by Wayne Grant
De Ferrers rubbed his chin. He would send word to his spy in Richard’s camp to alert him in the happy event that his old enemy was killed, but more importantly to warn him should Inness be returning to England. He would not be taken unawares!
As Gilbert began to sort through the scrolls and throw the pay sheets on the hearth, de Ferrers scrawled out a message on a piece of parchment and summoned one of his trusted retainers. He handed the man the parchment and a small purse, enough coin to speed his message along.
With his instructions dispatched to France, he climbed the spiral steps to the parapet on the roof of the keep and looked out across the valley. On the flanks of Mam Tor the leaves were turning brilliant shades of red and gold and beyond he could see the bald top of Kinder Scout. There would be snow there in few months.
Below him sat Castleton, its people grown fat and prosperous in his absence, or so Gilbert claimed. He’d start there. And once Castleton was picked clean, he’d send Barca’s men to scour the countryside. He’d not got his fair share of this recent prosperity, but starting on the morrow, that would be put to rights.
Derbyshire would bleed.
***
Sir James Ferguson reined in his mount when he reached the main east west road at the centre of Castleton. The east road led first to the Derwent valley, then split with the east branch continuing on to Nottinghamshire and a northern branch heading into the high peaks of Derbyshire. The west road led over the passes to the valley beyond, where it met the road south to London. To turn in that direction was tempting. The King’s Justiciar was in London and Hubert Walter had the authority to rein in de Ferrers—but would he?
James Ferguson was a simple landless knight, but he was no fool. If the King had been bought, there would be little use in complaining to his Justiciar. No, he would not go to London. In truth, he’d decided, before ever riding through the gates of Peveril, that he was not going to leave Derbyshire.
“Hunt me down like a dog,” he muttered and looked back up the hill to the castle. “You’ll find this old dog still has teeth!”
Ferguson turned the horse’s head to the east. He was not making for Nottinghamshire, but for the high country of Derbyshire where he hoped he would find a particular man. There was a monk up in those hills who saw to the spiritual needs of the poorest of the poor there. Ferguson had met him only once on some trivial complaint from a peasant, but had sensed there was far more to this monk than a simple man of God. He’d had an air of reverence about him to be sure, but there was something else. Behind the friar’s benign smile were eyes that took in everything and a coiled energy that spoke of a man not unacquainted with violence. Ferguson had little doubt that this was a man ready to protect his flock from more than sin. The poor folk of Derbyshire were going to need a man like that in the days to come and, if James Ferguson could help, he would.
What was the monk’s name? He tried to recall but could not. I’m getting old, he thought. Then it came to him. Ah yes.
Father Augustine.
Taken by Storm
To one not used to the sound, the dull thud in the distance might be mistaken for thunder. But the sky was clear and Roland Inness had heard the sound of stones striking fortress walls before, first at Acre, then again at Chester when that city had been besieged. The sight of Jamie Finch galloping back toward the column confirmed that they were nearing the siege lines at Gamaches.
“Sir, they are sending a guide to direct us to our encampment,” the young scout announced, breathless as usual. “You are ordered to report to Prince John upon arrival.” This last Finch said with ill-disguised concern in his voice. Only three years had passed since the Invalids had put an end to the Prince’s rebellion at Towcester.
Roland nodded and turned to Patch.
“See the men get settled, Tom. I’ll want to speak with the Company officers once I’m finished with the Prince.”
“Aye, sir,” Patch said with the same worried tone as Finch. “Maybe ye should take some of the lads along with ye.”
“I don’t think that wise.” Roland said with a shake of his head. “Don’t want to start a fight with our own side.”
“At least not right away,” Declan agreed. “I’ll be goin’ along, Patch. No need to send a bodyguard!”
Roland smiled. Declan O’Duinne had never been one to shy away from a fight, but it seemed his Irish friend had gained some small measure of prudence over the years, and this was a situation that demanded prudence.
“Aye, Sir Declan will come with me, Tom. See to the men and we’ll be along soon.”
