Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  Unfortunately, the Duke did not just ‘bed’ Ida, she accompanied him across the length and breadth of the earldoms of England! She soon acquired a lady-in-waiting and two maids, as well as an ever-growing baggage train of female paraphernalia and gifts bestowed on her by the Duke and every host we visited. The silver lining, we hoped, would appear at the end of our sojourn, when we felt sure he would leave her in England.

  Not so: he deliberately avoided his father, and we crossed the Channel from Bosham before heading south to Poitiers.

  When we arrived in the city, the situation worsened. We had only been there for a couple of days when Ida complained of being unwell, a malady that her mature lady-in-waiting soon diagnosed as morning sickness. The ‘Nymph from Norwich’, as we had begun to call her, was pregnant. Father Alun and I had both taken a dislike to Ida and felt sure that the pregnancy was designed to snare the Duke on a permanent basis. But she had been far too ambitious. Her social status was just about high enough for an earl, but not for a duke who one day might be King of the Plantagenet Empire.

  As soon as the Lionheart knew that Ida was pregnant, he put her down as quickly as he had swept her up. With just one coarse exchange of words, she was gone. Instructions were given that the child would be delivered by the nuns at Poitiers, where it would stay under the Duke’s guardianship, after which Ida was to return to Norwich with a generous dowry for Earl Roger.

  In due course, the Duke’s son was born. He was named Philip and made Lord of Cognac. The Earl of Norwich swallowed his pride, accepted the dowry and married the mercurial Ida. Whether the marriage was a happy one, I know not, but the saga of the Lionheart and the Nymph did little for the King’s humour. It began a time of bad blood between him and his son that would produce very unfortunate consequences for the Devil’s Brood. The King was furious with his son, but Richard avoided his father for the next two years. Even so, the wound festered and would soon become gangrenous.

  10. Family at War

  In December 1182, King Henry issued a unique invitation to his Christmas Court at Caen. Not only did he summon his entire family, but he invited every magnate from his Empire. His intention was transparent: he was approaching fifty years of age and he wanted to show the world that his brood was not the work of the Devil, but was a family at peace with itself within an enduring Empire that would go from strength to strength under the future rule of his three sons.

  Henry’s eldest son and his anointed heir, Henry the Young King, led the brood. Richard’s younger brother, Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany, brought his family, as did his sister, Matilda, who came with her husband, Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony. Over a thousand lords and knights filled Caen with a colourful medley of gonfalons and pennons, the like of which had not been seen since the crusaders gathered to march to the Holy Land. The merchants and innkeepers of the city had a windfall, as the horde cleared their shelves and cellars of anything edible or wearable; the whores made a king’s ransom. Each night, as the hours passed from twilight into darkness, the festivities descended from elegant feasting into drunken debauchery and, eventually, into violent brawling. The infirmaries were overrun and even the gravediggers were called upon on more than one occasion.

  In the midst of all the raucousness, the King called his three sons together in his Great Hall at Caen and, with his entire family and as many senior magnates as could squeeze into its vastness as witnesses, made them swear an oath. Not only did they have to affirm their loyalty to him and to the Empire, but also to one another.

  After each had made his declaration, he knelt before his father, kissed his hand and then embraced him. Duke Richard looked imperious. When it was his turn to swear, his height and aura dominated those around him, including the King. He wore a long red cape with the golden cross of Aquitaine emblazoned above his heart. His ducal coronet glistened, its jewels catching the light, as did his lion’s mane, the perfect complement to his regal bearing. Many in the hall had not seen him since he was a boy, and there were audible gasps as he rose to speak. Here was the Lionheart, already a legend. Helped by the fact that he was taller than all those around him, when he placed his hand on the ancient Bible of the cathedral of St Pierre and spoke, his voice carried to the farthest recesses of the hall.

  ‘I, Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, Duke of Gascony, Count of Anjou, Count of Maine, Count of Nantes, do swear fealty to my father, Henry, Lord of all the domains of our Empire. I do also swear loyalty to my brothers, Henry and Geoffrey, and undertake to protect them and support them in preserving their realms and possessions, as we do as a family, in maintaining the honour and security of our Empire.’

