talk of permits was only because you identified yourself as a representative of Al-Andalus. What is to stop us from continuing with the business venture as simple merchants and nothing more?"

He tugged at Gregos's silk shirt " Leave your fine clothing here with Mar. We will buy you some English clothes and dress you as merchants." He could hear a scrape of the gate below. The house staff must be returning from their various errands. "And don't worry about the safety of the streets. We will play the part of simple merchants, and the sheep we buy will have little value here in England. They will only become valuable when they reach Al-Andalus. The cost of their passage on a ship will make the actual purchase price of the sheep look like, like, turnips."

He reached for, found, and gently squeezed Mar's hand as he switched back to English. "Do not worry, everything will seem clearer in the morning. Now let us eat before we are interrupted by the kitchen staff."

It was advise well-heeded, because each of Mar's household arrived in an overflow of excited chatter about the rumour running through the streets of Winchester. While the household replaced them at the table, and ate, Mar organized them to help keep watch throughout the night. Gregos and Risto were excused from the duty as English culture was strange to them and they would not be able to discern what was normal activity and what was not.

Later, the four of them gathered on the roof for the sunset of this, one of the warmest days of the year. There were no clouds, but there was light fog from the water meadows and the river. They kept their silence and instead, listened to the city.

The excited people of the city were not leaving the streets to the darkness, as they normally did at this time of night. They were wandering about speaking with their neighbors and hoping for more gossip. You could hear gates that were seldom closed, screeching on their dusty pivots.

You could hear the tread of the night watch and their commands to people to go to their homes. There were extra night watches in the streets tonight. You could hear the tapping of their staves as they reached each corner of their watch. Private watchers, like Mar's downstairs, were all on alert and on their feet and armed. The city was restless and waiting.

Risto and Gregos grew chilly in the light fog and returned to their room to clean up the last of the disorder from the bathing. Raynar took advantage of the rare privacy and stood behind Mar, put his arms around her and pulled her close to keep her warm. The moon was slowly rising above the trees across the river. Almost full. That was a blessing because it meant the streets would be well lit for the watch.

Because of the near fullness of the moon there would be summer fetes in the villages across Christendom. With the moon's bright light people could dance and drink until late, and still see their way home afterwards. Raynar whispered softly into her ear, "Mark the beauty of this evening Mar, so you can tell your grandchildren. Tomorrow our world changes."

There was a bench made from an old strong box behind them, and she led him to it and pulled a blanket out from inside the box. Together they sat on the bench, cuddling under the blanket, holding back the night, and stayed warm while they listened to the night sounds. She enjoyed being tucked up to his warmth. It did not last. He began a gentle snore and her arm and back complained at his slumping weight, so she shook him gently. He stretched his way out of his nap.

"Ray," she whispered, "about the purse. That is a lot of gold."

"It is blood gold," Raynar replied in a sleepy mumble. "We would tempt the fates if we profited from it. Your flowers, the ones I brought, didn't you tell me that it cost you almost nothing to help that flower girl buy her barrow and her first bouquets. She is thriving. She looks healthy and happy. It is a good model. My suggestion is that we convert the gold to silver coins, and then use the silver to help local widows set up small businesses."

"So, no gifts to the convent this time?"

"No, no more gifts to the convent. Like the rest of the church, they have lost their way. Their earnings are no longer spent on the sick and hungry. It now goes to building grand roofs. The sick need simple roofs, not vaulted ceilings, and food, not stained glass, and medicine, not gilded statues of saints."

She poked him with a finger. "Stop quoting me as if those were your words." She stroked her hand gently down his cheek and he kissed it. "Now, go to your bed before Risto snuffs the candle." He kissed her cheek and headed down the steps from the roof. She stayed a while longer, all by herself and listened to the restless city until the moon was high.

This was Raynar's first night in a week where he was sleeping behind solid walls and doors with a roof and a comfy bed. He expected to fall asleep immediately and sleep in late, but the city sounds like the hollow echo of cart wheels on cobbles kept him restless. The week of sleeping rough had brought the memories of his youth to the front of his mind. Ah well, he would enjoy another dream of his voluptuous Sonja. Instead of dreams of breasts, however, he dreamed of carts.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 11 - Searching for Carts, Yorkshire in September 1066

Young Raynar stretched his neck against the thump line across his forehead, and heaved on the shoulder straps to lift the loaded basket up from where it had settled. One by one all of his porters had adopted this same kind of harness. He was proud of his simple design.

The carrying basket had a shoulder harness, rather than relying on just the thump line around a standard basket. With it, a porter could carry a load for longer because it was easier to balance the load and it allowed them to relax their necks without stopping.

He was whistling cheerfully and moving fast enough down the slight grade to kick up dust . He was now passed the first house in Grindel, and cheerful because he was only paces away from unloading the heavy load of galena into the abbey's carts.

He was always the last porter to reach the carts. As head porter he swept along at the rear of the line of porters, because he was always last to leave the mine. As head porter it was his responsibility to check the tally at the mine, and then make his mark.

His porters always took a break at the Porters Glade where their small coins would buy good food, and they could drink free water instead of buying ale. Since the glade was Raynar's home, he was always the last porter to leave.

There were always hugs from women and children, and last words with Gwyn or her mother. He and Gwyn were both now eighteen. She was still small, but had a fairy-like beauty, and it was a wonder that she had still not accepted a husband. Well, that was the Welsh way. The women would not be forced, and they must always have their say.

In any case, it was good that he was the sweeper, ploughing along under load at the back of the line of porters, just in case one of his porters misstepped or had a harness problem.

At Grindel, his porters were lined along the porter bench, which was high enough to rest the baskets upon without bending down. Why hadn't they unloaded yet? The carts must be late. This often happened, but there was something else, something strange this time.

There were carters walking about talking to the porters. Carters but no carts and the porters were still in harness resting against the bench. He hefted his basket higher on one shoulder and rested his load at the end of the bench, then with practiced ease, slipped out of his harness. For a long moment he stood and stretched and straightened his back.

This moment when you first stood without the pressing load was a magic time. You felt so light that you were sure that you could float into the air. He floated a few steps towards the other end of the bench while scanning his eyes down the cartway for the dust of inbound carts. There was none. A man in a monk's habit ducked out through the door of the carters' hut. It was Brother Tucker, his boss.

"Good Brother, I sense a problem. Has a cart broken down?" asked Raynar but waited patiently for an answer until the monk had finished blessing him. Tucker always made a point of blessing him, because he stubbornly resisted the belief in just one God.

"Would that the fates were so kind, Raynar. The porters will have to carry this load all the way to the smelter," replied Tucker. "King Harold's army has taken our carts. The army is moving fast up Ermyn Street on its way to York, and they have emptied the Abbey's barn of early oats and have carried the sacks away in our best carts."

"Why is the king's army moving north, I thought he already had a Northern army?"

"Raynar, you need to pay more attention to the news of the land and less to your women of the glade. The Norse have landed in the North and there are rumours that our Northern army has been slaughtered.

In any case, our carts have been taken and the flow of ore will now slow even more. First it slowed because a quarter of our porters were called to the fyrd levies by their sworn lords to create the Northern army, and now the remaining porters will have three times the journey for each load." He crossed himself and looked to the heavens. "But I am not complaining, Lord. Thank you for your remaining bounty."

"Do you think any of our porters were slaughtered?" asked Raynar, hoping for a denial.

"I hope not," the monk crossed himself and said a prayer. "We must all pray that they were used as porters, and not as warriors."

Raynar stopped himself from looking to the sky to say his prayer, and instead prayed to his boots, as if he were a Christian. "Well, we had best start walking to the smelter, then," he said softly and turned a foot to return to the line of porters, and to his load of lead ore.

"Them yes, but not you. See the carters? They took the carts but not the carters."

"Then who are running the oxen teams?"

"They left the oxen, too. They have commandeered all the horses along the way so that they can move faster with horse-drawn carts. They have no time for the measured pace of the ox. They hitched horses to our best axles and were away," replied Tucker. "I sent Baldric Carter with them to keep track our carts, because I want them back when this is all over. Young Baldric is trustworthy enough but he doesn't know his letters and he has a wife with a newborn at home."

Raynar turned back to face the good Brother eye to eye, but did not speak. He could guess what was coming.

"I must ask you to catch up to Baldric and replace him with our carts, and send him home to his wife." Tucker grabbed Raynar softly by the elbow. "There are others I trust to the job, but none with a better chance of success.

The professional army was moving fast on horseback. The roads will be choked with the fyrdmen moving north and the folk fleeing south. You know the high ridges, you know the tracks, and you know how to survive the Peaks. You can take the high ridges and overtake them before they reach Castleford, and certainly before Tatecastre."

Raynar was nodding his acceptance of the task, so the Tucker continued, "Come into the hut. I have had the Abbey scribes copy a map for you to use."

Raynar followed him into the hut. He had never seen a map on paper before, though he had drawn many in the dust. This map was a thing of beauty with rich colors and ornate miniatures. Very different than the squiggly lines made by sticks in the dust.

Tucker explained it to him using a long quill as a pointer. "North, South, West, East. This is the Abbey. This is us here. That is Scafeld. That is Castleford. That is Tatecastre. That is York. The red lines are streets. There is Ermyn street. The brown lines are main cartways, but do not trust them to still be there.

The blue lines are rivers. That is the River Ouse that joins York to the sea. The northern raiders are the Norse from Norway, and their ships can row all the way from the sea to York when the water of the River Ouse is high.

The levy commander who took the carts said there was a Norse army near York, but no one had seen the ships, so the river must be still low from the dry summer. He also said that our Northumberland ships are cut off from the sea and trapped at Tatecastre, so that blue line that joins the Ouse, umm, there, must be the River Wharfe that joins Tatecastre to the sea."

Tucker moved his quill from Tatecastre towards the sea following the blue lines. "So that means that the Norse ships will be south of here," the quill stopped, "where the Wharfe joins the Ouse. If the Norse are moving on York, then they would be moving north on the east side of the River Ouse."

He bent lower over the map and squinted his eyes, "Now, let me think. What is that blue line there? That long one running north on the east side of York. Ah yes, that is the River Derwent . I don't know of that river, but the line is thinner than the others, so perhaps a ship cannot use it. Certainly not before the rains. Bah, but the Norse are of no interest to you."

He moved the quill to the east and circled an empty area on the map. "These are the peaks, these are the ridges running north. If you stay on the east most ridges, and on their eastern slope, then you will skirt north of Wachefeld," again the quill stopped, "and be ahead of Harold's army. You will know Wachefeld by the fine buildings. It has enjoyed the favour of kings." Tucker pulled back from the map so that Raynar could study it. "Do you have questions?"

There was silence while Raynar committed the map to memory. Then he asked, "How many carts did they take?"

"All four of the best ones. The ones that John and his father fitted with metal hubs. Luckily they all have the Abbey's name painted on them."

"When I find them, and send Baldric home, what then?" asked Raynar.

"Just stay with our carts, and when the army doesn't need them anymore make sure our fyrdmen bring them back to Wirksworth." Tucker was counting coins from his purse. "And don't take a bow, else you may be forced into battle."

Raynar cocked his head at the good Brother and smirked. "No one outside of some Scafeld gamblers would know that my shepherd's crook is also a bow. I will keep the arrows out of sight, but I am not going unarmed into an area with thousands of armed men. Whether ours or theirs, the danger to me could be the same." He was silent until Tucker nodded his permission to take his staff-bow.

"Who is the commander that took them?" asked Raynar.

"Haelfing of Derby. He has bought lead from our mill before, and knows the worth of our carts and well knew where they would be at that time of day. The store of early oats was a bonus. I doubt he is a good Christian though, because he seemed to be pleased to be taking from the Abbey." Tucker had much more to say, but none that needed saying now. His body language turned silent, to encourage more questions.

"When did they take them?" asked Raynar.

"Yesterday, with an hour to sunset. We had just finished unloading the ore."

"Would they have traveled at night?"

"I don't know, but there is a good chance of it," replied Tucker, "hurry was the word Haelfing used the most. They had come straight from Derby, rounding up more fyrdmen as they moved."

"May I take the map?" asked Raynar.

"It was made for you. The scriptorium candles burned all night for you. The loss of those carts will hurt the Abbey's income, and they will be costly to replace if they are not returned."

"I will be going, then. No sense in delaying. I will leave my basket here. I will go by way of the Porters Glade and then up to the high ridges. At the glade I can pick up my hunting basket, my winter cloak, and some other supplies." He pulled out his own purse with its two copper coins and swept Tucker's count into it.

Tucker made a blessing for him, and then said softly, "Raynar, take care. It bodes ill that this army should be moving with such speed. Something has gone horribly wrong. I fear that the peace of Knut that we have enjoyed for all our lifetimes, may be ending. I feared it last year when there were so many Danes on the highways fresh from Denmark.

Perhaps that is why the Star of Bethlehem is in the sky. Knut stripped the Norse of their ships and their shipwrights, so that Viking raiders would no longer threaten his empire. He has been dead a long time. Time enough for the Norse to rebuild the Viking fleet. I fear that Harald of Norway wants to become the next Knut. "

"Speak not of kings and ships to me. I know nothing of either, save that they are foolish to make war when there are crops ready to harvest. The value of the carts, this I understand. The value of work for my porters while winter approaches, this I understand. You will get your carts back, my friend. I will bring them back." He rolled the map, pushed it into its scroll pipe, and walked out the door. "Watch for Baldric, he will carry news of me," he yelled over his shoulder.

He said his farewells to his porters as he passed them. "Have an eye for the glade until I return," was all he asked of them, but they all laughed at his waste of words. The Porters Glade was a special place to them. A shelter from the storms. A place with good food and fresh water. A place with widows not too proud to favour a lowly porter.

He carried the bad news back up the valley, but would not tarry to tell it. Those that would hear the news had to walk beside him. He did slow his pace for John's mother, but she still walked beside him to hear it.

John was not at the forge. He told John's mother to keep him home. She must stop John from following him into the trackless high country because he would never catch up. She nodded and understood, though how she could keep her John from racing after his best friend, she did not understand.

At the glade there were hugs as he prepared his packs, and kisses as he left. There was a long hug and a long full kiss in his mouth from Gwyn. Her mother was up at the mine on that day, attending a birth, so there was no one to disapprove of their kisses. They had grown up together like kin folk. Since his sister Leola's death she had been comforting him, sometimes secretly in her bed. He had searched her out to give her a handful of Leola's coin in case the glade had needs while he was gone.

Gwyn ran after him out of the glade and kept pace with him as he walked. "Raynar, my gift to you is some evil knowledge. Before you shoot an arrow at a blood enemy, stick its point into shit, pig shit if possible. It will become a killing arrow even with just a flesh wound. The death will come after two weeks of the agony of locked joints and spasms of muscle pain. The only cure is to well cleanse the wound when it is first made. Use strong ale or wine or vinegar, or a bitter tincture."

He stopped and turned and lifted the fairie woman up to his height and again kissed her fully and long. "Your words are the most useful gift you could have given me, and they weigh nothing, thank you." With that he was gone, loping down the way with his crooked staff and his basket pack, the small one he used for hunting.

He went to the place where the valley's stream forked, and crossed on stepping stones to reach the steep path towards the next hill north, High Neb. Once on Neb he caught his breath while he picked out the track that led northward along the east ridge. He continued eating the miles with his porter's stride so as to use every bit of daylight. It was easy walking on the ridges and the sides of hills. It would have been slow going if he had dropped down into the basins of the moor.

Eventually he ran out of new ridges going northward or eastward and bedded down for the night in a notch in the ridge's bedrock. It would be foolish to go down into the lowlands in the dark because he needed to use the height of this last ridge to take his bearings.

He made no fire, there was no need. There was nothing to cook, no company to keep, and no insects or animals to scare away. He chewed on dried venison left over from the buck he took last Sunday, and on green sheep's cheese that one of the kitchen widows at the glade had stuffed into his pack. He did not need to use his ale to quench his thirst because there had been clean water in the last hollow, but he drank some anyway to help him sleep.

At daybreak he took his bearings towards a distant tower that must mark Wachefeld, and made a mental picture of the large trees that would mark his direction once he was on low ground. The next stage was through rolling fields of grain. The grain was close enough to harvest ready, that the farmers would have a keen eye for any storm clouds. It was every farmers balancing game at this time of year. The longer a farmer left the crop on the stalk the better the crop; but a tall storm cloud could destroy it, and more than one wet day would make it too wet to store.

There were cartways in all directions winding between the fields and following the contours. Tucker had told him that the only straight streets in this land were made by the ancients. Folklore people called Romans who must have worked directly for the gods to have built so much, so big, so well, and out of stone.

He wished for a straight street now, as he feared being turned in circles on these winding cartways. Luckily, before he had left the last ridge, he had marked the biggest trees well in his mind, and he came to the first of them, and then the second and then the third, which he climbed to see further.

He was close to the tower now and kept to the west of it. There was an eerie emptiness to the rolling farms as if all of the people had all died, but he finally stumbled onto some women washing clothes in a bend of a stream.

"The men are gone," the youngest one told him and was shushed by an old woman for her foolishness in saying such a thing to a stranger.

The crone shrugged and spat and said, "The fyrd, the men have left the fields to the weather because of the fyrd. Their sworn lord cancelled this year's taxes if they went. Those that had not yet paid, well, of course they went."

The young one broke in. "That means one man per family, because no one pays taxes until after the harvest. They were promised that they could return before a fortnight."

"How long have they been gone?" he asked.

"A fortnight tomorrow. There will be a lot of babies born tomorrow nine month," giggled the youngest.

"There's no sign of them and not likely to be sign soon. You saw the Star of Bethlehem in the heavens. They have gone to their doom." cackled the crone.

"One man per family, so where are the rest of the men?" asked Raynar gently so as not to scare them.

"In Wachefeld drinking the lord's ale. He had news for them," the youngest waved in a generally eastern direction.

That answered Raynar's main question. The town with the tower was Wachefeld and it was time for him to bear east until he found Ermyn street or found the army. He couldn't help wondering what the lord's news was.

* * * * *

After skirting Wachefeld, he found the north-south highway with no problem, but finding it presented other problems. The first problem was that the army was moving along two highways that were three miles apart. The second problem was that they were both full of fyrdmen moving north. He had no way of knowing or finding out, whether the Abbey's carts had yet to pass this point on this highway or the other.

The fyrdmen were bunched together according to the village they came from, and knew only their village and this road. The local fyrd were on foot and carrying provisions, while the ones from further away had horse carts for provisions. No one knew of a Haelfing out of Derby, and no one could read, so the Abbey's signs on the carts were of no help in finding them.

He eventually was told that the main traffic was on the other highway so he hurried along the three mile path that connected the two streets, but there it was the same problem. Was he ahead of Haelfing or behind him? It made no sense to go south, as if he were ahead of them, they would come to him. That is, if they were on this street at all.

He could walk North with the army, but the thought of walking along in the stench of the shit left by so many men along the road did not appeal. The land here was all low with no viewpoints so in the end he decided to sit in a tree and watch and wait. This turned out to be a waste of time, and a loss of hours of daylight.

The enormity of the world was suddenly glaring him in the face. He was a mountain lad from sparsely populated hills and vales. The biggest town he had ever seen was Scafeld and the crowd that could meet in the square in that town was as nothing compared to the crowded street of moving men below him. The fyrd army stretched as far as he could see in both directions on this street. He suddenly realized how difficult would be his task of finding four carts and a carter amongst all of these folk. There was nothing for it but to keep watching.

Eventually a horseman leading a string of carts told him that the army was headed to Tatecastre to join forces with the crews of the Northumbrian ships. The carts would be organized and sent out from there. With a few hours daylight left, Raynar struck out for Tatecastre.

Everything was fine for a few miles. He kept up with the horseman and asked questions. The big news was that the King of Norway had won a battle on the outskirts of York at a place called Fulford. The horseman was bitter. He said that a traitor called Tostig had caused the battle to go badly for the Northern army.

"Who is this Tostig? How could one man have such an effect?" Raynar asked.

"Tostig? Where have ya been, lad?" the horseman looked down at him. "He's King Harold's evil brother. He used to be the Earl of Northumbria until we exiled him. Now he floats around with a small fleet pretending he is a Viking raider. I hope they hang him as a traitor."

Everything stopped ahead of them. There was a jam of folk and the entire road stopped moving. Raynar climbed another tree and could see that the jam went on for miles. There was no knowing what was causing the jam, or how long it would last. He could see a trail a few hundred yards to the east of the street that seemed to run north, and better still, it was empty, so he headed overland to use the side trail.

* * * * *  
* * * * *  
THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 12 - Rejoicing in Winchester, Hampshire in August 1100

By the morning, the world had changed.

Winchester's criers started early with their announcement that good King William the Second was dead, and that the future king, his brother Henry was leaving immediately for London to be crowned. At the news the whole household ran to the windows in case something memorable was about to happen. They were not disappointed, for a short while later a cavalcade of horses spurred past the house in the direction of the London highway. Raynar recognized Henry in their midst and pointed him out to the others.

Afterwards, Raynar went for a stroll as far as the market to see what else was happening. Last night had been surprisingly peaceful, which had encouraged this morning's food vendors, as they had brought extra goods in expectation of a busy day. There was nothing like gossip to gather folks into groups, and nothing a gossiping grouped liked more than a good pie.

Just after midday a message arrived at the house from Mar's husband John. John was still a day away, but would be home tomorrow for sure. The lad who brought the message told them that rather than the highways being dangerous, they were crowded. Thousands of people were on the move. Many were moving towards the many village fetes that would make use of the full moon. Others were moving towards Winchester in hopes of seeing the pomp of a coronation. Many land lords were moving towards their family estates to ensure their continued possession of their land in these perilous times between kings.

A neighbor stopped by to say that it was business as usual in the city, except for the Treasury which was under heavy guard and it worth your life to approach its gate.

But it was not business as usual. It was business better than usual. The whole city was rejoicing at the passing of the reign and the odious taxes of William Rufus. Mind you, if you asked anyone, they would say that they were rejoicing for the new king, not for the death of the old one. The church bells were a continuous reminder to the folk that this was the time to pray for the future, and to drop money in the church boxes.

After breaking his fast, Gregos politely reminded Raynar of his promise to be his guide while in England, and that he wanted to be out in the English streets on this day of all days. After Raynar's dire warning that there may be dangers in the streets for foreigners, it was Mar who made the decision.

At her bidding, there was a flurry of activity as the women of the house searched trunks for suitable English clothing for the Greco-Andalusian gentlemen. In their room, Risto and Gregos tried on the clothing that was brought to them. With a lot of help from Mar, the two gentlemen now looked quite convincingly like English merchants. Raynar and his two wards then made to leave the house, but of course, Mar was not to be left at home.

The streets were crowded with folk dressed in their best, seeking news, exchanging gossip, and waiting for something momentous to happen. They were already showing their impatience that nothing was happening. Henry had already left the city, riding surrounded by his most loyal councilors. Meanwhile, the rest of 'the manor born' had locked themselves behind their shutters fearing the worst.

The market was busy, but the sellers of luxury goods did not open. Other than the churches, most large buildings were under close guard, which took the guards off the streets. The men of the town-watch were walking in pairs, doing what they were paid to do ... watching. There were also watchers on top of all towers and high roofs. But there was no trouble. The folk were in high spirits and wanted to celebrate.

"The king dies and the people are joyous. Should they not be grieving and in black?" Gregos asked in Greek, luckily remembering to say those foreigner words in a quiet voice.

Raynar could not tell whether Gregos said this in sarcasm or in ignorance. He replied in Greek and in a very low voice, "To the English folk, William Rufus and his inner circle of lords were akin to the plagues and pestilences from the stories of Moses. Of course they rejoice at his death. As a king he was simply continuing the mis-rule of his father, but worse, for his greedy barons were completely out of control."

"But the lands of the English have been peaceful for a dozen years. The wars have been in Wales and Scotland and Normandy. How is this bad?" Gregos motioned them all to a shade tree where they could stand almost alone.

Raynar replied, "Three sons inherited from William the Conqueror. Robert, the eldest, was given Normandy. He was never there. His interests were in the rich courts of France, and Rome, and Constantinople. To him, his father's move into England was a move in totally the wrong direction. His dream is to expand the Norman empire to the east along the Mediterranean, you know, as the Byzantine Empire shrinks."

He stopped talking while two men walked by. "Once Robert's cousins took Naples and Sicily, he used those kingdoms as a stepping stone to eastern riches. And by riches I don't mean just gold, I mean also the learning, and the know how, and the luxuries. In Al-Andalus you have never lost the knowledge of the Greeks and Romans, and so you cannot understand. When Normans such as Robert traveled eastward, they were wonderstruck by what is every day normal in the Byzantine."

"After less than a fortnight in England, I understand their awe," responded Gregos. "I have never seen a land so filled with poor roads and bad plumbing. Most of the people are still living in mud houses with straw roofs. In this day and age."

Raynar choked down a response, and instead chose to continue explaining the kings. "William Rufus was the middle son. He was the son most like his father in that he craved warfare and pillage. He was made King of the English. To him, palaces and cathedrals were a waste of money and effort, and all of the people in them were a waste of air. He was a brave warrior but no administrator, and no Christian. The church hated him, because they could not control him, and could not escape his taxes. "

"He is the one that just died," confirmed Risto who was half listening while watching the thronging crowd for danger. He was, after all, the loyal bodyguard of Gregos.

