by Wayne Grant
More worrisome to the men inside than the boom of the impact was a splintering sound near one of the heavy iron hinges. Sir John stepped in close to inspect the damage as the ram slammed into the gate for a second time. Close observation was not needed now to see that left side of the gate was tearing loose from the hinge.
”Won’t hold much longer,” Sir John called up to where Roland and Declan were crouched on the wall walk watching the efficient French attack unfold. Declan leaned over and whispered to him.
“They’re very good, these French.”
Roland nodded.
“Very good, “ he agreed, “and very sure of themselves.”
“With good reason,” Declan said.
The ram slammed into the gate again and the timbers groaned. Roland slapped Declan on the shoulder.
“Let’s give them some second thoughts.”
***
King Philip slid off his white charger and handed the reins to an aide as he went to stand beside his mercenary general on the island in the middle of the Seine.
“How long?” the King asked.
“Not long, your grace,” Cadoc replied. “Even at this distance, you can see the door on the right is almost off its hinges. As soon as it’s breached, I’ll send in the infantry.”
Philip nodded and looked up at the magnificent fortress that overlooked the town. He’d seen sketches of the thing supplied by the few spies Beauvais had managed to place among the workers at Les Andelys, but this was his first glimpse of the actual structure.
“Mon Dieu,” he muttered in awe.
The castle was magnificent. Built with blocks of white limestone quarried from the very ridge upon which it sat, Château Gaillard sparkled in the first rays of dawn. The sight took the King’s breath away. He’d heard Richard’s pointed response to his own boast about taking this castle. The man had sworn he would hold Gaillard against the French, even if its walls were made of butter. A small smile flickered across Philip’s face as the ram crashed once more against the river gate. He was about to make Richard eat those words.
“Butter, indeed,” he said grimly.
“Your grace?” Cadoc asked, puzzled.
“It’s nothing, Cadoc. My spies say the main gate of the castle has not yet been hung and the drawbridge from the gate bastion to the outer bailey will not raise. Get us through the town, General, and Gaillard will fall into our hands!”
“Of course, your grace. It will be soon. The ram is doing its work.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the river gate suddenly swung open and a score of men burst out. Those few sappers who did not instantly flee, were cut down. The Genoese crossbowmen could not shoot for fear of hitting their own men as the enemy swarmed over the ram. Cadoc watched in horror as the crossbowmen fled back across the bridge and the ram was quickly hauled through the gate. As the gate slammed shut once more, Cadoc turned toward the King who fixed him with a cold stare.
“Your grace,” he began, but the King cut him off.
“I pay you well, General, perhaps too well if you cannot breach a simple timber gate and take a town defended by a hundred men!”
***
The Invalids sent up a small cheer as the French ram rolled in through the river gate, but Roland did not take time to savour this small victory. He climbed back up to the wall walk to watch for the next move the French would make. He hadn’t long to wait.
Across the northern span of the bridge, a second ram came rolling toward the river gate. Close behind, came scores of infantry ready to protect the ram and the sappers from another sally by the town’s defenders. To the rear came the Genoese crossbowmen and the French heavy cavalry, still galled by their rout at the bridge and eager to redeem their honour.
Roland slid down and looked at Declan shaking his head.
“That didn’t take long,” he said dryly.
“Aye, and they’ll not let us steal another of their toys,” Declan added. “So what now?”
Roland drew his short sword.
“We give them another surprise.”
***
The river gate splintered on the third blow from the ram, the left door flying off its hinges. The sappers hauled the ram out of the shattered entrance and a squad of infantry cautiously stepped through the gap. The first man took a longbow shaft in his gut, which sent the trailing men ducking back through the gate. More men came up and forced open the right door, which still hung on its hinges. The way cleared, Cadoc ordered the sappers and the infantry out of the way and turned to the young nobleman who commanded the heavy cavalry.
“Now is your chance, sir. Do not fail us again!”
The man raised his sword in a swift salute then wheeled his big warhorse around to face his men. He barked out a terse command and three hundred swords flashed in the early morning sun. The men needed no encouragement from their commander as he ordered them forward. The young noblemen, so bloodied the night before, thundered forward, bursting through the river gate of Les Andelys, bellowing their war cries and thirsting for vengeance.
As the cavalry poured into the town, they met no resistance. The street that led up from the river to the centre of town lay empty, save for a hasty barricade that blocked it two hundred yards to the front. The absence of any sign of the enemy was unnerving and the commander reined in, raising his arm to signal an end to the headlong charge. The riders, their broadswords drawn, moved cautiously up the street. Save for the jingle of their harness and the squeak of their leather saddles, the town was eerily quiet.
The men they’d faced the night before had surprised them at the bridge and as they walked their horses forward they cast anxious glances at the buildings that fronted the road on either side. A hundred yards into the town, their caution proved justified as a thick rope, concealed in the dirt of the road flew up in front of the lead riders. On the rooftops above the street, hidden hands hauled the rope up and back toward the river gate.
