For the time being I suppressed my doubts, and played the faithful soldier. In the middle of August, some two weeks after my escape from England, the army embarked to sail down the coast towards Caen.
Next to Rouen, the capital of the duchy, Caen was the largest and most important town in Normandy. It had suffered terribly during the reign of Henry’s great-grandfather, King Edward, when the English stormed the place in a single day, slaughtering thousands of innocents and destroying much of the merchant’s quarter. Caen had paid a heavy price for its stubborn resistance, and our troops were confident that the memory was still fresh in the minds of the citizens.
“If the Frenchies have any sense, they’ll throw open the gates and offer to kiss our backsides,” confidently declared Roger Floure, the Lancashire man-at-arms with the forked ginger beard, “like they have everywhere else.”
“Except Honfleur,” another soldier reminded him, “the buggers are still holding out there.”
Roger spat on the grass. “Piss on Honfleur. Our lads must have been swine-drunk when they tried to scale the walls. There’s not a Frenchie in this whole God-damned duchy that can stand against us in a fair fight.”
There were good reasons for his confidence. Henry’s strategy of invading a poorly-defended region of Normandy had paid off, and most of the enemy towns and castles had gone down before us like skittles. The exception was Honfleur, a port town on the southern estuary of the Seine, which had stubbornly resisted our efforts to storm it.
We marched in disciplined order, with the Duke of Clarence, Henry’s second brother, in the van. Sir James’ mounted men-at-arms, including myself, rode just behind the King’s own retinue. Behind us the rest of the army marched in high spirits, buoyed by the run of easy victories.
An army on the move is a grand sight. I recall twisting in the saddle to gaze in admiration at the long lines of horse and foot, knights and men-at-arms in gleaming steel, bright pennons streaming in the breeze. Some of our archers were also mounted, and the bulk of these men, called hobelars, brought up the rear. They served as useful light cavalry, watching out for French outriders and guarding the baggage train that creaked along in the wake of the main force.
Henry had planned the assault on Caen to the last detail. While the bulk of his army marched on Dives-sur-Mer, a small town about halfway between Touques and Caen, he sent men ahead to block the mouth of the River Orne. This cut off the routes from Caen to Bayeux and Vire, while another detachment hastened to the south of the town and barred the roads to Rouen and Paris.
Caen was left isolated and surrounded on three sides. Before advancing to lay siege, Henry sent an advance guard of a thousand horsemen to work their way around the north of the town and block the road to the west.
His brother Clarence volunteered to lead them. Henry accepted, and prudently ordered Sir James Harrington to take a few men to accompany his brother. In other words, to ensure he did nothing rash.
This Clarence was every bit as brave as the King, but headstrong, over-ambitious, and thirsting for glory. He had missed Agincourt, thanks to being stricken with dysentery at Harfleur. The young duke’s vain desire to outdo his elder sibling, and win an even greater battlefield victory over the French, was the great ambition of his life.
I was among the two hundred men-at-arms Sir James took to follow Clarence. We clattered down the highway towards the outskirts of Caen, a thousand men four abreast, pennons flying, and swung north-west to cross the Orne where our men had seized the crossing.
Plumes of black smoke became visible on the horizon as we neared the town. Clarence called a halt at the ford so he could talk to our sentries, and word swiftly passed down the line that the French had fired the suburbs outside the town.
“Clever,” remarked the man to my left, “we won’t be able to use the buildings as cover now. The French commander knows his business.”
“Do we know who he is?” I asked. The men around me hesitated before replying - they were still leery of the outsider - before Roger Flour grudgingly answered.
“The Sieur de Montenay,” he said, “some high-nose or other. Supposed to be a good soldier, even if he is French. God knows how many men he has inside the town. They’ll be holed up in there like rats.”
The oldest quarter of Caen lay to the north, and was guarded by a square white donjon on a hill, surrounded by a moat and stone fortifications. With typical recklessness, Clarence led us far too close to the outer ramparts, almost within bow-shot of the defenders.