Raynar nodded. "Henry was the youngest son. He inherited a great deal of coin, but little land and few titles. Henry has spent his brother's reign fearful of being imprisoned or murdered for his fortune. He stayed free and alive by playing Robert and Rufus one against the other and by being a useful administrator here in Winchester. His brothers were wary of his talent for politics, however, and so they both signed a treaty naming each other as their successors to keep Henry from ever gaining any power."

"So then Henry has no right to the crown. By treaty it belongs to Robert," observed Gregos.

"Yes" replied Raynar, "Robert should now be named as king. Unfortunately for Robert, he is not here. He is not even in Normandy. He is in the Holy Land, or perhaps on his way back from the Holy Land. The treaty allowed Robert to live in the Holy Land, while Rufus was allowed to rule Normandy so long as he kept sending huge amounts of coin to finance Robert's grand scheme of using the crusade to expand their empire.

When Robert first reached the Holy Land, there were tens of thousands of Norman warriors already in the east working as mercenaries for other kings. Rufus sent Robert enormous amounts of coin, and Robert hired and led all those Norman knights to fight for Norman interests, instead of for the interests of foreign kings."

Gregos was getting impatient and broke in, "So finally we are going to hear why William Two was worse than William One?" Mar spoke no Greek so she had moved away and was chatting to three women at the other side of the shade tree.

Raynar was keeping an eye on Mar, but he continued, "Gregos, you have studied finance, and money, and have dealt with bankers. When I visited you in Cordoba, were you not the temporary assistant exchequer for the entire Caliphate? Can you not guess?

No, then let me finish. Rufus needed portable wealth to send to Robert in the east, so he bled England and Normandy of all the gold and silver he could tax, or invent taxes for, or confiscate, or take by violence and murder, or steal from churches, and then sent that coin to Robert. Most of the English gold and silver coins have long since disappeared from England."

Gregos's eyes went wide in disbelief, but the logic was lost on Risto. "Risto, England's prosperity since before Knut was ensured based on English silver coins. You could spend English coins in other kingdoms with no problem. Eventually, there were not enough coins left to run England. Either Robert's knights had them in the Holy Land, or the wealthy of England had buried them to hide them from Rufus and his taxes."

There was a moment of excitement as two couriers on fast horses charged by, slipping and sliding on the cobblestones. The people that had gathered for the market and the gossip dived out of their way. Raynar had heard them coming and had pulled Mar towards the tree without seeming to think about it. "I told you to stay close," he scolded.

"The hat maker's wife just told me that it was the Hood that killed the king." She pushed him back against the trunk of the tree with surprising force. "Is that true?"

"It is a likely story, though it would seem more likely that Henry had him killed, before Robert could return from the Holy Land," replied Raynar.

"I didn't ask you what was likely. I asked you what was true," she persisted. "Tell me the truth, or at least swear to me that John was not involved."

"John was not involved, I swear it," replied Raynar. "Didn't you hear what the criers are yelling? It was a hunting accident." He could tell by the set of her mouth that she wanted more truth, but then she relented and smiled and called to the Greeks, "Care for a pie or a tart?" At the widening of Risto's eyes, she laughed and told him, "Not that kind of a tart, Risto, you naughty man."

Before Raynar could stop her, Mar had stepped away from him and was pushing into the market crowd.

Gregos watched her go. He liked English tarts and smacked his lips in anticipation. He turned back to Raynar. "Money is the grease of a kingdom's axles. Without coins, how do you market, or pay workers, or make business at all? You cannot even go to battle without enough coin to pay the soldiers."

Raynar answered without taking his eye off Mar. "Most of the soldiers are no longer in England. They have followed the coins to the Holy Land. England has become a land of barter and credits for the swapping of goods and services. Coin has been replaced by promises of goods, or promises of services. If the promises are from someone trustworthy, it is possible to exchange those promises for other goods and services. It has meant that business has become very localized."

"This is unbelievable," Gregos said thoughtfully. "Country folk can make do without coins because their needs are simple, but the needs of town folk are more complicated, so life in the city rolls along on coins."

"Ahh, so now you understand" replied Raynar. "From the lack of coins, prosperity in England has wilted. Our prosperity is being exported to the East with the coins. Worse, the need for coins for Rufus to send to Robert is neverending so Rufus's reign was one of ever higher or newer taxes. When the taxes did not raise enough there were new confiscations, including the confiscation of the wealth of churches. Lately, his minters have been striking coins that are a poor mix of silver with base metals, and the silver content has become less and less."

"No, this they must not do!" exclaimed Gregos. "Rufus must have been told that shorting coins is the surest way to ruin."

A good Englishmen could rant all day about the shortcomings of his government. Raynar decided to cut his rant short. "And that is the short version of why the second William was worse that the first. Imagine, please, what this export of coins means to English folk.

The Normans do no productive work. Everything they earn is from the backs of the English. Every coin a Norman pays in taxes must be worked for by an Englishman, or be taken away from his wife and bairn. There, I am finished, it is said. Now do you understand why the folk are rejoicing in Rufus's death? Have you noticed how the churches have joined the folk in their rejoicing?"

With perfect timing, the church bells again began to peel. Raynar heard the clatter of more hoofs so he skipped across into the market to help Mar carry the pies and tarts. He held her next to the stall until the horses were by. "More couriers, in Cornwall's livery, so the rumours are spreading widely and quickly. The nobility all want to know what is happening here at the palace."

Gregos and Risto eagerly reached to help with the treats. "With the death of the king comes the death of his taxes, yes?" asked Gregos.

"Yes, which is why Henry is racing to London," replied Raynar "He will have gone to promise an end to sending money to Robert, and an end to the taxes that supplied that money, and an end to the confiscations when those taxes are not paid. With such promises the bishops and all of London will want him crowned quickly, before Robert comes looking for his money."

Some passersby were looking at them curiously, probably due to the strange sound of Greek on a Winchester street. Raynar switched to English and said in a loud voice, "I was hoping that Henry would be crowned here at Winchester, but I suppose those damned Londoners will crown him while he is there, and thus cheat us of the celebration." This statement put new fire into the gossip rings, and the attention of the curious switched to this latest outrage of the wicked Londoners.

As they strolled the warm streets with the other folk, waiting for something, anything to happen, Raynar noticed that not everyone was rejoicing. The city's elders were having worried discussions in front of the guild hall. Apparently they saw a darker future for Winchester now that Henry had obviously decided that London should take precedence over Winchester. If Winchester were no longer the crown's center, it would soon become a lesser city, more like Salisbury.

Also not happy were the circle of Mar's friends and her competitors who sold fine expensive cloth and wares to rich Normans. Today these were the only shops with no paying customers.

Also not happy were the builders and masons who had been told to barricade their building projects, wind down the mortaring, and otherwise stop work. Meanwhile, at each of the large Norman houses, gates and shutters were barred, barricades were built, walls had lookouts, and every man was armed.

According to the market gossip, it was the same in the surrounding villages. The Normans were behind barricades and locked within their manors. Since the Normans were not directing the day's work, the serfs were working in their own garden patches, and doing chores that benefited themselves rather than their lords. It was even said that many serfs had left their lord's fields to visit kin or the fetes in other villages.

Courts were adjourned because the Norman judges stayed at their homes. Prisoners were left unattended and hungry, as the guards were left with no direction and no coin. At the Treasury, the only movement was the arrival of tax collectors.

Apparently, on the news of the king's death, the collectors had stopped collecting and raced for the safety of the treasuries guards. Raynar wondered how many collectors would disappear with their collections, and of those, how many would disappear into another shire, and how many would disappear into a shallow grave.

By the afternoon, the gossip was more exciting. No one had yet seen the old king's body. Was he really dead? If he was dead, then was it a hunting accident as the criers were saying, or was it murder? And if it was murder, then who was the murderer. Was it an agent of the Welsh, or of the French or of the Danes, or of one of Rufus's brothers?

Most of the common folk were hoping that the original rumour was true, and that the Hood had done for him, as they had done for so many other Norman turds in the past. Everybody was having a wonderful time speculating about something that no one could know for sure.

Couriers on swift horses had been coming and going from the city, spreading the news, spreading orders, asking for orders, and carrying promises to and from all the castles, forts, fortified manors, and to ships as well. Occasionally, small cavalcades of well-dressed riders trotted off towards London.

As the heat of the day built, the groups of gossipers started to drift apart. The folk had realized that nothing was going to happen soon, and their stomachs were leading them home. Gregos and Risto had been sitting on a low wall in the shade watching the market folk and chatting to each other.

Mar seemed to be known by everyone in town and was constantly drawn away into conversations. Raynar leaned against a tree chewing on a long stalk of grass and looked relaxed, but his eyes were alert and he watched everyone who approached them with a suspicious eye. The crowds were thinning more quickly and his small group now seemed more and more conspicuous as the streets emptied. Just after yet another courier raced towards the palace, he herded Mar and his two wards back towards the house.

The world had changed and Raynar wanted to scream to the world that it was his doing, but he could not even whisper the truth to Mar, one of his oldest friends. Such a truth might put both of them at risk.

Gregos made a decision that afternoon. They would leave Winchester as soon as Mar's husband John returned home. They would leave most of their belongings with Mar and travel lightly, and dressed as English merchants. They would first go to London and from there travel to the North to buy and ship sheep.

No one was surprised by his decision. Even if the main reason he gave for his trip to England was to export breeding stock, and even if he was traveling as a merchant, and not an emissary, they all suspected that everything he saw and heard in England would be described in detail to his Caliph on his return to Cordoba.

Raynar spent the rest of the afternoon trying to arrange the rental of horses to take them as far as London Bridge. He returned from his task hot and frustrated. "There are no horses to rent, buy, borrow, or steal. They are all carrying Norman riders to London as we speak. One smith did say that if we could make our own way the first fifteen miles to Basingestoches, that there we would find horses."

Gregos feigned shock. "You mean walk for fifteen miles, a man of my age and stature?"

Mar took his complaint seriously and was about to leave to ask her neighbors for the loan of a horse cart, before Gregos convinced her that his words were a form of humor and that walking was, indeed, the best solution. Otherwise her neighbour would have to travel back alone, and that would put him at risk.

With the decision made, Mar pulled all three of the men out with her into the street, and marched them to the market where she proved her skill in bargaining for the clothing that would make them invisible amongst other English merchants. She included three plain but rugged travel cloaks, similar to Raynar's forest cloak but of finer wool, and new. "One of my carters will enjoy your old cloak," she told Raynar before he could speak.

When Gregos reached for his purse she pushed his hand back and said, "No, pay me at home. I paid for these on John's barter account. An account that has been due to us for months now." Gregos remembered his earlier lesson on the shortage of coins and nodded his understanding.

Risto spent the late afternoon separating their gear into "go" and "stay" piles on their pallets in the back room. Gregos then made the "go" pile even smaller. Meanwhile Raynar built two triangle backpack frames similar to his own. They were simple but effective. Just three bowed but strong sticks lashed together at the three corners, and three soft cloth belts, one for each shoulder, and one to rest the bottom of the frame across the hips. He then showed Risto how to lash his bag to them and how to adjust them for ease of carry.

Risto, unfortunately, was no ordinary bodyguard hired by Gregos. In the Caliphate he was a renown swordsman, and now Raynar had the unpleasant duty to tell him that his Salamancan sword could not go with them. It was so different from Norman and English swords that it would bring unwanted attention to them. It was long and narrow and sharpened on one side only. Had an English sword been so narrow it would shatter in battle, but the steel in this sword was stronger and yet more flexible than any local steel.

On seeing this sword, any swordsman worth his metal would immediately covet it, and mark it, and remember it. This had already been proven in the streets of Winchester. Risto, of course, was scornful of the clumsy short sword of a merchant, which was barely longer than a dagger, and refused leave his own cherished Andalusian sword in Winchester.

Raynar offered him his staff, which made Risto laugh with scorn, until Raynar twisted and pulled the top of the staff away. The false end was a sheath for a long and wicked dagger blade which served as a spear point. Risto took a closer look at the seemingly ordinary staff. It was made of very strong but springy wood.

"I made it from a seasoned ywen bow staff that was too heavy to make into a long bow," Raynar explained. "With it you will still look like a merchant, but it can be a deadly surprise should you need it. The staff is hard enough to block many blows from a sharp sword before it fails. It becomes a lance, a spear, a pike, and all with one twist of your wrist."

While Risto hefted the staff-come-pike, Raynar walked to his pallet and reached for one of his decorative waist belts. "Can you use a sling?" he asked Risto.

Risto took the belt and saw immediately, that though it looked like a fine belt, in truth it was a sling. "I can sling well enough. I was born a shepherd." He fingered the heavy ends of the belt and fingered the lead shot trapped there.

"With the shot in the end of the belt, the belt itself becomes a weapon that you can swing at someone's head. Or if you have no stones, or need a killing shot, then you use the lead weights as shot," Raynar explained.

"But what of you? I am disarming you," queried Risto.

"I still have my short sword and my other sling," replied Raynar "If we meet with danger, I will be busy talking our way around it. You cannot speak without betraying your disguise. Instead you can be watching from behind and be preparing for any trouble. Both Gregos and I have twenty-five years on you, whereas you are an expert swordsman and an athlete. It is far better that you carry the weapons."

Risto gave up packing and took his new weapons downstairs to practice their use with the watcher at the gate. All watchers used staffs and short staffs as their weapons of choice, because the work of a watcher is only to block and delay until help arrives, and then afterwards to bear witness. Later, from Mar's upstairs window, Raynar could see Risto collecting smooth stones along the riverbank.

"I must teach both of them more English before they reach the north," thought Raynar. There were many foreigners in Winchester and London, but away from those cities, foreigners were rare and were feared in the villages, especially in the North.

He was still trying to catch up on sleep, so he stretched out on Mar's big bed, big because John was such a big man. He just needed to put his head down, just for a few minutes, with his eyes closed. The words 'foreigners' and 'the North' rattled around in his mind and he dreamed he was searching for carts again.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 13 - Mill on the River Ouse, Yorkshire in September 1066

Lost. He was lost. He, Raynar Porter, was lost.  
He finally had to admit it to himself.  
Bloody bloody flat land, can't see where you are.  
Bloody bloody flatlanders, don't put up markers.  
Bloody bloody low clouds, can't mark the direction of shadows.  
Bloody bloody marshland, the paths just end.

He was thinking this just as the path he was following ended, and he had to pull back quickly to save himself from slipping down a bank and into a river. Well, at least he had found a deep river that should be on his map, so he sat on the bank and looked at the map. Was this the River Wharfe or the River Ouse. He looked hard at the map. It must be the Wharfe, for he couldn't have been so far lost for it to be the Ouse.

The turmoil in his mind eased with the thought that he was found and no longer lost, for it didn't matter which of the rivers it was. If he turned left and followed it, it would lead him to Tatecastre.

He looked at the sky. Heavy clouds were boiling upwards, and moving in from the north east. The fyrd on the highway will be watching the same clouds and worrying about their crops. Was this a passing storm, or the start of days of rain. It was almost dark and he was about to get very wet.

It was the nature of rivers to wind about, and this one was true to its nature, but by staring through the last twilight across the curve of the next bend, he could just make out a mill wheel. Where there was a mill, there may be a dry bed and some food. The question was, would this cart track lead him there. He almost committed himself to the scramble along the river bank, but then he reminded himself that if this was the River Ouse, then there could be Norse about. He would stick to the cover along the tracks.

The tracks did not lead to the mill and he was forced onto overland trails in the dark. This was actually a good thing, because it allowed him to approach the mill cautiously as if he were tracking a buck. Curious that there was no cartway to the mill. Of course, the river, all freight went by boat. He crept up to the river bank, but there were no boats. He peered through the darkness both up and down stream, but could not see anything moving on the river.

After listening carefully for any sounds, he crept to the closest corner of the buildings. There was a barn with a mill attached and a separate house with some outbuildings. Probably a kitchen shed and some animal pens. He did a half circle around the barn, and then looked back the other way towards the mill wheel.

There was a dock and a large door on the river side of the barn. That explained the lack of doors on the land side. He crept across the yard to the house to circle it, too. It was built corner on to the river so that the upper windows of the front corner had a view both up and down stream.

Around the back of the house he tripped over something soft, and fell face to face on top of a man. He stifled a yelp and rolled aside as quietly as he could. He couldn't see much in the shadows, but it was a large man. An old man with light hair and a bushy light beard. There was no smell of death yet. He sat for a long time beside the corpse, and opened his ears to listen. Nothing.

With his courage partially restored, Raynar continued around the house watching carefully for other hazards and especially other bodies. There were none. The door of the house was closed, and he hoped that it had greased pivots as he pushed it open. Of course it did. This was a mill, run by a miller who understood such things.

The ground floor was one large room with tables and benches and pallets. It probably housed men and animals during cold weather. There was a steep set of stairs up through the low ceiling. He returned to the door and closed it and set a clay pot behind it which would fall and rattle if the door was opened. He had thought of bolting it or blocking it with a bench, but that would tell anyone who pushed on the door that there was someone still inside.

He sloped up the stairs and discovered that the upstairs was separated into two rooms. He tested the floor for creaks, but they were solid. He shuffled slowly over to a set of corner windows at the river end, and carefully peered out and looked both up and down stream. He stilled himself and his breathing so he could concentrate on watching for any movement. There was none. The second room also had windows on the outside corners. He peered out carefully. His heart stopped. There was movement.

A lot of movement. The longer he watched, the more he could visualize what his eyes were reaching out to see. Two horses being led by three men. The center man was smaller and fighting the others. There was a glint of a blade and the center man quieted. They entered the yard, and one man moved away from the others and started creeping around the barn mimicking the actions that Raynar had just finished. After checking the barn, the man did the same with the house.

Raynar waited for a sound that he knew was coming. The corpse would be almost directly beneath this window. The sound came, a thump and a fall and a muffled yelp. The man broke off his skulking and walked back to the yard and the horses. He said something and another replied. He couldn't make out what they were saying, not because they were too far away, but because they were speaking in a language strange to him.

He caught some of the words. The words that were in-common to most northern languages. Words like: Nobody, No boat, Horses, Barn, Rain, Woman.

Woman. He looked carefully down and strained his eyes. The third man, the struggling man, was a woman.

One of the men dragged the woman to the door of the house. His chest was glinting like the blade had glinted. He was wearing metal armour. Not mail, but actual armour. They were out of his sight line now, but it was obvious they were going to the door of the house. She was pushed through the doorway. The clay pot rattled and a mans voice spoke in halting Danish. "You wait for us in here. You will keep us warm tonight. You make trouble and you die. Understand? "

He watched the men lead the horses down onto the dock and heard the horseshoes echo hollowly on the dock's planks. He saw the shadow of the barn door opening. Even it did not squeak on its pivots.

Raynar was down the steps in one long stride. He whispered quickly in Danish, "I am a friend. I am a friend. I can help you. Do you understand? I can help you. Say something. They are in the barn, they cannot hear."

A young female voice sobbed back, "You cannot help." More sobs. "They are Norse. They are strong. They are armed. They would as soon kill you as speak to you." More sobs. "They are here for the night. They will take me all night, and if I am lucky they will leave me alive." She shuddered a large breath. "But you, you they will kill. Go back upstairs. Hide. Stay quiet. I will not tell."

Raynar moved closer to the voice. The woman was sitting on a pallet next to the back wall. Being closer, he spoke more quietly. "I have a bow, but they have armour. I can kill them if they take their armour off. You must get them to take their armour off. Do you understand? "

"You mean, yes, you mean complain about it before they take me. Have them take it off so they can enjoy me more. I will try."

"Yes, you must try, and quickly so that they do not catch me first. Now quiet. I will be in the shadows trying not to breathe. Don't stall, don't fight them. The faster they take their armour off, the faster they will grow arrows. If you wait too long, I may give myself away."

Raynar moved behind the stairway and as quietly as possible, strung his staff bow to the first knot. He did not need range, but he did need to loose at least two arrows a breath apart. They waited in the dark. Together, yet alone. She was sobbing. His heart was pounding and seemed to be as loud as her sobs.

The men finally came. Now they were confident there was no one about and were not so stealthy. One stayed by the open door and the other walked to the center of the room to a table and set something down. He fumbled in his clothing, and then there was a spark of a flint, and another, and a candle's light bathed the room in a soft glow. Raynar pushed himself back into the shadow of the stairs and looked into the room from between two of the steps.

The man with the candle was wearing armour. He turned to the girl on the pallet. She was a girl, barely a woman. He spoke in his halting Danish. "What's your name, girl? Are you of this mill?" A pause. "Answer me!"

"My name is Bebba. I live on a farm about a mile from here," she replied.

"What were you doing here, little Bebba?"

"I came to find the miller's son, Thom. He had not returned to our ... our .... our house after he went looking for his pa." The words were fit between quiet sobs.

The man at the door asked, "Is the miller a big man with a mop of light hair and a big gray beard?"

"That is he," Bebba sobbed.

"He is dead behind the house. There was no one else."

There was a light wail from the woman, but the man told her to be quiet, and then he continued with his questions. "Are you brain dead girl? We Norse hold the other bank and have ships on the river. You should be away and hiding in the forest." He actually sounded concerned for her safety.

Sobs. "I was a fool to come."

"When you got here, did you see a small boat at the dock?" asked the man with the candle.

"No, the river was empty. There were men on the other bank, but they left. That is when I came out from hiding, just before you caught me."

The man did not bother switching languages. "Bugger, they have left for the day. We are stuck here until morning, until they come back with the boat. We could cross holding the horses' tails, but it would make for a cold night on the other bank without a roof and soaking wet."

The man at the door replied, "I'll not leave my armour. We are here for the night."

"Come inside then, and close the door. The candle light may give us away. Girl, stop sobbing, do you know this house, do you know where they store food?" he asked.

The man closing the door said, "A smoked ham would go down good right now."

"Your army took everything, left nothing," she sobbed.

"They left us you, Bebba. Let's take a look at you." He moved closer to the girl with the candle. She pulled back against the wall. He reached forward with a hand and fumbled with her chest. "Good, she is a woman." He started lifting her skirt, and she pushed it back down with both hands.

"Now Bebba, this is how it is going to be. You are going to keep us warm tonight. We are going to cover you and take you, the both of us. If you help us, if you are nice to us, then tomorrow you can go back to your mother and still pretend to be a virgin. If you are not nice to us, you will go back to your mother in ripped clothes and covered in bruises. Everyone will know you have been had. It is your choice. Do what a good wife would do, or be beaten into doing it. Stop sobbing, girl. Fucking us will not end your world."

The man at the door snickered evilly.

"I - I will, I will be a good wife," Bebba sobbed, "but I will look beaten in any case because your armour will tear at my skin. You take off your armour first, and I then will take off my dress. Promise me that you will be gentle."

The man at the door said, "You go first while I stand watch."

The man by the pallet started unhooking his armour and peeling it away from its leather frame. Then the leather, then a shiny white shirt. Then he dropped his armoured belt and peeled down his leggings. "That is for you girl, " he said pointing his stiff cock towards her. "Now it is your turn."

She slowly pulled off her smock. She was naked underneath. Her skin was lightly tanned, and her breasts were high and full. All her hair was blonde. She was narrow of hip and long of leg.

He moved towards her. His beard was starting to go grey, as was his hair, all his hair. His shoulders were broad and his arms thick. He had a middle-aged paunch and a very white bum, but his thighs were thick and strong.

She pulled back from him and could not take her eyes from his cock. She sobbed as he reached for her, and pulled her towards it. "If you moisten it first with your mouth, then it won't hurt so much." He aimed it towards her mouth.

The man at the door stopped watching outside through the crack, and closed and bolted the door. He turned around and said. "I said I would take the first watch. I like to watch. I bet she has never had one of those in her mouth before." There was a twang and a hiss and an arrow shattered the bridge of his nose and drove him backwards against the door.

The other man was lightening fast. He rolled naked across the floor picking up his sword as he rolled. Raynar had no time to fully draw the bow before he loosed the shaft. Though the giant bow was but half drawn, the arrow flew true, but it was not well-aimed and it took the man in the stomach.

He folded forward over the shaft pulling frantically at it, but it was a hunting arrow with barbs. Raynar covered the space between them in three strides and kicked the sword out of his hand. With the second kick he bashed the man's head back against the wall. The man cried out in absolute agony as he slid down the wall.

There was a loud bang behind him and the girl screamed a warning and Raynar turned to see the man with the arrow through his face coming towards him. The armoured man fell on him, and his weight pushed Raynar to the floor.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 14 - John Returns to Winchester in August 1100

Raynar woke to a shriek, and despite his stiff back, he rolled out of Mar's bed and strode through the house, picking up the cudgel that was kept beside the stairway door as he stepped over the sill. As soon as he stepped through the door and could see down the staircase, he reached back and put the cudgel back in its place. The staircase was completely blocked by a giant of a man with bushy blond hair and with a Mar hanging from his neck.

John was home. He dropped his pack, put an arm under Mar's bottom and effortlessly carried her up the stairs. Raynar had no option but to back out of the way up the stairs and through the doorway. There was no getting around John's bulk in a narrow place. He showed Raynar a big grin and hugged him into Mar's back with his free arm.

"Have you been riding my woman while I've been gone?" he asked, to which Raynar blushed and shook his head no. "Aye, but I can see by your blush that you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Well, more fool you not to try. Every time I come home I realize how comely she is, and wonder how I can ever bear to leave her." Mar had released his neck and was trying to push out from between the two large men.

She was not one to be talked about without giving back. "Typical, Ray and I finally get a room to ourselves so we can cuckold you, and you get home a day early." John still had a cheek of her bottom in his hand and he was squeezing it affectionately. He looked across the great room at the kitchen girl and said in a very light and sweet voice, "Is anyone else up here?"

