To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Eleven: Confrontation at the River Trent

       Leaving Aquae Sulis to return to their beginning, they were a far cry from the three travelers who had started from the Wye. In addition to Morius and Gaio, four warriors had joined them, as had five squires, boys who were little more than apprentices to war. Morius had found the new men, none of them from the guards who had fled the Ggaron. They had horses and were warmly if crudely dressed.

       Morius had traded ponies for oxen and two more horses, though he felt he was gypped on the latter trade.

       Carl consoled him. "Two horses are far more valuable to us than five ponies."

       Spring had finally arrived in the south of England. Trees were soft with the light green of leaves breaking from buds, the winds were warmer, though no softer, and they still carried the bite of rain. On this morning, however, the sun broke bright and only a few clouds lazed across the sky.

       Rebecca rode a large roan. Carl promised her a white horse when they could choose without being cheated. Raphael rode the lone pony because it was easier to control with his left hand. When he had gained strength and dexterity, and he could sit in a higher saddle with little fear of falling, he would ride the fourth horse, which now was packed with the precious medicine bag, cooking utensils, and food.

       "Carl, can we teach the people English? All these dialects create problems for these people." And for me, Rebecca had no need to add.

       "We're the only three that use it, but we can try. English has concepts that probably aren't expressed in these cultures, so we'll need to use some English." He looked away to the horizon. He was beginning to understand the enormous task that faced them.

       "We need a dictionary," he said, "and before that we need paper, and at the same time as paper we need movable type. Think of all the things that need to be done!" He groaned as he spurred his horse into a canter.

       "What's wrong with him?" Raphael asked.

       "He's got the world on his shoulders, and he isn't sure he can carry it, or even if he wants to. And I'm not sure we're up to it, either."

       Raphael followed him with his eyes. He's not the only one with a heavy burden.

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       It took a little over two days to reach the site of their beginning near the Wye. It was becoming a fairly formidable group. Only a large group of bandits would dare to attack. During the trip, partly to keep with the slow pace with the oxen, Morius trained the recruits in the use of the stirrups. The ability to lean down and wield a battle axe without falling off of a horse gave them tremendous power and confidence.

       The horses were unused to the sharp turns demanded of them, now that riders could stay on their backs, but they quickly adapted. Carl and Rebecca constantly preached the need to groom and care for the horses, first by the rider, then by the squires, who were glorified grooms. Some of the warriors thought care of a horse beneath them, but when Carl carefully groomed and saddled Murt, they followed his example.

       Morius was delighted to serve a warrior who took care of his men and his animals, and he and Carl became close friends, despite their great cultural differences. He sopped up all of the military tactics he could. Never had he had such freedom on a horse. He and his men exhilarated in the new power the stirrups gave them, so much so they tried risky ventures. Iona broke his right wrist badly when he leaned over too far and fell when charging through underbrush. Morius pulled the wrist into place while Rebecca set it with a splint made of wood sliced from a branch. A chastened Iona sat closer to his saddle, morosely giving little sign of pain or discomfort, even though the jarring of the horse was very painful. He felt foolish with his arm in a sling, but he was pleased at its comfort.

       "He'll be worthless in battle for several weeks," Carl griped. "We've got to be careful with these guys."

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       The forest surrounding their beginning no longer looked quite so formidable.

       They led the oxen single file into the forest and found the truck by noon. The crudely dug cache had been ripped apart, but the treasure trove carefully hidden under the nearby bush and in the distant shrubs was intact. The cloth of the seats had been cut out and the remaining glass in the windshield had been removed. Large dark brown spots lay on the bonnet surrounded by fragments of broken glass, but the headlights were intact.

       Raphael looked closely. "It looks as though they got cut on the glass in the windscreen, so they decided not to break the headlamps."

       The other members of the party stood aside, not sure of what to make of the blue contraption. Carl returned from scouting ahead with Morius. "We'll have to camp here for awhile," he said. The river had shrunk and was well within its banks.

       The squires busied themselves in building a fire and making camp, as they had learned at the beginning of the journey.

