The Iron Castle

by Angus Donald

  De Lacy frowned at the heralds. In truth, despite the dire threat to slaughter every man in the castle if it fell, it was a generous offer; a free pass to leave with honour. Many a man would have grasped at it; but de Lacy was cut from finer cloth.

  ‘That, my lords, I shall not do,’ he said gravely. ‘My master King John has commanded me to hold this castle in his name against all-comers, and hold it I shall. I will never willingly surrender this place until I am dragged from it by my heels at the tail of the King’s horse. That is my last word on this matter.’

  The heralds nodded solemnly. ‘If that is your last word, so be it. But first, our noble King craves a truce for this day, and this day only, until the hour of midnight to remove the bodies of his dead for burial and the wounded for their succour.’

  ‘So be it,’ said de Lacy. ‘A truce until midnight.’

  All that day parties of Frenchmen came up to the walls and carried away the dead and the few wounded who had survived the night. I saw the enemy men-at-arms stepping among corpses and looking curiously, perhaps fearfully, at our walls and more than a few jeers and jests were exchanged. But I had no time for taunting our foes, as I was busy as a bee at a task set for me by Robin – an examination of the defences of our outer bailey and an accounting of the stores of food and weapons at our disposal.

  In the outer bailey we had one hundred and seventeen fighting men under Robin’s command. They were mostly Wolves – and I was pleased to see so many familiar faces: Vim, Robin’s mercenary captain, who had shed the drunken lassitude I witnessed at Christmas and seemed filled with a deep happiness by the imminent danger; one-eyed Claes, the vintenar who had fought with Robin and me in our southern adventure a few years before; Christophe Scarecrow, veteran of so many of Richard’s wars. Little Niels, who was hanging off the battlements watching the French clear away their dead and wounded, called out to me as I passed through the crowded courtyard below with a vast armful of bloody arrows.

  ‘Looks like we’ve won the battle, sir. Does that mean we can all go home now?’

  ‘Everyone else can – but not you, Niels,’ I replied. ‘Get down here. Your job is to clean and sharpen these arrows. I want them spotless, properly dried and stacked in the armoury by sundown.’

  ‘And if I do a right good job of that, sir, will you make me an officer?’

  ‘No, Niels, I won’t make you an officer yet – but I’ll tell you what I will do. If you don’t make a decent job of this task, I will shove my right foot so far up your little arse you’ll be smelling my boot leather from now till Christmas.’

  About half of Robin’s men were archers; we also had thirty-one men-at-arms from the castle garrison, and half a dozen engineers who answered to Aaron. This would have made the outer bailey a snug billet in ordinary circumstances but, as well as the fighting men, it was crammed to the rafters with more than two hundred men, women and children from the ville. Each side of the outer bailey’s triangle was only fifty paces long, and while there were three floors in each tower, and several wooden buildings in the courtyard that could be used to house folk, much of the space was occupied by armour, weapons, baggage and stores. In order to move around, I had to squeeze through men, women and children sitting on their possessions, not knowing what to with themselves. It was my job to feed them, find them places to sleep, and keep order. It was no simple task, I may assure you.

  To begin with, I organised all the townsmen of military age into work parties and set them to clearing the rubbish and rubble from the moats around the outside of the outer bailey, and to deepening these dry ditches until they were at least three times the height of a man. There was a good deal of grumbling from some of the softer-bellied townsfolk, those whose previous occupations had not necessitated hard outdoor labour, merchants, shopkeepers and the like, but I put it to them in the most simple terms: if they did not work, they would not eat.

  The women and older children were put to cleaning the outer bailey from top to toe, scrubbing every table and stool, every nook and store cupboard, even the stones of the floor and the walls themselves, with hot water and vinegar. For I knew that in such a crowded stew one of the worst dangers we faced was disease. The older folk, less nimble on their feet, and the halt and the lame, were set to mending the clothes of the soldiers and making bandages from old clean linen rags.

