Knight with Armour

by Alfred Duggan

  The tower was in three stages, each twenty feet high, and each, with the exception of the hatchway, floored completely across, to strengthen the construction and brace the walls apart. When he got through the hatch on to the first floor he found himself in a milling, jostling crowd that threatened to sweep him over the edge at the back, for the footmen who had pushed the machine forward were now completely out of control in their excitement, and were swarming up supplementary ladders that they had placed against the open timbers. Naturally, the most active reached the top floor first, and these were not the fully armoured knights; soon the upper floors were clogged with a useless mass of unarmed men, and the Duke himself was still stuck at the base of the second ladder.

  It was very hot inside the packed staging, and the stench from the hides that covered the outside, exposed for more than twenty-four hours to the burning heat of a Syrian June, caught at the throats of the sweating knights in their airtight covering of iron and leather. Roger could not help himself; he was violently sick over the hauberk of a Fleming who was wedged up against him. Meanwhile the tower groaned and shook, as the men on the roof tried to hoist out the movable gangway, and the stones from the infidel catapults crashed against the sides. It was a long time before the confusion sorted itself out, and then only because most of the unarmed men had been swept off the roof by the missiles of the enemy, since the crowd was too thick to allow them to climb down the ladders again to the ground; but presently the knights began to move up to the second floor. Roger felt weak and shaken, and his right hand trembled so that he could hardly grasp the rungs, but he managed to creep up the second ladder, and then leant against the wall to try and pull himself together. On this floor there were loopholes, each with a crossbowman shooting slightly upwards at the ramparts, and he thought he detected curious looks on their faces at the knight who withdrew to a corner when others were pushing to get into the fray. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva, clenched his teeth, and took his place at the foot of the third and final ladder. At last he got his head into the open air, where a fresh breeze blew away the stench of the rotting hides and immediately made him feel better. But the roof of the tower was a shambles. The infidel archers were shooting their arrows with a high curving trajectory, and they had got the range to a yard, so that every shaft thudded into the planking or into the unarmoured body of one of the wretched footmen; the crossbowmen on the roof had been hopelessly outnumbered by the concentration of much quicker-shooting bows on the wall, and those who were still alive were huddled behind mantlets or under the bodies of the dead; a few knights, dazed by the disaster round them and dizzy from the sheer drop at their feet, were fumbling with the gangway in an uncertain and halfhearted manner. There was no great leader present to give orders to the heterogenous crowd from many different contingents; they learned later that Duke Godfrey was on the second floor, keeping back the over-enthusiastic throng of half-armed reinforcements who only hampered the knights who really had a chance of capturing the hostile wall. Just because most of the knights on the roof were strangers to one another no one would be the first to lead a retreat, and for some time they crouched at the far side of the tower, safe from the arrows that could not penetrate their shields, but nervously watching the great stones hurtling up from behind the wall. At last the Duke of Lotharingia appeared at the head of the ladder, and by voice and gesture got them all to heave together on the gangway. Yet, even when the far end dropped into position, and the road seemed clear at last into the Holy City, they hesitated on the roof with it stretching down empty before them; the infidels were closely massed at the place where it reached the wall, and a thick cluster of spearpoints barred the way. The Duke was a great lord, and it was not for him to throw away his life in a forlorn hope where his men would not follow; perhaps if he had jumped down without a glance behind him things would have been different; as it was, the gangway remained there for a minute or two, empty, and then the enemy worked loose the grapnels at their end and sent the whole thing spinning into the ditch sixty feet below. There was another gangway lashed to the back of the tower, ready for just such an emergency, but they were slow and unwilling at getting it on to the roof, and it would obviously be a waste of time to push it out if no one felt brave enough to attack when it was there. One or two tentative efforts were made, and then a great stone smashed it up while it was sticking half way out. There was no third in reserve.

  As the tower was in such a good position they might as well use it to kill some of the enemy, even though the attack was a hopeless failure, and accordingly the knights withdrew, and the two upper floors were filled with crossbowmen. They had an excellent target, and did quite a lot of damage, though they suffered casualties themselves from the catapult stones. The knights stood around within call, in case the infidels tried a sortie to destroy the tower, and then, in the evening, the machine was drawn back out of range, and they were told to go home and rest until next day.

  Roger was in great misery. Up on that windy roof, looking over the wall into the very streets of the Holy City, he had seen his duty clear before him, and he had shrunk from performing it; his stomach had troubled him unceasingly, and whenever he looked at the enemy’s spears he had seen a vision of Hugh’s white face as he waited on his knees for his death-blow at Dorylaeum; he had been quite unable to force his trembling legs to carry him forward. He tried to imagine how his cousin Robert would have behaved; he coud not see him either showing himself craven or leading a hopeless attack. Surely he would either have reached the enemy and used his sword, or disappeared quietly to some other part of the field, where he would not have been exposed in full view as a shirker; there must be some way by which more experienced warriors avoided these public humiliations.