If the duke hoped the garrison might sally out and give him a chance of glory, he was to be disappointed. They confined themselves to a few hopeful cannon-shots. I cringed as the missile streaked overhead (I had never been under fire before) and a few of our horses shied, but the aim of the French gunners was hopelessly off.
We worked our way around the northern part of the town, until the peaked towers of a large monastery came in view to the south-west. This was the Abbaye de Saint-Étienne. It lay just west of Caen, outside the walls, and was almost as impressive a building as the castle.
Clarence rode at a furious pace, and our formation had broken up to avoid the salvo of gunfire. Hence I was near the front, just a few paces back from the duke’s standard bearer, when a monk galloped into view.
For a churchman, he rode uncommon well, his long black robes (he was a Benedictine) hitched up above the knee as he bent low over his horse’s head, flailing the beast into greater efforts with his sandaled feet.
He was riding towards us from the monastery with a pack of French devils at his heels. The late afternoon sun glinted off their helms and spears as they rapidly gained on the fugitive.
I could have sworn that Clarence sobbed for joy. Without waiting to give orders, he unlooped the black iron mace from his saddle-bow and charged straight at the French, as though he was some lone knight-errant instead of a senior commander with a thousand men at his back.
Youth is a time of great folly. Instead of hanging back and awaiting the outcome, I clapped in my spurs and galloped after the duke. His household knights did the same, and a roar of sheer exhilaration burst from our throats as we bore down on the enemy.
My rouncy delighted in being unleashed, and the ground seemed to fall away beneath his hoofs. It was though we flew, man and beast together. The thunder of the horsemen around me rose like a storm in my head, mingled with the pounding of my blood. Some bellowed ‘Saint George! God for Saint George!” while others made a strange droning noise in the back of their throats - animal sounds, fuelled by a savage desire to kill, to rend the enemy limb from limb.
The French saw the tide of armour and horseflesh rumbling towards them, and turned away to avoid the clash. I can’t blame them for running away. They had no hope. Clarence and his knights were all clothed in steel and mounted on superb destriers, while the French were mere light horse. We would have ridden straight over them, and hundreds more of our comrades galloped in support.
Clarence swore in frustration as the French veered away and fled back to the safety of the monastery walls. They were too far to catch, but the monk still rode towards us.
“Someone ride on and meet that fool,” shouted Clarence, “before his horse founders or he breaks his neck.”
Seeking to impress, I started forward, along with a couple of the duke’s knights. My light armour gave me an advantage in a race, and Odo easily outstripped their destriers over a short distance.
“Mon ami! Mon ami!” the monk hollered as I drew closer to him, letting go of the reins to wave frantically with both hands.
That was almost his undoing. His horse gave a sudden jerk, flung back her head, and a gobbet of slobber hit the monk full in the face. He screamed as though it was boiling oil and toppled sideways out of the saddle.
Somehow he managed to cling on, his long fingers buried in the horse’s mane, until I rode up next to him and seized the hood of his cassock.
He switched his claw-like grip to my neck, burbling “Mon camarade! V
ous m’avez sauvé!” over and again, while I tried to get his skittish horse under control.
The Benedictine was surprisingly strong, and stank of sweat and terror. His horse nearly bolted away from me, and would have done so had one of Clarence’s knights not ridden up and caught her bridle.
My French was passable, though I hadn’t used it since Father Stephen, the stern old chaplain employed by my mother as a tutor, forced me to construe verbs in the schoolroom at Kingshook until my brain rattled.
“Be calm,” I said to him in his own language, “no harm will come to you.”
He carried on gibbering, and clinging to my neck with his pale, moist hands until Clarence and Sir James arrived.
“Well?” the duke demanded, “why did this rascal fly from his own countrymen?”
“I can’t get any sense out of him, my lord,” I replied. Clarence made an impatient noise, trotted up to the monk and slapped him across the face.