She pointed to the back room and mouthed, "Gregos". John nodded his thanks and muscled both Ray and Mar across the great room and into the master's room, closing the door with his foot.

John could speak very softly when he wanted to. "So Rufus is dead, a curse on his bones," and he spat on the floor and ground it with his boot. "And by the Brotherhood's hands, or so everyone believes. If you hadn't been here with Mar I would have taken it for your work, Ray."

There was no answer and a strange look on Mar's face. It spoke volumes. He released Raynar and gathered Mar gently into both his arms. He spoke over her head look hard into Raynar's eyes. "I was just making fun, Mar. Take nothing from it." Mar enjoyed the embrace for many minutes, not realizing that the two men were locked in a stare.

John finally dropped his eyes. Raynar would never lie to him so he would not deny it, but neither would he ever admit to it. He had his answer. He was suddenly very tired, and moved to sit on the large feather bed, but Mar pointed him towards the big wooden chair while she slapped some dust from his thighs. The chair creaked woefully when he sat in it and creaked worse as he pulled Mar onto his lap. He relaxed into Mar's neck and enjoyed the scent of his woman while he collected his thoughts.

It was better to change the subject. "I'm here to arrange for the night's work at the wool barn. I've already told Harry, the watcher, to wait until the moon is high and then take the barn keys with him to the Red Barrel." The barn was along the river next to the fuller mill and the Red Barrel was the closest ale house to the barn.

"I came here ahead of the carts to check the situation with the night watch. Good thing I did. They want us to circle the city and use the north gate, and they want us to stay off the streets until the moon is high. There will be a curfew tonight but not until midnight. Once the streets are quiet they will give us an escort and allow us to work as late as it takes to park the carts and unhitch the oxen teams. They absolutely do not want our overloaded drays blocking the streets while the folk are in the streets, in case there is trouble."

There was a knock and the kitchen girl brought in a jug of ale and three cups. Once she was gone, John continued. "The carters will have to sleep in the barn tonight and unload tomorrow. I spotted some of their kin on the way here and have told them to spread the word. Once the moon is high, the Red Barrel will need help from their kin to carry ale and roasts and bread to the barn. Some have volunteered to stay with the food to keep the rats away, but because of the curfew, any who stay must sleep in the barn with the carters."

He could feel Mar taking a breath as if about to speak so he hurried his next words. "Yes, Mar, I told everyone three times that candles, or any form of spark or flame, are forbidden in the barn. " He inched his hand behind Mar's kitchen apron and began to fondle a breast.

Raynar turned towards the door to give them some privacy, but turned back at John's next words.

"Ray, are you still going north with that Greek bloke? You must know that I could use your help around Winchester. My business is about to double. All the Normans who usually market their own wool are suddenly afraid to leave their land, so they are my customers for the asking. I need a man I can trust to contract more drays and be foreman of the new teams. It would be good work until the leaves fall."

Raynar held up his hand. "I am pleased to be asked but Gregos needs me more than you, and I've been putting off seeing Peaks Arse for too many years now. Your son Acca is old enough and smart enough to write up the bills. Send him with that carter with the big mustache. Umm. Damn. Have you noticed that as you get older you can't remember names, umm, ah Brawn.

He has the voice of a foreman and would do a better job than I. Brawn's son is strong enough now to work the cart Brawn usually drives." There was some nodding and too much silence. He looked at Mar. "You two need your privacy now, so I will go and see to my Greeks."

Mar leaped to her feet and pushed John's hands away. "Oh no, not while you smell like an ox. I'm sure there are other things that need doing," she wriggled, "besides me," out of his grasp. John admitted that he had much to do and time was short. John went out with Mar to organize the Red Barrel, and Raynar joined Gregos and Risto in packing their gear.

Risto was in awe of John's size and said so. "They make these Saxons big, don't they?"

To which Raynar replied, "He is a northerner like me, and of Danish blood and so not one of the local Jutes. The folk from here to the Thames along the south coast are mostly Jutes. Jutes are kin to the Danes, whereas the Saxons are kin to the Germans.

John's shoulders come from generations of smiths. When we were just becoming men in our own rights, the fates made him choose another life. His forge was taken by the Normans when he refused to work for them. He knows his metals, that man, and he has seen first hand the wonders of the eastern smiths. Here," Raynar pulled a small pouch out from his pile to be packed, and dumped the contents onto the table in front of Risto, "you will like these."

"It is a collection of metal arrowheads," Risto observed quietly, "including armour-piercing bodkins. Some are unusual but I have seen their like before."

"Look again, but this time look more closely at the shaft end. See the ridges inside? With a push and a twist they lock onto any arrow shaft instantly. You can carry most of your shafts without points, and decide on the type of point when you see a need for arrows. And look at those open rings. Lead rings that you can squeeze on behind the point to add power to the strike. John has an eye for simple changes that make a big difference."

Raynar took the arrowheads back. "I suppose you think that John is a wool trader. No, he is a wheelwright. He designs and builds better wheels and better axles than those in common use in England. Since there was no use in putting good axles on bad carts, he designed and built carts that could make the best use of the new axles."

"Risto, here." He gave one arrowhead back to the man as a keepsake. "You tried driving one of John's drays last week. You must have been impressed. With John's drays, a team of two oxen can pull as much as a team of four with a normal cart, and pull it a quarter again as fast. The carts were great, but they did not sell. Farmers had no money for costly axles and costly carts. John's business was bad until he realized that running the drays for himself, and renting his drays out to other carters was a better business than trying to sell them to folk with no coin."

"But you told us he was the biggest wool trader in Hampshire," said Gregos. "I have seen his barns. I believe it."

"It is Mar who is the wool trader," replied Raynar. "She's a shepherd's granddaughter. The woman knows wool better than any of the city-bred merchants. She made John understand that the best earnings of all were in the value of the cargos and not in the running of the carts. Now John's name is known by the wool traders from five kingdoms. "

"You have known John since you were young. Were you from the same village?" Asked Risto.

"Yes, the same village. But John and I have lived many lives since then. John once had a solid future as a smith in his home village, with the promise of an early grave from breathing the smoke. Now he owns a craftmill that builds wheels, axles, and carts, and owns and runs at least thirty drays, and owns two large barns and two water mills. One for fulling the wool, and the other for power at the craftmill. A hundred men work for him and a thousand families are better off for working with him.

I remember the day that the Normans ran him off his dad's forge. He thought his life was over. Now he could buy his father's village and those Normans many times over."

"And he owes you, I feel it is a big debt, perhaps a life debt?" Gregos observed.

"We owe each other, and well beyond a life debt. We are as brothers. John is brother to many, however. Many of the men who work with him now, share a brotherhood with him that stretches across many adventures and many battles. John's ever growing carting business gave many of them a new start after the north was scorched by William the Bastard.

But none of the rest are so close as John and Mar and me. Mar refused to marry either of us until she saw which of our eyes her first child had inherited. John and I could see no difference, but Mar chose right, both for herself and for that giant of a son she raised."

Gregos had a cunning look crossing his face. These facts could be useful to him. "And this brotherhood, is it like a guild, does it have a name? The brotherhood of what? Haulers? Carters? Teamsters? "

Raynar started putting his bodkins back in their pouch. "A guild, not yet and not likely. They have an old name, but with a new king perhaps they will need a new name. Hmm, good suggestions. Brotherhood of Teamsters has a better ring than carters. I will suggest it to them.

Actually, even without a new name, it is a brotherhood that is respected by the folk, and feared by the nobles. The brothers are getting older and fatter and slower, but at times in their lives, every one of them has been a very dangerous man."

Gregos pushed for more. "You say that you and John have lived many lives. Will you tell us more of them, more of yours? I enjoy stories about dangerous men."

Raynar opened his hands and smiled. "Well, we have a long road ahead of us. I suppose I have enough stories to pass the time, but I will tell them in English, and you must ask your questions in English. By the time we reach the North I want you to pass for Londoners, not foreigners."

"Well then, tell us one while we finish packing," Risto said.

"All right," Raynar replied. "A quick one, about how I first met and made a friend of the man who founded the brotherhood."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 15 - Hereward of Burna, The River Ouse in September 1066

From her vantage point, the girl could see both of the original Norsemen. The one wounded and slumped against the wall, and the other dead and now laying beside the boy. There was another Norseman coming through the door and he was very much alive and moving fast.

"There is a third man!" Bebba screamed at Raynar. She was frantically trying to get her smock back on, but she was tangled in the cloth.

The bang had been the newcomer kicking in the door. The door had swung open with such force that it had pushed the dead man from the doorway towards Raynar, and he had tripped getting out of the way. Too late to react, Raynar was now pinned to the floor by the third man, who was quick to put a dagger under his throat.

The girl was inching towards the open door, and Raynar risked his throat and yelled at her to make a run for it. The third man kicked the door closed with his foot, so instead of escaping through the doorway, the girl ran into the edge of the door and rebounded backwards, tripped over a bench, fell against the table, and slumped to the floor, bruised and dazed.

"I am English!" the third man hissed in Saxon. He repeated it in Danish, and then slapped Raynar's cheek. "Listen to me, pilgrim. This dagger won't cut you unless you move. I am English. I have been tracking those bastards all afternoon, and you just did my job for me. Now I am going to get off you and you are going to lie still while I go over to the one against the wall. Hopefully he can still talk, because this one beside you will be talking to the devil from now on."

He nimbly rolled off Raynar and cautiously approached the man who was slumped by the wall, holding the arrow that was lodged in his stomach. The wounded man looked up at him and groaned, "My sword, pass me my sword."

The Englishman looked back at Raynar who was still on the floor but who was now looking over at the girl. "Boy, go to her, wake her up, and then bring her over here."

While the boy did as he was told, the Englishman walked over and pulled the sword out from under the bench. "Sit her down beside him, and you sit on her other side to hold her up." The man with the sword makes the rules, so the boy obeyed. The girl slumped down against the wall. She was still stunned from her fall.

The Englishman squatted in front of the wounded man and lifted his head by his hair. "Listen to me, warrior. Your time in this life is nearly finished. It is time to cross over. I will help you. I will put your sword in one hand and a woman's tit in the other. Do you want that?"

The man drooled blood and nodded yes.

"Then tell me where you were going."

The wounded man stared blankly and took some breaths. "To the ships at Riccall." The voice was low and rasped.

"If that were true you would have kept riding further along the Ouse. Liars don't get swords."

His eyes suddenly focused. "No! No, you must give me my sword! I, we, were headed for Stamford, on the Derwent. We were to cross the Ouse here and then follow the Derwent to Stamford." His voice was strained, but he was quickly too short of breath to speak more.

"I believe you," said the Englishman, so he held his dagger to the man's throat while he put the sword into the man's hand. The wounded man held it with a tightening grip. Then the Englishman switched dagger hand and held the wounded man's other hand up to the girl's breast. The wounded man found a tit and grabbed it. The girl did not react. She was still too stunned to wriggle away. Then the Englishman pushed hard on the dagger and it jerked through the man's throat, and he choked once and then slumped down across his sword.

Still crouching, the Englishman turned to the boy and asked, "Is she yours?"

"No."

"Are you from here?"

"No, but she is. I am Raynar Porter from Peaks Arse in Derbyshire."

"Come on boy, who are you really? You just killed two Byzantine warriors and didn't even get yourself blooded. You expect me to believe you are a porter?" He spun his arm around towards the corpse with the arrow through his eyes. "That bastard there killed the rest of my squad while we were tracking them. Three arrows, three dead, and he did it from horseback."

Raynar relaxed a little against the wall. He was so tired. "They were going to rape the girl, then they would have killed her. I promised her that I would not let that happen. I keep my promises."

The man sneered at him, "The Norse don't kill good-looking fucks. They take them as slaves."

The girl was listening. She began sobbing again.

"It's the same. I keep my promises." Raynar put his arm around her shoulders in a clumsy attempt to comfort her.

The man laughed. "I would hate to be the poor sod trying to court your sister."

"My sister is dead. She was raped and murdered two years past." Raynar looked down at his feet.

"Did you seek vengeance, or leave that for the courts?"

"Oh, he is very dead." Raynar voice was harsh and hushed. The girl was pushing up against him to get away from the corpse beside her.

"I like you, Raynar Porter. You remind me of me. I suppose this means I can't bed the girl. A pity, she is a sweet dish." The Englishman glanced at the shock on both the young faces and laughed aloud. "A jest is poorly timed if only the jester laughs. Whose levy are you with?"

Raynar found the girl's hand and squeezed it softly to comfort her. "I am not with any levy. I am not a fyrdman. I have been sent by my abbey to find and return some of their carts that were taken north by the army."

The Englishman laughed aloud. "A porter working for an abbey? Well Raynar Porter, you did God's own work here today. I am Hereward of Burna. I am on the staff of the Earl of Mercia and take orders directly from him. If you stick like glue to me you may survive long enough to find your abbey's carts."

Hereward slowly reached forward and gently turned the girl's chin towards him. "Girl, who are you?"

"I am Bebba of the farm a mile south of here." It took some time for her to say all the words between sobs.

"Bebba," Hereward spoke softly. "I know that the houses in this area are empty and the folk are all in hiding. It is black and wet and windy outside and so you are safer here with us until morning, than out in the storm. We will see you safely back to your folk. Now, is there any food in this house?"

"There is a cold cellar. The Norse raiders may have missed it," she replied, this time with but one sob of punctuation.

"Please look. It is getting colder and raining harder, and some food would make me feel a lot better." He looked towards the boy. "Raynar, my horse is tied behind the barn. There are fruit trees and grass behind the house that would suit it better. The other horses are in the barn. Check on them but be very quiet. If they aren't saddled, then saddle them. Check the saddle bags for food or weapons and bring any here."

When Raynar returned, there was a candle and a ham on the table, and a pile of armour and weapons piled behind it. While he was gone, Hereward had removed all the armour from the Norse and had dragged the bodies upstairs, out of sight of the girl.

Raynar closed the door and barred it, and sat on the bench beside Bebba, thus across from Hereward. "It is a thunderstorm and it is hailing. A nasty night. Your horse has shelter from the storm in the orchard, but she doesn't like it."

"Bebba, what are you doing out alone at a place where two armies are circling each other?" asked Raynar as he cut a strip off the ham. He saw that Bebba had no knife so he cut a strip for her as well.

"The miller and his son did not return to our hide," she was sobbing again, and then stopped, took a deep breath, and began again. "I am trying to catch a husband. Thom is the miller's son and the catch of the village. My Pa would kill me if he knew, but my Ma told me to bed him. We have been, ah, meeting for over a month. "

"Your Ma set this up?" Hereward asked. "Then has she arranged for witnesses, male witnesses?"

"I , uh, oh, is that why we were always getting caught? Ma was having them catch us at it."

"It is an old way and a good way of snaring a good husband," Hereward said "Are you with child yet? Aye, you wouldn't know that yet, after barely a month." He took a good look at her face in the candle light. She was a Danish beauty and would make a fine wife. "Thom wouldn't have you meet him here. This is the most dangerous building along this river. Why did you come?"

"The miller came to dig up his trove. Thom came to stand watch for him. They didn't return."

"The miller is dead behind the house," Raynar said quietly.

"The fool," Hereward grumbled, "they caught him and will now have his trove. They would have tortured it out of him. If he had stayed away they would have never found it."

She gasped at the word torture "He was getting it so we could all flee south. We got word that York had fallen to the Norse. We are Danes. They will kill us, or make us slaves. The Norse hate us."

"What would Thom have done if he saw them take his Pa?" asked Hereward.

"I don't know. I hope he didn't do something foolish and get himself killed. I really do care for Thom." She went silent in thought.

"Your Ma made the right choice for you, Bebba. If you have a child within nine month and she has male witnesses, then you will be the new miller's wife, and if he is dead with his Pa then you will still have a share in this mill. " Hereward shrugged. "Of course, if there is no child, then you have nothing."

She started to sob again. "I want Thom. I hope he is alive. I hope he went back to the hide."

Raynar stroked her gently on the arm. "You will know in the morning." He looked at Hereward. "So where do we go at first light? The Norse were expecting a boat to meet them here to take them across the river. Tonight they were too late and missed it. They expected it back at first light. By the way, is this the River Wharfe?"

"No, the Ouse" the others said together. Raynar shook his head in wonder at how lost he had been.

"The fork where the Wharfe begins is around the next bend upstream. This is the first place they could cross to the other side of the Ouse. The Norse control all the land and roads to the north and east of the Ouse. They were a river's breadth away from safety," Hereward explained.

"Who were they?" she asked.

"Scouts or spies."

Raynar pulled his map out of its pipe and unrolled onto the tabletop, using the candle holder to hold down the top of the scroll. He looked at it for a moment and then put his finger on the map. "So we are there."

"Is this paper?" she asked, touching a curl of the map. "I've never seen paper before."

Hereward was staring in disbelief. "Raynar Porter, who searches for carts, has a map. You continue to amaze me, boy. What is in these carts, the Holy Grail?" Hereward leaned forward and poured over the symbols on the map. "And the porter's map is better than the ones that my Earl is using to move his army."

He sat back down and shook his head. "This morning those two Norse spies spotted King Harold's army coming north on Ermyn Street. They punished their horses to take that news to the Norse army. Now that they are dead, Harald of Norway won't know that the king and his professional warriors are already here. He may not know that for a few more days. That could be enough to decide the outcome of this war.

I was making camp with three good friends, and we saw these spies steal fresh horses, and realized what they were about, and gave chase. " He pointed to the bow on top of the pile of armour. "That bow was almost the death of me. It did for the rest of my friends."

Raynar's body was aching tired, but he got to his feet and reached over to the bow and brought it back to the table. "I have never seen the like, and I design bows. Where is it from? What is that, horn or bone? Look at the craftsmanship, the different woods and grains, the joins. Where is it from? How could I even begin to make such a bow?"

"The man who carried it was short with dark hair, dark almond-shaped eyes, and almond-colored skin. His armour is of a type known as Byzantine scale. I would guess the scale is from Syria, where they make steel that is much lighter and stronger than ours, but he was not Syrian.

The man could ride like he was one with the horse. He made one of his killing shots from under the neck of his horse. I have heard of such warriors but I have never seen one before. But then, I have never been to Constantinople. The King of Norway has been there, though, many times. He used to be a captain of the palace guard in Constantinople, and then a general of the Byzantine army.

If I were to guess, I would say that this bow hails from the endless grasslands of the Rus. I have been told that those grasslands are like a sea, so vast that no one walks. Not even the women. Everyone has a horse, and the women give birth on horseback." He pointed to the bow. "So what are you going to do with it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Raynar after a full pause.

"You killed them, so that bow now belongs to you. And the armour, and the swords. You are a rich porter now, Raynar of Peaks Arse. If they had owned those horses you would own them, too. Too bad for you that they were stolen, and that I know who the owners are.

No matter. They will not mind you using them, since you are returning them. A warning though, that they are not yours to sell. When we leave here I will retrace my route, and perhaps we will find the horses of my squad, the men that bow killed. You have a strong claim to own those horses."

Raynar's head was spinning. "Fine, fine, I accept them. But we are going to have some nasty visitors at first light, and I would dearly like to know what you plan to do about it."

Hereward went silent, thinking. He pulled the map towards him and Raynar gave him a quick explanation of the colored lines. Hereward pointed at the map. "This is us. The fork in the rivers is just upstream. The Ouse to York, and the Wharfe to Tatecastre. The Norse are near York, and their ships are down stream from here, halfway to the sea.

Harold's army will now be in Tatecastre. Our Northumbrian ships are there too. That is where all the Earls will meet with the King and make plans. All together, there." He pointed. "The fork just upstream from here is vital to both sides. There will be sentries and scouts from all armies at that fork. Each side will have an armed ship close by. Which all means that this mill was a very unhealthy place for us to stop for the night."

He looked across at the girl. "Bebba, your people need to get south away from the Ouse, and fast. Can you find them in the dark?" asked Hereward.

"Yes, it is not far, but there is no cartway, just a track," she answered.

"The candle is almost finished. We should prepare to leave, and then get a bit of sleep until closer to day break." Hereward looked at Raynar. "Are you finished eating? We have some work to do before bed. Come with me but leave the map out." He walked to the stairs. "Bebba, please see if you can make up some comfortable beds. It will be cold tonight, and we are all tired."

It was grisly work but Raynar freed his two arrows from the corpses. Then they dragged the bodies down the stairs and out into the night. "I wasn't thinking straight when I put them upstairs," puffed Hereward. "These bodies always had to disappear, in order to keep the Norse guessing. There is a ditch inland from the house. I almost fell into it when I was sneaking up on this place. We'll throw them into the ditch, and cover them with soil. There, grab that spade."

Outside the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing, but the wind was still whippy and covered their noises. Once the bodies were covered, they moved carefully towards the barn. Hereward was whispering, "Quietly now, for sound travels far over water. We need to move the horses to the fruit trees behind the house. This barn is too visible from the river. Do you know horses?"

"I shoed one once, and have ridden a few times, but no, I don't," Raynar admitted.

Hereward opened one of the barn doors. There were empty sacks drying on a line and he grabbed them all and laid them on the decking of the dock to muffle the hooves. As they led the last animal off the dock, he told Raynar to bring some of the sacks along for the armour.

Back inside the house, Raynar brought the candle close while he packed the armour and the smaller weapons into the sacks. Everything was finely made. There was a short sword that had seen much use, but the blade was so thin and light that he wondered how it had survived so long.

The arrows were short, which made sense as the bow was short, but they had heavy points that were formed like a fishing point but with no barbs, and they were squared at the shaft end.

Hereward was looking over his shoulder and said, "For piercing mail. I prefer a selfbow with standard arrows myself. In battle you need to be able to pick up anyone's bow and any arrow and keep fighting. That bow is smaller than mine, and yet mine won't pierce armour. It explains how he picked us off so easily. It must have a long range despite its size."

Raynar pointed proudly to his own bow staff, but Hereward laughed at it and asked, "What the devil is that?"

Raynar was quick to defend his creation. "I am a porter and a shepherd so mostly I need a staff, but sometimes I need a bow. Don't laugh, for it has pierced armour in practice shots."

Hereward gauged the boy's pride before he replied. "It may be the best design in the world, but if it is not easy to make, and if it is not easy to use, and if it is not the same as carried by the archer beside you, then it has no place in a battle."

Raynar was now packing the shiny white shirts that both men had worn, but into his basket pack, not the armour sacks. Hereward reached over and felt the fabric. "Treat those shirts with respect for they are of silk. No woman in England would refuse you, if you paid her with one of those shirts. Not even a noblewoman."

The candle was guttering. Raynar looked towards the beds and gave Bebba a questioning look. She pointed to the one on the right. He pulled off his layers and crawled under the cloaks. He almost jumped out of the bed again when he felt her skin push in beside him. "I could only make two beds from our cloaks," she explained. "I have had a day of horrors, I do not want to sleep alone. Hold me tight so we can warm each other."

She did more than get warm. She turned her back to him and wriggled closer until he was spooning her. He wrapped his arms around her and his hands naturally fell into place cupping her breasts. That swelled his cock and it pressed against her bum, but he did not try to enter her, not without her permission. The sound of snoring came from the other bed. She moved her hips and arched her back, and then pushed against him until he was inside her. They cuddled and fucked and slept, and cuddled and fucked and slept until they finally just slept.

* * * * *

Raynar woke with a start. He was cold. Her warm body was gone. It was still black in the room, but then the lower floor of this house had no windows. He pulled a cloak up around his shoulders and crept up the stairs.

From the upstairs windows he could see that it was still a few hours until dawn. The hairy star was high in the sky, the one that Tucker called the Star of Bethlehem, which was a town somewhere to the east of here. It didn't give as much light as the moon, but enough to shine off the ripples in the river.

He stayed still for a while and let his eyes scan for movement along the river. There was none. He went into the other room and watched the yard from the window. The wind had stopped and there was nothing moving, though he could hear the breathing of the horses in the post-storm calm.

He went back downstairs. He looked over at the other bed and could just make out a slow rhythm of movement and he heard breaths of low moans. He curled back up in his bed and waited for the inevitable gasp that would mark the end of the rhythms in the other bed. It was a long time coming, and he was irritated by that. After the inevitable gasp of the man, he waited politely for a few moments, then spoke. "We should go."

He heard light feet scamper across the floor, and then her body squirmed under his cloak.

"Once more, please," she said.

He was going to deny her, but his cock would not. Hereward spoke from the other bed. "You have time enough. I will prepare the horses."

They cuddled and caressed while Hereward shuffled around finding his boots and his clothes. They kissed while he gathered all the gear and carried it to the door. When he went outside to scout the grounds, she rolled Raynar on his back and mounted him. This was to be no gentle cuddlefuck, for she was riding him hard. They were interrupted by Hereward collecting the gear and dragging it out the door. He whispered to them, "Finish up and bring the cloaks with you."

She whispered in Raynar's ear, "The quickest way is in the sheep position," and she climbed off him and turned around to be on all fours. He banged her hard and fast, and was squirting inside her almost immediately.

"Good," was all she said as she pushed against him so he would go deeper. While he lay in a dream state, she found her clothes and boots and dressed and then started rolling up the cloaks. He lay back on the bed feeling more tired than when he went to bed. The last thing he packed was the map.

* * * * *

They each led a horse away from the mill, with Bebba in front. They did not mount up in the darkness as the two youngsters were not confident with their animals. After about a mile of twisted tracks, they came to a thicket and the track forked around each side of it. She refused to go any further with them. "Keep to the right and across the next field of corn," she pointed, "on the other side is a main track that will take you to the Wharfe. Along the Wharfe there is a bridlepath that is sometimes used for towing ships. It goes to Tatecastre. "

They started out along the track, and Raynar looked back to wave goodbye but she was already gone. Her family's hide must have been behind that thicket.

