by Dan Davis
“I admit, it is a difficult task,” I said. “But they are sending us a local man, a mercenary named Falk. And long ladders for the wall. So we will complete our task and we will all win glory for ourselves. And then we will finally destroy William. Then you can marry Marian, Jocelyn and be lord of your own manor. Your dream come true, son, and all of it within grasp.”
“I very much like the sound of that,” Jocelyn said, smiling.
Swein scowled and turned away to speak to his men.
I bet you do, I thought. “You know, when all this is over, I might even ask Eva if she would like to stay with me.”
“Not marriage, surely?” Jocelyn asked. He could not imagine marrying so far beneath himself.
“Why not?” I said. “She likes me.”
“Now you are dreaming,” he said and we laughed.
God must have been laughing too.
***
Two days later, on the twentieth of May 1217, my men and I stood ready across the fields from the western walls.
Lincoln was a magnificent city. Lincolnshire is one of the flattest parts of all England, a wet, boggy, flat place. Yet there is a great limestone ridge running straight as an arrow through almost the whole county up to the River Humber. That great escarpment is cut through by the River Witham and at that point stands Lincoln. Lincoln was also the crossroads of two of what were England’s greatest roads. Ermine Street ran straight south all the way to London and the Fosse Way ran southwest diagonally across the country to Leicester and then down to Cirencester and beyond toward Dartmouth. On the northern bank of the river stood the walled city of Lincoln, which spread from the bridge at the bottom, up the steep escarpment to the plateau of the ridge above. On the edge of the escarpment was the castle, on the western side and the great cathedral on the eastern.
Its location and geography were the reason the rebel barons had taken the city. It was of vital strategic importance. By controlling Lincoln, they could control not only the county but also control access to the rest of England.
And that was one of the reasons the Marshal wanted to take the city back. But really, he wanted a great military victory to finish the rebellion and king Louis for the last time. Crushing the thousands of men in Lincoln would break the resolve of those who held out for their rewards from a victorious king Louis. They had to be persuaded that England was now under the command of the great knight who ever lived and that they had no hope. Win Lincoln and we would win England.
The city would be a tough place to crack. The rebels had got inside because the citizens had thrown open the gates and declared themselves for Louis. Storming it by force would be a different matter.
We stood at the edge of a copse of alder on the western side of the city looking across fields and a scatter of isolated houses to the walls, the castle keep behind them and beyond the tops of the stunning towers of the enormous cathedral. The walls of the city fell away on the south, down the escarpment towards the River Witham. It was a huge place.
“We have to take that?” Swein said, gawping. He and the archers from the Weald had never seen Lincoln. It was only forty miles southwest to Nottingham but in those days, you never went to a place unless you had good reason to.
“No,” I said, misunderstanding him on purpose. “Those men have to take the city. All we have to do is get up on the walls.”
To the north, across the fields of the ridge, we could see the Marshal’s army as it approached Lincoln’s north gate. He led about four hundred knights with their attendant squires plus another thousand armoured, non-noble men-at-arms and a thousand or so levied men who were lightly armoured. Most were making the final approach on foot. Those who yet rode would dismount before they got within bow range of the north wall.
The Marshal’s forces included four hundred mercenary crossbowmen who approached in front of the knights. The crossbowmen would cover the assault by keeping the heads of the defenders down behind the walls while the ladders were scaled and the walls assaulted.
Bands of mounted soldiers roamed around outside the walls on all sides, no doubt there to cut off any attempts at escape and to relay any clues to troop positions. Down the escarpment on the other side of the river there were more horsemen and groups of soldiers, although who they belonged to I had no idea. They were too far away to be concerned with. Battles always draw gawkers.
The rest of the Marshal’s forces were held in reserve to the north. No doubt, he hoped he would not need them, or perhaps he feared to cause too much damage to the beautiful, wealthy city. But I knew they were there if needed.
In my group, we had four men-at-arms, including myself. I led Jocelyn and Anselm who were armoured like knights. Swein commanded our twenty archers, armed with their huge bows, laden arrow bags and swords or daggers. Between them, they had a pair of ladders twenty-five feet long. They looked spindly to me. I prayed to God that they would hold us as we scaled the wall.
We were being escorted by my last man-at-arms, a mercenary named Falk. The Lincolnshire man was a commoner who had risen to knighthood over a brutal career fighting from Wales to the Holy Land and wherever there was state sanctioned murder to be had. He was rough of manner and ugly as hell, a rolling lump of a man. His blade was a dirty great falchion, nocked and rusty but sharp as sin. His surcoat was emblazoned with a griffon design but it was partly hidden underneath a thick layer of grime and old blood. I was glad to have him.
The Marshal’s forces charged onward, out of sight. The shouts of battle grew.
“Let’s be off, Richard,” Falk said and spat out a quivering glob onto the trunk of the tree beside me.
“We move quickly,” I said to the men. “Even if they see us, we keep going. Even if we do not have surprise on our side, even if they shoot crossbows down at us. We are getting up that wall.”