       "We'll build a large raft for the truck and have the oxen pull the raft until we get to a clearing that lies ahead about three miles," Carl said, "then we'll hook the oxen to the truck, like a cart, and, if need be, drive up steep inclines." Only Rebecca and Raphael understood.

       Raphael had overseen the reconstruction of the truck with the wheels, battery, and parts from the pit. They put enough gas into the truck to start it, to see if it would run. The noise of the engine scattered the men and boys. Then they siphoned most of the gas again. There was no need to risk the gas should the raft overturn. Rebecca consolidated the goods from the supply trailer, and, with help from the warriors and squires, selected goods from among those in the back of the Rover, which was untouched.

       Carl's precious books and his lock box of maps were retrieved. The books would provide a great leap forward in developing technology, and the maps would provide a guide unsurpassed in the first century. They were more precious than the extra weapons and powder.

       The ponies skittishly complained at the extra burden, but they had no option. Even Raphael's horse had to carry more supplies, at least until the truck was on land again. They would someday return for the supply trailer and the Rover, or at least parts of both.

       The carefully stored rope proved useful in lashing newly felled logs into a raft and then lashing the truck onto it. The remainder was used for pulling the raft up river. The current was not so swift as before and there were many places where men and oxen could walk without being hindered by the underbrush. Carl guided the raft with a long pole. If it should break free of the animals, his only hope of saving the truck would be to guide the raft into a soft bank until others could capture it.

       The careful preparations paid off without incident, the truck chugged ashore on the small amount of gas, then ground to a halt. The pack train from the camp was already in the clearing. They carefully stacked supplies in the truck, gassed it, then hooked up the uncomplaining oxen, for they would pull it through the countryside with the truck ready to move on its own at a moment's notice. Carl was worried about keeping a charge on the battery.

       They advanced with care, slowly making their way through the hills, picking up a trade route that ran through the center of England. The dirt road was well defined though the wide axle of the truck straddled the ruts. This route lay through more populated areas, all of them under the control of local tribal leaders.

       Most of these little kingdoms were willing to live and let live, especially as Raphael or one of Morius' men carried fresh deer or boar in exchange for breads and vegetables. It reminded Raphael of Maaloula, where he had practiced bartering and haggling during his youth, only there he had known the language.

       The small villages were built up around fiefdoms, with low earthen mounds or wooden walls to protect against intruders and to keep cattle from straying. The round buildings were of wood, and their roofs were thatched or of overlapping roughly hewn boards.

       The small force camped on the outskirts of whatever villages they encountered. It was slow progress, but the spring rains were mild and some of the many rivers and creeks they crossed were fordable, even with the truck.

       The first time they crossed the Avon, one of several times they had to cross the river, they lost nearly a day making a raft to ferry the truck. The warriors first wanted to placate Sulis, goddess of the river, but Carl challenged her instead. Fortunately, there were no accidents. After that they carried many logs in the truck.

       Morius reduced raft building time by commandeering barks from riverside villages, lashing them together and placing small logs across them to hold the truck. A week had passed since leaving the place of their beginnings.

       Carl chafed at the slow progress. He had hoped to reach the country near Sheffield in time to plant crops for winter food, and then to build a camp for protection against the winter winds and cold. His plans were drastically altered as they approached Dumnocovero's Cheet, the site of Twenty-first century Nottingham.

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       Dumnocovero's Cheet was a rude village of two hundred scattered huts sitting astride a major commercial road. Forests surrounded the town on three sides, and the Trent River ran under a bluff on the south side of town, curved around the village and flowed north to empty into the Humber. Travelers had to travel through the cheet or waste days circumventing the several forests that filled the countryside. King Dumnocovero filled the coffers of his kingdom by charging tolls for using the road through the forest and then charged again to ferry wagons and goods across the Trent. Morius and Pember, one of the warriors, had traveled through this area with other expeditions. They filled Carl in on what to expect.

       But they were wrong.