Hereward did not like the boy's silence but it was easy to guess what was causing it. "She came to my bed, but she started in yours. She did me once, but she cared for you all through the night. She knew what she was doing. It was her choice."

There was still a stony silence from behind, so he stopped and turned and faced Raynar. "You know as much about women as you do about horses. She needed to be with child to have a share in the mill. She was just making sure. We were safe and friendly and gentle and most important, we were leaving in the morning. Besides which, she owed us, and she has paid that debt handsomely. It was all good."

"I suppose," was all that Raynar replied.

Hereward turned to the side of the track and undid his flap and had a pee. He looked over his shoulder and said, "You'd better wash your cock in piss. You don't know where she has been."

They crossed the field of corn and found the larger track, just as Bebba had described it. They followed only as far as the first large tree, the only large tree in sight, and then waited for sunrise. Raynar scrambled quickly and high up the tree and the view around was spectacular. He called down to Hereward to come up.

Once they were both perched on the highest thick boughs, they could see the thicket where they left the girl. From there, their eyes followed the zigzag track until they spotted the mill. Downstream from the mill a ways, they could just make out the sleek shape of a ship's hull in the morning mist. That would be Norse. Up stream from the mill they could see the Ouse bearing straight north into the mist and towards York. Unfortunately both the fork in the river, and the Wharfe itself, were obscured by low bush.

Men were moving along that bush, so that must mark the bridlepath. There was no way of knowing whether the men were English or Norse from this distance. They swung their eyes back to the mill and could see movement in the yard, but it was too far to see who or what it was. Far to the west they could see a tower that must mark Tatecastre. The mist in that direction was more like a dome of dirty fog, and they realized that it must be the smoke of hundreds of small fires.

"There it is," Hereward murmured and pointed. "See that glade with three trees about halfway to the tower and a bit south? Mark it in your mind. I want to go to Tatecastre that way. That is where the Byzantine archer doubled back and ambushed us. "

* * * * *  
* * * * *  
THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 16 - Walking to the Coronation, Winchester in August 1100

Winchester had another restless night under the full light of the full moon, but again the folk that grouped in the streets waiting for something to happen, were disappointed. Due to the moon there was a night market and music and some dancing, all of which Gregos and Risto enjoyed. Eventually the city quietened to the occasional shout of the watch warning drunks to get off the street, and it remained quiet for at best two hours before the hollow echo of heavy wheels on cobblestone woke everyone. John's drays were on the move.

In the morning everyone got an early start with an early meal. With their packs on their backs and a good portion of bread and cheese and skins of weak ale with them, Raynar and his two wards set off. They first walked along the street that followed the river bank towards the north gate of the city. Mar joined them as far as her woolbarn.

The barn was a beehive of activity. The carters and their families were unloading and carrying the heavy bales of wool from the drays into the barn. They all wanted to get finished so they could enjoy some rest and some of the city's promised festivities, before they set out on their carts again to collect more bales.

Inside the barn John and his son Acca, who was as tall as John but still slim, were grading the wool and organizing the bales by grade. The stacks were already reaching the rafters along the back wall. Some half-grown lads were holding the wooden spacers in place while their fathers piled the bales. The spacers were required to keep the air circulating around each bale, so that they would dry or stay dry.

The sunlight was shimmering through the heavy dust in the air. The dust from wool was well known to fireflash if an open flame such as a candle were brought into the barn, so boys were using brooms and buckets of river water to dampen the walls and the floor of the barn.

Four years ago John had his best year ever because the barn of a Norman competitor had one night turned into an inferno. Foul play was suspected because the owner's eldest son had been accused, numerous times accused, of rape. Nothing was ever proven about the rapes or the fire or any connection, but the son was sent away to Normandy.

After two rounds of goodbye hugs, the three travelers started on the first of the fifteen miles to Basingestoches. The Greeks had agreed to speak in English as much as possible in order to improve their tongue. Within the hour, they had passed the village of Worthy and the road was no longer running beside the river.

In Worthy, Raynar was forced to give his wards a lesson in English water, because they stopped to drink water from a running stream. It didn't take long for his own English to fail him because there were no craftspeak words to describe the science of water. For such words he had to switch to Greek. The banter of the three travelers quickly turned into Greeklish.

"You must not drink from open water. This is not Al-Andalus," Raynar warned. "In Al-Andalus you have kept the knowledge and the skills of the Roman and Greek empires. Here, as in your land, the Romans built water ways and aqueducts so that every town had a constant source of safe drinking water. In Al-Andalus they still work, but here in England such knowledge was lost. No, not lost, that is wrong. The men with the knowledge simply left England, first to Brittany, and then to other parts of the empire."

He pointed to a pile of dressed stones that used to be an aqueduct. "If the men with the knowledge to fix those had stayed here, they would have been burned as wizards by the new folk migrating here from the north of the Roman borders.

The new folk were Angles and Jutes and Saxons and they were being pushed south by repeated crop failures and early winters in their own valleys far to the north. Their reality was move south, or starve, and even the Romans could not halt that movement.

Today in Al-Andalus you can stop at any village and quench your thirst, but in England in the dry season, unless you know that the water is safe, you must drink only ale or soup. That clean-looking stream will have cows and sheep and sick children shitting in it, just around that bend ."

Risto was shocked. "But that cannot be. You mean to say that in England you are forced to drink ale else you may die of the water sickness? No wonder there are so many drunks in this kingdom."

"Ah, but I said only in the dry season. It is very short in England. No longer than the wet season in Cordoba. For the rest of the year, safe drinking water falls from the sky." Raynar sighed. "My own youth was changed by a spring of pure drinking water, in a place where almost all the surface water was tainted with poison."

"Tell us of it, Raynar," Gregos said. "Always you promise to tell us of your adventures, and you never do. What better time than now while we have nothing to do but walk. Tell it in English if you must, so that we can practice listening to your strange tongue."

"Then do you mind me beginning with a story from my youth? It would help you to understand what formed me," offered Raynar.

"Please" said Risto, in English.

Raynar began. "I was a miner's son in the Peaks Arse area that straddles the Saxon shire of Mercia, and the Danish shires of Yorkshire and Derbyshire. It is a wild, empty area they call Peaks Arse because of the sound the caves make in the wind. I had just reach eighteen years at the conquest, so that would have me born about 1048 while Edward the Confessor still reigned."

He looked at Risto to make sure he was understanding the English. He seemed to be nodding so he continued. "There is a castle there now, to control the passes and to control the mining wealth. So crucial were the mines to William the Bastard that they were entrusted to one of his mistress's sons. The son was called Will Peverel and he was also made the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire. Before the castle was built, and the village that sprang up around the castle, it was a wild valley of miners, and porters, and shepherds."

Risto nodded to him again. He was keeping up.

"Before I go further, you must understand the weather of the Peaks. You would call them hills but to we English they are mountains. Like mountain weather everywhere it could change in an hour with no warning, and folk sometimes died of the changes. At any time there could be fog. Heavy white mist that hid landmarks and trails and caves, and got people lost or tripping over cliffs and into sink holes.

At any time there could be rain. Wet-you-to-the-bone rain. Rain that turned all to muck and mud. Rain that made mountain paths slippery and treacherous. At any time there could be wind. Ferocious wind. Blow-you-off-the-path wind. Wind to blow grit and other gifts from the weather, like snow, hail, and freezing rain. Days of endless wind that would drive men crazy.

The winters were long, with snow and ice and wind, but the most deadly weather was the freezing rain. Have either of you ever been to such a place?"

Risto spoke first. "All high mountains have dangerous weather. I too, was a shepherd from the mountains, and I have experienced what you describe."

Then Gregos. "It sounds like the Pyrenees mountains that keep the Franks out of Al-Andalus. There is an ancient people there, that thrive in the mists and the wind and the treacherous pathways, where all others perish."

Raynar continued. "There were no cartways, just porterways and sheep tracks. The ways hugged the valleys as long as possible to hide from the wind, and when they crossed the open land, those parts were as short as possible and any travelers were at the mercy of the weather.

There were few cottages above the valley floors, but many caves. Caves saved lives, saved sheep, and were the start of the mines. In the open land there was nothing to burn, not even peat. If you were caught in the open when the weather changed, your best chance was to know a cave or to run to the closest valley."

"This is good Raynar," said Risto. "It is good that you use small words. Keep the sentences small, too."

Raynar nodded. "The porters were mostly Saxons. The shepherds were mostly Danes. The miners were mostly Welsh. Through the passes, Wales was three days' hard walk. My Da was Saxon-English born somewhere near Chester, and had come to the valley for the well-paid work in the mines.

My mother was the widow of a Danish farmer, and though pretty, she had not produced children so she was grateful when my father married her, for all others shunned her. I think she was a Frisian maid who was sold into her first marriage to cancel a debt."

"So not barren then, after all," Gregos pointed out.

Raynar blushed. "My father worked in a lead mine until his back was cracked in a cave-in. The cave-in would have killed a dozen miners, except my Da used his back to shore up a support post until the rest of the miners got passed him. They then dragged him to safety out through the rubble.

His twisted back was a blood debt to all the Welshmen that he had saved, and they never forgot that debt. We had no other kin in the Peaks but we did not starve as paupers. We had the brotherhood of Welsh miners to watch out for us."

"Saxon, Dane, Welsh. Were there no English?" asked Gregos.

"They were all English, ever since Knut the Great got all the folk to realize how much they all had 'in-common', and made that the standard everywhere in his empire, like 'in-common' law and 'in-glish'. But the folk here still distinguish themselves by their forefathers. You can still tell them apart after all these generations by face and by language and by customs. My birth tongue was not Saxon, but Saxon-English or Saxglish.

Anyway, Sundays were a day of rest for the miners. One Sunday when my Da was healed enough to walk like a hunchback, he took me and a couple of Welsh miners down the eastern valley, the Hope valley, along the porterway.

Halfway down the valley the porterway climbed around a blockage from an old slide, and up into the weather. My Da took us on a perilous scramble around the blockage and showed us a small hidden glade with grass, a few trees, a scoop of a shallow cave, and a spring.

In the distant past, the porterway must have run through it, before the landslide blocked the way. We all tasted the spring. Most of the water in these valleys was poisoned by the mines, but this was a spring fresh from the ground. It was sweet water, safe and delicious.

My Da sat us down in the scoop of the cave out of the wind, and told us his plan. Using mine tools and miner muscles it would take but one hard day's work to clear that block. With the block gone, the glade could become a porter rest stop, right where one was needed. If the miner brotherhood opened the block and cleared the old way, then they could claim this sheltered glade and run it for the benefit of injured miners like himself.

The next Sunday, the heads of each mining clan walked with my Da back to the glade. They all agreed that it was a good plan. The Sunday after that, a troop of miners and tools attacked the blockage. Once the blockage shifted and fell off down the slope, they dug a safe path and cleared the loose rocks.

Youngsters found and cleared the old way below the glade and made it passable through to the point where it rejoined the existing porterway. My family and three others were set up with tents and a basic kitchen under the shelter of the scoop of the cave so as to lay claim to the place under common law. One day's work had created a pleasant shelter on one of the bleakest sections on the porterway.

The men folk of the families at the shelter were all crippled, but could still direct the work of the women and children, and could work at anything that could be done sitting on stools or laying propped up on a pallet.

Within weeks, the glade was a thriving rest stop where the water was clean to drink for folk and animals, where simple meals were offered, where overnight camps could be made, and where porters and travelers could escape the worst of the weather.

Within a month it was paying for itself and feeding the families that ran it. Within two months the miners returned to raise a large low roof to extend the shelter of the cave scoop and also a smaller roof above the kitchen. They were well-pleased. It was like a spa for recovering miners, and yet it paid for itself.

Every month the families made improvements. A series of pools were made to collect the spring water for use by animals and for uses other than drinking. Before winter, firewood was stacked to create walls and windbreaks on the open sides of the roof. When winter weather came, the old porterway was abandoned by porters and travelers in favor of our sheltered way. That was when it became known as the Porter's Glade.

If the glade had been wider, it would have become a village. Instead, the glade stayed as just a rest stop. It was as good a place as any to raise a family, though eventually as the men healed or died, the Welsh families would all return to their villages and their kin along the border with Wales. Mining was dangerous work, so there was always other mining families in need, who would be brought to the glade for healing."

Raynar stopped talking while they hurried passed a line of slow-moving ox carts. The screeching of the axles sent shivers up his spine.

"I was forbidden the mines by my Da, despite the coin to be made there. When I was young, I was hired out to a shepherd who took flocks from the low valleys to the high valleys in the summer. I grew big and strong on sheep milk and cheese and mutton, and learned about sheep and wool and survival in the mountains.

When the sheep were forced back down to the farms by the weather, I was hired out as a porter. I was not yet nine and my sister perhaps seven when my mam died in childbirth. My Da with his twisted back was outliving all the other mining cripples. The others mostly had organ problems or black lung, so the long harsh winters would kill them no matter how thick the wool of their sheepskin beds.

Though the fathers were all sickly, and the mothers were all wary of the constant stream of strangers through the glade, we children had a wonderful and interesting life. There was always something happening and interesting folk stopping by.

From the shepherds I learned to speak Daneglish. As a shepherd, I learned to enjoy my own company, and to be patient, and to use a sling. With endless rocks and endless time to practice, I became a crack shot with a sling. I am still a hand with one.

From the Welsh I learned a whole new language, that was very different from the Englishes. They taught me the bowcraft of their Welsh bow, that is now called the longbow. I learned how to choose a likely stave from the holy Ywen tree, how to cure it, how to carve it and shape it. I learned about arrows, too. The types, the uses, the different flights, the different points. And of course how to shoot them.

From the porters I learned maps, packs, knots, and the staff. How to use the staff for stability, and balance, and protection. From them I also learned how to live with nothing so that you carried as little unpaid weight on your back as possible.

From the foresters that would often overnight at our glade, I learned to track and to hunt.

From the weather I learned how to survive using just what was at hand.

From the wives and widows I learned how to trade. There were few coins in the glade. Most everything was by trade. And the wives kept us well-fed and well-clothed despite the lack of coin. I learned the healing craft from our healer and her daughter."

"Aye," chuckled Risto with a lusty grin, "and what else did all those young widows teach you, eh? Wasn't it a village of widows, or nearly widows, and all short of coin, and you so handsome?"

Raynar flashed an angry face at the Greeks. "They were Welsh widows, and they knew the old ways. They taught me to respect women. They taught me that children are our future, and if men respect the mothers, then the future will be good."

"Risto, get your mind out of the brothels," Gregos scolded. "In a Christian village a widow's life is a horror. It is not like a Mussulman village in Al-Andalus where a widow immediately becomes the second wife of her husband's brother, and her children become his children. Remember our neighbour in Cordoba? He had three second wives."

"His life was hell," Risto pointed out.

"In any case," Raynar continued, "from my Da I learned counting and how to solve problems through invention and trial. It was he who planned the improvements and showed us how to build them. The water courses, the dams, the cellars, all were of his design. He adapted tools to be useful to crippled men, and could fix whatever we traded for or scavenged from the porterway."

"And to read. Which of them taught you to read?" asked Gregos.

"Not one person at the glade knew how to read or to write, but as a porter I worked for an abbey, and a good monk taught me to read and write, and how to keep ledgers.

My own prized invention was my porter staff. As I grew bigger and stronger I was spending more and more of my year as a porter, and a porter needs a staff in his hand. The problem was that I loved my Welsh bow, but I could not carry it. I decided to make a bow that was also a staff. I started with a stave made from cured ywen, but too heavy for a bow. I left the lower part thick and heavy to be strong when used as a staff, but then I carved and shaped the upper part like a bow.

What I eventually ended up with was a staff that became more like a bow as it got higher, and had a curl like a shepherd's crook at the top. Most folk thought it a shepherd's crook and were shocked when I would string it. Though clumsy and heavy, I could string the upper three quarters and shoot an arrow with accuracy and force enough to hunt. The secret was to plant the base firmly on the ground and then step into the bow and use your back to draw it.

I was so proud of it, that it hurt me deeply when no one else ever asked me to make one for them. The Welsh and the foresters did not need the staff. They liked their bows just fine the way they were. The shepherds used a sling rather than a bow, because they did not want to retrieve arrows on the mountain paths, and besides, sling stones are free and everywhere. The porters were not trained to the bow and could neither draw it fully nor shoot it straight.

I loved my bowstaff and I carried it always until the Normans took over, and now in my old age, I keep promising myself to make another. I have learned the value of having a weapon that did not look like a weapon."

Risto smiled and hefted his staff, which could be turned quickly into a pike, and pulled at his belt, which was also a sling.

Risto asked Raynar to continue his story, but Gregos was quicker with a question. "So this sheltered glade on the porterway was in a valley leading to a mountain ridge and a pass. You say it was like a spa where sick miners went to get well or to die. Were there hot springs or sulphur springs?"

"If this were Al-Andalus it would be called a spa, but we just called it the glade. It was a natural refuge but without hot pools. I think of the glade more like a hospital than a spa. Sick men had a better chance of healing because of the pure water. Not just for drinking and cooking, but for washing hands and cups. Even the children were healthier than those from other villages. The water was tasty, but without minerals such as sulphur."

Gregos was pulling at the straps of his pack and circling his shoulders and stretching his back. He looked over at Raynar. "This pack has kinked my shoulders. You were a porter transporting lead in such a pack. How much would you carry?"

Raynar thought a bit. "Half the porter's weight was a normal load. Being a porter was good work for a young man, but there was no future in it. Porters would live to a good age so long as they did not overload themselves, or fall badly.

Though most were freemen, few had wives or homes. They ate big and drank big and paid for shelter with their earnings, with little thought to saving. Porters earned much more than the shepherds and yet the shepherds had wives and homes. I suppose the profit was in the cargo, and not in the carrying."

Risto motioned with his hand to stop the story while he watched two couriers punish their horses making for London. When they were past, he turned to Raynar and said, "I am really not interested in lives of porters. Skip along in time to when you ceased to be a porter, for you somehow became a very cultured man. A man who keeps company with nobles."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 17 - Meeting a King, Tatecastre, Yorkshire in September 1066

After a few hours and a few false tracks, Hereward finally found the place where his friends had been killed by the Norse spy with his Byzantine bow. He and Raynar dismounted and hobbled their horses. Hereward strung his bow, and pulled his quiver out of his gear. His arrow was nocked before Raynar could bend his staff-bow enough to string it. "Put the archer's short sword in your belt, Raynar. It may be just the ghosts, but I don't like the feel of this place."

They spread apart and each chose their own path to the center of the copse. There was no one about but two horses standing patiently. "Would that my own horse were as well trained," called Hereward, "They have stayed by their masters throughout that storm." Sure enough, the horses marked the places where they found two corpses, both with arrows in the chest. The farms around were desolate and so the corpses had not been disturbed.

Hereward waved for his attention. "Help me load them on their horses." This took more effort than they allowed, as the horses decided not to cooperate. "The other horse must have bolted. Lead those this way, I think Aethelu was dropped over by that walnut tree."

Sure enough, they found the third corpse, and loaded him onto their spare horse. "Come then, and let's be quick. I have a report to make that will surely change the plans of my lord."

They rode through camp after camp of damp but noisy fyrdmen, until Hereward spotted a blue pennant on a poleaxe and changed course to go to it. He was greeted by a dozen men, and a handful of them immediately took charge of the corpses. "It was a bad day for the women of Wachefeld," Hereward told them, "but the task got done and the vengeance was immediate thanks to Raynar here."

The men about them filled the air with questions, but he quietened them and said, "The story must wait. Is the Earl about?" He was pointed to a Marquee on a slight rise and he turned to Raynar and said, "Come with me and bring your map".

* * * * *

Raynar was amazed that his rough companion, Hereward, could simply call out his name, march passed the guards, and enter the big tent, the headquarters of an army. He was even more amazed when it was pointed out to him that inside the Marquee there was not just one Earl, but three Earls and a King.

He had no idea about protocol or bowing and scraping, but then neither it seemed did Hereward. The warrior pushed better-dressed men aside in his hurry to reach the big table in the center, and break into the discussions around the king.

Hereward waited for the objections and the side chatter to wind down and then he began his report. "The Norse scouts are dead, at a cost of three good men and true. They did not make it to the Norse camp and their corpses are hidden, so the Norse will think they are still about and still scouting. Before they died, they talked. The army is at Stamford and the ships are at Riccall. They must be setting up a defendable supply route along the River Derwent to Stamford."

No one said a word. There was a very large map spread on the table and they were all looking down at it trying to find the River Derwent. Hereward turned to Raynar. "Raynar of the Peaks, come forward and unroll your map."

Raynar almost tripped in his clumsiness when the Earls and the King looked around at him. "This lad Raynar killed the Norse spies. He carries a powerful bow."

A scribe helped Raynar to flatten his map. It was a small scroll compared to the map on the table, so the great men all squeezed closer to him. He explained the color scheme and he took the scribe's quill and pointed out the key rivers and roads and towns. When he had no more to say, Hereward told him to help himself to the food on the laden bench at the rear of the big tent.

One of the Earls snapped out orders to his scribes to immediately update the big map with the features shown by this small one, and to make corrections in the position of the Derwent. He then turned to another scribe and ordered that once the big map was corrected, six identical copies were to be made of the small map, but without the artistic flourishes.

He confirmed that once the first copy was made, the original was to be returned to its owner, the lad. The same Earl then turned to a huscarl and ordered that he find some boatmen with first hand knowledge of the River Derwent. The huscarl left the huge tent at a run.

The nobles all then moved away from the table to give the scribes room to work, and some drifted over to the food bench where Raynar was munching on a pork pie. The Earl who had been giving all the orders grabbed a pork pie too, and asked Raynar, "Do you trust the map, lad? Where did you get it?"

Raynar replied nervously, "It is a copy of a map from the library of Repton Abbey in Derbyshire. I am here on the abbey's business."

Hereward reached across his Earl and grabbed a pork pie as well. "Be careful of him Edwin," he warned, "his boss is a monk, and yet he just spiked two Byzantine-trained warriors to a mill wall with his arrows, and that only because they were being rude by waving their winkies at a local farm girl. If this war gets in this lad's way much longer, he may spike Harald of Norway with an arrow just to hurry its finish."

"Byzantine," the king said from the other side of Earl Edwin and he pushed closer. "So it is true? There are Byzantines with the Norse?"

Hereward answered, "There are two we know of, and we brought their armour and weapons if you are interested. We must assume that there are more of them, if they were using those two on a normal scouting mission. The Byzantine archer took one of my men while using his bow at full gallop, and took another while leaning over the far side of his horse's shoulders and shooting under the horse's neck."

"I would see this armour, have it brought here." The king waved his hand.

Raynar and Hereward each grabbed another pork pie, and without even a "by your leave" or a bow, they walked out through the door flap into the bright sunshine and down the rise back to Hereward's camp. They returned with the spare horse, minus the corpse but still loaded with the sacks of weapons and armour. With sacks over their backs, they marched again through the guards and the door flaps and up to a vacant bench, where they set out the pieces for display.

A lad in a rich cloak was the first of the nobles to come to inspect them. Hereward nodded to him with a slight bow. The lad gave Raynar a quick smile and hefted one of the pieces. The armour was light. It looked like fish scales, as it was made of curved leaves of steel that were overlapped in a like way.

Hereward explained that it was lighter than mail and better for fending arrows and spear jabs, but not so good against axes and heavy swords. The lad tried on one piece and the covetousness clearly showed in his eyes.

Hereward pulled Raynar away from the growing crowd about the armour and warned him, "Be polite to the lad for he is a prince. Prince Edgar."

"The king's son?" Raynar asked.

"No, he's the son of the Saxon lord who used to be the Earl of Wessex. A man who could have been our current king if he had not got himself exiled." His voice lowered to the level of secrets. "Prince Edgar and his sisters grew up in the Royal Court of Hungary, or some such place. The sisters are both lookers. Wouldn't mind a night or two with either of them."

Hereward guffawed at the look of shock his last words had put on Raynar's face. He was still chuckling as they went over to where two boatmen were being questioned about the River Derwent. They stood beside the scribe who was making notes.

Yes, the Derwent can float a boat. At this time of year a flat-bottomed river punt, but once the rains start you could move ships up to thirty feet in length.

Stamford was important because it is where the old Roman street from York to the coast crossed the Derwent.

No, there is no village at Stamford, just an all weather ford used by the street.

No, there is no bridge, but a mile south there used to be a stone bridge. The foundation still stands, but the span has collapsed.

The ford is shallow and wide, and a boat cannot pass it. The ford is at the point where the Derwent changes from hill stream to flatland river.

The boatmen were asked to stay and help the scribes fill in details of the river on the map.

Earl Edwin noticed that Hereward was near and called out, "We need your keen mind, Hereward. Come to the map and tell us what you think. For instance, why are the Norse in Stamford?"

Hereward stared at the updated map and thought hard before he spoke. "It's close to York, it's on the street from York to the coast, it's on the River Derwent that connects to the Ouse." He called over to the boatmen. "Is there any other ford across the River Derwent to the south of Stamford?"

The answer was no. "Well, there is your answer. It's a safe place to wait and has a defendable route to their ships, for they control both banks of the Derwent, but only one bank of the Ouse."

Hereward closed his eyes and formed his next words carefully. "The difficult answer is not why they chose Stamford, but why they didn't press their advantage after so soundly defeating our Northern Army at Fulford. There is more to this than we know. Perhaps Harald was injured, or his own losses were high, or perhaps he no longer trusts Tostig.