With that, he touched The Grey’s flanks with his heels and set off to meet Prince John for the first time.
***
John was not difficult to find. The Count of Mortain sat in a padded chair under a pure white canopy that was perched atop a slight rise. The pavilion shielded him from the bright sun and provided a clear view of the walls of Gamaches, though the Prince seemed uninterested in the bombardment raining down on the town.
His attention was turned to a small, slightly misshapen man gambolling before him who sang a ribald verse as he strummed on a lute, punctuating his tune with an occasional loud fart. A small group of courtiers were gathered near the royal brother shouting encouragement at the man’s antics.
Roland reined in The Grey a respectful distance from the pavilion and dismounted. He and Declan tied up their mounts next to a dozen others along a picket line and trudged up toward the festivities around the canopy. John saw them approach, but ignored their presence as the fool with the lute bent over and released another thunderous fart, to gales of laughter from the Prince’s hangers-on. Finally, John shushed them and dismissed the singer with a flick of his wrist.
As the twisted little man slunk away, Roland and Declan stepped forward and bowed to the Prince.
“Your grace, I am Sir Roland Inness, commander of the King’s Invalid Company and this is Sir Declan O’Duinne, my second-in-command, at your service.”
The Prince looked at them in silence for a long moment. He had seen Roland once before, at the great archery tournament staged at his brother’s coronation, but that had been seven years ago and there was no flicker of recognition in the Prince’s eyes.
“I’d thought the commander of the Invalid Company would be older, Inness,” he said dryly.
“I’m twenty-two, as near as I can calculate, your grace.”
John sniffed at that and his courtiers chuckled.
“A bit young to lead one of my brother’s most renowned units, but no matter. So tell me, Sir Roland, is the rumour true—that Ranulf sent you off to Wales with these Invalids to put his ally Llywelyn on the throne there?”
Roland paused before answering, then smiled at the Prince.
“Rumours have a way of outgrowing the truth, your grace. We might have crossed the border to suppress some cattle thieves a time or two, but nothing more.”
John frowned.
“Your lord, the Earl of Chester, said much the same, Inness, but I wonder why there are so many reports to the contrary. Still, that is water under the bridge. You are here now and just in time to gain a bit of glory with the fall of Gamaches. Regrettably, I may miss that happy event. My brother has asked me to look in on your liege lord, Ranulf, who is currently engaged with the French at Neufchatel. In my absence, you will take your orders from my subordinate, General Mercadier. I believe you will find his headquarters half a mile yonder,” he said, waving a hand absently toward the besieged town.
Roland knew a dismissal when he heard one and did not delay in backing out of the pavilion and striding down to the horse picket line with Declan close behind.
“He seems to know all about Wales, but I wonder if he recalls Towcester!” Declan muttered sourly.
Roland shrugged.
“Oh, he knows what the Invalids did there, but I doubt it’s a thing he would bring up with us. Let’s go see what sort of reception we get from the real commander here,” he said as he swung up on
The Grey. Together they rode down a dusty road toward the besieged town.
Unlike the pavilion on the hill, at the siege lines there was no entertainment. Jagged trenches zig-zagged across fields once thick with grain, the harvest long since crushed under hoof and foot or dug up. A score of trebuchets flung their stone projectiles at the walls of Gamaches in a steady bombardment, while a siege tower, taller than the city walls, had been rolled near enough for crossbowmen to rake the ramparts with their bolts. It was a classic investment and the effects could be readily seen. Few defenders dared to show themselves and one section of the wall near the southwestern gate had already begun to collapse.
Ahead, the road was clogged with wagons carrying more stones to feed the hungry siege engines. Roland reined in and dismounted, leading The Grey off the road and across a trampled wheat field. Finding Mercadier was not difficult. Messengers were arriving on foot and on horseback every few minutes from different sections of the siege lines and converging on a small knot of men gathered around a makeshift field table. Behind the table a man leaned forward, intently studying some message laid out there. He was of average height, though unusually thick through the chest and arms. His hair was thinning, but the only signs of grey were in the man’s sharply pointed beard.