  I divided the fighting men, excluding the engineers, into three watches of forty men. Several townsmen with a small amount of military experience had volunteered to join the defending force, taking our numbers up to more than a hundred and twenty men. I mingled the castle men-at-arms and the volunteers with the Wolves, and divided each watch into ‘tower squads’ – three squads of ten men, who were to man each of the three large towers, and two squads of five men for each of the two small towers. When their watch was on duty, they were required to man the roof of their towers and keep a sharp, sober lookout. Any man caught sleeping or drunk at his lookout post would be hanged, I assured them earnestly. It was Lord de Lacy’s decree, not mine, but I meant to enforce it. So, at any moment of the day or night, one watch was on duty in each of the five towers, the second watch was in reserve, on stand-by, and the third watch was off duty, resting, sleeping or eating.

  Each day every fighting man was issued a small loaf of bread, a quarter pound of cheese, a quarter pound of butter, a cup of dried peas or beans and a pint of wine. Once a week they were given a pound of salted meat or fish and, of course, they could draw as much water as they liked from the well, which had been sunk an astonishing four hundred feet through the limestone rock, right down below the Seine. Each family of townsfolk, regardless of their number, received the same as one fighting man, but without the ration of meat or fish and with an extra loaf of bread. It was not a lavish diet, to be sure; we would be in no danger of growing too fat, but it should be adequate to keep us alive, active and in reasonable health.

  I received a shock when I first reported to the quartermaster in his little shack in the southern part of the middle bailey’s courtyard – for it was none other than Benedict Malet. I had not known that Hubert de Burgh’s ill-favoured nephew was in Château Gaillard at all, let alone that he had been entrusted with such a position. For during a siege the role of quartermaster was crucial: he would control the distribution of the food supplies that would determine how long the castle could hold out.

  It was an unpleasant shock to come face to face with the big, pimply fellow, particularly as I was there cap in hand to beg rations for the outer bailey.

  He was sitting at a small square table inside the three-walled hut outside the underground storeroom, with a brimming cup of wine by his wrist. Half a dozen burly men-at-arms lounged beside the entrance to the store-cave, sneering at the crowds who thronged past – for the middle bailey, the heart of the castle, was even more crowded than the outer bailey – and Benedict looked up at me as I approached with a faint smile on his face. ‘Ah yes, Sir Alan Dale,’ he said, ‘the common hireling who thinks he’s a knight. And what can I do for you today?’

  I swallowed my irritation. I would have to deal closely with this irksome fellow every day for the foreseeable future. I could not afford to let my temper get the better of me.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Benedict,’ I said, smiling amiably, if a little stiffly. ‘I trust you are well. I have come today for the allocated rations for the outer bailey.

  ‘Have you now?’ he said, looking down at a sheaf of parchments on the table. ‘What are you asking for exactly?’

  ‘I have a hundred and twenty-one men-at-arms and forty-three households from Petit Andely in my ward, which means I need two hundred and six loaves of bread—’

  ‘I have one hundred and seventeen men-at-arms here. What sort of game are you playing? Are you trying to hoodwink me?’

  ‘No, four new men volunteered as men-at-arms—’

  ‘If they are not on the list they do not receive rations. I’m surprised at you, Dale. I have had a number of grasping fellows trying
it on already this day and it saddens me that you should think me such a fool as to fall for your exaggerated claims. I will not tolerate this sort of greediness.’

  I knew he was being deliberately unhelpful. I gritted my teeth. ‘I have a hundred and twenty-one brave men-at-arms serving under me—’

  Benedict was rapping repeatedly on the table in front of him with the handle of his dagger. ‘One hundred and seventeen men it says here on this list. No more, no less.’

  ‘Who makes up the list?’ I grated. I had a growing urge to snatch the dagger and jam it hilt-deep into his fat belly.

  ‘The official list is made up by the bailiff of the castle, Lord de Lacy’s right-hand man. Sir Joscelyn Giffard himself. And Sir Joscelyn has entrusted me with the important task of issuing the rations according to his official tally of fighting men.’

  ‘Oh, Bennie, I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t mind if you made an exception,’ said a low, deliciously smoky voice behind me. ‘Just this once. After all, we’re only speaking of four extra men.’

