by Dan Davis
“Do not give Richard ideas,” Jocelyn shouted.
A hunting horn sounded and then another and more joined. Over and over, they sounded while we poked our heads over the parapet.
The rebels were falling back. They had lost the north gate.
“They run,” Sir Stephen shouted, so elated he jumped to his feet and shouted down at them. “Yes, run, you sons of meretrices, run all the way back to London. Run back to France and drown along the way-”
I kicked his legs out from under him but it was too late. His men, taking his lead, leapt to their feet and began shouting.
We were spotted immediately. Men pointed up as they filed past.
“Cease your shouting,” I yelled, as did Falk and Jocelyn.
“They are not fleeing,” Jocelyn said as he dragged down the ones nearest him. “They are falling back in good order. This is part of their plans.”
“What did you do to Sir Stephen?” the nearest man growled from behind his helm. I wished to tip him from the wall. Instead, I ignored him and he jerked from a metallic ping against his helmet. He ducked down.
Crossbow bolts clattered off the stones and we crouched low again.
There were bowmen scattered across the city in the roofs of the tallest, largest buildings. Some sat on the thatch and tile, most had hacked their way through the bottom of the roofs and were shooting from inside, well hidden and well protected.
“Archers?” Swein shouted.
“No, do not waste your arrows,” I said. Crossbowmen and archers were hardly worth bothering with when we had so many knights upon the field. “We must take the bailey gatehouse.”
“They are stopping at the square,” Falk said, dragging me away from my part of the walled, circular corner of the wall. Bolts fell around us but he paid them no mind. “Look.” Falk pointed south along the wall to where the rebel men were falling back to.
“They have built a wall,” I said.
“I heard you was a sharp lad, Sir Richard,” Falk said. “There’s not nothing get past you, is there.”
Between the wall of the castle bailey and the corner of the cathedral, the rebels had built a wall from carts, barrels, house timbers and whatever else that could be jammed and hammered together. The knights, squires and men-at-arms clambered carefully over certain lower sections and then took up places on the far side.
“Hardly the walls of Jerusalem, is it, Falk,” I said.
“Don’t need to be, does it,” he said, pointing east along the length of the cathedral. Along that road were gathered dozens, no, hundreds of horses. They were held by grooms, pages and squires but as the mass of men fell back, I watch knight after knight hurry to his own horse.
It was immediately obvious what the enemy intended to do.
“Good plan,” I said.
Falk grunted.
“What is it?” Swein asked.
“Our enemies down there are preparing to charge the flank of the Marshal’s men,” I said. “They will wait and wait and then they will smash into our tightly packed men-at-arms when they reach the palisade.”
“Charge like that will crush our lads,” Falk said. “Kill a lot of men, make the rest run off. For a bit, anyway. Good plan, aye.”
I thought about it for a moment. The bolts kept coming, clattering about us.
“We have to clear a section of the palisade for our men,” I said. “If they break through quickly then we still have a chance.”
Swein’s archers looked deeply unhappy. So much so that I laughed. I laughed at their misery and their fear.
I stood and walked to the centre of our circular corner. At once, the bolts came at me. One glanced from my helm, then another. It was good iron and my hauberk was as expensive as I could possibly afford. The rings that made up my mail were thicker, smaller and denser than most men would wear. The better the protection the heavier it was, which cost men speed and mobility and made them tire faster. But with my strength and stamina, those were not concerns I shared.
A bolt or arrow could still bust a ring apart and enter my quilted, linen doublet underneath and if it pierced that and somehow entered my body deeply, then as long as I could find some blood to drink before I died, then I would live.
My helm was enclosed but for the eye slits and breathing holes, yet an arrow could find its way in or buckle the metal. My greatest concern was blindness, however, as I was unsure whether I would be able to regrow an eye, even after ingesting blood. So I turned my back to the city. Almost every bolt shot at me missed but the ones that hit me and bounced off my mail still hurt. An awful lot. But I had to make those talented but inexperienced archers believe that they would live through the day. They might not have my armour but perhaps I could give them a little of my courage.
“Our enemy is luring William Marshal into a trap. The Regent’s men are chasing headlong into a barrier that is built clear across the space between this wall and the cathedral. That wooden wall will be manned by hundreds of armoured men. When the Marshal’s forces are pressed against the barrier, our enemy will charge his horses down to take our lads by the side and by the rear with lance and with sword. We will not allow that. We are all going out of the bailey gate and we are going to sweep that wooden wall of its defenders. What do you say, do you want to shoot some knights up the arse from ten yards away?”
They cheered and followed me down the wall toward the gatehouse.
“You have bolts stuck in your hauberk, Sir Richard,” Swein said from behind me.
“Well, bloody pull them out, lad,” I said.
We had to fight our way out into the street. No man was killed, we just shoved them out of the gate towers and cleared the arched gateway of men huddling in it. The gateway was wide enough for two wagons to pass through abreast of each other. I shouted at them all to get out and pushed and shoved them away.