  After the oaths, the King rose and held the arms of his sons aloft amidst a rapturous reception from the assembly. I looked around the room at the awesome gathering: Normans, Plantagenets, Bretons and many more. These were the descendants of men who had built an Empire that stretched the length of Europe and whose kinsmen had carved new realms across the Mediterranean and the Holy Land. I had mixed feelings: I was overawed by the power embodied in that room and all that it had achieved – indeed, I was now part of it – but, on the other hand, my people were one of those who had been vanquished by these mighty clans.

  Sadly, the King’s good intentions came to nothing. Young Henry, despite being his father’s heir to the whole Empire, was jealous of his brothers’ dukedoms in Brittany and Aquitaine. He wanted his own domain; Normandy or England would have assuaged him but, despite endless pleading, the King refused. Frustrated by this, he had begun to plot against his brothers and father, and sought support from the new King of France, Philip Augustus.

  The Lionheart got wind of this, at Caen, three days after Christmas Day, and summoned Father Alun and myself to his chamber. He was white with anger.

  ‘My brother is committing sedition; there could be another civil war. Send messengers to William Marshal and the others to assemble in Poitiers. Recall the army. We leave for the south immediately.’

  Father Alun looked alarmed.

  ‘My Lord, should you not tell the King?’

  ‘I dare not; I can’t be sure whether the plot is being hatched by Young Henry on his own, or whether my father is behind it. All I am certain of is that my brother is being denied Normandy and England, so he plans to usurp me in Aquitaine.’

  I had rarely seen the Duke so angry. He roared like his namesake.

  ‘My own brother is trying to take my beloved Aquitaine from me. I will rip his heart from his chest and throw it to the dogs!’

  The Grand Quintet gathered in Poitiers quickly, and Richard’s powerful army was mustered with commendable speed. By the end of January 1183, we marched south.

  We had travelled for no more than two days when the news deteriorated. The King, who had also heard of the Young King’s attempt to undermine the Lionheart in Aquitaine, sent his other son, Geoffrey, to act as mediator. Again, Henry, who must have been in despair at the behaviour of his offspring, had miscalculated. Instead of acting as peacemaker, Geoffrey immediately sided with his brother in his campaign against Duke Richard. Not only that: he had taken his army with him, which had swelled the Young King’s force significantly.

  News of yet another squabble in the Plantagenet Empire spread rapidly. The scorn with which it was received was made worse because it immediately followed the King’s attempt at a show of unity in Caen. His dormant enemies resurfaced and he became a target of widespread derision. Chaos soon followed as the view circulated that the Devil’s Brood would soon be engaged in a civil war. The Lionheart knew that he had to act quickly, not only to save his dukedom in Aquitaine, but also to save the Empire.

  Geoffrey and Henry had united their armies near Limoges, where they were joined by other troublemakers including Aimar, Viscount of Limoges, William Arnald, a mercenary who commanded a large force of Gascon routiers, and Raymond le Brun, Arnald’s notorious uncle. His routiers were renowned for their acts of brutality, which included the public rape and mutilation of women and the castration o
f men.

  By the time we reached the small settlement of Aix-sur-Vienne in the Limousin, Duke Richard’s mood had darkened rather than softened. The rebels had split into smaller groups and were rampaging around Aquitaine, causing as much devastation as they could. We had heard endless stories of atrocities – all, no doubt, part of his brothers’ plan to lure Duke Richard into their lair.

  But the Lionheart was too shrewd for that. We tracked Raymond le Brun’s force of Bretons to the small settlement of Ruffec, in the Charente. They were enjoying a respite from their marauding amidst the peaceful surroundings of the vineyards and farmhouses of the area, and we caught them unawares. The locals had departed in a hurry, leaving their meagre chattels at the mercy of the rebels.

  What followed was not for the faint of heart. There was no local populace to be concerned about, and no question of these men being forced to pay homage to the King; they were the dogs of war and had been unleashed by his brothers, so they would be treated like the beasts they were.