  I was then granted the stomach-churning spectacle of Benedict’s expression changing from that of stern counting-house clerk to lovesick fool. His tongue slid out to lick his wide lips, his nostrils flared like a stallion scenting a mare in season, he flicked a lank strand of hair off his spotted forehead. His voice dropped and he said rather huskily, ‘My lady, what an unexpected pleasure!’

  I don’t think I have ever wanted to stab someone more.

  The lady wisely ignored him. ‘Sir Alan, what a wonderful surprise to see you again.’ I turned to see a vision of loveliness beside my shoulder.

  ‘Lady Matilda,’ I said stiffly.

  ‘Tilda, please,’ she said, putting a small, cool hand on my sleeve and, as usual, roasting the bare flesh beneath the cloth. ‘After all, we are old friends.’

  She smiled. I lost all the breath in my body.

  ‘Come now, Bennie, could you not unbend a little and grant Sir Alan his request? As a favour to me. I’m sure we can sort it all out with Daddy later.’

  ‘Very well,’ grumbled the clerkly oaf. ‘Tell me again – what number of men are you claiming for, Dale?’

  I walked from the store-cave with Tilda’s hand still on my arm and Benedict’s solemn promise ringing in my ears to have the stores delivered to the outer bailey within the hour. As we strolled around the corrugated walls of the inner keep, Tilda prattled on about ‘Bennie’ and what a fine fellow he was, but I only half-listened, merely gazing at her perfect face and the line of her white neck.

  ‘…such a help, even if he is rather odd-looking. Daddy says he doesn’t know what he would do without him. Certainly Bennie is always most obliging…’

  ‘I thought you were going to join a nunnery,’ I said, cutting through her prattle a little more abruptly than was polite.

  ‘Oh yes, I am still destined for a life of service to God, everyone absolutely insists on it. But personally I feel more inspired by that famous prayer by Saint Augustine. Do you know it? “O God, make me chaste and celibate – but not yet!”’

  She looked at me out of the side of her eye and I felt a stir in my loins at the thought of her being neither chaste nor celibate. I felt giddy: I did not know if I were more astounded by her outrageous comment or by the fact that a girl of nineteen could already quote the works of Saint Augustine by heart.

  ‘So what happened?’ I asked. ‘I heard you were all set to join the sisters of Caen Abbey. Did you change your mind?’

  ‘They expelled me before I even had a chance to take my vows. And all over a tiny little party. Can you imagine? At first I was such a good girl, so good – praying for the souls of the abbey’s long-dead benefactors day after dull day, rarely indulging in red meat or decent wine, hardly ever skipping Mass. And then, after some months of this dreary existence, I decided I needed a little treat to raise my spirits. It was April and the anniversary of the day of my birth, and I crept out of the cloisters with two good friends of mine, novices like me, and we went to a tavern in Caen for a secret feast at midnight. It was so exciting!’

  I was shocked. I knew she was forward, I knew she did not abide by the normal rules governing a lady’s modest behaviour. I had seen that by her over-familiar behaviour towards me. But for a young girl, a novice nun at that, to go off to a low tavern unaccompanied – it was breathtaking. I gazed at her in admiration.

  ‘Oh, Sir Alan, how we ate and drank and laughed; we made absolute pigs of ourselves – it was all perfectly innocent, just us three having a little fun, but then some musicians joined us – not grand trouvères such as yourself, Sir Alan, but a couple of jongleurs, handsome local boys who made up funny rhymes and sang naughty songs about love-making. We had a simply wonderful time and were back in the dormitory before Matins with no one the wiser – but do you know what? One of my friends on this jolly escapade, a silly goose called Emmeline, she took a fancy to one of the jongleurs, and she started writing him little notes and got back the most adorable love poems from him, really quite saucy. Soon she was arranging to meet him behind the chapel after Compline, that sort of thing. Well, never mind, a little harmless flirtation, you might say. But the stupid chit came to believe she had fallen in love with this penniless jongleur. She went to the Mother Superior a few weeks later and asked to leave the abbey. But what is worse, she confessed all. She told the Mother Superior about her lover and how she met him at my anniversary feast. Quick as lightning, all three of us novices were summoned, briskly interrogated and promptly expelled the very next day. Just for having a little party. It was so silly and unnecessary.’

