by Wayne Grant
By the time she reached the street, the first group of exhausted Danes were trudging through the gate. Behind them, tired and dusty horsemen rode through, their heads high. These men were led by Patch and had wounded mounted behind them—about a dozen in all. Patch saw Lady Catherine approach and dismounted.
“Is this all the wounded, Tom? What of the dead?
“Only five dead, my lady—two of my boys and three of the Danes,” he said with obvious relief. “A sight more Flemings and Irishmen are dead across the Weaver, I’d reckon.”
“The Earl and Sir Declan?”
“Fought like demons,” he said with a smile. “The mercs didn’t know what hit them!”
“And Sir Roland?”
“Brought these bowmen,” he said gesturing at the Danes who were gratefully accepting water from the locals, “just as he promised, my lady. I’d guess six or seven score of them and they made pin cushions out of the enemy cavalry. Deadly shots they are!”
Lady Catherine had known since early that morning that the Danes were coming and that Roland Inness was leading the rear guard. It was a dangerous place to be. She had been fond of Roland since he had saved Millie’s life years ago in the Clocaenog Forest, but her daughter loved the boy. To lose him would break her heart and that made his safety all the more important.
Patch excused himself and Lady Catherine waited patiently by the gate. Finally, the last of the horsemen arrived. Roland had been ordered by the Earl to find a mount and was riding next to Declan. He slid off his horse, his legs weak and shaky. He had not slept in two days and had run and fought over ten leagues between the mountains and Chester. He had never felt as weary, but the sight of Lady Catherine buoyed him.
He and Declan walked over to their master’s wife, but before they could greet her properly, she stepped forward, her eyes brimming, and hugged them both at once. She wanted to tell them that she had feared for them, that they both had become like family to her, but that was not Lady Catherine de Laval’s nature. So she released them and stepped back.
“I’m happy to see you safe home,” was all she could manage.
Declan saved them all embarrassment.
“We are simply too dangerous and bold to be killed, my lady.”
Lady Catherine gave him a smile. His false bravado sometimes annoyed her, but she was grateful for it now.
“What is following you down the north road?” she asked, turning to Roland.
“My lady, I would guess about half of the mercenary army, with the other half likely to arrive before long. They were only an arrow’s shot behind us when we cleared the ford at the Weaver.”
She nodded. It was bad news, but not unexpected. There had been daily prayers said at St. Mary’s on the Hill to deliver them from the spectre of a siege, but it appeared those prayers were in vain.
“My lady, I need to get up there,” Roland said pointing toward the top of the Northgate. “I doubt they will be in a hurry to attack the city, but I would like to see how they deploy.”
“Of course. I will see that your wounded are tended to and, when your labours are done, come to the castle. We must talk of Millie.”
Roland bowed.
“Yes, my lady.” He turned and Declan followed him up the stone steps, through the arched door to the second floor of the gate house and up the ladder to the top of the barbican. This was one of the highest points in the city. They turned their eyes to the north. They did not have long to wait.
From out of the distant tree line the cavalry came first. The lead riders reined in as the city came into view and they were soon joined by others. A small knot of them walked their mounts a little closer, then halted again. They seemed to be studying the approaches to the city. Satisfied with what they’d gleaned, a lone rider returned to the main body. Moments later, two groups of ten riders peeled off to the east and west.
“Scouting the main roads, I’d guess,” Declan said. “They’ll seal them off soon, I’d wager.”
Roland nodded.
Below, the last of the nearby farm families straggled in and the Northgate was closed and barred. Roland watched as more mounted troops rode slowly toward a small hamlet at the edge of the woods. The place was abandoned, but they would be searching for any provisions left behind and fodder for their horses. By the time the last of the riders cleared the road, a thick column of infantry appeared. The column soon split into companies that followed the tracks of the cavalry. The mercenary army had come to Chester.
The siege had begun.