       Spies had tracked the coming of the little group for two days, and the king had called together his freemen, farmers and serfs, arming them for battle.

       Morius was acting as point when they approached the village. Riding up a rise in the plains he heard a murmur of voices and shouts in the distance. Leaping from his horse, he carefully crawled up the slope until he could see the plains in front. There, massed south of the river, with the village low on the hill behind it, was an army of perhaps two hundred men. In the front ranks were the serfs and tradesmen, armed with pikes and sticks with no protection against arrows and javelins. Nevertheless, they could devastate Carl's small force. The officers and about twenty men were mounted, each carrying sword and battle axe. Morius carefully crept back down the slope, then swiftly mounted and returned to the group.

       Carl immediately assigned Iona, whose broken wrist had not healed enough for battle, to the lookout post, then he outlined a plan on the hood of the truck. They would continue to the little hilltop, which hid the warriors from their sight. There the oxen would be released and returned to the back area with the laden ponies. Lars, another warrior, Gaio, and the five grooms would stay with those animals to protect against a hit and run attack designed to drive them off.

       That left five warriors: Iona with a broken hand, Pember and Woosh, and Morius and Carl to ward off King Dumnocoveros. Rebecca was to stay in the truck as a sharpshooter. They would parley first, but if that failed they would be ready for battle.

       Carl's "cavalry" would try a diversion by flanking to the east, closing in as much as possible to see who was commanding the forces. Carl would take out the leadership if a parley failed.

       If his sharpshooting failed, their lives depended upon Rebecca's firepower.

       Carl and Rebecca prepared the rifles, quickly breaking them down and checking each piece. Then Carl scoped his rifle, picked a pile of shells from their precious supply, and prepared himself mentally, folded his "magic blanket" behind his rudimentary saddle, then spoke.

       "Raphael will drive the truck over the rise and into the plains a short distance." He turned to Rebecca and motioned to Iona. "You will hand Rebecca cartri... shells, if she needs them. If warriors break through, you will use your sword as best you can. Rebecca, if we are overwhelmed drive away and regroup a mile to the rear, picking up Lars and Gaio as you retreat."

       Carl looked toward the enemy, which could not yet be seen. "If we go down, you must escape. We'll try to draw them close to the truck if we get a chance, but if things go badly, don't get drawn into the battle itself." The tightness in his stomach was translated into taut muscles in his jaw.

       Rebecca broke into Carl's thoughts with a long kiss. "We'll see just how effective modern firepower is against ancient warfare."

       "Unhh," Carl muttered. It was the first time he had been sent into battle with a kiss! "The advantage lies with us, but with all their men, we are vastly outnumbered. Well, if I've guessed wrong.... just remember these days have been wonderful."

       "Don't make me cry, or I won't be able to see!" Her pout beneath a flood of tears brought a hearty guffaw from Carl.

       "We don't want to kill the foot soldiers except to save ourselves," he said. "If we must have war, we'll take it out on the king and his nobility. If all else fails, use your rifle. It may be the only thing that can save us or you."

       He looked her in the eyes. "You may have to use it!"

       Raphael was already in the cushion-less driver's seat. "Allah's will be done."

       The party moved up the incline until everyone stood on the rise of the hill, looking out half a mile to see Dumnocovero's forces lined up as Morius had said.

       "Look at those helmets," Carl exclaimed. Four horsemen wore bronze helmets with brush spikes protruding from the very top. A couple were larger than the others. He assumed one or the other was the chief. He had read about Celtic helmets, but the sight still was a surprise. He looked to the flanks, but no other force was flanking them.

       "Morius, why are they meeting us this side of the river? They've given up their best defense."

       "They do not fear so few men. They will attack if we flee."

       A courier on horseback walked forward, dipping his pennant as he advanced. Carl and Morius quickly rode to greet him, covering more than half the distance. As he passed the truck, Carl hissed through his teeth to Raphael. "Drive this bucket of bolts closer. Stay behind us but drive slowly. Rebecca won't be able to hit anyone from here."

