Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  Even though it was January, after some early-morning mist in the valley had cleared, the sky was deep blue and the sun shone brightly to welcome the King’s masterpiece. It was an astonishing sight; its limestone walls were almost pure white and its gleaming towers looked like giant sentinels, each with their pointed helmet of bright-red tiles.

  The castle had been completed exactly to the King’s original plan. It was a brilliant piece of design that the senior mason later confessed to me he thought could never be built. Even though the interiors were bare, and there was no provision for cooking or sleeping, the King insisted on a feast for the dignitaries in the main hall of the keep. He also decided that he would spend the night on its floor, with only a large fire in the hearth and a simple palliasse to sleep on.

  Later that evening, after eating well and consuming vast quantities of his favourite wine from Aquitaine, the King thanked me for everything I had achieved.

  ‘I have signed over a significant bonus for you at Winchester; you must build a house for yourself in England that is an appropriate reward for what you have done here.’

  ‘Thank you, sire. I have enjoyed the challenge. I had serious doubts when I began. But where there’s a will, there’s a way.’

  ‘You must be missing Negu and your northern shires.’

  ‘I am, my Lord. As it will take several months to finish the interiors, I had thought I would send for Negu so that she could stay until everything is completed.’

  ‘Excellent idea! I will organize an escort for her first thing in the morning.’

  His expression then changed; he looked troubled.

  ‘Bérengère is ill, in mind and body. She is frail and her mind wanders. I have spoken to my mother; we are going to take good care of her. But when I have Philip where I want him, hopefully at the end of this year, there will have to be a divorce. Mother has several candidates in mind, including Yolanda, the sister of Baldwin of Flanders. She is twenty-three, but is still intact, or so they say. Her father refused to let her marry until he found the right suitor, but now that he’s dead and the young count thinks the world of me, the time is right. I must have an heir soon, or we will be back where we were when my great-grandfather died, with dynastic war breaking out.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘I spoke with her twice in Bruges, when I was with her brother. She has the body of a goddess and makes my sap rise just by being in the same room as her. She’ll give me a nursery of heirs, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Is the match made?’

  ‘My mother assures me it is all but agreed.’

  To my delight, Negu appeared at Les Andelys in April 1198, by which time I was, in effect, the Castellan of the Castle of the Rock.

  The King would make frequent appearances in between military sorties and diplomatic excursions, but even when he was here, he would usually go hunting, leaving me to run the castle, complete with my own garrison.

  So when I greeted Negu, it was as a lord of his own domain. It was a source of great amusement for her.

  ‘Well, my Lord, I am honoured to be admitted to your mighty “Castle on the Rock”; it is so big!’

  She had a mischievous grin on her face and, as always, I enjoyed her playful teasing. It was good to see her again.

  ‘How is the priory?’

  ‘You will be pleased to know, it will be finished soon.’

  ‘Well, we can start building again. The King has given me a gratuity to build a new hall, just for the two of us.’

  ‘Oh, Ranulf, the King is so generous. Let’s make a start as soon as we’re back. In England everyone talks about him all the time. They say he’s like the Kings of England before the Conquest – brave and strong. They all love him. If only they knew what we know!’

  ‘Perhaps they do. People have strong instincts, and perhaps they sense his pedigree.’

  ‘How much longer do you have to stay?’

  ‘Probably until the autumn. Will you stay with me?’

  ‘And enjoy the delights of your huge edifice on the rock? Of course!’

  The truce between the King and the French did not hold beyond the spring, and 1198 became another year of war, with the Lionheart inexorably wearing down the King of France. The climax came at the end of September when the King mustered a large force and crossed the River Epte at Dangu and began to encircle the French stronghold at Gisors.

  Philip responded with an army of 300 knights and over 2,000 infantry. The French advance was seen by the Lionheart’s patrols and, with his usual gusto and even though the contingents of William Marshal and Mercadier were some distance away, he immediately led a cavalry charge into the heart of the French ranks.

  Philip was caught by surprise; his cavalry was still coming on in a thin column. The vanguard of the Lionheart’s attack cut the column in two, causing panic. Unable to form up into a phalanx, the French crumbled under the weight of the Lionheart’s assault. Within minutes, Philip’s force took flight.

  Three dozen French knights were drowned in the Epte when too many tried to cross a narrow bridge. King Philip himself was dragged from the water, only moments away from drowning. The infantry scattered in all directions, many of them running headlong into the cavalry of Marshal and Mercadier, which cut them down in droves. They also detained over 100 of Philip’s knights as they tried to escape across open ground.

  When the arithmetic was done later, it was calculated that the King had routed the French force with just 130 men, 30 knights and 4 conrois of cavalry. Most importantly of all, the knights killed in the skirmish, and those captured later, were the cream of King Philip’s army, a grievous loss.

  Badly wounded by these losses and with winter about to bite, Philip asked for a truce until the turn of the year, when the two protagonists would meet to discuss a long-term peace agreement. Although this represented excellent news for the King’s cause, it did delay the departure Negu and I had planned, pushing it forward into 1199. That was not a disaster in itself, but I was rapidly approaching my fiftieth year. My bones were beginning to ache – especially when exposed to the cold winds that wrapped themselves around the Castle of the Rock, turning its eighteen-feet-thick walls into an ice house.