Clarence wore steel gauntlets, and the blow almost knocked his victim into the dirt.
“Mercy!” whined the Benedictine, clutching his bruised jaw, “mercy, milord! I am your friend!”
“And I am a duke, you little turd,” snarled Clarence, “you will address me as Your Grace, or lose your tongue.”
The monk babbled apologies, until I felt quite sick at the sight and sound of him. He possessed not a flicker of pride, the snivelling wretch, and my opinion of churchmen plummeted even further.
It was left to Sir James to restore some dignity to the scene “How are you a friend to us?” asked the knight in a far gentler tone than Clarence.
The Benedictine swallowed and wiped a dribble of blood from his lips before pouring out his tale.
“My abbé,” he mumbled, “was ordered by the Mayor of Caen to remove all the treasures from our house, and let the mayor’s servants take them into the town for safe keeping. This was to prevent your valiant soldiers from, ah, requisitioning them.”
Clarence’s thin face lost some of its sour look. “The Mayor sounds like a sensible man,” he remarked, “and your abbé is an idiot. The treasures are still there, then?”
The Benedictine nodded. He was an ugly, sickly looking creature with bulbous eyes, no chin to speak of and a hooked nose. His severe tonsure made him uglier still.
“The Mayor sent soldiers to take what we would not give,” he went on, staring dolefully at Clarence, “so the abbé ordered me to ride out and beg the English for aid. Those villains you saw pursuing me were the Mayor’s men.”
Clarence and Sir James exchanged glances. “From us?” exclaimed the duke, “your abbé is so concerned with his wealth he chose to turn traitor, and ask for help from his country’s enemies?”
“Ah, milor-Your Grace” the monk stammered, “Caen is doomed. Everyone knows it, though the Sieur de Montenay has threatened to hang anyone who openly talks of surrender. Your King Henry is Alexander reborn, and we will get no relief from Rouen or Paris.”
“Your King is also known to be a pious man,” he went on, “most devout and reverent towards the church. It is well known he allows no looting or destruction of religious houses. My abbé hoped...”
Clarence finished the sentence for him. “Your abbé hoped His Majesty would look kindly on your monastery,” he said wearily, “and allow your plate and gold ornaments to remain where they are.”
He gave an acid smile. “My pious brother. How many fortunes will not be made in France, thanks to his scruples?”
Only a man of his status and royal blood could criticise the king without fear of reprisal. While the rest of us stayed quiet, he looked thoughtfully at the distant bulk of the monastery.
“So much for French valour,” he murmured, “the rats are fleeing back to their nest.”
I turned to look, and saw two score horsemen emerge from the gate of the outer wall. They were the hobelars we chased earlier, along with a few comrades. As we watched, they rode hastily back towards the gatehouse at the northern wall of the town, occasionally glancing over their shoulders to check for pursuit.
Clarence frowned at the monk. “How many soldiers did the Mayor send?” he asked.
“That was all, milord,” the other replied.
Sir James moved forward. “The monastery can be fortified,” he said, ever the practical fighting man, “and used as a headquarters. It’s strong enough. A few score men in there, well supplied and equipped, could hold out against a thousand. We could also mount a few light cannon on the roof. There is a clear view to the town.”
This was true enough. The monastery was well placed to control the road east of Caen, and there were no French troops guarding it.
Clarence agreed, and sent Sir James with a hundred men to seize and garrison the place, while he returned to our main camp east of the town.
“You,” said Sir James, crooking his finger at me, “I don’t know your face, though you wear my arms. Name?”
“John Page, my lord,” I replied with a respectful duck of the head, “esquire of Kingshook in Sussex. I but recently joined your company.”
He looked me up and down without much interest. To him I was just another soldier, one of the many thousands he had encountered in his long military career.
“I recall your name on the roll,” he said, “one of seven replacements for the losses we suffered at Honfleur. If not for the King keeping me busy, I would have met you before now. You ride well.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I replied. I’m even better at shooting the King’s deer, I thought guiltily, or putting the fear of God into his foresters.
