The Siege of Norwich Castle: A story of the last struggle against the Conqueror

by M. M. Blake

  CHAPTER XXI.

  THE ORDEAL BY FIRE.

  At the close of the day the barbican still remained in the keeping ofthe besieged.

  It had not been retained without the loss of many a stout soldier, andthe spital was crowded with patients, who occupied all the healingtalents of the countess and her ladies.

  When Emma at last retired to her chamber, with her Saxon bower-maidenin attendance, she was so weary and worn with the excitement and strainof the day, that she threw herself upon the bed, without even takingoff her jewels, and fell asleep almost immediately; while Eadgyth,after softly laying a warm coverlet over her, lay down beside her.

  But not to sleep. Her brain was full of dire and disturbing images, andeven the face of Sourdeval, which it had been so great a joy to her tobehold once more, came to her as she had seen it, wan and melancholy,when he turned to her as she entered his apartment, before it flashedwith brightness on recognising who had come to him. The change in himhad shocked her, and in her nervous and depressed mood she thought ofhim as one whom death had marked for his own, and his image was but asa pale spectre, round which the manifold forms of wounded and dying andtortured men, whom she had beheld during the day, grouped as a centralpoint.

  Her ears were full of the wild shouts of the besiegers and the shrieksof the injured, the awful clash of seax on helm, and hurtle and whiz ofarrows. Again and again she woke from a fitful doze, thinking to hearthe thunder of charging knights and the fierce 'Aoi!' of LeofricEaldredsson and his carles, as they leaped forth from the cover of thepalisades upon the foe.

  At last from such an awakening she sprang from the bed; better, shethought, to wake all night than suffer such awful dreams.

  But the awakening did not silence the cries. They were no dreams, thosescreams of terror, those head-rending shrieks for help, they weredreadful realities; and, rushing to the window, she gazed out with abeating heart at the western sky, which flickered and flared withstrange and ghostly gleams.

  She ran back to the sleeping countess, and by the lurid light saw thatshe was smiling in her sleep.

  'Wake! wake! Oh, Emma! dear countess! this is no night for sleep.Methinks the dawn is like to bring the last dread day! Alas! she sleepslike a young infant that knows not danger or woe. Wake, Emma! Thy lifemay hang on it!'

  Then the countess, opening her eyes dreamily, murmured, 'Thou hastbrought good succour, Ralph!' The next moment she started up. 'MaryMother! what is it, child?'

  'There is murder in the air, Emma! See, the very sky is full of tokens.Listen! listen! Oh, saints in heaven! how they scream!'

  They did indeed! The countess sprang from the bed and rushed to thewindow also.

  'They have fired the town!' she cried; 'they have fired the town!--theSaxon quarter! Sir Hoel said they would!'

  'The Saxon quarter! Oh, my home, my home!' cried Eadgyth, and, pressingher hands to her ears in a vain effort to shut out the shrieks of thesufferers, she cowered, with closed eyes, upon the floor.

  'Let us go to the great portal of the keep, whence we can see it,' saidthe countess.

  'See it!' cried Eadgyth. 'Ah, Emma, no! I could not look! It would killme.'

  But Emma went forth boldly, intent to know if anything could be done torescue the victims.

  Norwich in those days was an open town. The walls and towers, of whichportions still remain to gladden the eyes of archaeologists, were notbuilt till some fifty years later, so that it was not possible todefend the town itself. Moreover, although the earl had foundsupporters amongst the Saxon and Anglo-Danish inhabitants of the olderquarters, numbering more than one relative of Harold Godwinsson, themajority of the Norman denizens of the New Burg around theChapel-in-the-Field remained loyal to William, and were ready to giveall help to the besiegers. For this reason was it that the western skyhad but flickered with the reflections of flames. It was the Saxonquarter by the river, the wooden tenements in King Street, whichprovided fuel for the bonfire.

  Looking east from the portal of the great tower, a grand and terriblespectacle confronted the beholders.