  We spent the winter emptying the surrounding forests to pile their timbers on to our fires, but the heat produced by the hefty logs never seemed to extend beyond the air a few feet away from the hearth. At night, our bed warmers made very little difference, no matter how hot the embers we put into them. I thanked God that I had Negu’s body to comfort me – a source of heat that did not seem to need too much fuel to make it glow.

  On 13 January 1199, in the depths of what was a particularly harsh winter, the two men who had been close friends for years and had embarked on the Third Great Crusade together, but who had since become mortal enemies, met once more. Such was the depth of their animosity, Philip remained on horseback, while the Lionheart stayed on board the galley that had brought him up the Seine. Ten yards apart, the two men shouted their terms at one another. Philip agreed to accept the position as it stood in September 1198; he thus conceded the Vexin, which the Lionheart had managed to wrestle from him. Most significantly, for Negu and myself, the peace agreement was extended for five years.

  The Lionheart returned to the Castle of the Rock in triumph. He had restored the Plantagenet Empire to where it had been before he left for the Holy Land.

  He was jubilant.

  ‘Ranulf, take your lady home with you; your work is done.’

  34. Pierre Basil

  Negu and I were close to leaving the Castle of the Rock, at the beginning of February 1199, when the Lionheart came to our chamber with a mix of fury and despair in his eyes.

  ‘The beautiful Yolanda has just got married! I had no idea, my mother told me that an agreement had been made. They must have deceived her. There has been a plot hatched here, I swear it; it is either Philip or his allies.’

  Negu took the King’s arm and led him to a chair.

 
‘I’m so sorry, sire. Can we help?’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘We were going to leave next week.’

  ‘Come south with me. Mercadier is having some local problems in the Limousin. I can’t fight here, because of the truce. But I can find a battle or two down there. It will give me time to think about where I’m going to find a bride!’

  We consoled the King for over an hour and sent for wine to ease the process. I then tried to persuade him to travel in the opposite direction.

  ‘Come home to England, my Lord. We’ll help you find an English rose, and she can produce sturdy sons for you to add more English blood to your noble pedigree.’

  He smiled and looked at Negu.

  ‘What do you think? You’re a Basque; don’t you think we need some warmer blood in our lineage?’

  Negu looked at me with a mischievous grin on her face.

  ‘Perhaps, sire. But in my experience, the English can be quite warm!’

  At Negu’s teasing words, the King’s disposition became much sunnier.

  ‘When is England at its best?’

  ‘In June, my Lord.’

  ‘Then let’s have a concordat. You come with me to the Limousin until the spring, and I will come to your priory in June, where I will make your man the Earl of Lancaster and you can find me an English bride.’

  Spending a few months in the Limousin with the noblest man in Europe was hardly an imposition – especially as my reward would be an earldom. If it came to pass, I would be the first Englishman to receive an earldom since the days of King Harold of Wessex, over 130 years before.

  Negu, who had developed the same indomitable audacity as her mentor, Hildegard, linked her arm through the King’s.

  ‘We will keep company with you in the south; it will be a privilege. If you’re to wed a fair English rose, you had better have your fill of the dark maids of the south beforehand.’

  We mustered a modest force and left for the south in the middle of March. Mercadier was at odds with the Counts of Angoulême and Limoges, both of whom were supporters of Philip of France, and was besieging the castle of Chalus-Chabrol. It was not far from Poitiers, and the King felt comfortable in the land of his youth.

  When Mercadier showed the Lionheart the disposition of the castle and its tall tower, he issued his orders with typical speed and decisiveness.

  ‘Bring up the arbalests to keep the defenders’ heads down. The sappers need a solid canopy to work under, from where they can dig under the walls. Let’s make a start!’

  Compared to the sort of challenge he had faced in the past, Chalus was like swatting a fly. There were no more than forty people within its walls, including women and children. Within two days, the King was fidgety with boredom.

  On the evening of 26 March, we had eaten an early supper and the King was pacing the floor of his tent. We had eaten a roast of boar and the Lionheart had drunk more than his usual share of the rich Claret wine of Graves, his favourite. Not even the emollient charms of the local girls could calm his restless mood.

  ‘Sire, there are two very pretty young fillies outside the tent. Would you like me to bring them in?’

  ‘You can tell the girls to wait, Ranulf.’

  He was still agitated and needed the joy he derived from combat much more than the delight he obtained from female flesh.

  ‘Ask my sergeant to bring my arbalest and some quivers of quarrels. Let’s see if I can pick off a few marksmen on their battlements.’

  ‘I will, my Lord, but I’ll also get your page to bring your maille.’

  ‘I don’t need armour. It’s almost dark; they won’t be able to see me, let alone hit me.’

  Obduracy was one of the King’s hallmarks, and no amount of persuasion would convince him to wear his hauberk. Despite his obstinacy, I made sure his Sergeant-at-arms and two of his men brought their shields as protection, should any of the local arbalests manage to get a quarrel close to the Lionheart’s large frame.