Those of us with helms jammed them on. We tightened our buckles and straps, knots, and we trotted on foot out of the tree cover and cut straight across the field. To our right, the ground fell away steeply down to the river. There was a road down there that ran parallel to the river with houses all along it, leading to the river gate.
It seemed a long way to the wall. A long way to be completely exposed.
Please God, I prayed, please do not let them see us.
We crossed into the final flat meadow field, an open expanse that led right up to the base of the wall. There was a narrow postern gate there but we would not waste time attempting to break it down. Surely it would be sealed with rubble and boarding.
Our target section of the western wall loomed up higher and higher the closer we got. The top of the castle keep, with it’s loyal, royalist garrison still holding out, poked up behind. The crenellations like the shattered, rotten teeth of Falk, panting beside me like an old dog.
There were heads up on the top of the castle tower, between the gaps of the crenellations, but they were all pointed northward. I prayed that those men were still loyal to their young king and would be spurred into taking up arms and joining us.
And if they were not, I meant to force them to do so.
It would only take one of the rebel heads inside Lincoln, on any of the long section of wall, to glance our way for the cry to go up.
Jocelyn next to me panted. His shield, like mine, was slung over his back. Our hauberks were heavy. But I rarely tired. Jocelyn was about thirty years old but he was strong and he trained every day that he could. Anselm was dressed as we were but he was so young, he could run all day and not tire. Falk was lumbering beside me, panting like Jocelyn. The man was battered and scared and he ran with an awkward, limping gait but he kept up with us.
The lightly armoured Wealden archers trotted along with their ladders, their faces grim but focused on the wall ahead.
I expected a face upon the wall to turn. A shout to cry out. A horn to sound. Arrows and bolts to slam down into us.
But we reached the base of the wall, unnoticed and unopposed. We lined up in the clumpy, long grass, backs to the
wall, looking up.
Panting, the men looked down the line to me.
I jammed my mailed fist upward, indicating the top of the wall.
The archers hoisted their ladders against the bottom of the crenellations at the top of the wall, about ten feet apart. We wanted to come up both ladders together.
I moved to mount the ladder nearest to me. Jocelyn grabbed me.
“Wait for the men to go first,” he said.
I knew he was worried that the ladder would snap under my weight. And more to the point the top man would be the first to cop a rock or bolt to the face or be run through as he clambered over the top.
But I knew that a fall from such a height would not kill me as it might a normal man. Also, if the ladders did break after other men had climbed then I might be stranded. Without me to lead them, they would struggle. And I had to have a victory. It had to be mine. Personally. I had to be free to kill William.
I shrugged Jocelyn off. “You wait until last. Your task is to protect Anselm.”
Though I could not see his eyes through his helm slits, I could imagine the look in them.
“Falk, you get up the other ladder,” I said.
“You do not command me,” Falk said, his crude voice muffled by his helm. Nevertheless, he leapt upon the ladder. It bowed and creaked under his weight. The fifth rung snapped and he fell, catching himself on the other rungs, his weapon and armour clanging and clattering. The men holding the ladder wrested it back into upright position, dragging the top against the stone at the top of the parapet high above. Falk clambered back up.
“Go softly, you fool,” I hissed at him and swung myself up my own ladder.
I trod as lightly as I could. My breath was loud inside my helm. The ash poles of the ladder creaked and cracked. I wondered if I should have left my shield behind rather than wearing it strapped upon my back. It would no doubt catch on the top but then while I fretted away, I had reached the top. My hands at the top of the stone. My instinct was to hesitate, to peer over to see what awaited me.
But speed was vital. If there was a man there then I could not wait for him to leave or turn away. I had men mounting the ladder behind me. It was a matter of go up and over or go home in defeat.
So I threw myself up, onto the edge of the wall, grasping the far side with outstretched arms.
My wrists prickled and my heart was in my mouth, expecting a sword blade or an axe to come chopping down to sever my arms.
I pulled myself up so I was face down on the top of the wall, the crenellations rising up each side of me. Hiding me, or so I prayed, from anyone looking along the wall. I was laying stretched out, imagining a blow aimed at the mail covering the back of my neck. I wriggled forwards and heaved. The corner of the top of my shield caught on the crenellation and screeched as I pulled myself in and fell on the other side in a jumble of arms.
A shadow fell across me and I drew my dagger.
Falk was there, standing over me. “You know, they told me you moved like a warhorse on the charge. I see they were lying, as usual.” He laughed inside his helm and stomped away along the wall to the north, fiddling with the chest strap holding his shield to his back.
I rolled to my feet as our archers clambered over. I helped the first two to make a more graceful entrance than I had, then left them to help the rest over.
I looked inward, across the castle bailey and over the other castle wall into the city. The castle keep was on my right and the magnificent cathedral towers were right ahead, in the centre of the city.
The attack on the north gate was already raging. Arrows and bolts clattered and flew. Men shouted and pushed from atop the north wall. I could not see down into the city by the gate, for all the buildings in between, but I could hear them well enough.