***
Connaught Kilbride was worried. He had been sent to slaughter lightly armed archers and round up any other Danes fleeing to the west and he had failed—miserably. No one had advised him that there could be heavy cavalry waiting in ambush for his men. The surprise had been complete and even seasoned troops do not fight well when surprised.
The greater surprise had been the number of his knights who had fallen to the Danish archers. He had seen a longbow before and knew of its range, but all of his men had worn mail and some had worn plate armour! It had been a shock to see so many of those men go down under the barrage of arrows. His own breastplate had been penetrated by two inches, but the angle of the shaft had prevented the arrowhead from piercing his chest. He’d broken the damn thing off and called the retreat before he lost even more of his men.
He would be judged for this failure, and not kindly. The men who paid his wages would not give a damn for the circumstances. He knew that the rest of the mercenary force was even now marching toward Chester, but he was the senior man present and would be held to account.
Perhaps he could salvage something—even his neck—by immediately sealing off the place. Victory in a siege was achieved by starving a place out and the sooner that began, the sooner it would be over. He hoped that would count for something.
He’d ordered his cavalry to cut off the roads to the east and north of the city. There was nothing to the west but the Irish Sea and little to the south but the River Dee and the wilderness of Wales. In time, the Dee and the approaches from Wales would have to be closed tight, but for now he would send his foot soldiers to watch the roads and fords. He knew the infantry was exhausted after the long pursuit of the Danes, but he didn’t care. He had his neck to save.
***
Kilbride tried not to flinch. The face of the young English Earl of Derby was only inches from his own and the man was in a black rage. Kilbride knew it was coming—had known it the moment he rode out of the trees north of Chester and saw the empty road leading to the barred gate of the city. The Danes had eluded him and now came the accounting. He hoped to salvage his head, if not his command.
He told de Ferrers of the unexpected assault by heavy cavalry, just as they were about to savage the fleeing Danish archers. As he expected, the Earl did not care. He chanced a glance at his own leader. Pieter Van Hese was a veteran Flemish war lord with one blind eye and a reputation for ruthlessness. Earl William might be commander of this host in name, but this Fleming was commander in fact. Sadly, the man showed no interest in coming to Kilbride’s defence.
I’m ruined.
He tried desperately to think of a way to salvage his position.
“My lord, when I saw these Danes had taken refuge inside Chester, I immediately sealed all the roads leading into the city. Nothing has gone in or out since.”
“Damn the roads!” de Ferrers screamed. “I wanted them dead—not inconvenienced! And tell me, why did you not assault the city? You’ve been here three days and all I see are men sitting on their asses.”
“My lord, the walls…”
“Walls?” de Ferrers spit out the word as though it was a piece of rotten meat. “Walls can be scaled! When I took Shipbrook we scaled the walls with ladders, man. Did you not think of ladders?”
Kilbride fought the urge to grasp this strutting idiot by his neck and squeeze the life out of him. Ladders? Had this bastard ever climbed a ladder with determined defenders hacking away at him from abo
ve? Kilbride had. He still bore the scars from a cauldron of scalding water tipped over a wall in Ulster that had burned right through his mail. Before the Irishman could fashion a reply to de Ferrers question, Van Hese interrupted.
“My lord, we used ladders at Nottingham Castle and suffered grievous losses. I know of your victory at Shipbrook, but the walls here are ten feet higher and there are far more than twenty defenders atop them. I wouldn’t advise such an assault. I believe we can starve them out in due time. They’ve taken in hundreds of extra mouths.”
De Ferrers turned on the man, unsure if he was being helpful or making jest of his victory at the small fort out near the Dee River ford. Had there been contempt in the mercenary’s voice when he mentioned the number of defenders they’d faced at Shipbrook?
He started to rebuke the arrogant war lord, but hesitated. Van Hese was a stolid man, but de Ferrers knew the Fleming’s bland countenance disguised a vicious streak deeper even than his own. He was more than a little afraid of the mercenary commander. The curse that was forming on his lips became a nervous cough.
