by Wayne Grant
The guard hurried off to find Captain Joubert as Mercadier stood and belted on his sword. He shook his head. These English the King had sent him had shown promise in battle. His own men had been rebuffed at the breach in the wall, but this Invalid Company had poured out of the siege tower and cut their way to the main gate, opening the way for the sack of the town. It had been well done, he had to admit, but the utter arrogance of their young English commander, letting his prisoners go free, had left him with no ransom for the Vicomte de Dammartin and a sour taste in his mouth.
In truth, he did not like the English. They were uncouth and arrogant and looked down on men with any hint of Latin blood in their veins. To the English that meant the French and especially Gascons like him. Even now, when he commanded half of Richard’s army, he knew the English whispered behind his back. But their King trusted him, so the rest could go to hell.
As for the two young knights he planned to hang, it would be a useful lesson to any in the army who defied him. And, if he needed to, he would hang the lot of these new men, these Invalids. He shoved a steel helmet on his head and stepped through the flap of his tent. The sun was not up yet, but there was good light. He looked up the hill toward the gaol and saw a line of men, two-deep, bristling with weapons and shields standing quietly on the slope. At the centre of the line a man held a staff with a black banner that rippled in the gentle morning breeze. On the banner was the head of a wolf with bared teeth.
It was going to be a long morning.
***
The men inside the roofless barn could hear the guards outside arguing among themselves, but could not make out what they were saying.
“What’s happening?” Declan wondered.
Roland scrambled over to corner of the barn where a small section of stone had been dislodged and looked out.
“Damn!”
Declan nudged him aside to have a look. From this vantage point, he could see the line of men a hundred paces down the hillside. Even without the wolf’s head banner, there was no mistaking who they were.
“Damn indeed,” he said.
“Did you know of this?” Roland demanded.
“No! I swear. This is what I was trying to stop when I went to see Mercadier.”
“We have to call them off,” Roland said and headed for the entrance.
Declan grasped his arm.
“You can’t, Roland.”
Roland whirled around.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you forgotten that we’re prisoners? The Invalids could have marched up here in the night and snatched us up as easy as can be, but they did not. Look,” he said pointing at the entrance to the barn, “they’ve left the guards in place to be sure we stay put. They don’t want to be called off and they’ve made it so ye can’t order them to. That Patch, he’s a clever one.”
Roland realized his friend was right.
“So, we are to sit here while our men die to protect us?”
Declan shrugged.
“We haven’t much choice.”
***
Tom Marston watched the mercenary army form up on the hill below. He raised the flap of his eye patch and rubbed the empty socket beneath. It sometimes itched just before a battle. He hoped the Invalids show of force might forestall violence, but he knew the men who stood behind him were more than ready to make those down the hill pay a bloody price if needs be.
There had been little discussion amongst the Invalids over the wisdom of this course. Only Sir Roland’s direct order had avoided a bloody melee inside Gamaches when Mercadier ordered their commander arrested. And later, when word reached them that Roland was to be hanged along with a bunch of deserters, they had started up the hill to put an end to such nonsense.
But Sir Declan had stopped them, had implored them to let him try to reason with Mercadier. Sir Declan could talk an angel out of his wings, but apparently Mercadier had been unmoved. Now the Irishman had been thrown in the gaol along with Sir Roland. Now the time for talk was done. Now it was time to speak in the language the Invalids knew best—blood and steel.
He glanced back up the hill and was satisfied to see the three remaining guards had remained on duty. They were probably pissing themselves about now, but had not abandoned their post.
Good.
It wouldn’t do for Sir Roland to get free just yet. He wondered if the young knight understood what he meant to the Invalids. They might be paid by the King and they might be housed by Earl Ranulf, but they belonged to Roland Inness, even if he didn’t know it. Sir Roland had given them something money could not buy. He’d given them their pride back. And if that was not something worth dying for, then nothing was.
Down below, a line was forming as men were rousted out of their camps and hustled into place. Patch stopped counting when their number reached four hundred.
Sir John Blackthorne saw a new group streaming up behind the first line and leaned in close to Patch.
“Archers, Thomas,” he said, and nodded toward the score of men with crossbows over their shoulders forming up.
“Shields ready, lads!” Patch ordered, and one hundred ten shields were raised to chest level.
***
Mercadier looked at the unbroken wall of shields up the hill and felt a moment of hesitation. He’d heard of the reputation of these Invalids, though he had discounted most of the tales. Stories of brave deeds and daring victories in war cut no ice with him. He’d heard too many that turned out to be lies and exaggerations. Still, the men on the hill had taken the wall and gate of Gamaches with far more ease than he had expected and if it came to blows, he was bound to lose some of his strength.
That could cost him future victories, but more importantly, it would cost him future profits. He did not own great estates like the nobles who fought for Richard. He was paid for delivering trained men to the battlefield and for winning those battles. Dead men were of no use to him at all. Best to talk these cripples out of the way. He stepped to the front of his men and called up the hill.
“Men of the Invalid Company! Yesterday you proved yourself in battle. Do not sully your name now with mutiny. Return to your camp and this action will be forgot. Stand your ground and you will be cut down. This I promise!”