  He took a flask of wine with him. When we reached the walls of Chalus, he began to loose his quarrels at the battlements, even though there were no defenders to be seen. It was almost dark and the night air was beginning to chill us. So, reluctantly, the King gave up the futile exercise of trying to hit targets that would not present themselves.

  ‘Let’s go back; it’s getting cold. I think I might warm myself with one of your young ladies. I hope they will be an easier target for my trusty quarrel.’

  The Lionheart handed his arbalest to his sergeant and turned to walk back to his tent. As he did so, a thin but strident voice cried from the battlements above us.

  ‘Bâtard!’

  Other than the cry, none of us saw or heard anything in the gloom. But as the King turned to see where the voice came from, he recoiled backwards sharply. He only gave a muffled moan, as if he had stubbed his toe, but when he hit the ground I could see that a quarrel had embedded itself in the top of the Lionheart’s left shoulder. At first, I thought the injury was superficial.

  The King seemed calm and still.

  ‘How is it?’

  ‘Not too bad, sire. We need to get the bodkin out, but it doesn’t look too bad.’

  Then the King winced. I called for a lantern and looked more closely at the wound. It was worse than I feared. His collarbone was shattered; his jerkin had a wide gash in it and was already soaked in blood.

  I tried not to sound alarmed and quietly asked the Sergeant to call for the physician and to find Mercadier. As I did so, the Lionheart stirred and began to get to his feet, even though I tried to stop him.

  ‘I don’t want to keep the girls waiting; give me your good arm.’

  We managed to make it to the tent. But as soon as we crossed the threshold, the King staggered and we both collapsed to the floor.

  I shouted for Negu, who rushed to help us.

  The Sergeant then appeared with worrying news.

  ‘Sir, the Lord Mercadier has been hunting and is not back yet. And we can’t find the physician anywhere; he may be with a local woman.’

  ‘Well, find him! Turn out every bed in the area.’

  The King’s shoulders were nestled in Negu’s lap, who was crouched behind him and sitting on her haunches. Blood was flowing freely from the wound, and I could see the pain on his face.

  But the King remained calm.

  ‘This bodkin needs to come out; I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, we need to staunch it.’

  I looked at Negu; she nodded.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  The King grasped her hand.

  ‘Have you treated wounds before?’

  ‘We didn’t have to remove many arrowheads at Rupertsberg, but I’ve tended many an injury from scythes and ploughs.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me. Let’s get on with it.’

  I called over the King’s Steward and two of his guards, and between us we held him firmly. Negu began to clean the area around the wound with wine, which made the Lionheart wince. She then tugged a little on the shaft of the arrow, before stopping with a look of alarm on her face.

  ‘The shaft has been deeply scored just below the bodkin. It has been gouged so that it will break off when someone tries to remove it.’

  It was an old archer’s ruse, but it took time to do and was only used for a one-off shot, of the sort used by a hired killer.

  The King forced a smile.

  ‘It seems someone who dislikes me wants me dead. Let’s make sure he doesn’t get his way. You’ll have to dig the bodkin out.’

  Negu took a breath and nodded to us to hold her patient tightly. Then, with some speed and dexterity, she snapped off the shaft and grasped the tang of the bodkin.

  ‘My Lord, are you ready?’

  ‘No, but don’t hesitate. Use all your—’

  Negu did the deed before the Lionheart finished his sentence. She had to twist the tang sharply to get it free. When she did so, a considerable amount of flesh and bone came out with it. The King c
ried out in agony. But such was the pain and shock that he fell back, unconscious.

  Negu sighed deeply and then took control again.

  ‘Heat a blade; I need to seal the wound.’

  As the blade was being made hot, Negu packed cotton into the wound to stem the bleeding. She held up the arrowhead to show me. It was the worst kind, not a simple bodkin, but a swallowtail broadhead, with barbs almost an inch long to inflict the maximum damage. It was an expensive arrow, not one for use in bulk in battle, but one intended to kill a man in a single strike.

  Negu looked at me; she was in tears.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll ever use his left arm again… I think he’s lost all feeling in it.’

  The Lionheart jolted back to consciousness when Negu applied the blade to his wound. The searing had to be extensive as the wound was so big. The smoke and stench were overwhelming, and the King’s cries difficult to bear.

  But it was done.

  Negu bound the shoulder as firmly as she could before she collapsed in spasms of anguish and exhaustion.

  We sat with the King all night; he hardly slept, and neither did we.

  By dawn, the Lionheart had become feverish and agitated.

  ‘I must get up; I need to finish the siege.’

  He tried several times to get to his feet, but he was too weak. He began to drift between moments of clarity and long periods of delirium. The pain seemed unrelenting.

  Later that day, Mercadier appeared, by which time the King’s colour had drained away and the fever had taken a firmer hold. He took one look at the Lionheart and immediately sent messengers to summon Bérengère, Queen Eleanor and the rest of the Grand Quintet.

  He feared what Negu and I feared; the injury was severe, and the bleeding beneath the surface may not have stopped.