To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Fifteen: To Finance Long Reach

       Efforts to improve Nottingham were slowed by the smallpox incident, slowed but not stopped.

       Raphael had spent the summer of their arrival surveying the economy of the village, and he was discouraged. Things hadn't improved over the winter. Then, while Rebecca and Carl were involved with the smallpox outbreak during the second summer, he spent more time getting to know the village and its people.

       He now knew Nottingham like the back of his hand, and he couldn't squeeze any more money out of it. The village was poor, the huts were built of rough hewn wood or mud blocks with thatched roofs and, except for the Manse, all had dirt floors. Most huts still had animal shelters adjoining them, though that was changing.

       There was only one ironworker and few craftsmen for a village its size and serving as the market town of a large area. King Dumnocoveros, Brogitarus told Raphael, had levied such heavy taxes that many craftsmen left for friendlier villages or became itinerant, and the few traders were largely itinerant by nature.

       In the midst of the smallpox crisis, Raphael had reported to Carl. "There's no central organization to handle imports of raw materials from other regions in Britain, so Nottingham craftsmen can't produce more than the necessities for the village even if they want to. The village has limped along without direction. Only Dumnocoveros had derived income from tolls and road fees, which travelers had paid in kind."

       "What about money?" Carl asked. "I haven't seen many coins."

       "You haven't seen them for good reason. There isn't a money economy. The few high value coins available are minted by the Catuvellauni, the most powerful kingdom in Britain. Those coins are used only for trade.

       "The people in Nottingham have no need for such large value coins so Dumnocoveros issued copper coins in cooperation with the Coritani chief in Volodion, apparently where Old Sleaford will be located, but they are used only in our own markets."

       "I suppose we'll have to mint coins, too."

       "Only if we have the resources to get gold and silver. Which brings up another point. We'll have hard work finding enough income to pay for the things you want to do. The farmers in the outlying areas are subsistence and pay a percentage of their crops to the king. We live on their food.

       "I did find out something worthwhile, however," and Raphael was proud of his information. "Dumnocoveros was Belgae, which made him an outsider in this area. As you know, the Coritani speak low land German while he spoke Gaelic. I don't know how he became king, but he was very unpopular. I think he was linked with the Druids, if I understood my informant."

       Carl nodded in agreement, then the incongruity hit him, and he laughed out loud. "We're not exactly insiders!"

       Raphael drew a rough map of the Nottingham area to the Channel. Carl quickly revised it. "You always do that," Raphael complained

       "It's a habit of mine. I once wanted to be a professor, remember?"

       "Here," Raphael said, pointing to an area just above The Wash, "north of the Wash along the Wren River toward Lin, the people are Coritani, the same as the people of our region, though they are of other tribes and don't get along well with our people."

       "So, there's little cohesion, despite the same coinage."

       "From what I gather."

       "That's good and bad. I'll have to explore with Catuvolcus and Brogitarus to get a feel for the politics of this area. It may mean we'll be left alone, or they may feel they should attack us. Who's the king or chief at Volodion?"

       "Velosios, and he's one mean warrior, according to my informant. The only reason he shared control of the region with Dumnocoveros, according to two different informants, is because of the Catuvellauni in the south. The two tribes together served as a counterweight to the Catuvellauni."

       Carl rubbed his chin. "That's probably why he's left us alone, though we certainly can't be much of a threat to him."

       "We're a different tribe, that's all that counts."

       "True. In any case, he may change his mind. I'll make contact with him, though I don't want to share the minting of a coin. We'll do that on our own when we can afford it."

       Carl responded to Raphael's concerns. "Let's make some money. I should have done this earlier. We'll start a salt works on the Wash next spring and use large metal pans made from the car and truck to heat and then distill the salt."

       Raphael objected. "That's Velocios' territory. He won't allow it."

       "Maybe," Carl agreed, "but if we pay him a percentage of the salt we make, he might give us the right."

       He paused for a short history lesson. "As you've noticed, the food is bland, a result of a shortage of salt. The Romans make fine salt by heating salt water in pans, unfortunately, in lead pans. We'll avoid using lead since it affects the body.

       "We can use salt to pay our troops and people, and sell the rest to the other tribes. There are salt mines west of the Pennines, and I know where they are."

       He got out his maps and pointed to the location. "We'll sell that salt to the Roman army in Gaul or to Spain by shipping around Land's End."

       Rafael saw obstacles to every step, but he also saw great profit. Salt was a dear commodity in the ancient world. And the food was bland.

       Once a week Carl put aside his planning efforts to figuratively don the robe of a judge. Every petty and not so petty issue between neighbors had to be adjudicated by the ri or there would be fights. Dumnocoveros had been so arbitrary that the practice had declined because the peasants realized the results weren't worth the risk of confiscation.

       At first the experience was heady. To realize that the lives and property of the claimants depended upon one's decision was a powerful attraction. But Carl wasn't into power for its own sake, so, despite his bravado in saying he wanted to deal with all problems, he quickly turned many of the functions of a judge over to one of the respected elders in the village.