Years ago I spent some time with Tostig, but I soon learned not to trust him. He is a liar and a cheat. He would play man against man and hold himself back while they weakened themselves until he could pick the winner, or make them both losers. I think he has perfected that tactic and now uses it with kings and armies.

Harald of Norway wants to control the Danelaw and the North Sea coast of England, to make his claim for the throne of Denmark undeniable. He wants to be the next Knut, Emperor of the North Sea. Tostig has helped him so that he can be named the Jarl of the Danelaw.

William of Normandy wants Wessex this year, to give him control of the Celtic Sea, and afterwards his claim to the throne of England will be undeniable. Tostig has helped him so that he can become the Earl of Northumbria and Mercia.

You see? For Tostig the end is the same. He rules the Danelaw."

At the sounding of his brother's name, King Harold looked up from a discussion with another Earl about the merits of the Byzantine armour. Hereward caught the king's look and explained, "My apologies sire, I was talking about your brother Tostig, and Harald of Norway, not you."

The King walked towards him and said "Continue, and do not spare my feelings. Tostig was long ago lost to me as a brother. I also see his cunning in both of these invasions."

Hereward looked at Harold and said what they were both thinking. "The Norse have heard that the Normans were delayed by the wind and have not yet landed. They will wait until Norman and English warriors are killing each other before they commit to their next move."

Earl Edwin spoke up. "Yes, that all makes sense when I think about it. The Norse landing was nothing like a normal Norse raid. There was no slaughter and pillage on the coast, and still none as he moved towards York. They took food and horses and carts, as would any army on the move, but there was no destruction of lives or property.

Even though there was no quarter on the battlefield at Fulford, when we withdrew he allowed it and instead of pressing on and finishing us, he bargained for hostages and tribute instead. A would-be king does not slaughter those he would rule."

Hereward motioned to the Earl that he had more to say. "Trading hostages for tribute gold is a process that takes patience. Harald can afford to be patient. The fields are full of food. William has not yet landed. He may even draw back to his ships and make a show of leaving, for that will allow English and Norman armies to slaughter each other more fully."

Everyone tried to speak at once. The king put his hand in the air and yelled, "Hold!" and the chatter slowly died away. "Whether the fates allow Hereward to be right or wrong, we cannot stand by and watch. Harald's basic need right now is treasure, so that he can pay for his ships and his men. If that gains him Knut's crown, so much the better."

The king looked around meaningfully at the Earls. "He may stay camped near York, or he may put to sea in his ships. Unfortunately, Harald at sea becomes an even greater threat to us. It will be too late for them to reach Norway this season, so where will he winter? He could land anywhere on our shores or on any shore of our allies around the North Sea. Worse, that evil brother of mine may broker a pact so that the Norse navy helps to move the Norman army to our south coast."

The king looked around while he waited for those words to sink in. "We do not have the luxury of waiting to see what Harald's intentions are. Our warriors need to be fast getting back to the south to face Normandy. Our fyrdmen need to be fast getting back to the fields to save the harvest. We must cripple Harald and cripple his ships, and we must do it now. Now let's get on with the planning."

The king reached across Edwin and grabbed Hereward by the arm. "Hereward, take Raynar and the rest of your skirmishers to Stamford. I want scouting reports. I want numbers. I want to know if he is supplying himself using the Street or the Derwent or both."

Next he gave orders to another of the Earls, a man by the resemblance must have been Edwin's brother. "Morcar , gather your ships' captains and the river navigators. We need to plan an attack on the Norse ships at Riccall. They must not be allowed to reach the sea. It matters not whether we block the Humber or burn the Norse ships, but they must not reach the sea."

Finally he had orders for Earl Edwin. "Edwin, I need you to plan a march to Stamford. I need the truth from York as to exactly what was promised to Harald. We must move quickly. We must surprise Harald before he learns that my army is here and not in the South. "

The king took a deep breath and scanned the faces again. "What are you waiting for Hereward? I said go now."

As Raynar made for the door flap in Hereward's wake, Earl Edwin grabbed his arm. "I will surety your armour, lad. You will get your prize, or its price on your return." Edwin kept hold of his arm while he waved trying to catch someone's attention across the tent. Then he made a hand signal.

Instantly, a scribe was dodging towards them between men, dwarfed by the giants that were the warlords of the clans. The scribe bowed and put something long and soft into Raynar's hand. "Don't forget your map, lad," said Edwin as he let go of Raynar and turned back towards the planning table.

* * * * *

Hereward was in charge of sixty of Earl Edwin's skirmishers. They included some of Mercia's finest archers. These skirmishers were a special squad of mounted light infantry, and reserved for special assignments. The disastrous battle at Fulford had left but thirty of them fit to ride.

"Stop bleating at me, Raynar. The decision has been made. That wasn't some old man who likes shiny armour in there. That was the king. He has specifically ordered you to Stamford with me. The abbey's business no longer exists, not now." He looked across at his injured men, all capable men, and then added, "For you, at least."

He raised his voice and called a name, "Wacker." A middle-aged man with a crutch looked up at him. "Wacker, you can write, can't you?" . The man confirmed it. "This is Raynar, he is on a mission of God and needs your help." He looked back to Raynar. "Go and tell Wacker what he needs to know to find your abbey's carts. Hold on. Did you get your map back? May I borrow it?"

While Raynar was talking to Wacker, Hereward called in his able-bodied men and started his briefing by telling them of his adventures the day before. Once Raynar had returned, they began planning the next adventure.

Hereward, Raynar, and two men who well knew East Yorkshire sat close in around the map, and a dozen others sat in a close ring about them, and the rest in an outer ring. The topic of discussion was 'how to get to Stamford'.

They had to move fast, so that meant horses. Horses they had. But then the need for horses created other problems. They could not use the highways that passed by or through York. They may be patrolled by the Norse. That meant they must ride cross country to find an empty place to swim the River Ouse, then more cross country to find empty place to swim the River Derwent.

The men who knew the countryside swore that it couldn't be done without being seen. The mission would fail the moment they were spotted. They would be immediately assailed and the same rivers and open country would be the death of them all.

Raynar still did not want to go at all. He wished he was back in his highlands rather than surrounded by rough stinking men wallowing in this muddy lowland. He knew nothing of the countryside, the horses, the rivers, the roads, or of skirmishing tactics. He sat like a lump staring at the map and wondered if he should give his place in front of it to someone more useful. Meanwhile he was being protective of his precious map for it was getting smudged by all the dirty fingers.

Raynar stopped focusing on the lines on the map, and as he did so he had new vision. "Hereward, stop talking, you are all talking in the same circles. Look at the map but don't focus on the lines. Look at the finger smudges instead. "

"Sorry lad, we are making a bit of a mess of it," said the man sitting next to him.

"Of course," Hereward said with a new awareness. "Put your thoughts into words, lad."

Raynar did just that. "All of the smudges are in only a third of the area around York. They are bounded by the Ouse which runs straight south and the Roman street which runs slightly north of east. What about the rest of Yorkshire? Look at the area that has no smudges. The place that no one has been pointing to. The Norse may be limited in their thinking, too. They will be watching for our scouts as we cross the rivers south of York, where all the smudges are.

What if we keep well to the west of York until we are well north of it, and then ride east until we come to the Derwent and then turn south and follow it to Stamford? It is further, but we would be able to ride fast and straight. Both the rivers will be shallower and easier to cross to the north of York and probably not guarded." There was silence all around. He felt a bit foolish and said in a lower voice, "Well, it was just a thought." And then the chatter began, and suddenly everyone wanted to speak at once.

Raynar gave up his place and wandered back to where Wacker was sitting with the other walking wounded. He knew something of healing, and knew that most of the wounds would be better off for some basic care. Otherwise some may suffer a slow death, either from poisons in the blood or from starvation because they were no longer healthy enough to make a living.

He began by sitting with each man to look at their wounds and give his advice. Half of them needed nothing more than the cleansing of their wounds with wine or vinegar. Painful, but not complicated. The wounds of the others were internal, or were already turning into weeping sores. He asked two of the healthier wounded to go and find some wild burdock plants.

When he asked if anyone had a skin of wine, he had his pick. These men had listened to Hereward's stories of how he had avenged their fellow skirmishers, and were eager to share a drink with him.

He then demonstrated to each wounded man, and to the men who were helping him, how to patiently remove all particles, all dirt, and bathe the wound, and then how to cover it or wrap it in burdock leaves or cabbage leaves or kale leaves. After the first two treatments, those who supplied the wineskins stopped complaining about the waste of their wine.

He had done four by the time Hereward came looking for him. Not only did Hereward bring the map, but also a skirmisher who looked about the same age as Raynar.

"Wylie, this is Raynar. He is not trained as a skirmisher. You will ride with him and teach him and train him as we go. Find him a standard selfbow and a quiver of standard arrows. He already has a horse and a role and a pack. Show him where we store our food, you know, nursemaid him."

Hereward suddenly realized that he was interrupting Raynar as he was picking a shard of something out of a deep wound, so he shut up and bided his time. Once the wound was clean he spoke again.

"Raynar, we've chosen a way north around York and will be away within the hour. I'm to the Earl to show him our route. I will try to steal another copy of your map. Did you hang onto that short sword, or was it with the armour?" Hereward walked back up the rise to the Marquee as soon as Raynar replied.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 18 - Walking to a Coronation, Basingestoches in August 1100

Gregos looked towards a village of low houses made from mud, sticks, and thatch. "How primitive. Truly this land has lost the knowledge of the Greeks that was brought here by the Romans. How did you put it? Ah yes, the knowledge retreated with the men who knew it. That explains why there are no Roman-style brick and stone buildings."

"Yes," replied Raynar, "the ancient northern peoples had no use for Roman buildings. They were fleeing from years of cold weather and failed crops. In Al-Andalus stone buildings keep the people cool in the heat, but the Romans that live in stone buildings in England must have been cold, damp, and miserable.

The Northern folk build small houses with wattle walls and thatched roofs. They keep you warm and dry in the winter, especially if you bring the animals inside on the coldest days. Stone houses with slate or tile roofs are always cold and drafty."

He pointed to the bed of the road. "The Roman streets survived better than their buildings. They were well placed and well built and are still in use. See, we are walking on one now. English roads wind around streams and hills and farms, whereas Roman streets are straight. Be warned, however that the streets are not like those of Al-Andalus. The folk never knew how to fix them, so the walls have crumbled and the beds have sunken and the bridges have collapsed. Despite that, they are still the fastest highways in England, especially in wet weather."

"Yet the Normans are building of stone again." Gregos pointed to a manor in the distance.

"The Normans, bah. They are as ignorant of Roman knowledge as the English. The difference is that the Normans have seen the wonders of the Constantinople, and they have sent home eastern masons to build for them. Those masons don't even need to quarry and dress the stone. Every Roman ruin in England has dressed stones for the taking."

Raynar pointed to a stone tower just coming into view on a hillside. "The reason that tower is being built there, is because there was a Roman ruin there. The Romans chose the best locations to defend valleys, streets, and borders. From the Roman ruins the Norman buildings grow. The Normans are opportunists, not visionaries."

Gregos's mind was racing ahead. "So the churches are being built from the ruins of temples, and the manor houses from Roman domus, and in the same locations. So the Normans are rebuilding the Roman empire in England."

"They are trying to," replied Raynar, "but their priests are still suspicious of the wizard knowledge of the ancients, so they are not doing a very good job of it. The Normans build selfishly with no thought to the greater good. For instance, they do not understand the importance of clean water for keeping the folk healthy. They would rather build castles than aqueducts. We need more men like John of Winchester in this kingdom. Men who want to make life better for all."

"The John of Hathersage from your stories," Gregos asked, "is he the same man as John of Winchester?"

"I thought I said as much. He is my oldest friend. The experiences of our youth glued us together for life. John has a knack for creating simple solutions to solve complicated problems. People that don't know him think of him as big and therefore slow-witted. They couldn't be further from the truth."

Raynar had to swallow his next words and leap onto the low wall beside the road to dodge being run over by a galloping horseman, who was cutting around a slow-moving ox cart. What could have turned into a nasty accident, instead turned into a pleasant hour as the driver of the ox cart invited them up to sit on his straw and rest their legs for a mile or two.

"Bloody lordlings," complained the carter, "they have been racing up and down this road all morning. They think they own the bloody road. They forget how slow an ox cart moves and always misjudge the distances when passing by. See that one in the big hurry? He will only be going as far as the next manor. Not that he will be welcomed. The place is barricaded and there are crossbows in the upstairs windows. I'm taking this load of straw back home because they refused me their cartway to deliver it."

"Who are they defending their houses from?" asked Gregos. When he caught the odor of the peasant, he looked at Risto with a wrinkled nose and shifted to the upwind side of the carter.

Without Gregos behind him, the carter could move further back into the cart and talk to them face to face. "From each other. They are afraid of other Normans, afraid that the Normans from the next valley will ride up and kick them out. There'll be a new king soon, and whoever holds that manor will have first claim on it. If I were them, I'd be locked in, too. With the sheriff's men busy protecting the sheriff's holdings, the local manors are on their own."

He pointed after the horseman, now almost out of sight. "That bastard was from the next manor along. He isn't going to visit this lot, he is going to spy them out, count their numbers. If they don't have enough men to hold it, then he will be back with a force of men to turf them out."

"And they are so afraid that they barricade themselves in?" Gregos asked in astonishment.

The carter snickered, "Even if their manor was safe, the lord and the lordling won't be walking past any thick bushes any time soon. No one believes that the king died in a hunting accident. It was a hoodsman's arrow that did for William Rufus, and none too soon. If there are hoodsmen about, then no lord will tempt the fates by coming out in the open. The hoodsmen only target the lords, and the buggering lord at that manor deserves an arrow more than most."

"The hoodsmen? " Risto was having trouble following the peasant's English.

The carter threw a small stone at the oxen to hurry their pace. "Well, there doesn't need to be an real hoodsman, does there? Any local with a belly of ale courage or a lot of anger could take a shot. All you need is a bow and some charcoal to blacken the flights of your arrows and a deep hood to hide your face. There's enough men hereabouts with ample reason to take a shot at that lord."

He lowered his voice though there was no one in earshot save his passengers. "Me included, but I can't risk it cause I've got a family. I was born a freeman, you know. Norman bastards stole my dad's land and my freedom. Demanded their rent even though the crop failed, and when we couldn't pay they took half the land, so we couldn't pay the next year, either.

Dad had the choice, stay a freeman and be run off his land for us all to starve, or take the serf's oath and stay on the land. Bastards. Wouldn't let him be a tenant farmer, would they? Once my dad was a sworn serf, the rest of us became serfs too, and all our get, forever."

"So you are a serf?" asked Gregos.

"Serf," the carter sneered, "I hate the word. The church and the lords call us that to make believe that we are kin to the land, but we are treated as slaves, so slaves we is. They take my daughters you know, the Norman lords do. Every time their cousins come to feast they round up the young women for serving. Serving food and ale is just the start of it.

After the Norman women are sent safe to their beds, and the men get drunk, our women have to serve all right. Bent over the table for anyone to take. Bastards. First time they did it to my oldest, she hadn't even blooded yet. My family had to tie me down for three days to save me from doing something stupid, like running myself onto a Norman sword."

Gregos made shocked and knowing noises. "But this valley is lush, the soil is good, the crops are rich. Life should be easy."

The carter snickered. "Life is easy for them that's born to the manor. That's because they take and they take and they take from us that work, so they can look rich and play high and mighty with other Normans. My lord just spent a full gold piece on a cloak. It would have fed a family for a year, and he spent it on a cloak."

The carter threw another stone that bounced lightly off the back of the ox. There was no change of pace. Oxen walked at the speed that oxen walked at. "Take, take, take, and they give nothing back. They have few enough demands from their side of the serf oath. They are supposed to defend us from raiders and from hunger. Yeh, right.

None of 'em knows shit about farming, crops, or hunger. To them a day well spent is a day that they can ride around on a horse that costs more than a farm, and whip the lads for resting in the shade during the heat of the day, and bonk any woman that catches their fancy. Bastards, all of them."

"Are there any tenant farmers left around here?" Raynar asked.

The carter punched the air as he answered, "None. A few refused the serf oath, but that was long ago when the wars had killed off a lot of the men. That's your only hope, you know. Hope the wars kill enough men that you can do a runner and hope to find work in a town for a year and a day without being caught."

They passed another cart going the other way and the carters blocked the highway long enough to trade gossip. The local accents were so thick that they may as well have been speaking Gre..., umm, some other language. Afterwards the carter looked at Gregos. "Here, maybe you know. I was just told that the big bugger what runs all those wool drays out of Winchester is looking for carters and needs them yesterday. You've just come from Winchester. Is it true?

Raynar was yet again shocked by how quickly news traveled the highways. He motioned to Gregos and Risto to hold their tongues while he answered. "If the big bugger is John Wheelwright then yes, he is looking for carters. But it may be only for this wool season."

"It's too late for me. I'm too old and I've got mouths to feed," said the carter, "but I've got two sons who are big enough to make their own way. With the lords all cowering and no one watching, and the sheriffs men not on the highway, do you think they could make it to Winchester without being caught?

They could work on them drays out'a the city until their year is up. That big bugger plays fair with his carters, they say. With both lads working maybe they could buy their sisters away from Norman lust. Course they couldn't risk doin' a runner if it weren't true. Our lord would lash the skin off them if they wus dragged back. "

"Then they will loose their skins," Raynar replied, "for two lads in farm rags would be picked up by the city's watch within a day." Raynar thought out the situation. A farm lad doing a runner to Winchester would need town clothes, a town haircut, and to stop speaking like a farmer worker. Impossible.

The carter was also deep in thought. Risto passed him one of the aleskins that Mar had sent with them. The carter took a suck, and swallowed hard. "That's bloody city piss water, that's what that is." The carter chuckled and reached down beside him. "Here, have some of mine," he said passing a very large skin over.

The ox cart was slower than walking so once they were well rested and a bit groggy from sucking on the carter's aleskin, they thanked the carter for the ride and dropped off the cart to walk. The ox cart was quickly left behind even at a walking pace. Once they were out of earshot Gregos spoke. "His ale was like drinking bread. And who are these hoodsmen. I never heard of them until two days ago, and suddenly they are on everyone's lips."

"I told you before. There is a rumor that they executed the king," Raynar replied.

"So they are assassins. Who do they work for?" asked Gregos.

"Not assassins, because they do not work for pay. There is no word in English. In Greek they would be called vigilantes. They exist because the rule of law has failed. Their sign is a blackened arrow. Only violent men who are above the law need fear them."

"So they work for a folk court, or are they both judge and executioner?" asked Gregos.

"The folkmoots were dissolved by the Normans. There are only Norman courts now, where a Norman judge dictates the sentence and has no need of evidence unless the defendant is a Norman."

"So judge and executioner, then," said Gregos. "Where does the name come from? Do they wear an executioner's hood?"

"Hoodsman is not the real name. The true name is the Brotherhood of the Arrow and it was like a warrior's guild but for folk archers. It was originally formed amongst the skirmishers of the English army, the army that was beaten by William the Conqueror. The Norman knights hated those skirmishers, because a trained skirmisher, a mere peasant with simple weapons, could kill them and make it look easy."

"Archers win the battles and swordsmen take the glory. It is the same everywhere," said Risto.

"Here as well," said Raynar, "though after the English Earls lost all and the armies were disbanded and sent home, the brotherhood became the defenders of their villages, and eventually they became vigilantes. They often wear hoods to hide their faces, but hood is actually just short for brotherhood. As in the Hood, or Hoodsmen, or the Robbing Hood."

"Are you a hoodsman?" Risto asked, watching his face carefully.

"I was there when the brotherhood was created. I was a skirmisher when we beat Harald of Norway outside of York back in '66. Once a hoodsman, always a hoodsman, I suppose. And before you ask, yes, I think the king was killed by a hoodsman.

Oh, and just so you know, it is dangerous to ask someone if they are a hoodsman, especially if there are Norman ears close by." Raynar pointed ahead. "Looks like some farmers' wives have a fruit stall up ahead under that big elm. A good place to rest a while."

They sat in the shade and ate some plums. It seemed like a whole village was sitting there in the shade with them. "What is happening? Is it a wedding or a funeral?" Raynar asked of the good wife who was selling him some plums.

"They are waiting to see kings and princes ride by," she replied, "and why not, with the lords not bullying them on this warm summer's day. Would you need a better excuse to relax in the shade?" She handed him the plums. "We saw one group of well-dressed nobs ride by yesterday while we were setting up, but most of these folk weren't here with us at the time."

Raynar toasted her with a sweet and juicy plum, and said, "Then the others missed the new king, Henry. Did you give him a plum?"

"No." She looked down the dusty road towards London. "No, they were riding like the wind. They'd have trampled me if I'd run out to show them my plums. Do us a favor. Don't tell the rest that they've already missed the new king. Let them enjoy being lazy. Besides I still have more plums to sell."

They walked a few more miles past throngs of serf folk who were resting by the road side wherever there was shade. Gregos shuddered. "These people are not well, and have not been well for some time. Look how the bellies stick out, and how the shoulders have no meat on them and their teeth are rotten and their eyes are dull. Is there a plague in this area? Perhaps we should travel by a different route?"

"There is a plague on these people. The carter told you so. Their Norman lords are the plague." Raynar waved his hands in a sweeping motion to the fields of crops extending to the horizon. "This is some of the richest growing land in England with the longest growing year. Wait until you see the serfs that till the stony frosty fields of the North.

The folk here live surrounded by plenty, and yet they are hungry, and the constant hunger makes them weaken to sicknesses. Too many years of bad food or not enough food. You can smell that they have the water sickness, which means they are drinking bad water. Take a good look at one or two of them. They have turned out in their best clothes to see the new king ride by, and yet their best clothes are filthy rags. Look at the children. They are runts and will never be as tall as their grandfathers. If they were in a slave market, no one would buy them."

Two young horsemen passed by. Raynar pointed to them. "See the difference between the folk and those two manor-born cockerels? They have never been hungry. Their clothes are new and city bought. They care well for their horses, and care nothing for these folk who create the wealth in their purses. Each of you have traveled to many lands. Have you ever seen the richest of the peasants look so weak and ill-kept in any other land than this?"

"Everywhere there are peasants and in some places the peasants are as sickly as these, like in the highlands of Al-Andalus," answered Risto.

"I have seen famine before. More than a few times. Crops fail, peasants starve, that is life," answered Gregos.

"Ah, but in England it is not just some peasants, but all peasants, and this is no famine, for look at the lushness of the crops around us. This is madness. The madness of greed and the folly of misused power and wealth. The lords purposefully keep these folk hungry to keep them weak so they will not rebel. I pray that the new king has seen the like of these wretches on his trip to London, for normally you would never see the folk along the highway like they are today."

"You will have no arguement from me," mumbled Gregos. "As you say, this is madness for this is not just bad government, it is bad business. If the lords had purchased these slaves with gold, then they would be destroying their own investment. In Al-Andalus slaves are expensive, and are treated well because they are valuable."

Raynar's reply had to wait while he shooed away some children who were asking to be given something, anything. They gave them nothing, so the children went back to laughing and playing.

"Before the Normans, there was no such thing as serfdom in this land. It was an idea that they brought from Normandy but I think the idea first came from the Papal lands in Lombardy."

"I know what serfdom is," replied Gregos, "for I have been many times to France and to Lombardy. A slave belongs to a man, whereas a serf belongs to a measure of land. The lord of that land is granted a lease by his ruler, but he does not own it. The reasoning is that the men who work the land should never be allowed to walk away from that work, no matter how the ruler juggles the lords."

With growing crowds of folk now lining the street, they were faced with a dilemma. If they walked on the shady side of the road, they must pass close to the serfs and their stench and the begging. But it was a hot day to walk in the sun, and the sunny side was in use by faster moving horses and slower moving carts, and therefore there was much dung and dust.

The line of serfs would end each time they walked past a woodland area, and then start again when there were more fields. Eventually as the day heated up, they had no choice but to walk on the shady side of the road and endure the stench and the closeness of the serfs.

"This pack is chaffing at my neck," Gregos eventually complained.

Raynar stepped behind him and adjusted the pack and suggested he take another rest soon so he could repack it to move every heavy item to the bottom. He then stepped behind Risto and did a similar adjustment. A mile further and there was a wife selling ale and cooked duck eggs, and so they stopped.

Once they had chased off the curious children, they ate a surprisingly filling snack of ale and egg. They did a complete repack to lighten Gregos's load. The damage was already done to Gregos's old back, however. He had a knot in his neck and between his shoulders, and you could see that he was uncomfortable shouldering his pack even after they took his heaviest items and transferred them to the other packs.

A small horse-drawn cart pulled up into the shade. Raynar walked over to buy the carter an ale and chat. The carter was young and in a good mood. He was on his way back to Basingestoches after making a delivery, and he had been allowed a horse instead of an ox so that he could be back before dark.

For the price of another ale and a few coppers the young carter welcomed them onto his cart. The horse walked fivefold the speed of an ox. This was not all a good thing, as at that speed the cart bounced and jarred through the potholes. Though they used their packs to cushion themselves, they were bruised and white with chalky dust within a mile.

The driver was not a carter, but a young groom by the name of Cena. He did not have the hungry look of the field serfs and his easy smile showed strong white teeth. When he heard that the reason these merchants were walking to London rather than riding, he became all smiles.

"Then it is my uncle Dunstan you will be wanting in Basingestoches. He runs strings of passenger ponies to all the towns around, and as far as the River Thames."

"Ponies? Ponies for children?" Risto asked.