By the way his presence dominated the small space, there could be no doubt that this was the mercenary general who was Richard’s most trusted field commander. Roland removed his steel helmet and lodged it under his arm as he stepped up to the table.
“My lord, Mercadier,” he announced. “The Invalid Company is present and awaits your command.”
Mercadier’s head shot up and he stared at this new arrival.
“And you are?” he growled.
“Sir Roland Inness, my lord, commander of the Invalids.”
“Inness…Inness. Ah, yes, you’re Ranulf’s man. Marshall has spoken of you. Considers you reliable. How many men do you bring?”
“Six score, my lord, all fit.”
Mercadier was about to reply when another section of the wall crashed down with a thunderous roar. Everyone stared at the cloud of dust that rose from the collapse. When it finally settled, the beginnings of a breach could be seen near the southwest gate tower and the men around Mercadier sent up a cheer. Roland stole a glance at Mercadier and saw nothing in the man’s face—no triumph, not even a look of satisfaction. The Gascon leader let the joyous uproar subside before he spoke again.
“Six score? That should be enough. Before dawn my men will assault the breach. I expect the defenders to concentrate their men there to stop them. Once the attack goes in, that tower,” he said, pointing to the wooden structure currently being used by a company of crossbowmen, “will be rolled up to the wall on the opposite side of the gate and the ramp will be lowered. You will lead your men onto the wall and from there take the gatehouse, opening the gate. Is that clear?”
“Yes, lord.” Roland replied.
“Very well. You are dismissed.”
Roland turned to go, but Mercadier spoke again.
“Inness, your men, are they cripples as the stories suggest?”
“Cripples, lord? Not at all. Wounded, maimed, scarred, yes, but not crippled.”
Mercadier nodded.
“Then I shall count on them to open the way so we can finish these bastards,” he said, and turned his attention back to the scroll on the table.
***
“He’s a cold one,” Declan said, as they retrieved their horses and mounted.
Roland shrugged.
“He’s a mercenary, Dec. With them it’s a business, and from what I see here, the man knows his business.”
Declan surveyed the siege works surrounding Gamaches and nodded.
“It would seem, but we have not fought for a man like Mercadier before. Ranulf, I trust. Marshall, I trust. Sir Roger, I trust, but this man? I don’t know.”
“Nor do I. But we have our orders.”
Together they rode in silence back to the encampment of the Invalid Company.
***
Patch, John Blackthorne and Sergeant Billy began rousing the men two hours before first light. The sky overhead was cloudless and full of stars, promising another clear day. Breakfasts were cooked over banked fires to avoid alerting watchers on the walls to this early morning muster, though there was little doubt the French defenders inside the town knew an assault was coming.
In the distance, trebuchets kept up their barrage of stones aimed at the newly-formed breach to prevent defenders from barricading the gap with rubble and timbers during the night. A few desultory stones arced back over the walls as the defenders tried to answer the enemy bombardment.
In the Invalids’ camp, men began to don mail and look to their weapons. Roland saw the huge Scot, Seamus Murdo, drawing a whetstone over the blade of his long-handled axe and recalled the big man’s bull-like charge that forced open the gate at Deganwy. He would want Murdo in the first rank with him when they stormed the wall.
He saw Brother Cyril moving from campfire to campfire, offering blessings and prayers for the faithful and the few non-believers as well. At such a time there weren’t many who did not look to God for strength or solace. Declan came to stand beside Roland as the Invalids made ready.
“Will it be as bad as Acre, I wonder?’ he said idly.
“God only knows,” said Roland, “but it won’t be good. Of that I’m certain.”
Declan laughed.
“Thank you for the encouragement,” he said and threw an arm around Roland’s shoulders. “Makes me wish I was chasing a few cow thieves back across the Dee.”
“And I’d be happy to be behind a plough at Danesford about now,” Roland said with a smile, “but first this.”