  ‘So have you given up the dream of a monastic life?’ I tried to keep all signs of my soaring hope out of my voice.

  Tilda sighed. ‘My father has his heart set on it, and I want him to be happy, so I expect I will have to take the veil before too long. Your lord, the rather dashing Earl of Locksley, has been talking to Daddy about finding a place for me in a Cistercian priory in England. Somewhere in Yorkshire – Kirklees, I think the place is called. Do you know of it?’

  I muttered that I had heard of it, and privately vowed that I would speak to Robin and make sure this little plan did not come to fruition. I had lost Tilda once to Holy Mother Church and I would not lose her again, not if I could help it.

  We promenaded around the middle bailey and, like a foolish braggart, I tried to impress Tilda with tales of my adventures in the Holy Land and elsewhere. She listened attentively, but I was distracted, for it became clear to me that I was not the only man in Château Gaillard entranced by Tilda. A least a dozen of the men-at-arms grinned broadly at her as we walked past, calling out friendly greetings, winking and snatching off their headgear; and three of the garrison knights bowed low as we passed, one of them – a Gascon, I believe – even going so far as to kiss the tips of his fingers. Tilda responded beautifully in a friendly, sober, courteous manner.

  For my part, I glared at them and wished them all to Hell.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After the initial botched and bloody attack at the beginning of autumn, there was little fighting for almost a month – a few exchanges of arrows from the battlements when the French approached too near, and a party of knights who rode up to the walls and challenged our best men to single combat. But de Lacy said he would hang any man who took up their offer and the French rode away disappointed, calling us cowards.

  However, King Philip was far from idle during this time. Indeed, he and his men stirred themselves to great feats in the art of warfare – which, in truth, meant great feats of digging.

  A small hill to the east and slightly to the south of Château Gaillard, just out of bowshot, suddenly became a hive of activity in the second week in September. Hundreds of workmen, or perhaps men-at-arms stripped of weapons and mail, swarmed over it and began to dig a trench a dozen feet deep around its circumference. I was watching them from the top of the south tower of the outer bailey with Aaron, the engineer, who was busy oiling the big ratchet on Old Thund
erbolt. Their fervour was striking; I’d never seen workmen so possessed.

  ‘Teams. Competing,’ said Aaron and went back to his springald.

  Vim strolled over from the other side of the tower where he had been joking with the members of the watch on duty. ‘It’s not just that Philip’s barons have them divided up into teams competing with each other. They know that we have a few engines like this one’ – here he gave Old Thunderbolt a slap, and earned a black scowl from Aaron – ‘and the sooner they get those earth walls up, the safer they will be.’

  ‘Could Old Thunderbolt reach them from here?’ I asked Aaron.

  ‘Waste of iron,’ the Yorkshireman said.

  ‘But we could attack them? We could impede them in their works?’

  Aaron stared hard at me. Then he grunted at one of his assistants, who immediately came over to his side. As I watched, the two of them slowly and laboriously winched back the thick horsehair cord with a long lever, the pawl clicking loudly as it engaged with the ratchet. The two thick bow arms bent back towards the engineers, as they grunted and hauled, and it seemed to me that the entire wooden structure of the springald was quivering under the immense strain in the bow arms. Then they ceased their labour, mopped their brows, and Aaron set a yard-long bar of iron with a sharpened end, a thick ugly shaft, in the groove before the cord.

  Aaron sighted along the groove, through the hole in the centre of the two bow arms. He said, ‘Two spans left’, and his assistant lifted the butt of the machine by an iron spike and moved it about ten inches.

  I tried to peer along the groove to see exactly where the springald was pointed but Aaron said, ‘Clear!’ and Vim put a hand on my chest and moved me back out of the way.