No one there had any idea who we were, or if we were a threat. Even when we burst out of the bailey gateway amongst them, they assumed that we were on their side.
A battle is a confusing place. You can see no more of it than your immediate surroundings and the mass of men around is always surging and changing. And attacks on castles and towns are even more restricted, by buildings and by the funnelling effect of the streets. From approaching along the wall, we had had a rare view of it from above and so I understood as much or even more of what was occurring than the enemies on the ground.
By that point in the battle, they were thoroughly engaged along their front. Behind the makeshift palisade, squires and servants waited with water, wine and food for the knights. Wounded men drifted away. Fresh men waited their turn at the front.
I wondered when the rebels would spring their trap and charge the Marshal’s flank. If I was commanding the mounted knights then I would save it until the latest possible moment until the king’s men were exhausted. The charge could be disengaged and repeated but the first shock of it would be the most important moment of the battle. It was impossible to hear anything but the shouting and the clamour of battle. Perhaps the charge had already been launched.
Few of the enemy paid us much mind. Some of those that took note of us backed away, with the instinctive wariness of men when facing the unknown. A few seemed very interested in our presence, nudging each other and pointing.
“Alright, you men,” I shouted to those under my command. “We may have to make a start.”
I lined my men up in the open gateway of the bailey, archers and men-at-arms together and told them what I wanted them to do. All the while, I hoped that we would not be attacked in the rear from inside. I had seen no one in there behind us but it pays to expect the worst while you hope for the best.
Sir Stephen, his pride wounded but not his person, assured me that his men would perform admirably.
“I have no doubt,” I shouted over the roar of battle and clapping him on his shoulder. “What fine fellows you all are. Make your fathers proud.”
A group of men-at-arms approached us, their shiel
ds up and walking together shoulder to shoulder. Six of them, well armoured behind their shields. Swords drawn.
They knew that we were enemies.
“Hurry, Swein. Ten men shoot there and ten at our six new friends here,” I said and stepped back against the wall of the gateway.
The archers shuffled together as closely as they could and drew their huge bows. Half aimed at the rear of the men fighting up on the palisade.
The others aimed at the six men who were only ten yards away.
Our archers called out their chosen targets to each other and then released, almost as one. Twenty of the great war bows sending their heavy arrows into knights and men at arms.
I had never before that moment truly appreciated the power of those things. Months I had been around the archers of the Weald. I had tried my hand at a few of the weapons and I was always astonished that these mortal men could pull them back as far as their ear and further and then do it over and over again.
For sport, the archers would compete to see who could shoot the farthest. Invariably it was the strongest men who had the heaviest, thickest bows who would win. Other forms of competition were to see who could shoot five arrows into a target the fastest. But the war bow was not meant for long range shooting. Nor was it meant for shooting quickly, as arrows were very precious things indeed and every one would have to prove its worth.
The war bow instead was meant for shooting at close range and punching their iron arrowheads into anyone who stood in their way. The arrow shafts themselves were huge things, longer than my arm and thicker than my thumb. Most of their arrowheads were shaped into stubby points, diamond shape in cross-section, designed to force its way into a ring of mail and, through the force of the bow, burst the ring of iron mail apart and carry on through into the man. Of course, under the mail, a man would wear a gambeson, a coat of many layers of linen over the body and arms and cap of the same material under the mail coif worn overhead, with the helm over the top. Our legs were also padded under the mail leg coverings that were like iron trousers, held up by thongs attached to the waist.
An arrow that broke through a mail ring would very likely be stopped in those layers beneath. Some men even wore another thick, padded linen gambeson worn over the chest and back which might stop a blow from ever reaching the mail beneath. But over everything would be a colourful surcoat, adding another layer primarily for protecting the iron from the elements, as well as for decoration and recognition in battle. But a surcoat could also help to catch the shaft of the arrow and stop it penetrating further.
All these layers in combination were counted as armour. And armour worked. If you were a fighting knight, that was the reason you bought the best armour you could afford. You would spend a fortune on having it made to your measure, with the best rings and made by an armourer with a good name. Your armour would save your life against blows from edged weapons, especially slashes and cuts. It could save your limbs and ribs from being broken. Mail worked. Often, when wearing the full harness with every layer included you felt as though you were invulnerable.
The weakness of mail was in stopping penetration, which is why the lance was so powerful a weapon and so feared. The weight of a horse on the charge, pushing a spear point into your armour would run a man through. Our swords could be thrust into mail, though you needed a mighty blow and a lucky one to break through a hauberk.
The other way through was the head of an arrow, whether shot from a war bow or a crossbow. An arrow could never have anything like the penetrating power of a lance. Although I had seen men wounded and killed by arrows and bolts, I had also seen men with ten and more arrows sticking from their armour who swore they could feel nothing, as the arrows had been stopped before pushing into their skin even a little.
So, while I trusted that our Wealden archers would disrupt the enemy and perhaps panic them, I was fully expecting that my knights and men at arms would have to step in front of the archers after the first or second volley and hold the gateway. The archers had orders to fall back up the stairs and shoot from the crenellated walls above down onto the men who attacked we real soldiers.