Patch stepped out from the ranks of the Invalids and peered down at the Gascon mercenary.
“Drop yer charges against Sir Roland and Sir Declan now and we’ll return to our camp!” he called down the hill. “Try to hang ‘em and we’ll kill ye—all of ye!”
Behind him the Invalids banged their swords on their shields and hooted down at the gathered host.
Mercadier clenched his fists. The die was cast. He could not back down now. They had challenged his authority and now it would be a bloody mess.
“Archers!” he commanded.
“Shields up!” Patch ordered.
Forty crossbow bolts flew up the hill.
***
Earl William Marshall heard the uproar well before he reached the English camp at Gamaches. Distant shouts and the familiar sound of swords pounding on shields signalled some sort of violent clash ahead. He’d been on the road since early morning, sent by Richard to assess the progress of the siege of the nearby French stronghold. Halfway to Gamaches, he’d met a courier from Mercadier with news of the fortress’ fall. Now Marshall wondered if the courier’s news had been premature.
Were the French counterattacking?
Marshall put the spurs to his mount and his twenty-man escort whipped their horses to catch up. It was their sole duty to protect the Earl who was now fifty yards ahead of them and in full gallop toward the sound of battle. They caught him as the big man reached the English camp and reined in, staring in shock at a disturbing scene.
At the bottom of a bare hill, Mercadier’s army was arrayed in battle formation. Halfway up the slope and facing Mercadier’s men was a solid shield wall. And at the centre of that line was the familiar wolf’s head banner of the Invalid Company. The Invalids were ba
nging their swords against their shields and hurling taunts down at the mercenary host below. Marshall could see that those shields were already festooned with crossbow bolts. Marshall cursed to himself.
This was bad.
He signalled for his own lion-rampant banner to be brought forward and urged his horse forward at a walk. Up the hill, men saw the Earl’s banner and grew quiet. At the bottom of the hill, Mercadier ordered his crossbowmen to stand down and forced his way through the front ranks to meet Marshall who had dismounted between the two opposing forces.
“My lord Earl, you should not risk yourself so,” Mercadier scolded him as he approached. “You might have been mistaken for an enemy.”
Marshall did not reply to that. He knew Mercadier considered him to be an enemy.
“What is this?” he demanded.
The mercenary general snorted.
“These English you sent me, they have mutinied. They refuse my orders. This I cannot allow.”
Marshall looked up the hill at the Invalids and back to Mercadier.
“May I suggest we discuss this situation in private, sir?”
“I see nothing to discuss,” Mercadier snapped. “I command here and these men are worse than deserters! They have taken up arms against me.”
Marshall nodded.
“Still, it looks as though you could lose half your force to subdue them, General, and judging by what I know of these men, you might just lose this fight. Then where would you be?”
“Absurd!”
“Perhaps, but let us talk in private on the matter.”
Mercadier looked as though he wanted to lay hands on Marshall, but the big knight was a head taller and renowned for his strength and prowess in a fight. And he was close to the King.
“Very well, my lord,” he said through clenched teeth, “if you insist,”
“I do insist, General.”
***
Mercadier bulled his way back through his formation with Marshall trailing behind while the men facing each other on the hillside simply watched. The mercenary general brushed by the guards at his tent and entered. As soon as the Earl came through the tent flap, the Gascon exploded at him.
“How dare you interfere in my command!” he snarled, pointing a finger at Marshall’s chest.
The Earl of Pembroke took a step toward Mercadier, his face starting to turn crimson.
“Do not forget who you are speaking to, Gascon,” he growled. “I have not interfered with you or your methods for three years now and I will surely have to answer for that before God Almighty! But I’ll be damned if I will stand by and let you try to destroy the best company of fighting men on either side in this miserable war. I know those men. I have fought with them. If they have mutinied, it’s with good cause. What have you done?”
“Their leaders, Inness and the Irishman—they defied my orders and paroled French prisoners,” Mercadier said with a shrug. “They’re to be hung for that.”
Marshall swore under his breath. No wonder the Invalids had rebelled.
“Release them into my custody, general. The siege here is done. You have your victory and are no doubt the richer for it. I’ll march them and the Invalids back to Château Gaillard and let the King decide what to do with them.”
“You have no authority here,” Mercadier said flatly.
“Perhaps not, but consider this. Richard personally knighted both of the men you wish to hang. He has a fatherly interest in them as does Earl Ranulf—as do I. I believe there are those who might feel hanging to be excessive in this case.”
Mercadier locked eyes with Marshall for a long moment, then turned away. Marshall knew the Gascon to be a headstrong man, but cagey. He waited as the mercenary considered the choice before him—release the two after swearing to hang them and his reputation might suffer with his own men. His mercenaries were, after all, used to their commander’s unflinchingly harsh justice. But hang them and his English paymasters might turn on him.
Marshall waited patiently.
Would it be money or reputation? He wondered.
The mercenary general turned back to the Earl with a sly smile.
“What is your English expression, Marshall—carrot or stick? You’ve threatened me with the stick, but is there no carrot?”