"Not children's ponies. They are not ponies so much as small strong horses. They are surefooted and patient and have a quick step walk that shakes your teeth, but not your back. They are cheaper to buy and cheaper to keep and cheaper to saddle but bring in the same price per ride as a horse." Cena held up his hand to stop Risto from interrupting. "But the true wisdom of choosing ponies is that Normans sneer at them, so they never take them for themselves."

Raynar and Gregos both smiled at the lad. Both admired commercial wit. "Then please drop us at your uncle's stables lad, for he sounds like a man worth meeting," Gregos said.

"Your uncle," asked Raynar, "how will we know him?"

"Aye, well that's not hard. Just after I was born, he and my father crossed to Normandy with William the Bastard in a band of archers. They proved their worth quickly, but were eventually captured. My father did not survive the capture. They cut off the bowstring fingers at the knuckle from my uncle's right hand. So just look for the tall fair man with mutilated fingers on his right hand."

Cena shared his insights on the Normans his uncle dealt with. "Most of them are as useless as tits on a bull around their estates. Their idea of useful is useful in battle, and for sure, there have been battles enough these past few years. On the estate, though, they don't lift a hand to accomplish anything that is everyday useful. It is as if owning something useful, or doing something useful will embarrass them in front of their friends."

The miles shook and rattled by in happy talk. For all his local knowledge and his ability to speak Norman, Cena had no other education. No reading, writing, sums, or geography. Risto gave up trying to explain to him where Al-Andalus was. The young groom had never seen a lake, never mind the sea, and he thought that the Manche was just a wide river that you crossed to get to the southern shire of Normandy.

The lad's chatter finally wound down, and Gregos turned his questions back to Raynar to dig out more knowledge of England. "So I am wondering why the Norman lords are so fearful of losing their land, just because there is a new king. Don't they have written leases or deeds to prove their right to it?"

Raynar sighed. Gregos' simple questions were always the most difficult to answer. "Knut the Great created an Empire out of the kingdoms that bordered the North Sea. He took what was common across most kingdoms and declared those things 'in common' and 'right' across his Empire. Thus the people's day-to-day lives became ruled by Common Law. It was therefore not a law for the commoners, but tested and sound laws for everyone.

This rule by law was judged by folkmoots where judgements were made by a council of elders, usually a dozen of them. Since most evidence was oral, there were harsh penalties for perjury. Once William the Conqueror became king he replaced rule by law with rule by king, and judges were appointed by the Norman lords."

"Yes, yes, you always start with what was. I want to know about now," said Gregos.

"If I told you only that, you would not know why. Haven't you always told me that knowing 'Why' is the difference between learned and wise? Be more patient, " growled Raynar. "The Normans may have gained the throne of England with their swords, but they took possession of the land with their cocks."

Risto was immediately paying attention. Raynar took the aleskin from him and wet his throat which was parched from talking while breathing the swirls of white dust kicked up from the dry roadbed.

"From slaughtering the English lords the Normans had created a lot of wealthy widows. Those widows were betrothed by rape by the new lords, the Normans. Once the widow produced a half Norman child, any other sons had fatal 'accidents' so that the new Norman lord could claim the land through his child on behalf of King William. Thus, the king became the largest land owner and King William's will replaced Knut's rule of law."

"Ah," said Gregos. "So when the king dies, there is no more law and no more rights to land other than the natural law of possession. Yes, I can see why the Norman land lords are in a panic."

"Bah, too much law and politics," Risto interrupted. "It taxes my English. Go back to telling us stories of skirmishers and archers. Those I understand."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 19 - Scouting Near Stamford, Yorkshire in September 1066

Hereward's thirty skirmishers rode hard all the way to a deserted village about three miles north of Stamford and a mile west of the Derwent River. They followed a Yorkshire man who kept them out of sight of the walls of York, and kept them off cartways and away from villages. Including the detours, they had ridden about twenty miles from Tatecastre and had done it in less than four hours. Raynar was saddle sore and back sore and teeth sore and thigh sore, and was glad when the Yorkie pulled into a dense copse outside a village and dismounted.

Of the thirty, Hereward sent twenty off in twos on foot in every direction to spy the land and report back. Meanwhile the ten left in the copse set up a camp. The thickness of the bush was because there was a shallow pool fed by underground water. The trees were mostly ancient fruit trees that had grown too high to harvest. The younger men were sent up them to pick fruit. A lookout was sent up the highest tree, a walnut, and was told to keep in deep cover so he would not be spotted.

The twenty soon returned and they all reported desolation. There were no folk, no trace of folk, no livestock, no food, no valuables. However, nothing had been burned, the roofs were intact, and the crops were nicely ripening, to the joy of the crows.

"Good," said Hereward, "then there is nothing to come back for, save the harvest. This will be our advanced camp. When you leave here take your bearings on the walnut tree so that you can find your way back. Ten men will stay here with the horses. We are within a few miles of the Norse, so all scouting must be on foot. Stay away from the banks of the river, lest you be seen. Stay out of the corn fields for the same reason.

Osmund, you take nine men and scout directly east from here about five miles. This means crossing the river, so be careful. Then turn south until you reach the Roman street. Don't cross the Street unless there is absolutely no chance of being seen. Streets have a straight line of sight for long distances, so the watch has an easy job. Make note of the traffic on the street. We need to know who is using the street and for what reason and how many. Then get back here. As soon as you get back here, send two messengers back to the army with the information, but the rest wait here.

Meanwhile, I will take nine men south down this side of the Derwent and scout as far as Stamford. We need to spy out the road and river traffic moving down the Derwent from Stamford. If we can't see from high trees, then we will have to find a way to cross the Street. We need to know the size of the camp, the size of the boats, and how many boats and carts are on the move to and from the south. As soon as we return here, we will send two messengers back to the army with the information, and then wait here.

Now, pay attention you lot. Our mission is to get information to the army. If the information does not get there, then all we have done is for naught. If you take a message to the army, then stay with the army. Everyone else, I want reassembled here just after sunrise tomorrow at the latest. We will ride back to the army together. Hopefully by that time it will be on the move and already beyond York.

The army needs to know this information quickly so they can plan their attack. If you see something important, like a large number of Norse warriors or an army on the move or the King, then send two runners back here early, so that message can get to our army quickly.

Don't get side tracked by fighting, fucking, or theft. Run away, stay hidden, vanish, use your skirmisher skills and stay alive. If some of us are killed or wounded, the mission must continue, otherwise it was for nothing. If you are taken prisoner you will be questioned. If you must tell them something to stop the pain, then tell them that the army is planning an attack, but do not tell them that Harold's army has arrived. Your very presence will tell them that an attack is being planned, so they will know you speak true."

Hereward looked around and men began asking questions.

"I have drawn a large-size map in the mud by the pond. Let me show it to you before you ask questions." They moved to the mud map and Hereward explained the terrain twice. There were almost no questions, so Raynar held his. The others were experience skirmishers and knew what to do. "Anyone who can't swim, stay here with the horses. Raynar, Wylie, you are with me. The rest of you can choose which unit to scout with. "

Hereward collected his bow, quiver, bedroll, food bag, and aleskin from his horse and stood at the southern edge of the clearing with Raynar and Wylie. Osmund went and stood at the eastern edge. The rest of the men jostled with each other and eventually chose south, east, or to stay. Then they swapped themselves around to balance the numbers until everyone was satisfied and everyone was mated.

Raynar stood with his long staff-bow, but Hereward shook his head no. "It is too clumsy for dodging in scrub bushes. Go and fetch your smaller one." The men of the three units waved a farewell to each other, and then two of the units moved out of the copse in their different directions.

Wylie walked with Raynar, ten paces behind Hereward and continued Raynar's skirmishing lessons. "A skirmisher is a unit of one, but most have a good friend close by and they watch out for each other. Ultimately each skirmisher is responsible for himself. He carries what he needs and looks out for himself.

For instance in this unit right now, there are ten sets of eyes watching in all directions. For instance, if we need to run for it, we scatter. Always stay aware of your cover, the cover you are in and the cover you are moving to. Keep spread out. Notice how we are the only two that are close together. That is only because I must whisper to you. Look at the rest of the men, see how they are staggered. If you are part of a skyline, stay still. If you want to move, don't be part of the skyline. "

Hereward spoke over his shoulder that Raynar would need to know the signals and passwords, so Wyle explained the signal calls which all resembled animal calls, and the hand signals which were almost obvious. The password was, "here let me whisper it," followed by any made up password. When Raynar thought about it, the password was ingenious.

Wylie continued before Hereward could make any more suggestions. "Our target of choice is a leader. The more important the leader, the better. Remove the leaders from the battle, and his men usually stop or retreat. If you see a skirmisher taking a shot at a leader, it becomes your duty to protect him so that he can make a good shot. This means that if you are the man aiming at a leader, forget all else and make the shot. You must trust that if any enemy is charging you, they will sprout arrows shot by the other skirmishers."

Hereward spoke over his should again. "Tell him about horsemen."

Wylie began again. "We have no armour, which means we are light. The other name for skirmishers is light infantry. This means that if we are caught in a close fight with a shieldman or a horseman, we die. We fight at a distance, using the bow. We run and dodge to keep that distance. We can easily outrun a man in armour because we are lighter. Water and mud and hillsides and thick bush are our friend because they slow us less than they slow a heavy man.

A horseman, whether armoured or not, can outrun us on open ground. Don't get caught out on open ground if there are horsemen. If you do get caught on open ground, do not run unless you can make cover. Instead, face the horse and use your arrows on the horse. Always deal with the horse first.

When you bring down the horse, then the rider is just another heavy man on foot, and probably injured. If you are facing a horse, you can outmaneuver it, and then you can shoot more arrows. Turn your back on the horse and you will die."

Hereward spoke over his shoulder again. "You see why I am having Wylie train you. He is our youngest and has learned from watching us, yet he has a skill for putting what he sees into simple words."

Raynar already had learned many of these skills from his hunting trips in the Peak Forest. They were staying on animal tracks through bushes and trees as much as possible. The tracks ran along the edge of higher land which sloped down towards the river towards the East.

Hereward suddenly stopped and gave the signal to stop, and then a second signal to hide. No one questioned it. Everyone else was invisible before Raynar found his cover. A mounted troop of Norse was moving quickly through the trees ahead. There must be a cartway ahead.

To the other skirmishers, getting caught or killed was the reality they had been living since the Norse first sent their ships up the Ouse. To Raynar this was a fearful reminder of his new reality, and he suddenly needed to take a dump, and he did so while squatting in his cover. He heard Wylie whisper, "Pee-yew, it's a good thing the Norse are down wind, else they would be charging at us by now."

It was not a cartway, it was the Roman street. They had come to the street at its last high point before it sloped down to the river and therefore, to the ford. They stayed in deep cover. They knew the river was close. They could hear a mix of many dull sounds like when you approach a town. They could smell smoke and could see clouds of it down the road, like mist.

They left two men in the bushes beside the street to spy and make note of the type and volume of traffic on the street. Four other skulked along the street towards York, and four skulked along the street down towards Stamford. Hereward and Raynar were for Stamford. They were all to meet back at this point in a half an hour.

Long ago someone, probably the Romans, had dug a cut in the ridge and used what they dug as fill and the effect was that the roadbed was much more gradual a decent than the natural hillside. Raynar had good cover but it was lower than the road most of the time and he could not see the other side of the street. Though they were dropping towards the river, there was no damp ground or sloping soil. Instead the bedrock was laid in slabs and it created gigantic natural steps down the slope.

Hereward's signal stopped him still. Then he signaled them all forward to talk. "We can go no further this way. The place is swarming with Norse. They are using the ford as a bloody bath house," he whispered. "There are no trees that are safe to climb, without being seen. Stay here, I am going forward on my belly."

He was back in five minutes, brushing his clothes, and picking thorns from his hands and forearms. "We are out of here. The whole fucking army is there. Go back." he whispered.

They got back to the two who were counting traffic about the same time as the others, and everyone shared what they had seen so that they would all know.

"There is nearly no traffic. Just a few mounted patrols."

"We saw no watch. Not on the street and not on the ridge above the street."

"The street towards York is near empty, there are no camps, and no scouting parties. "

"The main army is at the ford, camped on both sides"

"The ford is the place where the river comes down from higher land into the lower plains"

"Ridges of the valley on each side continue for a mile down stream."

"The street dips down to cross ford and then climbs up again."

"The ford is a natural weir"

"There is no view close to the ford because the valley narrows."

Hereward asked some questions and then said. "You say there is no watch. Then I am crossing the street, to see the view from the valley's ridge. You four, go back to the horses and get a message away. You four, stay here in case we need help back across the street. Raynar, you are with me. You must mark the valley to your memory so that you can draw a map of it for the Earls."

Raynar crawled through the bushes towards the street nose to toe after Hereward. He was motioning towards York. There was a bend in the street where it started dropping down from the ridge. A crossing there would not be seen from either direction. The ridge had long grass and low bushes. They kept low, sometimes on all fours, all the way up the ridge. They stayed off the skyline until they were an eighth of mile south of the street. Then they crawled up to the last edge of the ridge and carefully raised their heads up to look over and down into the valley.

The land sloped down away from them to the river. Across the river it sloped up again. The Norse camp was spread out below them. Most of the camp was on the other side, the east side, just south of the ford. About a quarter was on this side by the ford. The ford was a place where the slabs of bedrock made giant steps down the river bed. The last giant step was a natural ford.

There were few on watch. Most were relaxing in the sun or bathing in the river. On the other side of the ford, above the street , there were men lying in whatever shade they could find. They could have been the wounded from the battle at Fulford. If so then there were a lot of wounded. There were lines of men with buckets walking continuously between the river above the ford and the camp, which meant that the water must be sweet and safe to drink above the ford.

There was no sign that they had fortified the camp. There was a small hill on the other bank and to the south that would have made a good fort, but there was not even a watch camped on it. Between the main camp and that hill there were men roped together and under guard. They must be hostages or slaves. Closer to the main camp there were rows of women held by ropes, each rope attached to a stake in the ground. Men were lined up to take their turns with them. Other women were at the river with the men, but again the men were waiting their turns.

Raynar clenched his fists and was going to say something, but was hushed by Hereward. "It is always thus when women are caught by army scavengers, and that will never change. When an army passes through the land, the food is taken and women are raped. If it is your army, no one is killed. If it is the other army, there are deaths. No one burns the crops or the roofs because the armies want the folk to survive for the next time they need food and women."

Raynar looked south. There were no boats in sight but there were carts on a track on the other side of the river. "Look, a quarter mile south. See there, a cart heading for the river. There must be another ford. Let's get a closer look."

They dropped back down from the skyline and scrambled along the York side of the ridge. When they stopped, and looked again, they were just above the cart. The Norse were pulling logs across some old stone foundations. They were repairing a bridge. "Squint your eyes," whispered Raynar, "and look at the land on the other side, below the hill, but don't look at the grass and bush. See, you can make out a pattern of squares. There used to be houses there. Stone houses. Square houses, and a lot of them. In ancient times, it must have been a town with a stone bridge."

Hereward stared and then saw. " The bridge gives the Norse another way to York, and another way to the Ouse south of York, and a shorter way to their ships. Come. We go. The Earls must be told of this bridge."

They were back at the horses before sunset, and sent off two more messengers. Two men from the other unit had already returned and were already on their way to the army with their news. The camp men told Hereward what those men had said.

The street to the east of Stamford was not visible from Stamford. There was almost no traffic on it, only the occasional bands of foragers. It did not seem to be watched. The rest of the unit had crossed the street to see if they could spy on the river.

Those men arrived back at the camp before dark. They were still damp from swimming the river when they reported to Hereward. Osmund made the report. They had been on the hill to the south of the camp. There was no watch. "Unbelievable," was Osmund's comment.

From the hill you could watch down the valley and up to the ford, but you could not see the street, and you could not see over the ridge on the York side of the valley. They described the valley much has Raynar had seen, and they also had watched the bridge construction. It had been completed and carts tested it while they watched. They also gave a count of the women, and were envious of that the Norse were getting fucked.

Hereward asked a few questions and then stood and said, "Raynar, with me. We will be the last two messengers. The rest of you, Osmund is in charge. Your mission is complete, and with no casualties. Wait until first light and then ride to York and find the army."

Hereward and Raynar rode slowly in the dark. They did not head towards the north of York, but directly towards the lights of York. They even used a main cartway from the north east. They circled south of York and rejoined the highway to Tatecastre. By the time they reached it, they were so exhausted that they were dozing in the saddles and trusting the horses to keep moving.

The English had not broken camp yet. The Marquee was still lit though most of the army slept.

It felt good to walk and to stretch every joint and muscle as they walked up the rise to the big tent. This time there was a watch, and they had to be announced and wait for permission to pass the guard. As they ducked under the flap, three knights were leaving. A kitchen boy handed them a mug of ale each, and then they were noticed by Edwin.

Hereward greeted his lord in a soft, tired voice and added, "Raynar needs a scribe, for he has a map to draw while it is fresh in his mind." Hereward went forward to the planning table, while Raynar was led by a scribe to a well lit writing table. As Raynar drew on paper at one table, Hereward at the other table was making a model of the same thing, using anything that came to hand, and explaining the lay of the valley as he made it.

Raynar finished his large scale map of the Stamford valley, and explained it to the scribe. "They will need at least six copies," he said. He walked to the back bench and looked over the leavings of food. He ripped a chunk of ham from a leg and refilled his mug with ale. There was no room for him around Hereward's model, as lords and ship,s captains had been sent for and the tent was filling rapidly. Once Hereward's report was finished, there was a flood of questions.

"How long is that hill, how high, how steep?"

"How wide is the river at the bridge, at the ford?"

"What was the drumstick again, and the salt cellar?"

Hereward was kept busy answering.

Finally King Harold raised his hand and the voices started breaking off, and the chatter went to quiet.

"So Hereward, the most important news you bring us is that their main force is at Stamford having a holiday, and they have many wounded from the battle at Fulford. Small groups are out foraging. Morcar's boatmen have told us that there are a few thousand men still with the ships. Were I Harald I would be doing much the same thing, except I would have fortified that hill above the bridge and have watchers on all approaches.

So let me summarize Hereward's plan to ensure I understand the reasoning, and for the benefit of those just arriving.

He paused while a last few men straggled in, and then continued.

"Regarding Stamford, you are saying that we can march the main force past York using the highways and directly to Stamford using the Roman street. The main force should have scouts in front of them to kill any Norse patrols or watchers. Once the army reaches the last ridge before the valley, a quarter of them should break off and head south a mile to sweep across the new bridge and up to the high ground and then keep them from the Norse.

Meanwhile, I should be with the main force and make my headquarters on the ridge on this side of the river. Nobody is to be seen until the main force is attacking the ford. The main force attacks down the street, which draws their main force on both sides of the river North towards the ford so that the smaller force can capture the bridge and the high ground. Once we control the bridge and the high ground we can crush them between us.

Meanwhile, we need mounted scouting parties in place to block all trails and cartways on both sides of the Derwent about five miles south of the bridge. They must block those trails before the Norse see my army approaching, because their purpose is to capture the messengers sent with news of the attack before they can reach the Norse fleet at Riccall."

Harold looked around to make sure everyone was still attentive. Only one of the men looked to be nodding off, and straightened up with a nudge from his neighbour. Harold glared, cleared his throat, and went on.

"Once they have all trails covered they can press north towards Stamford. Once they can see the battle, they must allow any captured messengers to accidentally escape and be on their way, late, to Riccall.

Meanwhile Morcar's men and ships must be ready to attack the Norse ships at Riccall. They should not show themselves, however, until the Norse on the ships send reinforcements to Stamford. Once the reinforcements are well gone, then they will attack and capture or burn the Norse ships."

A voice spoke "Sire, with your permission. What if the messengers are all killed and none captured. How will Riccall know that Stamford is under attack?"

"Good question. We are only stopping the early messengers. Later, once the battle becomes fearful, there will be so many volunteer messengers doing a runner, that many will reach the ships. The Norse reinforcements will start out too late to turn the battle at Stamford, and just in time to lose the battle at Riccall," Hereward replied.

"Did I miss anything else, Hereward?" The king looked at him. "No? Good then, thank you. Your scouting party must be split between our forces to act as guides. Now go and get some rest while we old men work out the details."

"You missed the hostages." A voice spoke from the back bench. The men in front of Raynar grumbled at the absence of protocol in the words, but moved apart so that the king could see who had spoken. "There are men and women hostages between the ford and the hill, sir. The force that takes the hill should also free them and march them up the hill to stand behind them. Otherwise they will be caught in the slaughter between two armies."

"Anything else? Ahh yes, you are the abbey's man. Anything else?"

"Raynar, sire. I saw no sign of mail, most had leather jerkins with rings, and a few had the Byzantine scale armour, but surprising few were wearing mail."

A ship's captain standing in the row of men ahead of Raynar waved his hand. "If it please your majesty, ships' crew often do not carry mail. It causes drownings because it is too heavy and too hard to take off. Besides it rusts quickly in the salt air. Instead they wear a brynja, which I suppose could be described as a leather jerkin with metal rings as the lad has said, but it is far more than just that.

The metal rings on the surface do not rust yet are strong enough to stop slash cuts and jabs with broad swords and axes. The leather jerkin slows arrows and daggers. But inside the leather is sheepskin with the wool felted and oiled and worn wool side in. It not only keeps them warm in wet weather, and sea winds, but also cushions every blow. If they fall overboard, it will keep them afloat for enough minutes to cast off the weight that would sink them. A hot sun tomorrow will be a good ally, for they will cast off their brynja in the heat."

Harold thanked the captain and looked again to Raynar and opened his hands in an unspoken gesture asking if there was more. Raynar spoke again. "May I use my Byzantine bow tomorrow sire? It served its former master too well and I would bloody his friends with it."

Harold snapped his fingers at an aid, and ordered him to bring the bow, then he turned to Raynar and asked, "the armour too?" to which Raynar responded, "Though it is fine armour of Syrian steel, it is of no use to me. You are welcome to use it, but I will be swimming rivers on the morrow, and armour sinks." There were gasps at the directness of such talk to a king. The king ignored them and thanked Raynar for his offer.

Hereward and Raynar were another hour getting free of the Marquee. Raynar had to proof read the copies of his new map and then explain them to the Earls. Hereward was answering specific questions of lords who had been assigned specific tasks. It was less than two hours until dawn when they finally curled into their cloaks.

Raynar had been so busy that it wasn't until his head was down, that all the fears of going into his first battle hit his mind and made him shiver and run towards the latrine pit.

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 20 - The Battle for Stamford Bridge, in September 1066

Hereward and Raynar had been split up. Wylie was the only skirmisher with Raynar and they were scouting with a patrol of a hundred mounted archers on the east side of the Derwent river. Hereward was with another large scouting party on the York side of the Derwent.

Their mission was simple to explain but hard to do. Block all communication between the Norse army at Stamford and the Norse ships at Riccall on the Humber. They had ridden hard, swum the Ouse, ridden hard, swum the Derwent, which had placed them about halfway between Stamford and Riccall and then they spread out on each side of the valley to slowly sweep north up every cartway, and bridleway, and track.

On Raynar's side of the river they were under the command of an expert archer from Nottinghamshire called Rodor. The other archers told Raynar that it was a good thing that the Earls had placed Rodor in.charge. Whomever they had named, all of them would still follow Rodor. Within the hour they had slaughtered a half dozen carters, and their forager escorts, and had captured two horsemen who may have been messengers.

Raynar had been using his Byzantine bow exclusively since his first practice shots, although he carried his army issue ash selfbow, and his handmade staffbow tied to his saddle. The Byzantine bow was short enough that he could use the army issue arrows with it. It was also short enough that it could be used while riding a horse or in thick bush. Unfortunately he was a poor rider, so he was forced to stop the horse to use the bow. Still it was better than the other archers. They had to dismount to use their bows.

For a short bow, its huge power was like magic. Its three and a half foot span had as much power as his seven foot staff bow, and it used normal arrows. Though he could shoot standard army arrows, they were too light for long range accuracy. Luckily' he always carried some of John's lead rings, and those he would crimp onto any shaft as required. This allowed him to keep in reserve his precious supply of the Byzantine warrior's armour-piercing arrows that were matched to the bow.

Timing was everything in Harold and Hereward's battle plan. Since Raynar knew the wider plan and had a map, Rodor kept him within earshot. They did not want to be too far north to be spotted, until the main attacks had begun. They need not have worried about the timing, for when the main attack began they could hear the alarm horns from three miles away.

Once they heard the horns, they sped up the pace of their sweep. Raynar ached. He had been in the saddle fiftten hours of the last thirty. That was more than the sum total of his saddle time over the rest of his life. After the first five of those hours, he had been loaned a sheepskin by another skirmisher to put under his bum, but it was already too late to save him from the sores he already had.

As they approached the southern edge of the high ground above the bridge, the valley narrowed on both sides of the river. He could see some of Hereward's riders across the river, pacing them. He looked hard ahead. Something was wrong. By now there should be English shieldmen on the hill, but nothing was moving. He sped his horse, ignoring the pain in his butt.

He was closing fast on the bridge now, and could see that it was blocked at both sides. The English shieldmen were blocking one end and the Norse shieldmen the other. There was much yelling and cheering on each side. The vision reminded him more of a cock fight in Scafeld than what he expected of a pitched battle against the Norse.

Once he was close enough to see clearly, he could see only two fighters on the bridge, and they had the center of the bridge to themselves. A giant of a man was on the Norse side, perhaps as big as his friend John, and he was, at that moment, swinging his huge ax to sever the head of the champion fighting from the English side. A cheer went up on the Norse side and another English champion stepped forward onto the bridge.

