by Wayne Grant
“They’d be mercenaries and they’re sealing up the main roads into the city. It appears that Chester is besieged.”
“I count only five of them,” the younger man said, grimly. “Not enough to stop us.”
Sergeant Billy shook his head.
“We’ve nothing to prove here, lad. We’ll take the backroads until we’re near to Chester.”
He saw the disappointed look on the young man’s face and leaned over to slap the boy on the shoulder.
“Cheer up! If Chester is besieged, ye’ll have all the fightin’ yer heart desires. I promise ye’ that.”
***
Two weeks into August, word reached London that Chester had been cut off and was now under siege. Marshall did not keep the news from Millicent, but tried to comfort her in his own way.
“The walls of Chester are thick, my dear. Your people will be safe inside. Please don’t fret.”
But she did fret. In her short stay, she had come to like Marshall. He had a friendly, slightly formal manner that put people at ease, but she sensed he did not take her seriously. His assurances about Chester were like a pat on a child’s head, but her worries were far from childish and never far away.
The walls of Chester might be thick, but the contents of the granaries were not endless. She knew there was food enough for the people of the city to last until the end of the year. Her mother had seen to that. The city was well prepared for a siege, but so had been Nottingham Castle—and it had fallen. And what if the King failed to return? These were not the worries of a child.
Then there was Roland Inness. She could not stop her thoughts from dwelling on him. He had ridden away from Chester in early July and there had been no news of him since. She prayed he had made it back into the city ahead of the mercenary army—for Chester’s sake as much as his own. Siege or no, he would be safer inside Chester’s walls and the city would be safer for his presence.
She knew Roland was a gentle man at heart—a farmer, really, but she had also seen how he had taken command of the Invalids. She had seen him in battle. Earl Ranulf might be growing into a Marcher Lord and Declan O’Duinne was a man to be feared when swords were drawn, but Roland Inness was the man they all now looked to when it came to a fight. Chester would need him.
This fretting over a man was new to Millicent. Her mother had warned her that worry was the price a soldier’s woman paid and, as always, Lady Catherine had the truth of it. She sometimes wondered when she had first thought of Roland as something more than just another of her father’s squires. He had come to them as a half-starved boy who sat a horse like the peasant he was.
Thinking of those early days when she had tried to teach him to ride still brought an amused smile to her lips. A bond had been formed when he had risked everything to track her into the Clocaenog Forest where she had been taken by Welsh raiders. They’d been drawn even closer together during the desperate struggle to regain Chester for Earl Ranulf.
She had no doubts now regarding her feelings. She was a soldier’s woman—Roland’s woman—and worry came with that. But to her, Roland Inness was worth the worry.
Assault
It was the second week of August when the first stone overshot Chester’s north wall and landed in the middle of Barn Lane, scattering a flock of geese in every direction. It was just past dawn and for a long moment those few early risers who shared the lane with the geese stared dumbly at the object, as though it might have fallen from the hand of God. Then they ran, adding their shouts and screams to the honking of the geese. The siege of Chester had begun in earnest.
For more than a fortnight, the encirclement of the city had meant nothing more than forced idleness for the hundreds of peasant farmers who had taken shelter inside the walls. There was enough to eat, though food was carefully rationed. But there were none of the usual chores that would have occupied them on their little plots of ground as autumn approached.
For part of each day, except Sunday, the men drilled with spears provided by the Earl’s garrison and seemed to enjoy playing at being soldiers. Boys and girls climbed up to the ramparts and gawked at the mercenary camp that had spread across the fields to the north and east. It seemed like a grand adventure.
Then the bombardment began.
The second stone fell into the dry moat near the Northgate with nothing more than a dull thud, but the men who worked the trebuchets knew their business. The third stone hit the top of the north wall just west of the gatehouse, smashing a part of the crenelated battlement into rubble. The sound of it set babies to squalling and caused horses to startle.
Roland was on duty as Captain of the Guard when the first stones began to fall. If the actual sound of the bombardment had not reached him near the Eastgate, the sudden stream of people headed south down Northgate Street was enough to alert him to trouble in that direction.
He ran north along the wall walk. As he neared the tower that marked the northeast corner of the city’s defences he saw a stone, tiny in the distance, arc lazily into the sky, then grow larger as it plummeted down. It disappeared behind the Northgate, but the sound reached him, a sickening rumble of stone smashing stone.
It was a sound he had grown accustomed to during the long siege of Acre, but there it had been the English battering the walls. After a month-long bombardment, they had smashed a breach in those great ramparts, but the Saracen defenders had fought with fanatical courage to keep the Crusaders from passing through it. He wondered how his own garrison would acquit itself defending a breach in Chester’s walls. As another stone struck the north wall, he could feel the vibrations in the stone beneath his feet.
“Roland!”
The call came from below him. He looked left to see Declan O’Duinne running up the stone steps near the northeast tower, hurriedly strapping on his sword belt. He had had the night duty and Roland had relieved him at dawn. The two met at the top of the stairs and Roland slowed to a walk. There was no need to hurry. If there was to be an assault, it would only come after weeks of this pounding.