       King Dumnocovero's emissary demanded their surrender. He smugly said, "Your lives will be spared, but you will be slaves. That, or die in battle."

       Carl, through Morius, bargained for a safe journey through the forest and offered to pay for the privilege.

       The courier sneered his reply. "No safe passage, no toll, but tribute of all that you have, including your people, to King Dumnocovero!"

       Carl bared his teeth. "A Tripoli Pasha once threatened American ships for tribute. He ended up without tribute and great loss of face."

       His soliloquy was lost on both the courier and Morius. Carl glanced back. The truck was close behind and his army of two was right behind the truck. It wasn't a sight to instill fear in Dumnocovero's men. Carl turned to the front and pointed his finger toward the king. In newly learned Gaelic he yelled: "No tribute! Death to King Dumnocoveros for challenging Carl of the Long Reach!"

       Murt wheeled and returned to the truck, which now was within five hundred feet of the king. Joined with the other riders, Carl turned east and began a slow canter to Dumnocovero's left flank. Rebecca saw the focus of attention immediately shift from the truck to Carl and his men. Raphael nudged the truck closer.

       Even as they moved east Carl edged his army of four closer until he was within two hundred feet of the king. He waved his little army to a stop, then dropped prone. Morius covered him with his blanket, and he aimed. He could see the king clearly through the scope. He was a fleshy warrior, with large jowls and malevolence in his eyes. He stared at Carl from under heavy lids. A young boy, with some of the same features, sat on a horse beside him.

       Carl sighted on Dumnocovero's right shoulder and fired, but the king twisted just as he pulled the trigger and took a bullet in his heart. Dumnocovero's army was making so much noise they didn't hear the shot. The king collapsed, falling from his horse. His squire rushed to his aid, his son right behind, but the king was dead.

       The commander of his troops had focused his attention on Carl's movements and was directing his men to counter them. Carl quickly sighted on his chest before he realized what had happened to his ri. He pitched from his horse, mortally wounded.

       The other officers of the command were completely disorganized, distracted by Carl's movements and by the loss of king and captain. Morius heard cries of "sorcery" fill the air, and some of the footsoldiers dropped back several yards, prepared to bolt.

       Carl heard the cries, too, and though he didn't know what they meant, he knew they had won. Remounting, he wheeled his little troop toward the center of Dumnocovero's footsoldiers, then stopped. He whispered quickly to Morius, who raised his voice and told the remaining officers to surrender, but the milling and shouts of the footsoldiers masked his words.

       "I hate to do this," Carl said, then he fired his pistol into the air. The sound of the forty-five broke through the chatter and scattered the footsoldiers like chaff before a breeze. Unable to contain them, the officers beat with the butt of their swords those who rushed by their positions, but the commoners streamed like a spring freshet into the woods. It was too late to recall them. Though the infantry was gone, Dumnocovero's cavalry remained, still formidable, badly outnumbering Carl, but it was an unmanageable dragon, as though a stroke had robbed it of power to move.

       Suddenly, a young officer, raising his sword and yelling at the top of his voice, spurred his horse toward Carl. The rest of the cavalry held back. Carl was preparing to shoot again when he heard a "crack" from his left. Lightening hit. The horseman was lifted from his mount and dumped in a heap, the horse continuing until caught by Pember.

       "Morius, tell them again!"

       Morius yelled at the top of his voice, this time catching the attention of the four remaining leaders. "Surrender to Carl of the Long Reach and you and your families will be spared. King Dumnocovero's family is banished from the realm. If you do not surrender, there will be widows mourning in a cold bed tonight." The last was his own fillip, hoping the thoughts of family would overcome any desire to fight for a dead king.

       If Dumnocoveros had been a benevolent ruler, they might have decided differently, but he had forfeited their loyalty through his cruelty.

       They placed their swords in scabbards. Dumnocoveros' realm, such as it was, was in the hands of this barbarian from the south. The king had made a serious misjudgment, and his son, who stood beside his body, would pay for it. Hate flared from the eyes of the boy.