Raynar saw Hereward arguing with a lord on the other side. He ran his horse to the bank and hailed him from across the River Derwent. "What the fuck are they doing? They should be up the hill by now!" he yelled.

"This is the stuff of legends. They won't be hurried!" Hereward yelled back.

"What about the hostages?" Raynar could feel his anger building.

"They will have to wait," called the lord who was arguing with Hereward.

"This is against the Kings orders!" Raynar shouted angrily.

"Get stuffed, puppy!" the lord bellowed back grandly.

Raynar swung his horse around. About fifty of Rodor's archers had caught up with him, including Rodor. He pointed to the Norse side of the bridge and yelled, "Cover me!" to Rodor, then he turned his horse down the bank towards the bridge.

He wasn't a good enough rider to keep his saddle down this muddy slope so he grabbed his bow and quiver and leaped off the horse while it was still churning the bank with its hooves. He ran along a log left over from the construction of the bridge, fishing out two of his precious Byzantine arrows as he did so. At the end of the log he stopped, caught his balance, and looked up.

The Norse axeman was truly a giant. The Englishman he was fighting looked like a child in comparison, though he himself was a big man. The axe man was swinging a battle axe in one hand and a light axe in the other. The Englishman was hiding behind his shield.

From the corner of his eye he could see two Norsemen sliding down the embankment towards him, while they yelled up to their mates at the Norse end of the bridge. Raynar aimed and loosed. He waited for the first arrow to hit and then he loosed the second. The first took the giant axeman in the ear, and spun him round with the force. The second took him in the throat.

Raynar spun around on the log, almost slipping while fishing for any arrow to loose at the Norsemen who were sliding towards him and getting close. He need not have worried. The two men sprouted arrows like hedgehogs.

He could hear Hereward yelling orders at the top of his lungs, "Archers, clear the bridge! Kill them all!" Raynar ran back down the log to the bank and then hung onto his saddle and had the horse drag him diagonally back up the bank away from the bridge. By the time he was up the bank and in the saddle again, there was carnage at the Norse end of the bridge. Archers from both sides of the river were pouring aimed shafts into those unfortunate men.

There were now three separate mad scrambles of men. There was the mad scramble of the English forces racing across the bridge and finally following the King's orders to gain the high ground. There was the mad scramble at the Norse end of the bridge to raise a shield wall against the English flood. And there was a vast mad scramble of Norse backing south away from the main battle for the ford, who were also on their way to the high ground above the bridge.

Raynar wheeled his horse through the ranks of Rodor's fifty archers. "Leave this skirmish to Hereward's archers and get mounted. Follow me."

The archers did not follow him until Rodor, seeing what the lad was up to, leaped onto his horse, and spurred him on to catch the lad. Raynar galloped full speed south along the empty part of the hill and then turned and spurred the horse in a diagonal climb northward up the hill.

Near the top the horse started flagging in loose dirt and he was not a good enough rider to handle the problem, so he flung himself off and led the horse the last twenty feet to the top. He was the first man from any side to reach the top of the high ground.

He did not bother with the horse, but instead grabbed bow and quiver and ran along the west edge of the slope until he reached the point where directly below him were the first of the Norse shieldmen struggling up the slope against the weight of their weapons and shields and brynja.

There were not enough arrows in the world to stop these men. Raynar shot the shieldman closest to him before that warrior could reach the top and give him trouble. The shaft took the man by surprise and he fell backwards down the slope in fear and agony. As he fell and slid down the loose dirt he took out the legs of the two men below him. This started a minor avalanche of men and weapons and especially shields.

Rodor and the other archers had by now reached the top and observed the avalanche effect and also started loosing arrows at those Norse warriors closest to the top of the high ground. Raynar began to walk slowly north along the ridge of the hillside, with the other archers forming a single line along the ridge behind him.

"Stop! Stop shooting wildly! Reserve some of your arrows. We will need some to escape this trap." It was Wylie, the young but trained skirmisher shouting at the top of his lungs, just steps behind Raynar. "We've put the fear of Woden in them and it has slowed them down, now let's do something to win this battle. Kill the leaders. Don't shoot the men who are climbing, shoot the men who are ordering them to climb."

Rodor chimed in with his bellowing voice, "You men at the back! Stay with the horses and don't let the Norse up behind us. Save your arrows to make sure we can get back to you. The rest of you - if you are low on arrows, or if the Norse get close to the horses, run for the horses so you can gallop down to the south. If you get cut off, then run for those trees to the east of us." He opened one hand to them, waiting for a confirmation of his orders and everyone yelled it back to him. "Right, now let's get killing those leaders!" he yelled.

Raynar was still in the lead and he recognized the sparkle of costly Byzantine armour further to the north. He marked him as a leader. He ran for a hundred paces to get within range. A swarm of Norse warriors were near to cresting the ridge up at the ford end of the high ground, and he was closing the distance towards them at full speed. He summoned his courage and ran another hundred paces closer to the glint of costly armour, thinking that even a Byzantine arrow may fail against the Syrian steel of that armour if he wasn't close enough.

Over his shoulder he could see that he had left the line of archers far behind. Only Wylie was still with him. The man in the costly armour was one of the first to crest the hill. He stood tall, removed his helmet to wipe his sweaty forehead, and slowly turned in a full circle to see what was happening in the valley and on all sides of the hill.

With his helmet off, Raynar had one chance at a head shot. He drew with all the strength of his porter's back and shoulders, aimed, and loosed. His heavy arrow took the tall man through the cheek. He was a big bugger. It seemed to take him a long time to fall and hit the ground. Raynar then realized that he was being lowered gently to the ground by the other men around him.

The closest six of Norse axemen turned towards him and screamed their fury, and then began to move towards him, beating their axes against their shields. Wylie yelled at him to run for it. Raynar turned on his heel, but he and Wylie had stayed too long and ventured too far. There were now Norse on the crest between them and the rest of the archers and the horses.

Wylie was signaling Rodor and the other archers to run for it, as he watched them loose a volley of covering arrows. Then as one they sprinted for their horses. The good news was that most of the Norse between Wylie and the retreating archers were now making a hopeless chase after the mounted archers.

Wylie turned and began to run eastward toward a line of trees. Raynar followed him with all the speed his exhaustion could muster. All he could think of was that this would not be a good time to trip. The heavily-laden Norse behind them gave up the chase. They were exhausted from battling to the base of the hill and then the climb up.

Raynar slowed and called to Wylie, "Wylie, you go on. I am going to swing north and look down the north slope to see what is happening to the hostages." The distance to the north edge was further than it looked. Perhaps an eighth of a mile. He was just about to peer over the edge when he heard heavy breathing behind him. Wylie had caught him up.

"I can't leave you yet, your training isn't over," he panted. "Besides, Hereward ordered me to look after you."

Together they peered over the edge of the hill and looked North. Thankfully there were no Norse climbing the slope below them. There were Norse below them, they just weren't climbing. There were hundreds of hostages tied together along ship's ropes that were secured to posts at each end.

Guarding the hostages were the Norse walking wounded, hundreds of them. They wouldn't be climbing this hill, but they finished any hope that Raynar had of helping the hostages. Wylie grabbed his arm and told him that the high ground where they had stood not moments ago was now swarming with Norse. It was time for them to retreat to the woods.

They trotted down the north east slope of the hill towards the woods. At the woods they found a shallow gully that seemed to be the upper end of a gently sloping and ever-widening gully down to where the hostages and the walking wounded were.

Wylie was saying something to him. "Think there are any Norse in these woods? This gully would seem to be an easy way for them to flee the battlefield. Even the wounded could climb that gully." The thought that there might be a lot of Norse hidden in these woods did not slow their pace. The thought of Norse in the woods was preferable to the reality that behind them was a swarm of Norse warriors in a total lust for the blood of English skirmishers.

They continued past the first bushes and into the deeper shadow before they stopped to take stock of their situation. Wylie had but three arrows left. Raynar had three plus one last Byzantine one. Wylie had his wicked long dagger. Raynar his porte'rs knife, and his Byzantine short sword. Both of them had some smoke-dried salt pork.

"We're fucked," Raynar commented chewing the pork, "despite the fineness of this blade, I am no swordsman. I am a porter. What in Woden's name am I doing here?"

"Don't count on me using your sword. I am the son of an innkeeper. The Scarlet Man Inn of York, fine food, soft beds, hearty ale. My father sent me with the fyrd to save on some taxes." Wylie chewed slowly. "My mam's is a lot more tender and juicy. Her and my youngest sister do the cooking. My oldest brother is the ale master and the barkeep. My middle brother and oldest sister run the bedrooms and the tables. My father just counts the money, and complains when we spend any."

"Your father risked you for taxes?" asked Raynar between chews.

"I'm just the third son to him. The fyrd wanted me because I won a ribbon shooting practice arrows at straw targets at the last fair. I had never shot any living thing before today, though I have tried for deer a few times."

"But you know so much. Everything you told me was true." Raynar spat out some gristle.

"I know so much because Hereward drilled it into my head for two weeks before you came. Training you was his test for me," Wylie laughed aloud and then put his hand over his mouth.

"Are any of your kin with the hostages?"

"I don't know. I suppose they could be." His laughter turned to a glum frown.

"I'm sorry, Wylie. Even if we did have arrows, we couldn't help those hostages. The guards may be injured, but they are not helpless, and there are a lot of the bastards."

"If you think it would help, I will walk over to those Norse on the ridge and ask for some of our arrows back," replied Wylie. He peered out between the leaves back towards the hill, "They are setting up a shield wall along the ridge. We didn't kill enough of the leaders. That last one you shot, the tall bugger. He was important. As soon as you dropped him they formed a shield wall around him."

They crept deeper into the woods, expecting a berserker behind every bramble bush and every tree. They could see the other edge of the woods now and wondered if they should move north or south. "If only the idiots at the bridge had followed orders," Raynar whispered, so tired he wanted to weep, "the battle would be over by now. Thousands may die because of that foolishness on the bridge."

He felt overwhelmed with the amount of slaughter he had seen today. He wondered what he would see in his dreams tonight. Torn limbs. Spouting blood. Hacked bodies. Bodies split like butchered pigs. He shuddered and pretended he was cold.

Wylie whispered back, "I could never fight in a shield wall. The slaughter is too close. With an arrow the damage is all far away from you."

"Shhh, I hear something!" warned Raynar in a hiss. "There are men in these woods."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 21 - Killing a King, Stamford, Yorkshire in September 1066

"You two are the worst excuses for skirmishers I have ever met. I heard you talking a mile away."

The two of them looked around and were face to face with the point of a nocked arrow. It was Osmund, Hereward's second-in-command. They both said his name at the same time and slapped him on the arm. "Do you have spare arrows?" Wylie asked immediately.

"Arrows!" replied Osmund. "Shit boy, I've got half the fucking army coming up behind me. Since I had led the scouts that found the back way onto this hill, I was volunteered to show everyone else the way. The ford had been won, and we just marched across it and up the street. This high ground is still in Norse hands, though. Earl Edwin and a thousand men are to attack it from behind,"

The two exhausted lads looked at each other with widening eyes.

Osmund eyed the game trail through the wood. "Is this the track I need, then? I was hoping I wasn't lost. It never pays to look foolish in front of your lord." He grinned a little sheepishly.

Raynar felt a rush of energy in his blood. "This is a good track. It leads both to a gentle climb to the northern crown of the hill, and to a gentle gully back down into the valley. Where is Edwin? I must speak to him."

"An Earl won't speak to the likes of you, boy. But if you must be embarrassed, I will take you to him." Osmund looked at the other lad and said, "Wylie, stay here to mark the track and I will send the first of the shieldmen to you. Remind them not to break cover."

Raynar followed Osmund out of the shadows and into the sunshine. He blinked at the brightness, and watched as bushes turned into men as they stood up. They were more of Hereward's skirmishers. "Hey Raynar, you lost?" one called, and laughed.

Osmund hushed them, "Wylie is marking the track. Make sure the shieldmen don't break cover before we own the woods."

Raynar looked ahead and saw Edwin, "Stay with your men Osmund, I see him," and he ran to the Earl's side.

"It is the abbey's man, Raynar, sire," announced the Earl's aide. Raynar recognized him as the one that had found him his bow. Was that just last night? The Earl waved to the shieldmen to keep them moving while he stood surrounded by his personal guard. He was a young man but he was breathing hard. He gave Raynar a curt nod. "Report," was all he said.

Raynar quickly told him everything about the fight to keep the high ground from the Norse, the Norse shieldwall on the west ridge, the size of the wood, the slope up to the Norse position, the slope down the gully, the hostages, and their guards.

"There are less than two hundred guards with the prisoners," said Raynar, "and they are all walking wounded. Mostly shoulder and arm wounds. There are twice that number of prisoners. We wouldn't even need to fight the guards. A hundred men could form a shield wall between the guards and the hostages. We could free them and march them back here up the gentle slope of the gully."

The Earl was not enthused about weakening his force before the Norse were pushed off the high ground, and he said so.

Raynar did not give up. If the prisoners were not moved they would be caught between the armies, or used as a human shield by the walking wounded. "You don't need to make up your mind until you look down the slope for yourself. The slope is not high. You could direct the shieldwall yourself by yelling commands down from the crest."

The Earl started marching again and told Raynar to stay with him. The aid caught up to them carrying a quiver of arrows for Raynar. Edwin started talking. "Raynar, we want the Norse to break and retreat. They will retreat this way. It is their only way. If I show my men too soon they will not break. The prisoners will have to wait. I have no choice."

They reached the track through the woods. It was no longer a track. The feet of five hundred heavy infantry had stomped a road through the woods. As soon as they were on the track they could hear the sounds of the battle ahead. Osmund, Wylie and the other skirmishers were trotting towards them.

"The battle has changed again," Osmund reported. "We snuck a look down into the valley and the Norse have stopped retreating from the ford, and have stopped climbing the hill."

Edwin issued orders to the shieldmen commanders to string their men out along the side of the hill but to stay hidden in the wood. They were not to break the cover of the wood until the order was given.

The sound of horses behind him made Raynar turn. Coming through the track were several riders each leading spare horses. In the lead was Hereward.

"Sire," Hereward ignored Raynar and faced Edwin, "the king sends his compliments and reminds you to stay out of the shield wall. If it goes badly here, you are to use these horses and return to his banner immediately. He says he cannot afford to lose you in a side battle."

"What else?" asked Edwin.

"Our plan is working, though not perfectly. A relief column of about a thousand Norse from the ships have arrived. They have force marched up the Derwent and have come to the battle already tired. By now the ships should be under attack by your brother Morcar and his Northumbrian ships.

The arrival of the relief column has changed the battle. We have pulled our south wing back as the new Norse column arrived so that they would be caught between the high ground and the new Norse.

The sight of the column gave heart to the Norse that were defending the bottom of the hill and they have surged forward. They are pushing our main shield wall back towards the river. This has heartened the Norse on the hill and they are leaving the crown and the crest of this hill and are moving down to the valley floor to support their men there. Tostig is the one rallying them so we think that Harald may have been injured."

Edwin held up his hand. "Let me guess. Since the Norse on the hill are moving down towards the valley anyway, the king wants me to push them on their way, and then hold the hill so they can't have it back."

"You guess well," replied Hereward. "It is a good plan, and your men would be safer on the hill than down in the valley. In the center of the valley there is much slaughter on both sides. In any case, the timing is yours but don't wait too long. You know how walls move better than I, but the king also used the word 'push', not fight, not kill. He wants you to push them off the crest of the hill and then don't let them back up.

Earlier in the battle he watched some of our archers cause avalanches of men down the slope, and he wants that again, but along the entire crest of the hill. He has sent his personal reserve south to come in behind the new Norse column. When he sees an avalanche on the hill he will give the order to squeeze the Norse together. That will be the finish of them, and few will escape."

Edwin nodded, "Thank you, Hereward. Have your men tie up the horses and leave a guard with them. Send a rider back to Harold that the avalanche should be starting as he receives the message." Edwin turned and headed towards his men. The skirmishers watched him walk along the line of shieldmen giving orders as he went.

Hereward spun around from watching Edwin. "Osmund, you heard Edwin. Go and drink some of the king's wine." He then put an arm each around Wylie and Raynar. "I feared you dead. Two of those spare horses are your empty saddles. I knew Raynar's by his shepherd's crook.

I was with the king when the archers tried to hold the hill. I knew you were with those archers. It had all the signs of careless youth. The king sent me to rally the rest of the mounted archers to support you, but by the time we had crossed the bridge, the Norse had already reached the crest."

Hereward moved towards the last cover before the end of the wood and gathered the skirmishers to him. "When our shield men charge, you stay out of the fray. It will be heavy infantry work and you lot have no armour or shields. We will follow at a hundred paces and pour our arrows into any pockets of Norse resistance." And that is what they did.

Edwin's men, without their usual yells and screams, and shield-thumping, charged at full speed at the Norse who were lined upon the crest looking down at the Norse surge in the valley. Edwin's thousand men hit shield to shield with the Norse and then dug in their feet and pushed. At times there were two men behind a shield pushing with all their strength.

Due to the shape of the ridge, it was harder to do the pushing on the higher north crest of the hill, so Hereward had his skirmisher focused their arrows on that end of the Norse line. Edwin, under orders not to be in the shield wall, rode back and forth along the line shouting at the English to go no further than the crest and to form a wall on the crest. He kept yelling and yelling not to follow the Norse down the hill. Within a half an hour Edwin's Mercians had won the high ground.

Hereward look around and signaled his men to him. Raynar and Wylie ignored him. They were peering down the north side of the slope. They ignored him again, so he trotted over to them and the other skirmishers followed him. He was within a stone's throw when he heard Raynar scream, "Bastards!" and start running down the slope, nocking and loosing as he ran.

Wyle chased after him and also started shooting. Hereward and the rest did not need to know the reason. A skirmisher was charging and shooting, that was enough to tell them it was serious. Hereward reached the spot where Raynar had begun, and then he saw.

Below him were lines of prisoners. The prisoners each had both hands tied to a long rope. There were about fifty prisoners to a line. The Norse were walking down each line slitting throats. Raynar and Wylie were running towards the furthest line, a line of women. Half the women in that line were already slumped on the ground. As one Norse held the next woman in line from behind, the other pushed her head forward and began his knife slash. He was lifted off his feet by the arrow that hit his chest. The other man looked down at the writhing body of his mate and seemed to be frozen in place until the next arrow pinned his upper arm to his ribs.

Hereward gave the order. "Each of you pick a line, and kill the bastard guards." The men stopped running and stilled so that they could mark their targets. The arrows hissed and the Norse were falling, then all the guards saw the skirmishers and began running away down the slope.

Raynar slung his bow and whisked out his thin short sword. The long ropes were knotted to a log post at each end. Raynar did not know this blade. The Syrian steel looked too thin to be of use against another sword, but it slashed through that thick ship's rope as if it were cheese.

There was no time to release each prisoner. The executioners who had escaped the volley of. arrows were yelling to get the attention of the rest of the walking wounded. One by one the wounded were turning away from watching the battle for the valley and looking towards the prisoners.

Raynar cut the big rope away from the post, and then ran down the line of women to the closest dead body and cut the thick rope at that point. "Run!" he shouted, and pointed up the slope to the gully and the woods. "Run to the woods and wait for the rest!"

The women moved slowly. Their bodies were sore from abuse, and if one stumbled, the tug on the rope caused others to fall. "Get moving, work together, get moving!" Raynar yelled in frustration. "Save yourselves! Oh, please save yourselves!"

Wylie had followed Raynar's lead and was cutting the thick rope of the next line of women.

Raynar looked up the slope and could see the other skirmishers working at freeing the hands of the closest men. Of course, once the men were freed, they can save the women. Once freed, the first of the prisoners searched the fallen Norse for blades, and started freeing other men.

By the time Raynar and Wylie had the four strings of women loose, and crawling up the slope, help was on its way. The slow stumble up the slope became a walk and then a trot as more and more hands were cut free of the ship's rope. By the time the prisoners made the gully, the thick ropes were left behind on the ground.

Raynar heard a warning from what sounded like Hereward's voice, so he turned. A mass of the walking wounded, armed with swords and daggers, but no shields, was closing in on him. Raynar and Wylie dragged the last of the slower women up the slope until they had reached the start of the gully.

Hereward and most of the skirmishers joined them there, and they spread out in a line across the mouth of the gully. It only took one salvo of targeted arrows to stop the mob of walking wounded in their tracks. The next salvo had them running back down the slope and out of range.

The skirmishers stood in line in that place until a man waved to them from the crest of the hill behind them and then signaled that the prisoners were all safe in the trees. The skirmishers joined them in the trees, and after a short rest, led them down the newly stomped road through the woods and into a clearing away from the battle.

Hereward and his men could find only five of their horses tied up in the shade where they had left them. The guard explained that Edwin's bodyguard had taken the rest. They could not afford to load the few horses left to them with the weakest of the prisoners, in case they met some fleeing Norse. Five skirmishers climbed into the saddles instead.

Some of the stronger prisoners carried the weakest of the women on their backs. Some were husbands and wives, some were sisters and brothers. There were about three hundred and fifty prisoners still alive, and the skirmishers guarded them on their slow walk to the Street, and along the street and across the ford towards York.

As the skirmishers crossed the ford a mounted courier carrying a message from Edwin to the king pulled up for a moment, and told them that the battle had turned again. The Norse had been squeezed into a smaller and smaller circle at the foot of the hill, and the end was near.

Walking through the ford, Raynar could not look from side to side. The smell of blood and offal brought his stomach into his throat. The river bank, the rocks, the grass, even the mud were dark red with drying blood. The dead of both armies had been piled along the bank to clear the way for traffic across the ford.

The army's scavengers were already gleaning the weapons and armour and arrows. As they loaded carts, they were separating that which was scrap for the forge, from that which needed repair, and from that which could be reissued immediately.

Raynar saw one of the abbey's carts piled high with bloody metal. "I wonder what the good brother would say if he saw that," he whispered to himself as he tried not to step in a bloody pool.

On the York side of the ford there was a guard on the street near the corner of the ridge. The guard was at the very spot that he and Hereward had crossed the street on the scouting mission. An aide came high-stepping down from the ridge, waving his hands to be noticed. "The hostages can't be returned to York yet, have them sit over there in the hollow and I will have food and ale brought to them."

"I was expecting this," Hereward said to Raynar. "The king will want for himself the tribute promised by York to the Norse. These poor folk are still hostages to a king, just a different king."

Raynar looked at him with dismay, and then refocused his eyes and looked over Hereward's shoulder. A rage came to his face. Raynar started walking fast towards a group of the street's guards. They were hovering around some ragged young women, whose tattered clothes were no longer a modest cover for their bruised bodies. Hereward signaled to two of the skirmishers to intercept Raynar, but they were too late in understanding the signal.

Raynar nocked an arrow and pointed it at the face of the serjeant of the guards. Raynar's voice hissed with venom. "If any men. And I mean any men, molest any of these women before they are home with their kin, then I will hunt you down, serjeant, and put an arrow through your face."

The serjeant pulled his hand away from the breast he was groping, and winked at the other guards.

"Not them. You," hissed Raynar, "I won't remember their faces, but I will remember yours. And you will be very dead. You can be sure of that."

The serjeant did a hand signal to his men, whose grips stiffened on their pikes, and they all stopped chuckling. Then he looked over towards Hereward and Wylie. "Are the rest of you in on this with this milksop?" he spat.

"Not at all," replied Hereward calmly. "He doesn't need our help. That is Raynar of the Peaks. It was he that slew the berserker on the bridge. You will fall in front of him like wheat before a sickle. Have you ever seen a bow such as his before. It is a magic bow from the Holy Land. It shoots through mail, it shoots through armour. It never misses. It is guided by the Virgin Mary to strike down all rapists."

The guards backed away from their serjeant and the serjeant's face went white as he started backing away with his men.

"You are wise, serjeant," said Raynar in a calmer voice, "and you would be wise to extend your guarding of this street to include the guarding of these women. And when your shift is done, make sure that your replacements also know how important it is that none of these women are molested. Your very life depends on it."

The serjeant moved away to be with his men, and the women they had been pestering joined the other hostages in the grass behind the ridge. If the serjeant had any thoughts of ignoring the lad called Raynar of the Peaks and his holy bow, they disappeared when the aide on the rise yelled, "Are you the Abbot's man, one Raynar? The king asks your presence."

Before Hereward and Raynar climbed the rise, they called the other skirmishers to them. Hereward pointed to Raynar's bow and said, "Show them your sword as well . I want four of you to stay with the hostages, and the rest to go down to the scavengers at the ford. I want you to collect any bow that look like that and any sword that looks like that, and bring them back here. If you meet any of the others skirmishers, have them search too."

He looked at the exhaustion in the faces, and the disappointment at the thought of combing the bloody fields. "To find the bows, think like an archer. Where would you have stood on that battle ground?"

* * * * *

The marquee on the ridge seemed tranquil and clean after crossing the battlefield. A ring of personal guards were posted around it, but the aide got Hereward and Raynar past them with a simple wave of his hand. He stepped in front of them at the door flap so that they could be properly announced. It was a waste of his manners, for the king was not there. The aid walked them around the other side and out to the crest of the ridge overlooking the valley. The king was sitting on a stool in the sun and seemed to be asleep. The aide coughed discreetly.

The king waved them forward. He was not sleeping, he was fingering something in his lap. He held it up. It was an arrow. "Is this your arrow, Raynar of the Abbey?" Raynar moved closer to see, and confirmed it. The point was one of the eastern bodkins, so it was one of the arrows that was mated to his bow.