The six knights who approached held their shields out, just in case we were enemies. I can only assume they thought to push us off our spot or to ask us what on earth we were doing and where we had come from. If they meant harm, they would have charged us, heads down. I expected our archers would drive them away with arrows in their shields.
Instead, they murdered them.
Ten yards was spitting distance. The thick ash shafts thumped into the six knights. Two fell back as if struck by charging horse. Arrows pierced the eye slits of those two men. One dropped, dead, as if he was struck down by a vengeful God. The other screamed like a child, the yard length shaft waving around.
A third man took an arrow to the centre of the thigh, ripping through his mail and flesh and into the bone, no doubt shattering it. He fell to the side with a cry loud enough to tear his throat to ribbons.
Another man took two arrows to the shield, the force powerful enough to stop him dead, he dropped his sword, clutched the shoulder of his shield arm, and backed away. Another knight took a blow to the top of his old pot helm with an impact that knocked him senseless and staggering like a drunkard. The final man had been rocked by something or other so vigorously that he reeled backward and then sat down on the cobbles, dazed though seemingly unharmed.
Our other ten archers shot into the rearmost ranks of the men upon the palisade. I turned and peered past the gatehouse wall in time to see armoured men there falling backward. One man flung his sword aside as he fell with an arrow shaft sticking from what must surely have been his spine. Other men fell where they stood.
There was not much of a reaction from the survivors, who were fixated upon the Marshal’s men charging the other side of the barrier. Crossbow bolts and arrows flew in from either side but they were shooting in an arc, at high angles and without much force.
“Again,” I shouted but they needed no urging from me and they were already shouting their targets to each other and nocking their next arrows.
“Blue coat, left.”
“Mine’s the tall lord.”
“Bare head, far right.”
“Fat arse.”
“Shiny helm.”
After they called their men they bent their backs into the next shots and heaved back the cords to their and further. I jumped back, well out of their way.
This time, all twenty of them shot into the backs of the enemy fighting.
At around twenty yards distance, shooting into their rear, it was like a magic spell. Ten men dropped in an instant. Wounded men screamed and their cries added to those of the first lot down. The survivors edged away, looking over their shoulders.
The noise from the battle was intensifying. More of the Marshal’s men were coming and no doubt, the rebel trap, the heavy horse charge into the flank, was ready to be sprung.
“That got their attention,” Falk shouted. Faces and helms across the square were turning to face us. “Right lads, up the wall you go.”
“Wait,” I shouted. “Stay here. Keeping shooting, keep shooting.”
I wanted to see how much carnage they could wreak. Some knights peeled off the palisade and edged toward us.
“Drop any man who comes near,” I shouted to Swein but so the archers could hear me. “But keep shooting that wall. Keep killing them.”
Arrow after arrow ripped into the men of the palisade. No knights could approach us without coming under the hail of iron.
They were edging away, afraid of the murder we did. Men who stopped to help their comrades were shot. Men who thought to stand were driven away. There were ten down, then twenty and then I lost count of the men who had fallen. Some of them were already dead. More and more, the enemy was aware that they had foes at their rear. The word was shouted between them to get away and we cleared the whole end of the palisade near to us.
It was magnificent.
&nb
sp; “Getting low on arrows, Sir Richard,” Swein shouted.
“Stop shooting,” I commanded. “Get behind us, not up on the wall. Save your last arrows. If they start using their heads, we may need to scare away crossbowmen.”
I got the knights and men of Sir Stephen’s castle garrison lined up with us, shoulder to shoulder across the width of the gateway.
I stood in the centre of the line with Falk on my left and Jocelyn on my right. Anselm tried to take position beside Jocelyn but the knight pushed the squire back and rapped him on the top of his head with the flat of his blade.
Before us, the rebels were gathering to assault our position were so few and they were so many.
“Stay together and stay in the gateway,” I shouted. “If any of you breaks our line then I will run you through myself. Do you hear me? Tell me you hear me, you men.”
They shouted they did.
“King Henry!” I cried. “For King Henry!”
The men took up my cry. We slapped our blades upon our shields, clapping in time. A few of us shouted insults and jeered, which was a fine thing to hear. It showed our enemies and each other that we had spirit, that we welcomed the fight.
Our challenge was answered at once by a growl of the knights who had been cowed by our archers. They saw our bowmen had fallen back and they surged forwards to finish us off. There was a roar as they rushed onward, twenty, thirty, and then fifty men advancing on us.
My heart raced with the thrill of it. Every sense alive to the clangour and stench of the battle. I felt strong and light. I wanted blood. I wanted to strike the heads from every man before me and I wanted to drink the blood from their necks and devour their flesh.
They charged, so close I could hear their heaving breath and the rattle and rustling of their clothing, their swords bashing their shields as they ran, their shoes slapping on the stone cobbles.
Occasionally, in battle, it seems as though you are in a dream. Can this truly be happening, you wonder, can I be here while this terrible thing occurs?