I slung my shield upon my arm and walked south along the wall to the point where it made a right angle turn toward the castle keep.
Everyone else, the squires and archers, went north after Falk.
Two men climbed from inside the city farther along the wall. When they saw me, both froze. They were well-armoured men-at-arms, wearing great helms and I was sure they would attack. Instead, they stopped atop the wall by the steps.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” The first man shouted in French.
“A loyal servant of King Henry,” I roared and drew my sword, bringing my shield in to cover my body.
The two men looked at me, looked at the archers streaming away along the wall behind me, then up at the castle keep. And then they ran back down the way that they had come.
I turned to the sound of cheering. The men at the top of the keep were cheering my minor victory. I took the right angle junction of wall and hurried to the wall of the keep. There was a small, very thick, iron-banded door there. I hammered on it, hard, over and over.
“You in there,” I called. “Time to get your swords wet.”
The men at the top shouted down.
“Who are you?”
I removed my helm and shouted back. “Sir Richard of Ashbury. William Marshal, the Regent of England, has sent me to request that you men join him in attacking the traitors holding this city.”
It did not take them long to open the door and join me. There were twenty-six men at arms in all who came out to fight. They were led by a young knight named Sir Stephen of Cranwell. The young man and his fellows were spoiling for a fight, their eyes mad with desire to smash into the men who had taken their city and their families and kept them besieged in the small keep for so long. They had been fully armoured and prepared all day, in case the fight spilled into their keep.
“You will all listen to me and do as I command,” I said. “But only until you are unleashed upon the enemy. Then you may each prove your worth as you see fit.”
Sir Stephen was wound as high as a young stallion but he nodded in agreement.
“Have you fought in a real battle before?” I asked as we moved off.
He scoffed at me.
“Do not worry,” I said. “Remember your training, all of you.”
They were greatly offended. I recalled how young I appeared to those who did not know me. They thought I was topping it the grand knight when I was younger than they were.
You just wait and see, I thought.
I led them north along the wall toward the section where Falk had halted our archers.
The castle wall surrounded a roughly rectangular bailey that sat against and inside the larger city walls. Inside the bailey were the usual hall, stables, workshops and open ground for training in the centre. That bailey took up a full quarter of the upper city, with the cathedral opposite it taking up a huge area across the open square between the two great structures. The lumpy Falk had led my archers and men northward from where we climbed in, all the way to where the castle wall led inward to the centre of the city.
There, at the northeast corner of the castle bailey, was a circular bay atop the wall where our twenty archers plus the rest were gathered under the shelter of the battlements.
Sir Stephen and Falk exchanged a terse greeting and I peered over the wall.
The noise of battle is like nothing else in all the world. The noise was like a storm wind howling through a woodland. It was like the crashing of ocean waves onto a rocky shore. And it ebbed and flowed like both. So much so that it was possible to understand at what stage a battle was at by the sound alone. The early stages of a battle were composed of individual shouts and insults and the sounds of feet and hooves running to and fro. Toward the end of a battle, the air would be filled with groaning, moaning, weeping and men begging for aid, for a priest, for their mother.
In Lincoln that day, I heard the sound of battle in full swing. The clash of iron upon iron. The thud of iron on wood. Horses hooves stamping. Bowstrings twanging, crossbows clacking, arrows splitting the air, tapping, and clattering against stone and wood. The loudest noise was the shouting. The noise that thousands of shouting men can make is breathtaking. A cacophony
of insults, orders and incoherent cries of rage as men try to murder other men and to stay alive themselves that build to a roaring the likes of which exists nowhere else on earth. It is a humming of discord that fills every octave, rising, falling, and rising sometimes into a strange and beautiful harmony, just for a moment, before crashing into a thousand cries once more.
I peered over the parapet toward the north gate.
There were hundreds of men in the street below, from right underneath the wall all the way up to the north gate. The walls were yet being fought for, with our loyal fellows still climbing over the walls one by one all along it.
Our men were pushing them back, though. The walls were being taken.
“We should attack from the south,” the young Sir Stephen yelled into the side of my helm.
“Shut up and get down,” I said and dragged him into the cover of the crenellations. “We will do so but not yet. We must wait until they are committed. We have to time it correctly, do you understand? The timing is all-important. We must shock them with our attack, shock them into breaking their will. They are far from that yet. Now, where are the men guarding the castle?”
“What do you mean?” Sir Stephen said.
I cursed God for sending me a fool for an ally. “The men who kept you all from breaking out.”
“Honour kept us from breaking out. We could have fled at any point over the wall and away in the darkness. But we knew we must hold. There are men-at-arms always by the bailey gatehouse, however, if that is what you mean?”
I shouted to Falk. “Gatehouse for the bailey?”
“East wall,” he said, shuffling over to me. “Near the southeast — keep your fat heads down, you sons of Kentish gravelkind bastards — near the southeast corner of the bailey by the tall square tower, do you see?”
“I do. And that is our way off this wall and into those men below.”
“And here I was thinking you were going to leap off this wall into the middle of them and just sort of slay the lot of them,” Falk said.