"They have found King Harald's body," Harold continued. "This is the arrow that killed him. They have not yet found my brother Tostig's body. Did you kill him too?"

"The only lord I shot was a very tall man. He was leading the Norse that took the high ground. I did not know he was the king," answered Raynar, suddenly afraid. "Tostig has never been pointed out to me so I would not know if I shot at him or not. Where was he in the battle?"

The king turned to him. "His banner spent most of its time half way up the hill, but moved towards the river with the last Norse surge."

"Then I never saw him, Sire, I was busy rescuing prisoners," Raynar replied.

Harold nodded. "Raynar, only we here know that it was your arrow that killed the king. You had best keep it that way. Don't speak of it. The nobility tends to react badly to porters who have balls enough and skill enough to kill heavily-protected nobility. If they fear for their own safety, they may decide to make you disappear. After all, if the rest of England's porters find out that a porter can kill a king, this country may come undone. Do you understand?"

"Keep my mouth shut," replied Raynar.

"Exactly," said Harold, and waved down the aide's voicing his objection to the lack of protocol in Raynar's words.

"Done, uh, Sire," Raynar added.

"The Norse berserker that was holding the bridge, that was your doing too?" asked Harold.

"Yes, Sire"

"I have had a complaint from the lord charged with taking the bridge. He wants you whipped for insubordination and disobeying orders," Harold said matter-of-factly.

"But I - they - I..."

The king held up his hand. "Never mind, I saw it all, and I have had Hereward's report about why the bridge held us back for so long. You were in the right, and your actions probably saved me a thousand men, and shortened this battle by a day." He looked Raynar in the eye. "I cannot punish the lord now, else he will blame you and have you murdered. I will punish him at some other time."

The sound of battle from below in the valley became slightly louder and Harold turned to see what was happening. "My aide tells me there was trouble with my guards and the women prisoners."

"Not any more, Sire. We have an understanding," answered Raynar.

"Good, those women have suffered enough at the hands of men, and will suffer again come nine month." Harold motioned the aide closer. "Offer these two food and ale from my store and escort them through the guards. Send the captain of my guard to me."

Harold turned towards his two skirmishers. "Remember to hold your tongues. That is an order, not a request."

The king turned back to his view of the battlefield. Hereward followed the aide. Raynar did not.

Harold spoke without turning, "Raynar, you did not leave, I knew you would have more to say. It is a trait of the church's men to always push for more. Well then, say it."

By this time the aide was racing back to his king in embarrassment and began tugging at Raynar's sleeve. Raynar did not budge.

"It's about the wounded, Sire. The wounded should all be moved to the shade above the ford. The soil and the river are clean there and the water sweet and drinkable. Anyone camped in that bloody valley will sicken. It is poisoned with blood and offal, and the flies will spread the poison."

"Anything else?" Harold waited.

"And if you are bargaining a tribute from York, take part of it in care for your wounded. Your army doesn't have the time to properly care for the wounded, but York is rich and close by and they owe these men a blood debt. Let the burden of care be on the folk of York, and also the burden of returning the cripples and the prisoners to their kin." A silence. "Uh, Sire."

Harold turned and stared into Raynar's eyes. "Are you applying for a position as my hospitaller? No? Then you are dismissed." He switched his stare to his aide. "Have the captain of the guard come to me, and have him bring the Hospitaller with him."

* * * * *  
* * * * *  
THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 22 - Riding to Guildford, in August 1100

After the richness of Winchester, Basingestoches was very rural. Like other Saxon towns, it was smelly and grubby and unplanned. Cena's uncle did make a good choice of location. The stable was where two roads from the west joined, and was close to the market. As they drove up, the uncle was at a farrier's forge. He put down his hammer, and wiped his hands on his leather apron and walked over to the cart. Cena introduced them and told him they were headed for London.

Dunstan wiped his hands some more as he told them the bad news. "I have no pony strings that can take you to London today. The only string still to leave is only going as far as Guildford. That puts you on the main highway to London bridge. There is a string on for tomorrow going to Staines. Once you cross the Thames ferry at Staines, there are a dozen stables that will take you into London. The old Roman street from Staines takes you through Westminster, so if you are lucky you may see some of the coronation."

Gregos stepped forward at the word "coronation" and agreed. "I suppose the morning ponies to Staines will have to do, thank you," and he reached out to shake Dunstan's hand. They had clasped hands before he noticed the missing middle fingertips. "Ah yes, Cena told us you were in Normandy as an archer, and taken prisoner."

Cena was passing down the packs and saying, "I beg your leave. I have another load to pick up and deliver." The men watched him cluck the horse out of the stable yard and up the street to the market.

Dunstan looked back at Gregos. "We have simple pallets in the bunkhouse behind the stable that you are welcome to use. You can use the smaller of the two rooms. It has a door that can be barred. The grooms all sleep in the big room."

Gregos nodded and went to look at the bunkhouse with Risto. Raynar walked back to the forge with Dunstan. When they were out of earshot Raynar said "You've done well for yourself, old friend."

Dunstan stopped walking and turned slowly to face Raynar. "I saw your signal and it was hard to pretend we were meeting for the first time. How's John and Mar? I haven't seen them since last year's Wool Fair. No, it was the year before that."

"John is still John. Mar is changing from pretty to handsome." They shook hands again. Harder this time.

"Has this pretending to be strangers got anything to do with William Rufus? Was it the Hood?" There was no need to say what 'it' was.

"Yes, but the Normans will never admit it," replied Raynar.

"Will they begin hunting us again?" Asked Dunstan.

"No, but it is not the best of times to admit that you are of the Hood. Do us a favour and spread the word that everyone should lie low, or hide."

Dunstan held up his missing fingertips. "Hard to hide."

"Don't worry. If they begin looking, they will be looking for a desperate young man on the run, not a comfortably aging businessman. Meanwhile, we need to get to London tonight. Do you have any ponies to spare?"

"No, but I can free three up. Three of my Guildford passengers will be angry to be left here, but I can use the coronation as an excuse."

"Then please do so, old friend, while I will tell my companions," said Raynar as he gripped the man's elbow in the way of warriors.

Dunstan rented them three of his ponies free rein. "To return them you need only take them as far as my paddock in Staines," and he gave them detailed directions in how to find that paddock.

He had waved as they took to the road once more, and they waved back. It was over fifty miles to London Bridge, and they would probably not make it all the way this day, but they would get close. It all depended on Gregos, as walking with a pack had taken a toll on his neck and shoulders.

The ponies were everything Cena had promised them. They were easy to manage, surefooted and strong. Their short stride and low back made their quick step-walk easy to endure for long distances. They were smart enough not to overtire themselves and would force rest stops at water holes. The saddles were low and easy to mount, crude but padded, and had a frame behind the seat for strapping bags and rolls.

Their small hooves were protected from the hard road surfaces by iron shoes. The ponies were trained for one-handed control like a cavalry horse, rather than two-handed like other horses. They were polite with people, but they seemed quick to bite and quick to kick at each other. Interestingly, even when they kicked they did not buck, but kicked with one leg only.

Gregos and Risto were quite at home on the ponies, as they had ridden simila- sized horses in all the hot countries of the Mediterranean. Their speculation was that Dunstan had seen the advantages of smaller horses while fighting the French. Raynar, being a head taller, was too large for his horse and felt a bit ridiculous when Normans passed by on full-sized coursers. He wondered if John Wheelwright or his son would touch the ground with their toes astride one of these ponies.

Their route was through Guildford and they did not stop until they reached that important crossroad town. Now that they were riding, they could more easily see over walls and hedgerows. This highway was also lined with serfs hoping to see the new king. Now that they were riding they were accosted by all the local women folk with food or crafts to sell, but at higher prices.

The ponies knew their way to Guildford and took them to Dunstan's paddock there. They must have been part mule, because they refused to move again until they were fed and rested.

There were women walking by on the way to market with baskets on their heads. Risto watched them walk and sighed. "There are no expensive women at Court that have such pleasing posture as market women balancing baskets. I will go and buy something for us to eat."

Gregos and Raynar walked over to a shade tree while rubbing at their kidneys and stretching their legs. The ponies had wanted to walk single file so there had been little conversation since Basingestoches. Raynar took the opportunity to ask, "I assume you will be staying with the ambassador of Al-Andalus while you are in London?"

"Not if I can help it," muttered Gregos. He switched to Greek. "Keep this quiet, but I will soon be replacing our Ambassador with someone new. Though I do wish to ship samples of sheep breeds home, my more important mission here is to learn about England. The current ambassador knows nothing outside the court and a circle of equally ignorant ambassadors from other kingdoms.

He has probably never talked to an Englishman nor walked down a London street. Not that I should single out our ambassador for the problem is the whole Embassy charade. I have never met an ambassador from any kingdom that knows anything real about his host country."

"But there is a coronation. If you stay at the Embassy, you are certain to be invited," observed Raynar.

"If we don't get to London tonight, then I will be too late to be invited. If I am in London, the ambassador must bow to my wishes, even if I must replace his mistress at the abbey. Where do you stay when in London?"

"I stay at the Travelers Domus. It is akin to a monastery for men who frequent London on business," replied Raynar.

"Like a monastery. So you mean that the rooms are like cells?"

"Not at all," replied Raynar, "some of the rooms are quite splendid. You can rent them by the day or by the year if need be. Some of the more splendid rooms have been rented by the same men for years. The overnight guest rooms are plain in comparison, but finer than any room at an Inn."

"I have been told that the rooms of London Inns are quite dismal and depressing."

"Old London, within the walls, is all quite miserable because the houses are densely packed together and the lanes are narrow. The old town reeks in the summer when the rains don't wash the streets every day."

Gregos nodded, "All walled cities are like that. Long walls are expensive, so they tend to crush the people and buildings together."

"The coronation will be in Westminster, a suburb outside the walls named for its abbey. The Normans are building a more spacious and luxurious London at Westminster. Between Westminster and London is Holborn, which was built by the English and is also more spacious. The Travelers Domus is in Holborn.

A hundred years ago a monastic order was given the land of a ruined Roman temple in Holborn as a site for a new and larger monestary. In the way of church projects it was built in fits and starts. When King Knut lived in London he would suffer no more monasteries, so building on it stopped. The builders had restored the quarters of the Roman priests but had not yet begun any church buildings.

The ownership of the land under the Roman Temple is still in dispute, for there are many parties who lay claim to it, but in the meantime a friend of mine is making good coin from running the rebuilt quarters as an Inn. It is a pleasant place, built in the courtyard style of the Mediterranean. The best rooms ring a garden, and the high walls make it secure."

"It sounds pleasant, but will there be rooms available during a coronation?" Gregos asked.

"We are assured one room, for I lease my room by the year. Besides, as I said, it is run by a friend, as dear to me as a brother."

Risto arrived back with some food, a lot of food, and a smirk on his face that probably meant that the market women had been pinched and squeezed to earn the higher prices they would have charged him. He set the food down in the shade, but like his traveling companions, did not sit. Not after so many miles in a saddle.

Gregos let Risto have first choice of the food, and meanwhile said to Raynar, "You stopped your story with you talking to King Harold of England on the ridge above Stamford Bridge. The Norse were all but defeated. What then? Did you become Harold's sworn man?"

"No, though as sworn lords go, Harold Godwinson of Wessex would have been a good choice. He was the King and the wealthiest Earl, being of Wessex. More important, he had the wisdom of age, but allowed younger men their leash. My other choice would have been Earl Edwin, but he was still young and unsure. Harold's family, the Godwinsons, and Earl Edwin's family, the Aelfgarsons, controlled every important barony in England. The two families were even related by marriage for Harold had married Edwin's sister Ealdgyth.

The ridge at Stamford was the last time I saw Harold, though through my friendship with Hereward, I saw a good deal of Edwin and his warrior brother Morcar over the years. But I did not swear to any lord. At that point I was still just the abbey's man in search of carts."

"From a slayer of kings to a carter in one afternoon. So did you go back to the Abbey?" Risto asked between bites of a drumstick so tiny it must have been from a starling.

"Actually, Wyle took me home to the Scarlet Man Inn in York, and introduced me to his sisters."

Risto leaned forward and stopped chewing to better hear what he hoped were going to be some naughty bits.

"We were in such a hurry to leave the atrocious gore of the field of battle that we did not even stop to wash. We just mounted two skirmisher horses, and play-acted like we were taking a message to York.

Needless to say, we did not make a good impression on Wylie's family. We looked like the walking dead, and smelled of carnage, but they were joyous to see Wylie alive and not crippled. His mother had thought him dead at Fulford when she heard no news from him. We were typical teenage boys, heedless of the worries of mothers." Raynar paused for effect, while he cut himself some bread and cheese.

"Wylie was her baby, but though she and his sisters wanted to hug and kiss and welcome him, they would not come near the grime. They were certainly not pleased when Wylie told them to be thankful he was an archer and not a shieldman, else he would be covered in Norse gore. They handed us some bread, some ale, some buckets of water, and told us to sleep in the stable until we smelled of rosewater. I liked Wylie's family a lot - well, perhaps not his ever-so-grumpy father. They ran a good inn." Risto sat back in disappointment at the end of the story.

Gregos stifled a yawn. He was not interested in peasants of no account. "Tell me more of this Tostig. He was one of King Harold's brothers, so it was brother against brother in that battle."

"All that I know about Tostig is from Hereward. He was an earl who was a skilled warrior but a terrible lord. Though the other English earls hated the Normans and had long feared the Norman influence on Edward the Confessor, Tostig admired the Norman ways. He was more like Duke William than like King Harold.

Harold's other brothers were all Earls in the South. When Tostig became the Earl of Northumbria, he was so greedy that the manor lords revolted and toppled him, and he was exiled. He took with him men and ships enough to remain powerful and picked up more men and ships from his wife's father in Flanders. Then he sailed to Normandy to find service with Duke William." There was a brief pause while Raynar drank some ale. He continued.

"At the time, Duke William's petition to be made King of the English had been refused in favour of Harold Godwinson, so the vengeful brother Tostig was a dream come true. Tostig carried William's offers to all the rulers of Knut's old empire to get their support for him to invade England and capture the throne. About the time that the Hairy Star was first seen in the sky, Tostig and his ships crossed the Manche from Normandy to the Isle of Wight carrying William's offer to the South West lords, who were all related to Tostig.

His brother Leofwine, who was the Earl of Kent rallied the Fyrd against Tostig, so he left. He then sailed to East Anglia to make William's offer to those lords, but that earl, his other brother Gryth, rallied the Fyrd and drove him off. He then sailed to the Humber with William's offer to the Yorkshire lords, and Morcar drove him off. He then sailed with offers to King Malcolm of Scotland, and to his cousin King Sweyn of Denmark, and finally to King Harald of Norway.

Tostig was the traitor who set up the ruination of England. And he did it out of spite for his three brother earls and especially his brother Harold."

"And did Tostig again escape to his boats from Stamford?" asked Gregos.

"No, he died at Stamford. A lot of warriors died at Stamford. More died in that battle than any where else in that bloody year, the year of the Hairy Star. The day after the Norse surrendered, King Harold got word that the Normans had landed in the south, and he took the best warriors and all the horses and raced back to London.

The Northern army was delayed in Yorkshire to clean up the mess, and care for the wounded and the prisoners. They also had to track down the Norse that escaped, and to stop the foragers that still did not know that the battle was lost.

It was a bloody time. The Yorkshire Danes took blood vengeance and slaughtered every Norse they could find. The last of the Norse fit in a tenth of the ships they had brought, and they had to winter in the Orkney Islands on their way home. It was the end of the glorious era of the Viking." A soft soft buzzing sound caught Raynar's ear, and he glanced over to see that Risto had taken a seat, and was now softly snoring with his head against a tree trunk. He looked at Gregos, who nodded for him to continue his story,

"So, then, even though Harold had raced to the south, the Northern nobles were well behind him. I stayed with the Abbey's carts, but now they were pulled by oxen because Harold had taken all the horses. It was a slow march south for us, but the Northern nobles were not worried.

They had always considered Harald of Norway a more serious threat than William of Normandy. He had been a Byzantine general, after all. Meanwhile everyone derided the Normans as weaklings and cowards because they thought themselves too important to stand in a shield wall.

No, the northern nobles were in no hurry. They had not only defeated the Norse, but had done it so completely that Norse ships would be of no help to William. Besides, everyone knew that the Normans had been wasting their wealth and their food and their boats and months of effort, just to move their coursers across the Manche. They were viewed as too foolish to be feared."

"Ah," replied Gregos, "but they weren't foolish, were they?"

"They were fools to be trying to ship so many huge horses at once. Dangerous fools. Duke William had collected a huge army around him, and if he had not been able to cross with his horses, he would have been looking around for other victims on the continent. Baldwin, Count of Flanders was so concerned that he sent all his ships to help William cross, hoping to get rid of William and his Norman devils forever."

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THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

# Chapter 23 - Riding to the Travelers Domus, London in August 1100

Raynar stopped talking when he saw a groom bringing their ponies to them. Now that they were rested and fed the ponies were willing to continue. Hours later, Raynar was praising the ponies and how quickly their smooth quick-step pace gobbled up the miles without overly tiring the ponies. They had just traveled twenty miles in less than four hours.

Gregos also surprised him. Once he was mounted, he stopped complaining about his back and did not slow them down at all. At one point he rode beside Raynar and told him that he was sure he could make it all the way to London tonight, and that he was looking forward to the coronation.

The ponies forced them to stop every four hours for a half-hour break. They seemed to know all the best places to stop, not only for water and grazing for them, but for pies and ale for their passengers. By the time they reached the fortified gate at London Bridge, it was two in the morning and it was Raynar who was dragging behind the rest.

He woke himself up to bargain the bribe that would pass them through the gates to the bridge at this late hour. The guards were doing quite well from their bribes tonight, because Londoners were out celebrating the death of a tyrant king, or officially, the health of the new king.

The market streets on the London side of the bridge were rollicking with revelers, but the watch was gaining the upper hand in convincing all the revelers that it was time to go home. Once the ponies were past those streets, most of the rest of London seem very quiet.

* * * * *

When Raynar knocked on a heavy gate halfway along Temple Lane, a shutter on the small door beside the gate opened and a face peered out. At this time of night they were the only people on this narrow straight street that ran inland from the banks of the River Thames.

"Oh, it is Master Raynar. Do you need the gate sire, or will the door do?" asked the young watchman.

"The door will do but our ponies will have to be taken around to the stable. Is anyone still awake?" asked Raynar.

"Everyone is still awake. All of Holborn is celebrating on this night. Only Master Wyl is here, but he is awake. Oh, here he comes now."

"Raynar!" An older man limped towards them across the paving stones of the courtyard.

"Wyl!" The men grabbed each other and looked deep into each other's eyes. Raynar danced him away from the doorway so the others could come in off the street. "Wyl, this is Master Gregos of Cordoba in Al-Andalus, and his aid, Risto. Do you have rooms for them for a few days?"

Wyl clasped each man by the forearm. "Welcome to London, you must be tired and thirsty." He made a wave to the watchman who disappeared with their packs into a lamplit doorway.

"There is your private room, of course, but the guest rooms are full for the duration of the Coronation. How would it be if they shared your room, and I will have a bed made up for you in my quarters?" asked Wyl.

Raynar lowered his voice to a whisper. "I was hoping you would say that. We have much to discuss tonight, and in private."

Wyl limped to a doorway and they heard only the first of his orders as he disappeared into the room beyond, which was, "Bring a candle so that master Raynar can unseal his room."

Gregos raised an eye in question.

"When I last left here," replied Raynar, "I locked the door of my private room and then filled the lock with sealing wax and marked it with my seal. It is the complete privacy and security of the private rooms that make them worth the annual fee. My shelves and my chests will be just as I left them six months ago."

They walked down a portico and through an archway into a courtyard garden, lit with lamps. The noise of London receded behind them. Risto uttered an 'ahh 'of familiarity at the courtyard-based architecture. "It is like home." They walked a diagonal path across the garden and around the reflection pool in the center and then another path and up two steps to another covered portico.

In front of a heavy door a young man was waiting with a candle and a bulky load of bedding. He handed the candle and a key to Raynar and waited while Raynar checked his seal and then melted the wax out of the lock so he could use the key.

The door swung open to a spacious room with two beds, stools and a table, a wall of shelves, and a corner stacked with chests. The youngster requested that they stay outside while he cleaned the room and made up the beds. The portico had comfortable places to sit and watch the garden, so it was a pleasant wait, although Gregos had to be woken when the cleaning was finished.

"I was hoping for a saucy maid with big melons," grinned Risto as the young man came out for his broom.

"The land lease has a covenant the forbids women to enter the grounds," replied Raynar.

When the room was ready, the young man showed the guests to the common conveniences and to the common bath house. Meanwhile, food and drink had arrived at their room.

They decided to eat and then bathe and then sleep. While munching through his meal of goose breast and boiled root crops, Gregos said, "I see now what you meant when you described this inn as being like a Mediterranean convent, but not quite. This is very comfortable, and it was a relief to leave the smells and sounds of the street."

"You are welcome to my room and all that it contains, save for that which is locked in the chests. I will say good night now. I will be in Wyl's quarters if you have need of me."

"Would it be possible to send a message to my Ambassador, if not now, then at first light?"

"Of course. Write it now, and address it and hand it to any of the orderlies. You will find a writing box with quills, ink and paper in my room."

Gregos held him for a moment longer. "Despite how weary I am, I do not wish to sleep long and miss the coronation. Please have them wake us to break our fast. Umm, by the way. In English, the name 'Wyl', what is it shortened from?"

"From William if you are Norman. From Wylie if you are English, " replied Raynar.

"I thought as much. Goodnight, and thank you."

* * * * *

In Wyl's quarters the second bed was made up. It was quarters, not a room. It included a room like Raynar's, plus the counting room of the business, as well as a private bathing room. After a scrub to clean off the worst of the road, he stretched out on the fresh clean bed linen and relaxed. The revelers were arriving back from Westminster, and their happy noise kept him awake.

He heard Wyl's voice from outside the door and then the door opened and Wyl came in and saw that he was not asleep. "Now that the guests are all safe and accounted for, I can retire." Wyl passed him a chalice of spiced red wine. "Was it your foreign guests you wished to talk to me of in private?"

"No, but since you mentioned them, you should be aware that they are more than what they seem. Gregos is a merchant from Al-Andalus who is much, much more important than his English clothes reveal, and Risto is his bodyguard and a skilled swordsman. They are both well-respected in Cordoba, and they are here by order of the Caliph, supposedly to find breeding stock to mate with their Merino sheep."

Raynar sipped the wine and yawned into the chalice. He caught Wyl's eye. "We must get word out to the brotherhood. They must stay silent and out of mind. Those who are watched must drop out of sight. Rufus was killed by a hoodsman and King Henry knows it, though he will never admit to it."

"Did Rufus suffer?" asked Wyl, and when Raynar shook his head, "No? A pity." Wyl raised his chalice in a salute to his friend and smiled.

"There is more. Henry spoke of a plan to recruit hoodsmen for battles on England's borders and on Normandy's borders. If they kill for him, he wins. If they die for him, he wins. Those words must reach the brotherhood."

"Henry was there too, with Rufus? What was the matter, did you take only one arrow with you?" Wyl smiled again. "Aren't you too old now to be still killing kings?"

Raynar winced and then laughed. "Besides me, you are the only man alive who knows how many."

"Even I am not sure. You traveled for a long time without me and through kingdoms I have only heard of." Wyl frowned. "There is sad news. Prior Tucker has died. A Norman will replace him at Repton."

"That is not so sad. Tucker lived long and ate well. He always modeled himself after the saints. Perhaps they will make him one." Raynar crossed himself in Christian style and said a silent prayer for his old friend.

"With a Norman Prior, we may lose the lease for the Domus. There are Norman knights who covet this business and would run it for themselves." Wyl lay down on his bed and rolled onto his side to face his friend.

"That does not worry me. The covenant that excludes women will keep them from making trouble for us. What knight would not stay in a an Inn where there were no maidens to debauch?"

"What about a Norman monastic order?" wondered Wyl.

"Here, in Temple, surrounded by the sins of Holborn? Not a chance. We were able to gain the lease because no monastic order wanted it. It would only be of interest to a monastic order of celibate knights. Impossible. Monks who kill. Knights who are celibate. Impossible, in our lifetime and the next. Stop worrying and pray to Saint Tucker to protect our home, here in Temple."

Raynar yawned and lay his head back. "I saw John and Mar in Winchester. They are prosperous and happy. My heart swells for them both. Their son is thin but as tall as John and looks like the John I first met. Mar sends you a kiss and a hug. John says not to let him catch you kissing and hugging his woman." He paused. "Her breasts are still firm, and her smile still makes my heart pound in my chest."

"Bah, she chose well. She carried John's child, not yours. Too bad you will die before John, for eventually you would surely get both her and the business, and spend your elder years with a smile on your face. However, there is absolutely no chance of you outliving John, if you keep doing the dirty work that should be done by the younger hoodsmen."

"The younger generation. I have given up on them. They have no respect. They don't understand. They are too busy chasing ale and women." Raynar's voice drifted off.

Wyl left him to sleep and bundling up his linen, went to make a bed for himself on the couch in the portico. His sleep would be interrupted all night long because of the celebrations. It was pointless to have Raynar's sleep interrupted as well.

THE END of Killing Kings  
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The Hoodsman - Killing Kings by Skye Smith Copyright 2010-13 Revision 4

Be sure to watch for the next in the series: The Hoodsman - Hunting Kings