A few men ducked in time, but a half dozen of the lead riders did not and were unhorsed, landing hard on the packed earth of the road, their mounts bolting up the road only to stop and mill about before the barricade there. Distracted by the men on the rooftop, the remaining riders were not prepared for the sudden onslaught at street level as scores of men burst out of buildings on either side of the road and attacked the halted column of cavalry.
A charge by heavy cavalry was a thing to freeze the blood in a man’s veins. The huge warhorses were covered in the finest mail and the high-born men who rode them were taught to fight from horseback from early childhood. The sheer impact of tons of armoured horseflesh coming at a full gallop was irresistible. But take away the cavalry’s speed and momentum and their advantage begins to wane. Bunched up and standing still in the narrow street of Les Andelys, the French once more found themselves in a desperate fight.
***
A mounted knight hacked at Roland who dodged the blow and grabbed the man’s wrist, yanking him out of the saddle. The Frenchman hit the ground hard, but rolled away as Roland thrust his short sword at his exposed neck. Like a cat, the Frenchman sprang to his feet, his broadsword still in hand. Seeing he had the advantage of reach with his long blade, the knight moved in.
This was not the first broadsword Roland had faced in battle and while the weapon had its advantages, it had its weaknesses as well. Its very length made it unwieldy in close quarters. It was practically useless in the front ranks of a shield wall, where Roland’s short sword could do more damage. But on open ground, there was only one way for a man with a short blade to prevail.
Roland lunged toward the Frenchman, stepping inside the arc of the man’s long blade. The knight, realizing the danger, lurched backwards, but not quickly enough as Roland brought his short blade up and found the gap in the mail beneath the man’s armpit. The blade slid in piercing the man’s lung. Roland ripped it free as the knight toppled backwards.
All around him the Invalids were dragging men off their mounts and swarming
over the unhorsed knights. Over a score of Frenchmen had gone down in the surprise assault, but hundreds more were backed up in the column. Their young leader, resplendent in glittering mail and mounted on a true giant of a horse, shouted out orders and the French knights dismounted and moved forward, forming up into solid lines as they came.
Roland raised an arm and on one of the rooftops, Sergeant Billy blew a long note on a hunting horn. As one, the Invalids disengaged and fled back into the buildings on both sides, leaving a half dozen of their own lying dead alongside a score of Frenchmen. The last man through each door slammed it shut and rammed home whatever bolt was there. It would not stop the French for long, but long enough for the Invalids to slip out the rear of the buildings and into the alleyways that ran behind the row of structures fronting the river road.
***
When the French broke down the doors, they found the buildings empty.
“Merde!” the young French commander cursed.
This English enemy seemed to appear and disappear like fog on the river. But Les Andelys was not large and these English could not run and hide forever. The French commander called his lieutenants together. He dispatched a third of his men into the alleyways running behind the buildings on either side of the river road. He would not be surprised by attacks on his flanks again. The rest he led cautiously up the main road toward the barricade. When they reached the barrier, they found it undefended.
The commander sent word back to the trailing infantry to clear the barrier from the road and for squires to come tend the horses. He led his own men forward on foot now. Swarming over the deserted barricade, they could see the town square a little ways on. It looked empty. He made a hand signal and two men moved out ahead of the column to scout for danger.
He would not let these English surprise him again.
***
The Grey thundered into Neufchatel at a full gallop, its flanks white with sweat. As Bertrand reached the first outpost of the English army encamped there, two guards raised their lances to challenge him. He reined in the big gelding and leapt from the saddle.
“I bring urgent news for King Richard!” he barked. “The French are assaulting Château Gaillard!”
The two guards looked at each other.
“You’ve come from the castellan?” the senior man asked.
“The castellan is a fool,” Bertrand replied. “I come on the orders of Sir Roland Inness, commander of the Invalid Company.”
The guards looked at Bertrand sceptically. The rider had not brought a proper message, nor was he dressed like most of the couriers who came and went regularly from the English camp. This would not be the first time some self-important local had ridden up to their post demanding to see the King. But something in the man’s manner gave them pause. The senior man rubbed his chin.
“Go tell Earl Marshall what the man claims,” he ordered his fellow guard. “Let the Marshall decide what’s to be done.”
A Debt of Honour
“Damn the infantry!” the King roared. “I want every mounted man in this camp on the road—now! The foot must shift for themselves!”
William Marshall did not flinch from Richard’s anger.
“As you wish, your grace,’ he said, calmly, “but they’ll be a full day’s march behind us when we reach Les Andelys. I think the French might be hoping for that.”
“Damn the French and damn the infantry, I say!” the King raged, his face red. “I will not have Philip planting his fat ass in my castle—I won’t!”
Richard swung around to point an accusing finger at Ranulf.
“The rider’s message came from Sir Roland Inness, my lord. How do you explain that?”
“He’s their leader,” Ranulf shot back, “no matter who we name to command! Perhaps you’d prefer we wait for a message to arrive from your castellan, your grace. From him we’ve heard nothing!”
“Mandeville’s untested,” the King said, defensively.