  Crackling flames shot up against the dark midnight sky, dancing likeliving demons of fiery destruction, and sinking only to lick the doomedhouses with their scorching tongues and spring up higher than ever.Every now and again some beam or stone would burst with a sharp report,throwing blazing fragments into the air; and the volumes of smokerolled far into the night, lurid with the red glare of the flames.Moats and marshes and river gleamed and sparkled weirdly with the lightof destruction, so that the ground was broken by inverted images offiery tongues; and it seemed, indeed, as if the nether world--soardently believed in by those who were watching as a material hell offire and brimstone--had broken bounds, and was let loose to destroy theworld.

  But most awful was it to see the small black figures that every now andagain raised wild arms against the flare of the fire; most awful was itto here the screams that every now and again rose above the dull roarand crackle and hiss of the destroying element.

  When such figures were seen, and such sounds heard, curses andexecrations burst from the white lips of the soldiers who were crowdingthe eastern walls of Blauncheflour, and the knights who had assembledbefore the portal of the keep.

  As the countess came down amongst them, she could not repress anexclamation of horror, for never in her life had she beheld anything soawful.

  Sir Hoel de St. Brice came instantly to her side.

  'Alas, dear lady! this is no scene for thee. Return to thy bower. Thereis no danger for the castle.'

  'My place is here, Sir Hoel,' said Emma firmly. 'I am Castellan of thiscastle. The battle is not always to the strong. See, yonder flameshissing through the air are more terrible than a hundred mailedwarriors! The flame of wit is given to woman as well as to man!'

  'William's men are doing thee homage, noble countess,' said De Gourin,with a sneer. 'These are finer bonfires than the good people of Norwichlighted on the night of thy arrival in their town!'

  Emma turned from him with a shudder of disgust.

  'How hath this been accomplished, Sir Hoel?' she asked of the olderknight. 'By what means hath the fire been enkindled?'

  'The king's men are provided with mighty engines,' answered Sir Hoel.'Never have I seen mangonel or balista that carried so far. They arethrowing red-hot stones and balls of lead from them, and the old housesyonder have been so well dried by the sun of late, that they burn liketinder. See,' he added, pointing out some glowing stars in thesouth-east, which Emma had not before distinguished from the burningfragments tossed aloft by the action of the flame, 'their fiery hailcontinues even now. They have got possession of the Cyning Ford, andare flinging their missiles from across the river.'

  'And are we to stand here and gape at them, and do nought to stopthem?' demanded the countess eagerly. 'Good St. Nicholas! how thecattle bellow in the castle meadow! Are the poor beasts in danger?'

  'The fire frightens them, and no wonder!' answered Sir Hoel. 'But theyare in safety, unless, perhaps, some fragment, here and there, may becarried from the fire, and somewhat scorch their hides. As for thyformer question, I see not that anything can be done. Having possessionof the ford, I know not how we can dislodge them.'

  'It would be but throwing away good lives to attempt it,' said DeGourin, who cared little whether a few Saxons more or less were burnedon their own hearthstones.

  'Eadgyth!' exclaimed the countess impetuously to her bower-maiden, whohad followed her, notwithstanding her terror, 'hast thou not told methere was a way through the marshes, that Harold used against theVikings?'

  Eadgyth, with wild eyes and teeth chattering in the extremity of herhorror, gazed at the countess as if her fear had taken away her reason.

  The countess repeated her question, and Eadgyth, with an effort, forcedherself to attend.

  'Ay, that is so. My kinsman Leofric would be familiar with it. He hasfought every inch of this ground against the Danes under your lord!'she said.

  'Where is this Leofr
ic? Let him be summoned,' commanded the countess.

  'He is yonder helping his countrymen to save their skins from thefire,' said Sir Alain contemptuously.

  Again the countess commanded, 'Let him be summoned!'