He jabbed his finger at the Benedictine. “You got to this creature first,” he said with a grin, “so you can escort him back to the monastery and inform his abbé of our intentions. Make it clear we have no interest in their gold.”
I glanced in dismay at the monk, whose watery pop-eyes gazed back at me with pathetic adoration. He appeared to regard me as his saviour, even though I had only been trying to impress the duke.
“My name is Christopher,” he said, placing a hand on his breast, “I owe you my life, sir knight.”
I turned Odo’s head towards the monastery gates. ““I’m not a knight,” I growled, “and we owe each other nothing. Stay behind me and keep your mouth shut.”
Thus, with my new and unwanted companion in tow, I joined the troop of horsemen despatched to secure the Abbaye de Saint-Étienne.
12.
Christopher must have sensed that mine was a soul in dire need of salvation. No matter how many times I rebuffed or slighted him, he continued to dote on me with a gentle Christian patience I found irritating almost beyond measure.
His abbé turned out to be a puffed-up toad of a man, concerned only with the fate of his precious vestments and trinkets. The monastery was rich, even by the standards of religious houses, and the glint of burnished gold and silver was everywhere in the vast, shadowy corridor of the nave.
While I explained to the abbé, in my slightly awkward schoolboy French, that we had no intention of robbing him, Sir James set about turning the house of God into a fortress.
This was easy enough. The central building was surrounded by a curtain wall, with a gatehouse and two stout towers, and he posted twenty of his men-at-arms on the battlements. We had no archers, though Clarence had promised to send three hundred hobelars to strengthen the garrison as soon as possible.
The remainder of his command was stationed inside the church. There we waited, listening to the gloomy plainchant of the monks and waiting for the French to attack at any moment.
They didn’t come. The Sieur de Montenay was too prudent to waste lives attempting to retake the monastery, and kept all his men behind the walls of Caen.
His preparations for the siege could not be faulted. He had ordered the governors and bailiffs of the town to stuff Caen with provisions, and draw in all the livestock from the surrounding countryside. He managed to scrape together some five thousand troops for the garrison, well in advance of our arriv
al, and put another two thousand civilians under arms. Caen was also well-stocked with artillery, ballistas and catapults as well as guns.
No-one could accuse de Montenay of neglecting his duty, but his efforts were in vain. Unless the French sent reinforcements, Caen couldn’t hope to hold out for long. King Henry had made a careful study of the defences, and in the next few days the jaws of his trap closed about them.
The main body of our army soon arrived before the walls. De Montenay ordered the suburbs to the north and east to be destroyed, which left much of the ground between our camp and the town burned and desolate. This had the unwanted effect of clearing the line of sight for our great guns. Henry had brought an impressive artillery train over from England, and soon Caen was surrounded with serpentines, culverins and bombards.
I was idle inside the monastery, with nothing better to do than listen to Christopher’s prattling and watch our army dig in.
“You must confess your sins,” he kept telling me, “and be shriven before the day of battle. Else you will suffer the torments of the damned.”
Then his already damp eyes would fill with tears, and he would pluck mournfully at my sleeve. “What if, Heaven forfend, some chance blow struck you down? Your soul is fated to burn, my friend.”
Great Sultan, you may wonder why I didn’t punch the greasy little runt. Firstly, he was a monk, and despite my growing contempt for the church some residual ingrained respect for men of the cloth still clung to me. Secondly, he meant no harm. Indeed, he was the first person since the death of my mother to care a whit for me.
Soon the bombardment started. Henry meant to shock Caen into a quick surrender, so he could turn his energies to the rest of the duchy. To that end he pounded the town with every piece of ordnance at his disposal. The storm of gunfire was relentless, and for some three or four days I, along with every other soul cooped up inside the Abbaye de Saint-Étienne, got little sleep.
The Wolf Cub Page 9