  We approached le Brun’s camp just before dawn. They numbered perhaps 300 men, but we were more than 2,000. The Duke deployed the contingents of the Grand Quintet to his left and right, in his usual formation. As the sun crested the hills beyond the River Tarn, he ordered the attack with a simple command.

  ‘No quarter!’

  The slaughter was short-lived but savage. Few of le Brun’s men were able to get to their horses, and most were cut down trying to flee. They were unable to don their armour or wield their weapons; some were still barefoot, not having had time to find their footwear. Few survived the cull, but le Brun was one of them. When the Lionheart saw him, he leapt from his horse in a single, agile bound and set about him. Le Brun was a bear of a man with thick black hair and a beard to match. He was scarred across the forehead and left cheek and had lost most of his teeth. He had managed to find his sword and shield and, for a while, was able to parry the Duke’s blows. But their power and ferocity were too much for him, and he soon fell to his knees and begged for mercy.

  ‘Lord Richard, spare—’

  But before his foe could finish his plea, the Lionheart plunged his sword through his Adam’s apple and deep into his chest. For a moment the stricken man stared upwards in horror, until his life ebbed away. The Duke, without hesitation or remorse, simply placed his foot on le Brun’s chest and pulled out his bloodied blade. He then turned to Mercadier.

  ‘Execute any prisoners. Tie their hands and throw them into the Tarn like abandoned whelps.’

  I watched the orders being carried out with regret, preferring that even these men should meet a quicker death. But the Duke’s blood was up, and nothing would have inclined him to leniency. Father Alun tried to reason with him, citing Abbess Hildegard frequently, but the look of anger on the Lionheart’s face soon made him realize that he was beyond reason.

  After the bloodletting, Duke Richard announced a typically audacious plan. He sent the Grand Quintet and the major part of his own army in different directions to crush whatever opposition they could find and ordered me to select an elite force of four conrois to accompany him to Limoges. He intended to ride straight into his brothers’ lair and confront them face-to-face.

  We took spare mounts and rode for two days and two nights, only stopping to rest and feed the horses. When we reached Gorre, a dozen miles to the west of Limoges, it was the middle of our third morning in the saddle. The men were exhausted and few were in a fit state to fight. Not so the Lionheart – especially after he saw with his own eyes the crimes that were being committed.

  Aimar, Viscount of Limoges, sat to one side on his black destrier as William Arnald’s mercenaries defiled the small settlement. The local priest had been hanged, his naked body swinging from the cross at the top of his church, and the ground was littered with the mutilated corpses of the local men and children. The women were nowhere to be seen, but the anguished screams coming from inside the small thatched church were testament to their fate.

  The Lionheart did not issue any orders, nor pause in any way. He rode straight into the middle of the carnage and began to waylay the perpetrators. He was like a whirlwind, scattering men before him like ninepins. Godric and I, with our men in close support, tried to cover his back, but he did not need us. The routiers started to run when they saw the ferocity of the Lionheart’s assault. It soon became a rout, as men fell over one another to get away. As they fled, many could be heard calling out the Duke’s name in an awed tone.

  William Arnald, one of the most feared men in the Empire, was one of the few not to be intimidated. The Duke summoned his cavalry to pursue the fleeing mercenaries, again issuing the command, ‘No quarter!’ and then he confronted Arnald. A heavy-built Burgundian who had spent his life as a cut-throat for hire, he would have put the fear of God into all but a handful of men. But Duke Richard was such a man. He did not hesitate. Not even when Arnald shouted his blood-curdling threats.

  ‘You are but the runt of a litter of cubs of that fat father of yours. If he is your father, of course. I hear that your mother will bed anything, man or beast. Let me send you home to them cut and diced, ready for the pot!’

  I gestured to Godric to have the men stay close as the two warriors’ swords clashed. The Duke had been in a fury since news of his brothers’ treachery reached him, but the insult to his mother inflamed him even more. He swung at Arnald like a man possessed – so much so that I feared that, against a man of such experience, his ferocity might be ill judged. At first, the contest was even; Arnald smiled as he parried blow after blow, hoping that the Lionheart’s strength would wane. He goaded him, in an attempt to provoke even more bursts of tiring aggression.