“It is July,” he managed, “and they’ve taken in their harvest. If they have food for five months, Richard could be home before they starve. The Prince will expect results long before then.”
The Flemish commander shrugged.
“What the Prince expects and what the situation allows are not always the same, my lord.”
De Ferrers studied the mercenary leader. He had learned during the siege of Nottingham that Van Hese had little fear of John and would not needlessly hazard his men, simply to please his employer. After a bloody repulse of their first assault on Nottingham Castle, he had insisted on going over to a protracted siege. When de Ferrers had pressed him to move faster, the man had made his position clear.
“It’s bad business to throw away lives. A dead fighter shows no profit.”
But de Ferrers had learned in Sheffield that holding the purse strings had its own power. He had reminded Van Hese in that ravaged town that an unhappy client might look elsewhere for fighting men. That had got the army moving once more. It was time to remind the mercenary once more that John paid the bills.
“Very well, I will inform his grace that you are in no hurry to take Chester. Perhaps he will find someone who needs the gold more and will be willing to move with more urgency.”
For a long moment the two men locked eyes, each judging the other’s resolve. Finally, the Fleming shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well, the siege trains will take another ten days to reach here. If the walls are too high to climb over, we will knock them down. Then, my lord, you may have your assault on the city.”
Part Two: Waiting for the King
Mare Tranquillus
Sir Roger de Laval sat in the sun and tested the edge of his broadsword with his thumb. He’d been working it with a whetstone, concerned that the sea air would dull the blade. Satisfied with the result, he slid it back into its scabbard and looked around the deck of the galley bearing the King of England through light swells toward Cyprus.
The sun felt good on his shoulders, the warmth easing some of the stiffness in his spine from the cramped sleeping quarters on board. There had been a time when he could have—and often did—sleep in worse conditions, but he had been younger then. Now, old wounds were quick to remind him of the insults his body had suffered over his long career as a soldier.
It felt good to be underway. It was late July and there had been fair winds and calm seas on the day they shipped anchor and left the accursed Kingdom of Jerusalem behind. The oarsmen had only been pressed into service when the breeze dropped off after sunset. The weather had held and on the morning of the third day the lookout sighted land. Why the King wished to stop on this island was a matter of quiet debate.
Richard had snatched Cyprus from its Byzantine Emperor on his outbound voyage the year before, and when it became clear that none of the Christian nobility in the Holy Land had confidence in King Guy as their leader, he had persuaded that hapless monarch to give up the throne of Jerusalem to become King of Cyprus.
Now it seemed, the Lionheart felt obliged to make a courtesy call on the new ruler on his way home to England. The King’s close companion, Sir Baldwin of Bethune, had observed dryly that the last time his friend had stopped in Cyprus, he had stayed for two months. But Richard was determined to play out his role as kingmaker, despite the urgent need to see to his own realm.
Deep trouble was brewing back in England that might only be averted by the King’s timely return. What’s more, they would soon be entering a season when cautious sailors in these waters did not stray far from port. Savage storms were known to lash these peaceful seas with the onset of autumn.
Sir Roger could see two dozen men scattered around the deck, most wearing the red cross of the Templar Knights. Without doubt, the King expected trouble on his voyage home and was preparing for it as best he could. The extent of that trouble was made clear their second night on board, when Richard summoned Sir Roger and Sir Baldwin to seek their counsel on the planned route.
“Gentlemen, as you know, this journey is as fraught with peril as any battle. I have enemies who sit astride every path home. They would like nothing better than to have me in their power, but I have a notion of how to slip through their nets. The path I propose would take us to the head of the Adriatic, through the mountain passes to Bavaria, then on to Saxony. I would hear your thoughts on this plan.”
Sir Baldwin spoke first.
