The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  He had been met by Eleanor and once again they rode side by side. But this time they were not allowed the privacy of a covered cart. Their special reunion would have to wait until they reached London and found a room that could be bolted from the inside.

  The general opinion was that the king looked well, considering he’d been in prison for over a year. But it would take more than a German cell to dampen the spirits of Richard Lionheart!

  Nevertheless, many of the spectators were disappointed that he had not escaped. They knew that Eleanor had the ability to turn into a bat whenever it suited her, so why had Richard not become a lion, and pounced on his gaolers? Well, no matter, he was here now, in fine, regal form, and they could look forward to months of bloody vengeance.

  The populace would be in no danger, for his quarrel was not with shopkeepers and craftsmen and peasants. It was with the barons who had supported John Hideaway, John Softsword, Prince Treason. They were Richard’s target now, and everyone knew he was an expert archer.

  It felt strange, knowing that one’s overlord might be hanged within the week, but it did not come often to the impoverished subjects, and they made the most of it. Let him kill every baron in the land, and good-riddance. When that happened, they’d take another holiday.

  * * *

  ‘Give me a name,’ Richard said. ‘Anywhere that still declares for John.’

  There were not many, though one of John’s most important castles, Nottingham, continued to defy the efforts of Marshal and Fitz Renier. It had been under siege for several weeks, but they had made no impression on its great, grey stone walls. Back in London to greet the king, they said Nottingham.

  ‘Very well,’ Richard agreed. ‘Nottingham it shall be. We’ll make an example of it, eh, messires? I’ll pretend it’s garrisoned by Moslems.’ He winked at them, and they felt a surge of compassion for the rebels. It would be no pleasure playing the Moslem to Richard’s Christian.

  * * *

  The return of the Lionheart sent the barons running for their armour.

  Only a few had openly declared for Prince John, and most of those had been imprisoned and dispossessed. But there were many more who had decided the king’s reign was at an end. Some were convinced that Henry of Germany would keep him a prisoner for life. Others believed the emperor would sell Richard to his eager enemy, Philip Augustus. And there were a handful who simply rejected the story of Richard’s capture. No one could seize the Champion of Christendom; he was either at liberty, or he was dead.

  So, guided by their ambitions, they had looked to John as the next King of England. Fortunately for them, however, they did not take up arms against Eleanor and her party, but remained in their castles, waiting to welcome the prince.

  And then, instead of John, Richard stepped ashore, and the barons thanked God they’d kept their mouths shut. After that, they ran for their armour and hurried to join the king on his march to Nottingham.

  No sooner did they reach the growing army than they sought audience with Richard and assured him of their unswerving loyalty. They had always known he would return to them. Their faith had never wavered, not for an instant. Praise God he was safe. Praise God he was unharmed.

  He welcomed them and helped them to their feet, then told them to find a place in the line. They went, sweating with relief, determined to be in the forefront of the assault. They were worried men, these undeclared traitors, and guilt made them remarkably obedient.

  The royal army reached Nottingham on 25th March, and camped alongside Marshal’s small besieging force. His troops were glad of the respite, though they were unimpressed by their come-lately allies. If the army had rallied a few weeks earlier, Nottingham might now be in royalist hands, and the besiegers would be at home with their families.

  But their efforts did not go unrewarded, for the king toured the camp, stopping to speak with constables, sergeants, even the common soldiers. Marshal and Fitz Renier singled out eight squires, and Richard knighted them on the field. Then, with supreme disdain for the rebels, he strode within arrow-shot of the castle, turned his back on the walls and addressed the original contingent. The men stood enrapt, hearing the king tell them – the Lionheart tell them – that they had earned his love and admiration, and would be offered a place in his personal troop.

  A crossbow quarrel whirred through the air and buried itself in the ground, ten feet to his left. He glanced at it, then walked across and straddled the short, thick shaft. The soldiers cheered his courage, ignoring the fact that the crossbow was notoriously inaccurate. Only blind luck would send the next shaft along the same path.