  ‘Is that the best you can do, boy? My junior knights offer a greater threat than that.’

  I glanced at Godric and saw that he had the same concerns: before long, we might have to step in and protect the Duke from the retaliation that would surely soon come. Then the inevitable happened; one of the Duke’s swings lacked conviction, and Arnald sensed the fatigue. He launched his own furious attack. The Duke started to go backwards and stumbled to the ground, giving the Burgundian brigand the chance he needed. He thrust the tip of his sword at the Lionheart’s midriff; for a moment, it looked like the younger man was done for, but he managed to deflect the blow towards his left arm. Even so, the point of the sword sliced into the maille of his hauberk just above the elbow and blood immediately gushed from the wound.

  Most men would have begged for mercy at that point, but Duke Richard rolled away and regained his feet. It was as if he had been jolted by a butt of water; instead of being cowed by the blow, he fought back with even greater savagery than before. Despite the blood that was running down his arm, he managed to gird his shield and hurl himself into another attack.

  Arnald suddenly appeared to look anxious. He had not expected the Duke to get up from such a severe and painful blow. Perhaps he now began to accept the truth of the Lionheart’s almost mythical reputation. It was his turn to retreat. As he did so, the Lionheart’s blows became stronger and Arnald’s defensive posture slumped lower and lower. Eventually, the older man could parry no more and Duke Richard ran him through just below his right collarbone.

  Arnald fell to his knees; his arm went limp, and his sword fell to the ground with a dull thud. The only thing keeping him upright was his shield, which anchored him to the ground as he leaned on it. As all those who looked on waited for words of contrition or an act of submission from the wounded mercenary, the Lionheart stole the moment. With an almighty swipe of his sword, which began with his forearm resting under his chin, he all but decapitated Arnald with one blow. Blood spurted into the air and washed over the Duke like water splashed from a puddle in a road. The Burgundian, his head attached to his body by only a small remnant of his neck and tilted at an inhuman angle, fell forward in a heap. A crimson pool seeped beneath him as his lifeless eyes, now turned almost in the opposite direction to the one God intended, stared upwards towards Heaven. I
t was a vain hope; there would be no place for him there.

  Now sated, the Duke also fell to the ground, the loss of blood from his own wound taking its toll. On my signal Modig and Rodor helped the Duke to his feet, and Father Alun rushed forward to tend to his wound. He wanted the Duke to rest and take off his hauberk to have the deep gash bandaged properly. But the Lionheart refused, insisting that he only need roll up the sleeve of his maille so that a temporary binding could be applied.

  ‘I’ll rest when we’ve put down all my brothers’ hounds.’

  The executions of the survivors did not take long. The Duke did not want to admonish them or gloat; he just wanted them dead. Some were drowned, a few were decapitated; none were spared, despite their pleas for mercy.

  Unfortunately, Viscount Aimar had managed to make an escape and had ridden back to skulk behind the walls of Limoges. But the city was far from being a stronghold. The Duke had destroyed its stone ramparts in the rebellion of 1181, and its only bulwarks were earth banks and wooden palisades. Even so, we had no option but to send for the rest of the army before attempting a siege. Father Alun was relieved; the delay would mean that the Duke’s injury could be treated properly, and he could try to prevent any infection.

  Three weeks later, all was ready for an attack on Limoges. The Lionheart had mustered his men and materiel with his usual aplomb. He was a master of strategy, and his attention to tactical detail was astonishing. He was as adept in the skills of his specialist archers, arbalests and cavalrymen as the best of them, and he knew every nuance of the mechanics of his siege engines. He was as brave as any he commanded; they all knew that had he been of low birth, his prowess, although unlikely to have made him their King, would certainly have rendered him their General.

  Both his brothers were inside its flimsy walls, as was Viscount Aimar. The Duke was intent on killing all three. His arm was far from healed, but he could not be dissuaded from issuing a challenge to engage each of them in a trial of combat when the city fell.