“Your grace, let me begin by speaking of your enemies.” The knight lifted his index finger. “The Holy Roman Emperor. Henry’s domain covers everything from the Elbe to the lands of the Magyars. He hates you for allowing Tancred to stay on the throne of Sicily. He wanted that throne for one of his own vassals. We would be in his realm for most of the route you propose.”
Richard snorted.
“Henry? He is a shadow of his father, Barbarossa! He should have taken up his sire’s crusader shield when the old man drowned in Anatolia, but he sent that weasel, Duke Leopold, in his stead. Need I fear such a man?”
Sir Baldwin exchanged a glance with Sir Roger.
“Your grace, do not underestimate the Emperor. He is a man known for his cunning, if not his bravery.” Baldwin then raised a second finger. “Duke Leopold. We must not forget his vassal, the weasel of Austria. Your route takes us near the southern border of Leopold’s land and he will never forgive our defiling of his banner at Acre.”
Sir Roger cringed at the memory of English troops dragging down the banner of the Holy Roman Emperor and trampling it in the dust the day after Acre fell. The Duke demanded that the offenders be punished, but the King was unmoved. Enraged, the Duke swore vengeance.
“That ass Leopold tried to claim an equal share in the victory, when there were hardly enough Germans left to fill a boot with piss,” the King roared. “I should have wiped my arse with his banner!”
By now Sir Baldwin was getting exasperated. He was one of the few men who could do so in the presence of King Richard without fear.
“So, we should just promenade through Austria and Bavaria and Bohemia until we reach the safety of Saxony?”
Richard, his bluster expended, allowed himself a small grin. He had sought the views of these two men because they were the bluntest advisors he had. The others were all too cowed by him.
“Of course not, Baldwin,” he replied calmly. “Even I am not foolhardy enough to enter Leopold’s domain. That snake would love to humble me. But might we not disguise ourselves as simple soldiers returning from the Crusade and make our way unchallenged through the high passes of the Alpine mountains and into Bavaria? From there it is but a short way to Saxony—or would you prefer I simply go ashore in France and enjoy the welcome Philip would arrange for me.”
Baldwin paid no attention to his master’s sarcasm. He raised a third finger and then a fourth.
“France is out, on that we can agree—and Italy as well. The Venetians woul
d sell you to the highest bidder in the blink of an eye, but disguising yourself as a simple soldier? You would fool no one, your grace.”
Sir Roger now spoke up.
“Why not sail right across the length of the Mediterranean, through the Gates of Hercules and straight north from there to England. There are no kings or dukes with scores to settle on the sea.”
Baldwin sighed and exchanged glances with the King, whose face had reddened a bit.
“Sir Roger, you were not with us on the outbound voyage from France. The fleet was caught in a gale and several vessels were lost with no survivors. That was in May, when conditions are best in this sea. Soon it will be the season for storms. Even a short voyage at this time of year is risky. If the King thought we could fight our way overland through the heathen Turks of Anatolia, we wouldn’t be setting foot on this galley.” Sir Baldwin turned back to the King.
“Does that sum it up, your grace?”
Richard gave his friend a sour smile.
“It’s good that I like you, Baldwin, or I should have your head for that, but then I would only have Sir Roger here to goad me. So, yes, it is as you say. I will be most happy to set foot back on solid ground, which takes me back to the mountain route into Bavaria and on to Saxony. As difficult as that passage may be, it leads to our closest safe haven.”
Henry the Lion of Saxony, was the King’s brother-in-law and could offer protection. From the Saxon ports it was little more than a few days sail to England. There being no other options to put forward, the meeting was adjourned.
Now it was morning, and men were gathering at the bow to watch as the shore of Cyprus slowly came into view. Sir Roger glanced around at the battle-hardened men who clustered at the rail. The Templars were good men in a fight and more than adequate to deal with pirates or other brigands, but at no more than two dozen, they would be poor protection from the King’s royal enemies—enemies through whose land they would be traveling.