  Richard said, ‘Men who fight for the stability of England deserve recognition. Give your names to Fitz Renier, and I shall keep you with me, as my special guard. You’ll be able to tell your friends that you are around the king, day and night. You understand, I cannot afford to pay you much, though the honour is beyond price.’

  More arrows and quarrels flew from the castle, and he moved unhurriedly out of range, to be swallowed by cheering soldiers.

  The only ones who did not stamp and shout were Marshal and Fitz Renier, for Richard had just stolen the men they had trained and equipped. There would be no compensation, for the king would merely shrug and say, ‘They volunteered, didn’t they? They were free to stay with you, if they’d wished.’

  * * *

  The castellan of Nottingham, Ralf Murdac, peered down from the battlements, unwilling to believe what he had heard. ‘Yes, yes, I can see it’s an army! But it is not led by King Richard. What do you mean, set free? He can’t have been set free! Henry would not— Of course I’d know him if I saw— He’s where? Christ, man, hold the spear steady, so I can look along it! No, I still ca— Aah, Jesu, yes, I can. You’re right. That’s him. I can see him now.’ He spat over the wall and climbed down from the watchtower. ‘Now we are under siege,’ he muttered grimly. ‘He’s brought his machines with him.’

  And so he had. Arblasts, the great crossbows mounted on platforms; spring-loaded espringales, another form of crossbow, but one which loosed a longer, spear-like missile, powerful enough to transfix a horse, or pass clean through a wooden wall. There were four-wheeled mangonels, in which rocks, or bundles of burning, tar-soaked straw were piled in a metal bowl, then catapulted over the walls; these and massive, slingshot trebuchets, hurling down showers of flints. There were sixty-foot-high assault towers, and portable hoardings, behind which the archers and infantry could crouch before they made their final run at the walls. They were all there, with the ladders and grappling hooks and battering rams, all for use against the Moslems of Nottingham.

  In the preceding weeks, the rebels had made several sorties from the castle. In one such counter-attack, a number of them had been captured by Marshal’s troops. When Richard heard of this, he told Marshal to make over the prisoners to him.

  Suspicious of the king’s intentions, Marshal said, ‘They have already been questioned, and they’re not worth ransoming. They gave me their word they would take no more part in the action, so I was about to turn them loose.’

  ‘Good. Then when you do so, send them in my direction.’

  ‘Why do you want them, king?’

  ‘I’ll use them to threaten Murdac, that’s all. Now, send them along.’

  ‘Use them?’ Marshal pressed. ‘In what way?’

  ‘In any way I choose, Pembroke. As it pleases me. Do as I tell you, so we can still be friends.’ He was smiling, but there was a dangerous tremor in his voice. He strode off, shouting something at the catapulters, and a dozen flaming bundles hissed through the air. Three of them failed to clear the castle wall, burst against the grey stones and fell back, scorching the grass. Wedges were driven under the front wheels of the mangonels, and the next fireballs disappeared over the battlements.

  Richard returned with an easy ‘Come along, Marshal. Lend them to me. I want things ready when we stop the barrage.’

  Keeping his voice low and level, Marshal insisted, ‘I mus
t know why you want them, king. They are in my charge and, now that they’ve given their word—’ He got no further, for Richard’s suasive manner fell like a mask. He clenched his fist, struck Marshal hard in the neck and stormed past, bellowing for the prisoners. They were brought forward by members of the original contingent, ignorant of the dispute, and Richard directed them towards a second group, who were digging post holes in the ground.

  Enraged by the blow, Marshal stared at the workmen, his worst fears confirmed. His neck still bore the imprint of Richard’s mailed fist.

  The barrage ceased. The post holes were completed, and gibbets set up in a line before the castle. The prisoners’ arms were pinioned behind their backs. A noose was tightened around each man’s neck, the other end of the rope being taken by three or four soldiers. The king then tilted his head, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted up at the walls. ‘Ralf-Murdac… This – is – Richard – of – England… Show – yourself – and – see – my – last – offer!’