So it would be money.
“I’ll buy Inness and O’Duinne from you, general—fifty marks each.” It was a generous offer.
Mercadier sniffed at that.
“I’ll give them to you for a hundred marks each, Marshall, and you should consider that a gift after the trouble they’ve caused. That is my price for letting these two men free.”
Marshall scowled. It was far more than the usual ransom price for two virtually landless knights, but he had no wish to haggle. He had not forgot what these two young men had meant to him and the King’s cause during the dark days of John’s rebellion. That was a debt that had never truly been repaid. He sighed.
He would not let them hang.
“Done,” he said quietly.
“Good! Good! Now collect these damned mutinous Englishmen and get them out of my sight.”
Marshall bowed his head.
“As you wish, General.”
***
With a deal struck, Marshall marched up the hill. The Invalids’ line parted to let him through and he ordered the guards at the gaol to stand aside. They did not know who he was, but his dress and his manner marked him as a nobleman in a foul mood and one used to being obeyed. So they stepped back without protest and let him enter the roofless barn. Seeing the Earl, Roland and Declan leapt to their feet. Marshall’s face was a mask of stony silence as he beckoned for the two young knights to follow him. They scrambled to obey. As they hurried to catch up, one of the prisoners shook his head.
“Never saw two lads in such a hurry to go to their hanging!” he said, and there was a murmur of agreement among the remaining inmates.
Halfway down the hill William Marshall whirled about and pointed an accusing finger at Roland.
“You have caused a great deal of trouble here!” he spat out.
Roland started to speak, but Marshall cut him off.
“Save it for the King,” he snapped. “He will want an explanation of why his vaunted Invalid Company stood to arms against his own forces and it had best be a good one. Now mount your men and make ready to ride.”
***
The sun was setting as the weary column reached the village of Les Andelys, nestled below the mighty fortress of Château Gaillard. Marshall summoned a quartermaster from the town and ordered him to find lodgings for the Invalids. With no word to Roland or Declan he rode up the switchback that connected the village to the castle on the ridge and disappeared over a hillock.
“What do ye think the King will do with us?” Declan asked as they followed a groom toward the stables.
Roland shrugged.
“I don’t know, Dec. Maybe he’ll hang us himself.”
Judgement at Château Gaillard
They were summoned to the castle after breakfast and rode in silence up the steep road to the main gate. Despite the air of dread that hung over him, Roland could not help but marvel at the design of the King’s new fortress. It was perched at the end of a rocky spur that jutted out from a high plateau rising three hundred feet above the Seine. Sheer white limestone cliffs on the west side of the spur dropped down to the banks of the Seine. An outer curtain wall sat atop those cliffs, then swung around the narrow northern tip of the ridge and up the eastern side. Both the northern and eastern approaches were protected by steep slopes.
Overtopping the outer curtain wall was an inner wall of unusual construction. This wall had no flat surfaces, being built as a series of convex arcs joined together like a chain of connected round towers. A square keep was set inside this high inner wall and backed up to the sheer cliffs on the river side of the spur.
The entrance to the entire complex was through a triangular outer work situated at the far southern end of th
e fortress where the spur widened and connected the narrow ridge to the broader plateau. Here, with no cliffs or steep slopes for protection, a dry moat was being excavated into the limestone of the ridge.
Roland and Declan left their horses in a pen outside the main gate and proceeded on foot, crossing the bridge over the half-dug dry moat and entering the arched passageway of the gatehouse. As impressive as the design of the castle was, its construction was not yet complete. Passing through the gatehouse, Roland saw that the huge oak doors had not yet been set on their hinges and the iron-clad portcullis leaned against the inner wall of the redoubt, not yet hung.
A guard stood just inside the gatehouse waiting to escort them. He led them across a small courtyard and through a second arched passageway that opened on to another dry moat spanned by a drawbridge that linked the triangular bastion to the castle proper. As they crossed the bridge and entered another arched passageway leading to the castle’s outer bailey, they had to step around a handful of carpenters hard at work hammering together what looked to be the windlass that would eventually be mounted in the small gate tower and used to draw up this inner bridge when needed. Declan gawked at the elaborate defences of the place.
“Makes Carrickfergus Castle look like one of our wee Irish raths!” he declared.
Roland had to agree. He’d been held prisoner in Sir John de Courcy’s stone fortress in the north of Ireland for over a week and had found it formidable enough, but this! Château Gaillard was a true masterpiece of engineering.
Passing through the curtain wall, they emerged into the outer bailey. This would normally have been home to storehouses, barracks, and other auxiliary buildings essential to the maintenance of the garrison, but at present the space was taken up with construction material and workers.
Stacks of wood beams filled a quarter of the open space and a huge pile of cut stone blocks took up an equal portion on the opposite side of the bailey. A tower built of heavy oak timbers stood next to the eastern wall. It supported a projecting wooden beam where an elaborate pulley system was affixed. At the base of the tower men turned a windlass lifting a stone block up to masons who were completing a final portion of the curtain wall. The entire fortress fairly buzzed with enterprise as the two young knights marched toward their audience with the King.