       Carl met with him individually and tried to instill the principle of fairness, precedence, and property rights. He had an amanuensis translate the proceedings into Latin and record them to develop case law.

       The elder's appointment by the king overcame the objections of even disgruntled claimants.

       Governing councils were another matter. He had read about Gallic social structure, but the data were too obscure for any but the most tentative conclusions. Chieftains or heads of the various communities now under Nottingham's protection were usually the elders of the village, unless they were both strong and smart, in which case their valor in battle resulted in promotion to ri.

       He passed this information on to Raphael with his interpretation: "That practice has the advantage of giving young claimants the adulation they crave or killing them off in battle and removing a threat to the political order." He paused, then grimly concluded, "But political order is intrinsically bound up in the social order of culture, religion, economics, and, above all, tribal loyalties. Whew!"

       Raphael had also learned from his sources. "The political vision of the people, and of most chiefs, is severely limited by family, clan, and tribe. The people in other clans in the tribe are suspect, and those in other tribes are beyond the pale. The only people who seem to cut across tribal loyalties are the Druids, many of whom serve as advisers and even warriors."

       Carl laughed. "Complex, isn't it? We'll work as best we can within society. You know, Kublai Khan solved the problem in his army by mixing men from different tribes in each unit. It didn't solve the problem of tribal loyalties back home, but he got an army of different tribesmen to work together under his banner."

       "That's a good idea," Raphael responded. "But don't forget, even people who serve you may turn on you because of family. Family or clan is more important than anything else. I can identify with that."

       "Yes," he agreed. "In the West, we've lost that tribal identity. The state dominates, but within that everything is individualistic."

       Council meetings gave the petty chiefs a chance to express their needs and desires, though Carl constantly forced them to focus on the larger picture, such as roads, water, protection, and food for the needy, even those of different clans.

       During the smallpox crisis Rebecca had continued to oversee production of recurve bows, shaping, heating, and gluing different woods to bone to get composite bows with the greatest spring and strength. Dumnocoveros had had no archers, a weakness that needed immediate remedy.

       Rebecca's bows were far stronger and truer than anything Catuvolcus had seen, even though hunters roamed the three great forests around Nottingham. More important, they took less practice in learning to use them effectively. Rebecca oversaw the making of the shafts and vanes, while Carl gave them razorsharp steel heads, which were made by Tartos the smithy from metal cut from the Land Rover. They were building enough weapons to supply an army.

       Late in September, following the smallpox crisis, Carl took Rebecca riding. They had had little time together. Rebecca had opened a medical clinic with Gaio's help, and Carl had resumed training the army. They needed to unwind.

       The day was cool with a high overcast. A touch of mist spasmodically drifted in from the mountains on a whisper of a breeze. But the verdant hills to the south were clear to the view.

       "I want you to see the Trent Vale," Carl said, and they rode south to the river cliffs, which gave a spectacular view of the southern and western Trent valleys. The mountains that became the Pennines were in the west.

       "Where I grew up we wouldn't call those mountains," he joshed. "These are more like molehills."

       "Now, don't go badmouthing England's splendor," she bantered. "The hills aspire to greater things."

       Even the lowering clouds couldn't hide the beauty, as they looked south toward wolds that served as a barrier to the kingdom of the Catuvellauni.

       It was a special moment. All of this was theirs, if they could hold and develop it. Carl took Rebecca's hand. Pointing back over Nottingham's poor buildings, he said. "Northwest of here there's a low mountain in the Pennines that offers a great view of the entire Trent Valley, almost all the way up or down to the Humber, or so I'm told."

       She smirked. "Rivers that run north when they run down to the sea give me trouble, too."

       He grinned, but ignored the jibe. "We'll make a two-day journey out of it, when we can get free."

       "When will that be?"

       He shook his head. "No time soon, that's for sure." He recalled the reason for bringing her from the village.

       "Teutius was schooled in Druidic lore and has taught me a great deal about the Druids just as we've taught him about Jesus. He's a great help when dealing with the people.

       "He said the fall festival is a time when many people, especially leaders, travel north to a Druidic council for the Midlands. They did it last fall. As ri I was expected to go, though I was unaware of it until too late. He wondered if I was going to go this year."

       Rebecca eye brows raised. "What are you going to do?" Her voice revealed her uneasiness. She had had enough of Dannoius and the Druids.

       "Hold our own festival—make it a regular Thanksgiving feast and market festival all rolled into one. We'll thank God for delivering us from smallpox by developing inoculation and offer food for the people to celebrate harvest."

       "That sounds American!"

       "Can't be, there's no such thing as America. Anyway, I'm trying to break the Druidic rituals by offering something similar but better. We can't just forbid those things."

       Rebecca shivered in her warm weather clothing. "We better return before it gets dark."

       As they walked back to the horses Carl pointed to the southern edge of Sherwood, which lay before them beyond Nottingham, growing indistinct in the dusk.

       "Remember the legend of Robin Hood?"

       "Of course, I'm the Brit, remember?"