  Marshal moved forward. He saw Richard turn and say, ‘Bar that man!’ The members of Marshal’s contingent hesitated, but many of the newly-pledged barons were eager to perform. They blocked his path, though they did not dare manhandle him, or lift their swords. ‘Be sensible,’ they said. ‘This is no time to turn pious, Pembroke. No, stay back! Do you want Murdac to see us fighting among ourselves?’

  ‘Once only,’ Marshal said. ‘Get out of my way.’

  The prisoners waited, ropes around their necks. The hanging crews waited, looking to Richard for guidance. The barons waited, as Marshal hefted his sword. And Richard squinted up at the walls, waiting for the rebel leader to appear.

  Then there was a sudden spasm of action. Fitz Renier and the one-eyed des Roches appeared beside Marshal. They were three against seven, but it was the seven who flinched. Richard studied the empty wall, turned to his hangmen and, as Marshal howled with anger and barged forward, motioned for the prisoners to be lifted from the ground. Eight ropes were hauled taut, and the men choked and kicked, and their bowels opened. With that, Marshal’s control evaporated, like steam in a fire. Gripping his sword with both hands, he slashed left and right, while des Roches punched with the butt of his sword, and Fitz Renier clapped a baron across the head with the flat of his blade. The strangled bodies jerked and grew still and were dropped by the terrified hangmen. The barons retreated before the madman, or flopped down, cut and stunned. Standing beside the gibbets, Richard gaped at the melee.

  It was left to des Roches to grip the blade of his sword in his link-mail mittens and bludgeon his closest friend to the ground. Had he not done so, Marshal would have struck at the King of England.

  Too astonished to do more than swivel his head, Richard stared about him at the litter of bodies. The eight hanged men lay crumpled under the gibbets, each in the grip of a hempen snake. Four of the barons were still on the ground, two knocked senseless, two with deep cuts in their shoulders. And their assailant, William Marshal, lay within five paces of the king, his sword trapped beneath his body.

  The entire army had come to a halt, and all eyes were on Richard.

  And then Murdac’s men let fly from the battlements, and more men were brought down. The hiss and thud of arrows sent the besiegers scuttling for cover. Des Roches and Fitz Renier dragged Marshal unceremoniously behind the nearest hoarding, then carried him out of arrow-shot. Soldiers ran forward to shield the king and collect the injured barons, and the catapulters loaded their machines with flints and fireballs. Royalist archers and crossbow-men drove the rebels from the embrasures in the battlements, while smoke rose from behind the walls. The fireballs had ignited something in there, a wooden roof perhaps, or one of the buildings in the bailey. All the catapults and slingshots were now in action, and lines of men were dragging forward two of the great, swaying assault towers. It would not be long before the grappling hooks went up, and then the ladders, and then the ramps pushed out from the topmost platform of the towers. The first assault troops were clustered impatiently behind the hide-covered structures, following them in towards the walls.

  If Ralf Murdac had survived the flints and crossbow bolts, the arrows and fireballs, he had yet to face the swords and spears, flails and spiked clubs, and Richard’s own favourite weapon, his murderous, double-bladed axe…

  Marshal took no part in the assault. His neck was bruised where Richard had punched him, his scalp torn by des Roches’ coup de grace. He lay behind the lines, while his companions debated the situation. They could not say how Richard would react. He might forget the incident, or take Marshal’s outburst as confirmation of weakness, madness, even treason. And Marshal, himself, might not let the matter rest. The prisoners had been in his care, but he had allowed the king to take them and hang them in cold blood – as an example to the recalcitrant rebel.

  Both des Roches and Fitz Renier knew the forty-year-old story of King Stephen and the siege of Newbury, but they did not dwell on it. They decided to put as much distance between Richard and Marshal as they could and, before the warlord had recovered, he was placed in a cart and sent to one of his few remaining English manors, Badgeworth in Gloucestershire. Des Roches went with him, to protect him from robbers, and from himself.

