The Hoodsman - Killing Kings Read online

  "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 hund
red 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."

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  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."