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.He appraised the newcomer shrewdly.Robert was shorter than Casca by a hand’s width and almost as wide.His nose was broken and his eyes peered out underneath a pair of thick black eyebrows.“You’ve done some fighting.” It was a statement, not a question.“Some.The recruiting officer said he’d test me.”“I can do that.We won’t wait for him.” Robert’s voice betrayed a lack of respect for the recruiter.“By the time he gets out of the nearest inn it’ll be daybreak tomorrow.”Robert waved Casca to back off to the other side of the small field while he drew his sword.A couple of Norman soldiers leaned on their shields and looked half interested at the test.They’d been through it themselves and seen it all before.“Okay, the idea isn’t to draw blood, but to block and force an opening.I’ll soon see how good you are.”Robert spoke in a bored tone; he’d done a lot of this recently.Casca breathed in deeply and felt the hilt of his sword in his hand.It had been a few years since he’d last used a sword, and the familiarity sent a thrill through him.The sergeant struck hard, but predictably for his head, and Casca blocked it easily enough.He stepped forward and swept his own blade at waist height, causing Robert to jump back.The sergeant was bringing his blade back for a strike of his own when Casca stepped forward again and with a backhand slash cut down at the man’s head.Robert hastily flung his blade up to block, and was off balance.Casca went for the kill.He swept again in from the right, the shield side of his opponent, and Robert backed off again.This time he came up against the fence and blocked the blow desperately.Casca pressed forward mercilessly, slashing down for the chest.Robert gritted his teeth and only just deflected it aside.“Okay, okay, enough!”Casca stepped back and flexed his arms, pleased he hadn’t lost much of his edge.He’d need to practice a bit to get used to the Norman blade, but it wouldn’t take long.“Good enough?”“Yeah,” Robert said slowly, eyeing him very carefully.“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”“Mercenary work down south.Spain, the coast.”Robert grunted.“With skill like that you ought to be a noble’s guard.Ever thought of being a squad leader?”“Done some.” Casca slipped his sword into the scabbard.Robert nodded to himself.He’d guessed right.This man was something special, much better than the usual types he had.“Where you staying?”“Nowhere.You got somewhere to recommend?”“The Black Horse, next street over, by the river.Ask for Gerald.Tell him I sent you.And from now on, you follow my orders.I get them from the captain, and he gets them from Walter Giffard himself.You understand?”“Yes, Sergeant.” Casca was pleased he’d impressed the tough looking man, and gotten directions where to stay.Once more he was part of an army; it felt good.The Black Horse was a rambling, wooden building with lathe and plaster walls that bent and leaned in every conceivable direction and had that seedy, dirty look that Casca knew all too well.Perfect for someone like him.There wouldn’t be anyone there who was the sensitive type and if he needed to hit someone then it was probably because they deserved it.His room was a bare, tiny space.Obviously he was expected to provide his own furnishings.With no other possessions than the clothing he was in and the chainmail hauberk and iron helmet he wore, and the sword and shield he carried, the prospect of lying on a warped, hard floorboard was likely.Sounds of other occupants of the building came to him as he stood in the center of the room.Someone was shouting on the ground floor, possibly the landlord.The low hubbub of two people talking on one side was just audible, and the unmistakable noise of a wench being laid rather aggressively the other side came to him too.He put the shield down in one corner and went back out.It was past midday and he felt hungry.He bought an overpriced loaf of bread and chewed on it, thinking.He needed to isolate one of the four remaining hirelings and get access to Lesalles.That would be the tough bit.He decided to sit by the side of the road that passed the entrance to the castle and wait and see if any of them passed by.He was far enough away not to be noticeable, and close enough to see those who came out and came his way.Tough luck if they went the other, towards the north gate.Some of those who passed gave him a curious look but Casca glared at them and they hurried on.Many were townsfolk who wished to God that these uncouth and rude soldiers would hurry up and go.The town had suffered their presence for long enough, and although some of the traders were rubbing their hands, the soldiers were getting bored and fractious, and fights were breaking out.Casca spent some of the time examining his sword.After all, it would maybe save him in a fight.It was four feet in length and double-edged.The handle was of wood covered in leather and the pommel was a solid lump of iron shaped in a rough oval.The scabbard was a typical wooden type, lined with wool and covered in leather.One of the people who emerged from the castle he recognized, but it wasn’t any of the four warriors he had an issue with.It was the large merchant Roland.His daughter was not with him.Casca stood up and stepped in his way.Roland looked alarmed for a moment, but Casca removed his helm and greeted him.“Remember me? The leather workshop.Your shoes.”“Ah.” Roland visibly relaxed.“Yes, the fellow with the scar.You’re a soldier now? You certainly do get around! Whom do you look to?”Casca frowned for a second.Then he realized the merchant must mean who was his paymaster.“It’s Walter Giffard.”“Really? I’ve been asked to supply him with a number of belt buckles.It seems he was let down by one of my competitors!” The merchant chuckled.Then he cleared his throat.“I really must be on my way; such urgent business to attend to.”Casca stepped aside and watched him go.Then he caught sight of shadows ahead waiting in an alley.Roland was going to pass right by them and from their looks they were going to grab him and relieve him of whatever he had.The street was dark and overhung by leaning buildings and only a few passers-by hurried through.Clearly they were waiting for an opportunity and the fat trader was one too good to miss.Casca gripped his sword and rushed forward, using the nearside buildings as cover.Roland had just reached the alley entrance and arms snaked out to grab him.He cried out but a hand clamped down on his mouth and he was pulled out of sight.Casca got there seconds later and barreled into the narrow passageway that stank of refuse and sewage.The trader was down on his knees and one of the thieves, the nearest one, had a sharp and very pointed dagger in his fist and was about to jam it through the unlucky man’s throat.Casca’s sword slashed down and took the thief across the neck, cutting in deep and opening out the jugular.The blade, propelled by anger, desperation and exultation, carried on its journey through the thief’s body, severing the shoulder muscles and splintering the clavicle and a couple of ribs.Blood sprayed out, covering the alley wall behind him and a splash fell across Casca’s chest and face.He wiped it away with his left hand and stepped across the falling body.The sound of the knife hitting the alley dirt floor was almost lost against the sound of the death throes of the mugger.He fell face down across the shocked Roland.The second thief was still gaping in shock at the fate of his comrade, so Casca stepped forward and jabbed hard with the sword, sinking it deep into the gut
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