“I’d begun to think they would just sit there and wait till we starved,” Declan said, “but it seems our mercenary friends have decided to move things along.”
The Irish knight grinned as he spoke, as though having huge stones falling about was hardly a bother. Together, they continued to the Northgate and climbed to the top of the barbican. In the distance, they counted thirteen siege engines arrayed in a shallow arc facing south. All had been carefully placed to aim at a single point on the north wall of the city.
“I liked them better at Acre when they weren’t pointed at us,” Roland said. He had barely spoken the words when a volley of four stones were released and converged on the wall just to the west of them. Both men watched until a moment before impact, then ducked behind the merlons on the top of the Northgate. Fragments of stone buzzed by overhead.
“They must have worked through the night to assemble them,” Declan said as he straightened up. “Someone over there is in a hurry!”
“So it would seem,” Roland said. He walked over to the left edge of the barbican and peered over the side. He saw that a merlon on the north wall had been demolished and another was cracked and stood askew. There were two distinct dents halfway up the outer wall. He looked back to the north, studying the enemy machines, then walked back to the trap and called below for the Danish archers.
Four men scrambled through the hatch from the gatehouse below and Roland was pleased to see Oren among them. His brother had continued to lodge with Odo’s family once they’d reached the refuge of Chester, but the brothers had been taking their evening meals together. There had been much lost time to recover. When the last man reached the roof of the gatehouse, Roland pointed to the new siege machines.
“I think our guests have been incautious in their haste. It seems they have not come to appreciate the range of our longbows. I reckon the distance to be about two hundred paces. It’s a long shot, but any Dane worth his blood should be able to hit
a man at that distance.” The Danes all grinned like wolves and drew arrows from their quivers.
“On my command,” Roland ordered. The four archers spread out along the wall, picked their targets and nocked their arrows. Roland paused as another man emerged from the trap in the roof of the Northgate. Roland motioned for the archers to hold. Earl Ranulf had come to see for himself this new threat to his city.
“My lord,” Roland said in greeting.
“Sir Roland, what is the situation?” the Earl asked. His voice was calm, but he looked to the north with some apprehension on his face.
“Thirteen trebuchets, my lord—assembled overnight. They are targeting the north wall just there,” he said, motioning the Earl toward the western side of the roof. The Earl peered over and saw the damage to the wall.
“It doesn’t look too bad.”
“Not yet, my lord,” Declan offered, “but they can keep this up for months if need be. With thirteen of those beasts all chippin’ away at this one spot…I give it a month, two at the most, before there’s a breach.”
The Earl nodded grimly.
“So what’s to be done?”
Roland gestured toward the four archers standing ready.
“I was about to show those men the error of their ways, my lord,” he said, pointing toward the men operating the trebuchets. “While our bowmen were killing their infantry and cavalry in the retreat from the mountains, the siege engineers were safe at Castleton. It seems no one bothered to warn them to beware the range of the longbows before they set up their engines.”
Ranulf looked at the distance and nodded. “By all means, proceed, Sir Roland.”
Roland raised his arm.
“Draw!”
The men, in perfect unison, drew their bowstrings to their ears and leaned back, elevating their longbows. Roland waited two heartbeats and dropped his arm.
Four shafts, all tipped with bodkin heads, arced northwards. Four men who had thought they were safe this far from the walls, fell to the ground. Others froze for a moment—shocked that the defenders of Chester could reach them at this distance. Another volley of four arrows took down two more men and the rest scattered for cover.
Roland called to Oren as the other men continued to shoot.
“Go fetch all the archers. They will be moving those machines back a hundred paces. Let’s see how many we can kill while they do that.”
Oren nodded and scrambled back down the ladder. Within ten minutes, over a hundred archers were ranged along the north wall, raining death down on any man who tried to approach a trebuchet. Finally, the enemy engineers gave up and moved a respectful half mile away to wait for darkness. There were clusters of dead bodies by each of the thirteen machines.
“Well done,” the Earl said.
“They’ll still be able to reach the walls once they move them back,” Declan observed. The Earl shrugged.
“Aye, but they won’t be as accurate. Still—it’s a problem I need you two to think on.”
Both men bowed as the Earl turned and climbed down into the hatch in the roof. Declan followed him, giving Roland a small wave as he disappeared inside.
“Think well!” he called up. “I’m going back to bed.”
***
“We have to burn them,” Roland said.
It had been two days since the trebuchets had begun battering the north wall. He sat beside Declan at the long rough table that served as the mess for the Invalid Company. Both men yawned between bites of black bread. Declan had just come off duty as Captain of the Guard and Roland was preparing to take up the post. They always met for breakfast here in the guard barracks.
“Excellent idea,” Declan said. “How? We can’t just walk out there with lit torches and we don’t have Greek fire like the Saracens did at Acre.”
Roland nodded as he washed down his morning bread ration with a cup of mead.
“There’s the problem. How do we burn the damn things?”
“You said you’d think on it.”
“I have, and burning is the thing to do. I just don’t know how yet.”