       "Well, to be sure we're thinking about the same legend, since the American version may have been different, you'll remember the sheriff tried to trap Robin by holding a tournament, an archery contest. I've been thinking about that legend. We need archers in the army, and we don't have time to train them from scratch. I want to hold a tournament this fall as part of the harvest market festival. We'll have people here from ten to fifteen miles around. I'll offer silver cups from Dumnocoveros' stores to the winners," and Rebecca could see his even white teeth flash in the gloom. "We'll identify every archer in the region. Then, after you've beaten them, which we'll emphasize was the result of your superior weapon, to save face, we'll recruit them into the army."

       "What if I lose?"

       Her shocked expression evoked a deep chuckle. "You won't, but even if you do, we win because we'll identify the cream of the archers."

       The word was spread in Nottingham proper then took on a life of its own and quickly made the rounds of the region, penetrating the three great forests. On the day of the competition, one hundred and three hunters of all descriptions made their way to the archery grounds. They had rejected the annual pilgrimage north. There was a large crowd gathered in the outskirts of the village for the market and festival games, and when the archery competition was marked off and targets moved into place, the people buzzed in anticipation.

       It was a cool sunny day with a very light breeze. There would be two competitions with targets fifteen and thirty meters away. Several of the hunters, used to creeping close to deer or other animals and thumping them through the underbrush, were poor marksmen. Raphael groused to no one in particular, "Some of these blokes must trap if they eat meat."

       As the morning wore on, Carl ruefully remarked, "I expected a Robin Hood to show up. These guys are good, but they aren't that good. No one's going to split the arrow of another archer who has already hit the bullseye." He blushed in embarrassment, "Of course, that was the movies."

       But four men did prove nearly as skilled as he had hoped. They consistently hit near the bullseye during practice, and in the competition itself Buscillus of Ver placed three arrows so closely grouped that Carl's shilling, which had returned in time with him, would have covered them.

       Rebecca did not compete because Carl wanted someone from the region to win and only her absence would assure that. But long range archery was another matter. Most of the hunters were not used to shooting at deer or anything from ninety feet or so. While they could launch their arrows that far, few could do so with consistent accuracy. Buscillus of Ver took his trophy, one of Dumnocoveros' imported silver cups, and stood on the sidelines. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself.

       Nearly forty archers practiced on the thirty-meter target, but only ten were consistently close enough to the bullseye to take part in the competition. Rebecca didn't practice with them, having tested her bow and the breeze that morning. Gwerth, a Gaul who stood a burly six feet—a giant by Nottinghamer standards—whipped his arrows easily to the target. He did so without great accuracy, but he was consistently on the target itself. Rebecca stepped to the line, her long redhair flashing in the sunlight, a leather arm guard on her left arm, and tested for the intensity of the breeze. Her recurve compound bow attracted as much attention as her flaming hair. The crowd hushed, the hunters smirked. Then quickly aiming, she dropped four arrows grouped in or touching the black circle. The men and women of Nottingham let out a cheer, and Carl wore a grin from ear to ear. But he stepped to Gwerth and awarded him the second silver cup.

       He then raised Rebecca's bow into the air. "Queen Rebecca has developed a new weapon that can reach farther with more accuracy than any bow in Britannia." Meanwhile Brogitarus' aides moved the target back another ten meters. There was no need to tell the people how far it was. Several hunters, standing on the sidelines, shook their heads. Arrows could be shot that far but not with accuracy and certainly not with killing force.

       She tested the wind. Carl saw what was happening and told the crowd through Teutius that Rebecca would take two or three practice shots in order to get the range, but she had practiced those shots for days. Taking careful aim, the first arrow hit the bottom of the target, driving deep into the straw. Her next four arrows clustered around the inner circle, with one touching the bullseye. The crowd slapped shoulders and pointed at their Queen; the archers glanced at each other in amazement and skeptically fingered their own bow strings.

       Carl reached Rebecca in three strides and bestowed an oak cluster on her brow. "I crown thee Nottingham Archer," and he bestowed a kiss to the cheers and laughter of the crowd. In her ear he whispered, "Now I know where the Robin Hood story came from. You're the premier archer of Nottingham."

       She flushed, pleased at his praise and the crowd's adulation.

       Holding Rebecca by the hand, Carl returned to the raised platform from which he could speak to the people through Teutius. People in the crowd interpreted for any Gauls unable to understand the Coritani dialect.

       "Anyone who serves as an archer in my army will use bows as good as this," and he again raised the bow. "With these new weapons, the marksmen of Nottingham will make up the finest archery corps in Britannia. We will change the face of hunting and warfare."

       Even as he talked Catuvolcus and Brogitarus moved among the archers, telling them of the new army Carl of the Long Reach was fashioning and enlisting their services as paid archers. Thirty-three men agreed to join that day; another twenty agreed the next. Rebecca's exciting bow was a powerful recruiting tool, as were regular pay, food, and clothing. Carl was building a professional army and anyone with skill could join it. Unlike Gallic armies, they did not have to own land nor did they have to pay for clothing and weapons, an ideal situation for woodsmen and hunters.

       But woodsmen and hunters were not used to living in confined spaces and practicing good hygiene, as Carl soon would find out.