  * * *

  Three days after the arrival of the royal army, Ralf Murdac and his commanders sued for peace. They opened the fire-scarred gates and emerged to kneel at Richard’s feet, begging forgiveness. The victorious king hummed-and-hawed, then allowed them to keep their lives, on payment of a crippling fine. They would remain in the dungeons of the White Tower until the debt was honoured. Then they would be banished from England and all her possessions.

  Many men would have found the sentence unendurable, but the rebel leaders gave their word and crawled forward to kiss the king’s hand.

  The surrender of Nottingham marked the end of John’s parboiled insurrection, and left the Lionheart free to prowl his lands. Once, during the siege, he had asked if Marshal was dead, or what, and Fitz Renier had told him the Earl of Pembroke had been taken ill and was being attended at home. He did not say where, and Richard acknowledged the news with a grunt. It was impossible to say what would happen when the men met again.

  The king made plans to tour the country, accompanied by Eleanor and the court. The dowager queen was now seventy-two years old, and ready to retire from public life. She had seen Richard crowned and married, captured and released, and had witnessed his victory at Nottingham. John’s revolt had been crushed, and England was once again under the firm leadership of the king and his counsellors. Eleanor was tired, but she agreed to keep her son company on his triumphal tour.

  When the people of England had seen their king, he decided to return to Normandy and seek out brother John. The boy would have to be schooled this time, no doubt about that. And schooled with a stick.

  * * *

  Nothing that Richard did was done in silence, so the hedgerows around Barfleur were lined with men. They had been hired by John, paid by Philip and brought here by the imminent arrival of Coeur-de-Lion. Their task was simple, or, at least, simple to say. Kill the king as he rides inland from the port. One hundred marks for the man who slays him. And, if it takes five men to do it, one hundred marks apiece.

  The remainder would receive fifteen marks; enough to keep a man alert, enough to make him greedy for the other eighty-five.

  They were a disparate lot, these Frenchmen, mercenaries and friends of John, but they were the best that could be assembled at short notice. They were led by John’s longtime companion, Belcourt, and a ruthless mercenary captain named Guido Bruni. The joint commanders had as much in common as a herring and a hog, and the ambushing force had already separated into two competitive teams.

  The mercenaries were adept at this kind of work, and saw no reason why John’s fancy friends should grow rich on their efforts. The thing was best left to those who knew what they were doing. It took skill to surprise a man and drag him off his horse, then slip the knife
in below his ear, or under his belt. Skill that could only come with practice.

  For their part, Belcourt and the French knights found the presence of the mercenaries extremely distasteful. It was one thing for Coeur-de-Lion to be killed, but another for him to be butchered by some foul-mouthed brigand. If the king was to die, it should be with honour, at the hands of a knight or noble, not in the claws of one of Bruni’s animals.

  So the ambushers had parted, the mercenaries watching one road, the knights crouched on another. It was to be the first attempted assassination of King Richard of England. And it was, without question, the most ill-conceived and ineptly-executed essay of the time. No blunder was overlooked, no mistake avoided.

  To their credit, the ambushers had chosen the right day. However, they were both on the wrong track.

  Had they worked in unison, as John and Philip had intended, they would have been on the narrow road that ran due south from Barfleur to La Pernelle. But their mutual antagonism had driven them apart, the mercenaries to the west, the knights to the east. They now watched the paths to Valcanville and Reville, leaving Richard free to ride between them on his way to La Pemelle.

  The king and his entourage were well past before Belcourt’s scouts brought the news. The French knights immediately dashed for their horses and galloped southwest, in an effort to head off the royal party.

  Five miles on, they saw the banners of England and Normandy. Emitting half-forgotten war cries, they thundered to the attack, only to lose all momentum in an overgrown orchard.

  The sixty or so mercenaries had also learned of Richard’s passage and set out in pursuit. They did not usually work on horseback, and their skill with a knife was not matched by their control of a frisky destrier. They passed Belcourt’s men, still lost among the fruit trees, glimpsed the pennants and standards, and allowed their horses to carry them forward.