  He walked slowly back to his bivouac; his shoulders and back were covered with prickly heat and boils, where he had sweated into his thick leather mail shirt, and the supply of water was so scanty that he had no hope of a bath; he had eaten nothing since breakfast, and he had vomited frequently, so that he was faint with hunger though he did not desire to eat. When he reached the lair on the open ground that was all the home he possessed, he threw down shield and sword and sat on his rolled-up bedding, waiting for Tom to come and disarm him. He sat there for a full hour, until it was gradually borne in on him that Tom had also been on duty by the tower, and that now he must be dead. Feeling very lonely and friendless, he called to a passing groom to disarm him; the man served him sullenly, for the knights who had not dared to attack from the tower were disliked by the whole army. Now that he had no servant he ought to go and see how his pony was getting on, but he felt much too faint and exhausted; surely the beast would be watered by the horseguard, and allowed to graze that night with the others. Instead, he slouched over to the Duke’s kitchen, more because he wanted company than from any wish to eat.

  When he arrived there he looked so woe-begone that one of the under-butlers insisted on giving him a bowl of hot porridge and a small cup of strong wine. The other knights were all angry and depressed by their failure, but two days’ unsuccessful fighting was not long enough to take away all hope of victory, and after a hot supper they began to brag and take vows about what they would do on the morrow. Roger kept silent; his stomach had something to work on, and he felt much better at present, but he feared that the sight of the massed spearpoints of the infidels would bring back all his weakness again. Soon he left the loud-voiced gathering and looked in on Father Yves on his way to bed; but the priest was now delirious, tossing on his mattress and shouting a sermon in Breton; one of the Duke’s servants was sitting up with him, and said that he had already received Extreme Unction, and was unlikely to last the night. There was nothing that Roger could do for him, and after saying a few prayers by the sick-bed he went off, more lonely than ever, to his solitary bivouac.

  The next day was the 15th of July, exactly thirty-five months since they had first mustered outside Rouen. Roger had been so tired out by the previous day’s exertions that he
had been able to sleep soundly, and his dysentery was no longer so troublesome. Another knight fastened on his armour for him, since it was easier for a penniless man to ask favours of his social equals than of a footman who would expect a tip. He had been too tired to scour his sword the night before, and it was rusty from the dew; he got hold of a lump of butter, and managed to put that right, though the state of his helm and shield showed plainly that he was now without a servant. Of course everybody heard Mass before the battle, but Roger’s mind was so dulled that he could not face the effort of making his confession to a strange priest, and his stomach would not let him fast for long, so that he did not receive Communion. Besides the usual lump of cold biscuit he had a drink of hot milk at the Duke’s kitchen, which was recommended by the wise men as far better for dysentery than wine. He was used to a draught of wine or beer as soon as he woke up, and he missed the alcohol that usually settled his bowels; but he had no money to buy anything better than the butler chose to serve out, and he had often had to drink water during the march across Anatolia. He walked to his post by the gap in the mantlets, feeling feverish and light-headed and very depressed, but on the whole a little better than yesterday.

  Various alterations had been made to the tower during the night. The chief cause of the previous day’s defeat had been that the men on the roof were exposed to stones and arrows before they could begin the assault, so now an opening had been cut in the front wall of the second storey; it was closed by moveable mantlets, and at the last moment these could be taken down and the gangway pushed out. This meant that they would have to attack slightly uphill, and would also make it more difficult to fix the grapnels in the enemy’s wall, but at least the storming party would be sheltered until they charged out of the tower. A number of sick or lightly wounded knights had been put in charge of the foot, with orders to keep them clear of the ladders so that their betters had a clear passage, and altogether it was hoped that the previous day’s mistakes would be avoided. The leaders had put on cheerful expressions and the explanation on everybody’s lips was that yesterday had really been a most valuable and successful rehearsal for the real attack to-day. The Count of Toulouse was also bringing up his tower again, though no one expected very much from his cautious leadership.

  Moving the tower was now a well-worn routine, and there were enough experienced survivors in the working party to get it quickly going straight for the causeway. As Roger waited behind his mantlet it seemed to him that he had been watching the cumbrous machine sway and creak along for the greater part of his life; what was worse was that he also expected the attack itself to follow the usual routine; they would make contact with the wall and then in the evening pull the tower back again; the habit of defeat is very easily acquired.

  The tower reached the gap, and Roger fell in on the left side. As they started across the causeway the infidel engineers discharged a steady stream of javelins and stones, and the Christian crossbowmen searched the wall with their arrows. The enemy had evidently spent the night tearing down stone buildings inside the city, and great capitals of columns and masses of Roman mortar crashed on to the roof of the machine; but the roof was empty, and the crossbowmen on the other stages so harassed the crews of the nearer balistas that the exposed knights suffered less than they had last time. Without any hitch, the tower rolled on and settled into the grooves its rollers had made yesterday. The knights ran round to the back, and stood by the ladders; this time Duke Godfrey was the first man up, and he halted on the lower stage, shouting to those he knew by name, and making them file up in an orderly fashion. Now came the trickiest part of the whole operation; the wall was slightly higher than the second stage of the tower, and it would be difficult to sling out the gangway so that the grapnels engaged with the battlements; but ropes had been fixed to its far end, and led down over pulleys from the roof; a few cool-headed men slackened these off gently as the gangway was pushed out, and the grapnels jerked and swayed in mid-air over the heads of the infidels. The engineers at the defending catapults worked harder than ever; mighty stones crashed on to the empty roof, and one of the rafters broke right across. Roger was standing at the back of the second floor, helping with the gangway as much as the shield on his left arm would allow him; he saw the sunlight flood in through the far corner; in a few minutes, if this kept up, the tower would open out like an overblown rose, and they would all be lying in the ditch under a heap of broken timber. But now there was a great cheer from the watchers outside; the gangway was resting fairly on the wall, and the way to the Holy City was clear before them.