“Mandeville’s an ass,” Marshall blurted, “and as for Inness, if any man can organize the defence until we arrive, it’s him.”
The King scowled at him, but then nodded.
“Then let’s not keep the man waiting,” he said, and put the spurs to his magnificent stallion.
***
Roland looked at his men slumped beneath the portico of their barracks and counted heads. Eleven were missing. Some, like Patch, were lost in the defence of the bridge and others in the melee on the river street. The remainder, having fought two pitched battles since midnight, had made a hasty retreat to their rally point at the barracks east of the town square. All were bone weary.
Eleven men gone—just a number. Roland scanned the exhausted men and tried to sort out who had been lost, but his search was cut short as Jamie Finch appeared from his lookout post at the head of the river street.
“They’re coming slow, lord, but steady. They’ll reach the square right soon.”
Roland nodded and motioned for Declan and Sir John Blackthorne to join him.
“We’ve used the town as best we could,” he said. “We’ll not surprise them again. It’s time we moved the lads up to the castle.”
Blackthorne turned to Finch.
“Have we time enough to saddle our horses, Jamie?”
Finch didn’t speak. He just shook his head.
Blackthorne frowned.
“That’s a long run up the switchback road on foot,” he said, “particularly as a half dozen of the lads are missing a leg. If the French bring up their horses, they could catch our boys in the open.”
“Aye, that’s a worry,” Roland agreed. “I’ll want a half dozen volunteers to stay behind and slow them at the east gate. And, Sir John, they’ll all volunteer I’m sure, so find me men who might have a chance of outrunning a warhorse on a steep grade.”
That brought a laugh out of the normally serious John Blackthorne.
“Well, that will eliminate Sergeant Billy!”
***
As the French entered the town square of Les Andelys, the Invalids made their way out of the east gate, heading up the long switchback road toward the castle at a run. By now the sun was halfway to its peak and taking the chill from the air. As they ran, men with two legs helped those with but one and others pulled along men too exhausted to keep up. Behind them, the half dozen volunteers wrestled wooden beams into place to jam shut the east gate from the outside.
Seeing there was no good way to defend the town wall from the outside, Roland sent these men on up the road while he and Declan clambered up the beams braced against the gate to get a view back toward the town square. The street to their front was now fairly filled with dismounted French cavalry, all of them moving toward the east gate. As they watched, squires leading strings of horses appeared in the square and men started to mount.
“That’s trouble,” Declan said.
Roland had fetched his spare bow from the barracks and nocked an arrow. His first shot struck a knight in the eye. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Those among the French who had shields raised them and those without moved hastily out of the centre of the road, slinking along in the shadows of the buildings on either side.
Still, Roland found targets aplenty and Frenchmen continued to fall as they advanced toward the gate. Between shots, he turned and looked up the hill. The Invalids were still plainly visible, strung out in a ragged column running for their lives up the slope. Turning back, he saw the French were now only a hundred paces from the barred gate and some were carrying ladders scavenged from workmen’s shops.
“More trouble,” Declan said.
Roland turned once more and was relieved to see that only his half dozen volunteers were still visible on the road behind him. The rest of the company had now passed over a low hillock and were out of sight. From there, he knew they had a decent chance of reaching the castle bastion ahead of any pursuit. He turned to Declan.
“Time to run, I think,” he said.
Declan did not r
eply as they both leapt down from their perches above the east gate and turned toward the castle road. Up the hill ahead of them they saw Jamie Finch shouting something and pointing to the north. Roland turned and his heart sank. A score of French cavalry were rounding the northeast corner of the walled town and coming toward them at a gallop. Declan muttered a curse in Gaelic.
“Went out the west gate and rode north around the whole damned town to get at us,” he said with a touch of admiration in his voice.
There would be no outrunning the mounted men who were rapidly closing on them. Roland and Declan stopped and turned back to back, waiting.
“You remember Sir Roger’s story, the one he told of how he and Sir Alwyn fought off a dozen Welshmen in just this fashion?” Declan asked as he swung his broadsword from side to side, watching the French cavalry close in.
“Aye,” Roland said over his shoulder, “but the Welshmen had no mail and no warhorses and I count twenty-two of these Frenchmen.”
“And they look very angry,” Declan added as the riders bore down on them. After a long pause he spoke again.
“Promise me that next time, when the Earl says he wants us to go to France, you’ll say no.”
Roland nodded, though his friend couldn’t see him.
“Next time.”
***
The commander of the French cavalry had personally led this band of knights on the ride around the town of Les Andelys to cut off the English retreat. As they rounded the northeast corner of the wall, they saw no more than a half dozen men on the path leading up to the castle and these were disappearing around a bend in the switchback road. The young nobleman cursed to himself. He’d hoped to catch the lot of them on the road and to win back some of the prestige he and his men had lost in the night.
Off to his right, he saw two men running to catch up with those already on the switchback road. He spurred his big warhorse onward as he rode to cut them off. As he and his men drew near, the two stragglers stopped and turned back to back, waiting for the French horsemen. The French commander had to admire their courage, but he had his orders—no prisoners.