  And when, not long after, Leofric Ealdredsson stood before her, stillbreathing hard after his exertions, his face begrimed with dust andsmoke, and the wild firelight gleaming on his torc and mail corseletand bracelets, she asked him if he knew of any way by which he couldsteal unperceived through the marshes, and take the artillerymen of thefoe by surprise.

  'By Asgaard! yes!' exclaimed Leofric, turning to De Gourin. 'And so Itold this fair sir an hour ago, and offered to show him how he mighttake them in flank, and stuff their accursed red-hot balls down theirown throats; or I would have taken a band under my own order, twenty ofmy house-carles, if he would add twenty stout men from the garrison.But he would hear none of it.'

  'We shall be the safer that the buildings yonder are burned,' said DeGourin. 'Why throw away good lives to stop it?'

  'Why was I not told of this suggestion?' asked Sir Hoel, frowning.'Thou takest over much upon thyself, Sir Alain!'

  'Grant me the men now, countess!' said Leofric eagerly.

  'My lord owed his life to thee, Leofric Ealdredsson!' answered thecountess. 'I know I may trust thee! Take thy stout carles, and twentymen beside.'

  'Ahoi! By Freya! thou art a pearl among women!' cried the wild Leofric,who was much of a Viking himself.

  'Ah, kinsman Leofric, leave those heathen names alone!' said Eadgyth.'Thou hast a better symbol in the hilt of thy sword!'

  But he had not stopped to listen to her. He had gone off to call hiscarles together, and to choose his twenty men from the garrison.

  And some forty of them, for the most part Anglo-Danes or Saxons, leftthe castle a few minutes later, leaving by the western horn of thebarbican, and making their way by the streets north of the castle, byTombland, to the river; slipping along through the fire-lighted nightwith a panther-like trot on their silent shoes of untanned leather,their trusty seaxes in their right hands, and their round red shieldson their left arms.

  Arrived at the river, they possessed themselves of boats withoutparticularly asking the leave of the owners, and crossed-over to themarshes on the eastern bank, leaving a man in each boat to guard it.They crept through the rushes, as only men who had grown up amid thefens could have done, and fell upon the unsuspecting Normans likethunderbolts; knocked their balistas to fragments, served a good manyof their men likewise, and returned as they came to the west bank ofthe river.

  Then they added their strength to that of the townsfolk to fight theflames, and, by means of clearing large spaces to windward of theburning houses, stopped the fire from spreading its ravagesindefinitely. But five less returned through the castle gate than hadleft it.

  So went the first day and the first night of the siege.

  When day broke, the attack on the barbican began again, and so it wasfor five days afterward; but at the end of the sixth the barricadeswere almost battered down, and strong bridges were established acrossthe ditch, so that the defenders thought it wise to abandon it to theenemy, as scarcely worth the lives it would cost to maintain possessionof it. But this meant no very great advantage to the besiegers.

  They stood before the great gate of the castle, the actual entrance towhich looked like a mere mouse-hole between the sheer strong walls ofits two flanking towers. They well knew the make of such gateways:their folding-doors of solid oak, strengthened with bars and bolts ofiron, and studded with huge nails to prevent the cutting out of a panelor staving in of the same; the strong portcullis behind them, aharrow-shaped iron grating, to be let up and down in a moment by meansof pulleys from the inside; above the doors a row of chimney-likeapertures, called machicolations, through which the defenders couldpour scalding water, molten lead, or any other deadly matter, upon thedevoted heads of the assaulting column, who were exposed also to across fire of quarrels, stones, and other missiles from the flankingtowers.

  Truly, to assault such a portal was no child's play, even with such aidas could be given by the rude artillery of the times: petronels andagerons for throwing stones and leaden pellets, catapultas for shootingarrows, and the trebuchettum, or warrewolf, specially designed for thesmashing in of gates and walls; all these, and more of their kind, theking's men were well provided with.

  Stout Earl Warrenne, and the astute Bishop of Coutances, and theaccomplished lance, Robert Malet, held many a consultation as they roderound the invested fortress, and scanned it eagerly to see if haplythey might discover some weak point which should give them advantage inthe attack.