  Nobody was eager to lead the rush across that dizzy bridge. Roger leant against the wall, for the stench of the rotting hides had upset his stomach again, and he wondered whom he would vomit over this time. He suddenly saw Duke Godfrey waving his drawn sword, standing in the blazing sunshine that flooded the gangway; his back was to the foe, while he called into the shadows of the tower for his men to follow him. The Duke was very angry, and he shouted abuse in the north French tongue that nearly all the pilgrims could understand; the quavering warcries of the infidels and the hoarse cheers of the foot crowded behind the mantlets made such a din that Roger could not make out what he was saying, but at that moment there was a sudden lull (both sides were craning their necks to watch the flight of a colossal stone that hovered in the sky), and he caught the meaning of what the Duke was crying.

  “Come on, you cravens, you dastards, you cowards, you bastards, you cuckolds,” their leader screamed, as he saw the chance slipping away, the precious seconds before the infidels rallied and cast off the grapnels. That last word pierced the fever-mists that enfolded Roger’s mind, and rang through his head with throbbing insistent pain. There was that foreign Duke capering in the sunlight and calling him, Roger de Bodeham, a cuckold; it was quite true, and that made the insult all the more atrocious. It was not to be borne; he whipped out his sword, and pushed his way through the crowd towards the man who was abusing him.

  Now in any battle more than half the men present only want to do the right thing; they will charge with their comrades, or run away if that seems to be the more popular policy; the knights in the tower were wavering, undecided whether to charge or not, and Roger’s push to the front was all that they needed to make up their minds for them; the man in front of him, instead of getting out of the way, began to push too, and they all surged out in a solid mass, into the sunshine and clean air of the gangway. Duke Godfrey span round and led them on.

  Roger was not in the foremost ranks; as he stumbled up the rough planking the shields and helms of those in front cut off his view of the infidels, and he concentrated on keeping his footing on that, stage slung halfway to Heaven. There was a low railing on his left, no higher than his hips, and he stole a glance at the ditch far below; it made him dizzy at once, and he raised his shield to cut off the unnerving sight. Everyone on the gangway was terrified of being precipitated to the depths below, and this fear made them charge with all the more determination, to win the comparatively safe footing of the battlements; they ran with the speed of unarmed knifemen, rather than mailed knights. This was a more vigorous charge than even the celebrated dismounted attack outside Antioch, and the host of Egyptians on the wall could not hope to stand against it. Roger jumped from a merlon to the rampart-walk, and instinctively turned to his left to get out of the crowd. Every Christian within sight was yelling at the top of his voice, and the crossbowmen had left the shelter of their mantlets and were streaming down into the ditch. He saw in front of him a tall, slender figure in light mail, who brandished a little axe in one hand, and held out a shield to bar his way with the other; he noticed with dull surprise, through his fever-stricken brain, that his opponent’s face and arms were as black as charcoal; he had never seen anyone quite like this before, but he supposed that he had to deal with a mortal man and not a devil, and he brought his sword sideways and down with a sweeping straight-armed swing, that should have cut the infidel in half. He had forgotten how m
uch he was weakened with fever and dysentery; the other took his blow easily on the raw-hide shield, and then, quick as a cat, bent down and swung the little axe back-handed at his right ankle. It was a blow against which there was no defence, except to spring in the air over the blade, and Roger was too weak for such acrobatics; he felt the sharp axe bite through his chausse into the leg, and then he was toppling over to his right, on the unguarded inner side of the rampart-walk. With a scrape and a slither, he fell clear off the wall into the city street far below. He managed to turn over in the air, and landed with his shield beneath him. He did not lose consciousness, and for a moment thought he had escaped unhurt; he could not even feel the pain in his leg, but that was because his back was broken. Dazed, sick, and dying, he raised himself on his sound right arm and looked about him. To right and left the ramparts were black with pilgrims; someone had tied one end of a rope round a merlon, and was sliding down inside the city. He landed just beside Roger, waved his sword in the air, and uttered a great roar of “Ville Gagnée!” Roger was scarcely conscious now, but that familiar triumphant cry raised a feeble echo in his mind; “Ville Gagnée,” he groaned in answer, as his head fell forward and his spirit took flight.

  The pilgrimage was accomplished.

  Copyright

  First published in 1950 by Faber & Faber

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  www.curtisbrown.co.uk

  ISBN 978-1-4472-3204-9 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-3200-1 POD

  Copyright © Alfred Duggan, 1950

  The right of Alfred Duggan to be identified as the