Declan withdrew his arm and drew his broadsword.
“Aye, let’s get this done and over.”
Behind them the Invalid Company began to gather on the dusty road.
***
It was still dark when the Invalids began to file into the siege tower that had been rolled up to within a dozen feet of the city wall during the night. Inside the tower were flights of broad wooden steps leading up five levels, the last being a fortified firing position atop the tower for the crossbowmen. On the fourth level was the heavy wooden ramp that would drop to span the gap between the tower and the top of the city wall. The outside of the tower was clad in oak planks and covered in vinegar-soaked hides should the defenders try to ignite the structure. As the Invalids packed into the confined space shoulder-to-shoulder, one of the new men spoke up.
“This is better than the breach,” he said, as though trying to convince himself.
“Oh, aye, lad, goin’ into a breach is bad,” Sergeant Billy observed dryly, “but have ye ever seen one of these towers burn? They go up like a bonfire—tower, men and all. Or sometimes they hook it with grappling irons and pull it down smashing it to kindling…”
“Hush, Billy,” Patch ordered, sensing the unease behind the newcomer’s bravado.
Black humour was normally welcome at such times, but he did not want the new men spooked. As they moved up the stairs inside the tower, a chill wind blew in from the west, causing the tall wooden tower to groan and sway as the men inside crowded together, waiting for the ramp to fall. It was dark as a pit inside the tower even though dawn was beginning to show above the walls of Gamaches.
On both sides of the city’s wall men waited for the attack to begin. Those new to war felt their mouths go dry and their bowels turn to liquid while veterans wondered if this battle would be better or worse than ones they’d fought before. White knuckles gripped sword hilts and spear shafts tighter as time slowly passed.
Then, off to the right, came the muffled sounds of cheering, punctuated by the clash of steel on steel as Mercadier’s men charged into the breach on the opposite side of the city’s massive southwestern gate. Atop the tower, Genoese crossbowmen searched for targets along the wall walk but could find few clean shots. From high atop the gate
barbican, fire arrows arced through the dim morning light to strike the sides of the tower, sputtering out against the soaked cow hides that protected the wood.
The Invalids were jammed four abreast on the stairs, filling the tower to capacity with forty of their number waiting outside the rear entrance for the order to advance. On the third level, Patch could just make out the faces of the men nearest him and they looked grim. The one-eyed soldier barked out a question.
“Are ye ready, lads?”
A few half-hearted “ayes” came back and he scowled.
“Why, I thought this was the damned Invalid Company!” he intoned, shaking his head sadly. “The one our drunken countrymen sing about in the taverns! We’ll see now if yer good fer somethin’ more than tavern songs!”
He paused for a long moment as men around him hung their heads.
“Have ye not whipped the Flemings?” he shouted, banging the flat of his sword on his shield.
“Aye!” some men called back.
“And the Saracens?”
“Aye!” came from more men and louder this time.
“Welshmen?”
“Aye!” The sound was rising to a roar.
“Even our very own Englishmen?”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!” they chanted.
He stood before them and flipped up the black patch over his left eye, revealing the empty socket there.
“We are the cripples!” he roared. “The unwanted, the unlamented,” he shouted, as the answering roar grew. “We are a company of the damned. We are the Invalid Company and, by God, no poxy Frenchmen can stand against us!”
On the fourth level, Roland smiled as the roar of the men shook the wooden tower. He stood beside Declan, Sir John Blackthorne and Seamus Murdo in the front rank, pressed up against the wood of the ramp that would soon drop and bridge the distance between the tower and the curtain wall. He jammed his helmet down on his head and waited for the bugle note that would be the signal to begin the assault.
When it came, it could barely penetrate the thunderous chants inside the tower, but the men crouching by the windlass on the fifth level heard it and cut the ropes. The heavy ramp seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then it crashed down on top of the parapet and bounced once, raising a cloud of dust as the front ranks of the Invalid Company sprang forward.