Declan finished his breakfast and rose to go. He leaned across the table and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Just keep thinking, Roland. It’s what you do best!”
It took another two days for the solution to come to him. He grabbed Declan as he came into Invalid’s mess. The Irishman was barely awake.
“Fire arrows.”
Declan yawned.
“Fire arrows?”
“Aye, Dec. We shoot fire arrows into the trebuchet’s. They haven’t been covered with vinegar-soaked skins as we did with our siege engines at Acre. If we can hit them with enough fire arrows, they’ll burn.”
“Have you ever shot a fire arrow?” Declan asked.
“No,” Roland admitted, “nor have any of the Danes I talked to last night, but I know the Saracens used them at Acre. I just regret not paying closer attention to how it was done.”
“I assume you’re going to try to fashion a few—for testing?”
“Aye, this very day. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Declan frowned.
“I’ll have men standing by with buckets of sand.”
***
Roland stood in the large open field in the northwest corner of the city. Word of his plan to use fire arrows against the siege engines spread quickly, and he was soon joined by Oren, Svein, Thorkell and a dozen other Danes. None in the growing group of spectators knew how a fire arrow was made, but all freely offered suggestions on how one might be fashioned.
There was general agreement that a woollen cloth should be tightly bound just behind the arrow head, but what the cloth should be soaked in or smeared with was the subject of much debate. Oren obligingly built a fire at the edge of the open field while Roland dabbed pitch on his first test arrow and soaked the second in resin. The third, he covered with rendered pig fat. There was lively betting among the Danes on which method would work the best. In the end, no one collected.
The test was a dismal failure.
When Roland nocked the first arrow and held it over the fire, the pitch-soaked cloth erupted in flames and promptly burned through the thread used to bind it to the arrow. The entire flaming mess fell apart and briefly set fire to the dry grass of the field. Roland’s curses were drowned out by the laughter of the Danes. Undeterred, he nocked the second, resin-soaked, arrow and lit it.
This flame was less intense and he carefully did a three-quarters draw to keep the burning end of the arrow from igniting his bow. He loosed the shaft and there was an appreciative murmur from the crowd as the arrow made a low arc across the open field. The murmurs quickly turned to groans as the woollen rag, buffeted by the wind and the acceleration of the arrow, slid back towards the fletching, causing the arrow to wobble drunkenly then fall out of the sky forty paces away. The pig fat arrow fared no better. It flew further, but the rush of wind snuffed out its flame almost immediately. Roland threw up his hands in disgust.
“Have ye ever seen a fire arrow up close, lad?”
Roland thought someone was making jest of him and turned with a frown to see who had spoken. He recognized the man standing at the edge of the crowd. It was Sir James Ferguson. Ferguson might have been the oldest man bearing arms within the walls of Chester, but he was no native to the place. He was a veteran soldier who had faithfully served the Earls of Derby for thirty years. He had finally got a bellyful of William de Ferrers’ arrogance and cruelty when the nobleman tried, in vain, to destroy Earl Ranulf, losing Chester in the bargain. After Chester fell back into Ranulf’s hands, Ferguson abandoned de Ferrers’ service and offered his sword to the Earl of Chester.
Sir James and Declan had frequently kept company over the summer. They had much to talk about. Ranulf’s bold return from exile in the spring and occupation of Shipbrook had goaded de Ferrers to rashly lead the Chester garrison out of the city to retake the small fortress on the Dee. But Shipbrook had been nothing
but a lure.
Declan was to hold the fort long enough for Roland and the Earl to lead an assault on Chester itself—and he might have held it forever, except for Ferguson. De Ferrers’ commander had launched three piecemeal assaults on the gate with little success and high casualties, before seeking the old soldier’s advice. Sir James orchestrated the coordinated attack from three sides that finally overran Shipbrook’s defences.
The old soldier and the young Irish knight seemed to delight in exchanging thoughts on how that small but deadly battle had unfolded—enemies, now friends.
“Sir James,” Roland said sheepishly, “sorry you had to see this.”
The old knight smiled, but quickly turned serious.
“Ye mean to burn the siege engines?”
“Aye, if we don’t, there’ll be a breach in the north wall.”
Ferguson nodded sagely.
“How long do you reckon.”
It had only taken a month to breach the walls of Acre, but then they had hundreds of engines flinging stones.
“Three months—perhaps.”
“I’ve been watching the bombardment. I’d say closer to two. So the machines must be destroyed, or we will have to defend the breach.”
“Aye, I’ve fought in a breach before, Sir James. I’ve no wish to fight in another.”
“Nor I,” said Sir James and beckoned him closer. He took out his sword and began carefully scraping a figure in the dirt at his feet. “Look here, I’ve seen the Pisans use fire arrows and they fashion a kind of metal cage as part of the arrow’s head. It keeps the burning material from falling off or sliding down and unbalancing the shaft.”
Roland looked at the man’s scratching in the dirt. There was the familiar triangle of an arrowhead, but with barbs along the edges to prevent the shafts from being easily dislodged. Behind the tip was a small egg-shaped metal cage to hold the flammable cloth.