  But they decided that they must become masters of the great gate, andso of the ditch, before they could make any assault on the castleitself.

  A month had passed away before they were so masters; but being so, theyhad their opponents in a veritable trap. The besieged knew well that aharder struggle than ever lay before them in their awful isolation, cutoff from communion with their fellow-creatures by a wall of human furyas effectually as if they had been wrecked on some desert island inthat vast ocean of the west, the opposite shores of which were allunknown to them, though its great eastern rollers dashed in spray uponthe Breton and Norman coasts.

  Through all this weary time of fear and suspense, with its harassingduties and oppressive sorrows, the Countess Emma found comfort in twodumb friends: Oliver, the earl's Spanish destrier, who had been left inthe fortress when De Guader embarked for Denmark; and the bravetassel-gentle, that had been Ralph's gift to her upon the day on whichshe had promised to share his fortunes, good or ill.

  Oliver had been restored to his master, after he had been struck downby Odo's mace, by one of those strange accidents which seem to have thefinger of fate in them. Some of the old thegn Ealdred's men had visitedthe battlefield several days after the fight, to see how the land layand what the king's men were doing. They were attacked by a band ofNorman soldiers, headed by a knight who was mounted on a splendiddestrier. The animal was full of strength and courage, but the riderbeing, as they afterwards found, one Stephen Main-de-fer, a parvenu whohad made his fortune out of the woes of England, like so many of hiscountrymen, and who had won his spurs without having learned to ride,instead of profiting by the noble booty that had fallen to his share,was brought to his ruin thereby; for the fiery barb, unused to suchhandling as he gave it, and doubtless wondering, like Johnny Gilpin'ssteed, 'what thing upon his back had got,' became unmanageable in theexcitement of the fray, and threw his clumsy new master heavily to theearth. There he lay sprawling, as little versed in carrying his armouras in managing his horse, and Ealdred's men did not lose theiropportunity of despatching him. After a short struggle, his followersbeat their retreat, and the destrier fell into the hands of theAnglo-Danes, who took him back with them to their refuge in the Fens,where he was immediately recognised with much jubilation by Grillonne,and restored to his master.

  So it came to pass that Ralph de Guader had been able to ride back intoBlauncheflour on his trusty Oliver.

  Since the earl had quitted the castle, Emma had visited the barbmorning and night, and had taken him many a dainty wastel cake orsugary comfit such as horses love; and, stroking his satin neck withmany an endearment, longed for the time when she should see his masteron his back again. A time which would never come!

  At such moments she would often have the tassel-gentle on her wrist,and the bird seemed almost human, so intelligent and tame was he.

  She needed some comfort, for she had one great sorrow. The gentle andloving Dame Amicia de Reviers, who had watched over her from hercradle, was stricken down by paralysis, and a few days later died. Itwas really but the natural end of a long and happy life; but Emma, inthe mood for self-torture, blamed herself for having dragged the ageddame into tumult and terror, and shed tears that were beyond the usualbitterness of grief. She was buried in the holy precincts of St. Martinat Bayle, which stood before the castle gate, the besieger
s granting atruce for the occasion, with that chivalrous courtesy that was so oddlymixed with the ferocity of the times.

  So the king's men and the earl's met in friendly sympathy one day, andprepared for bitter contest on the morrow, when the besiegers plannedto make assault upon the walls themselves.

  Within the castle all was bustle and business. Harness was mended andbullets were moulded, bows restrung and arrows feathered, axes andswords whirred on the grindstone, huge cauldrons were prepared whereinto heat water to pour upon besiegers' heads; and even the countess andher ladies helped to carry stones with their own fair hands, and pilethem ready for the use of the slingers.

  Meanwhile the swallows wheeled and twittered overhead as they wheel andtwitter now; and down in the woods the merles and mavises sang onundisturbed by the tumult, while swans were marshalling green-greycygnets across the pools in the marshes of the Cowholme.