by Wayne Grant
Roland stood at the centre of the line with Declan next to him. Once Blackthorne’s men had joined their ranks, Roland knew there were no more orders to give or clever plans to devise. The time for both was past. Now he and Declan were just two more men holding on to a shrinking patch of courtyard. In the shield wall, a man’s world is reduced to the two or three men fighting beside him and the two or three men trying to kill him. If a man’s attention drifts, or he loses his footing or his nerve, he will die.
The two young knights leaned into their shields, their eyes searching for targets. Roland slid his short sword over the top and opened a man’s cheek just as an unseen blow glanced off his helmet stunning him. In that instant his shield dropped no more than a hand’s breadth, just enough for a crossbow bolt fired from the wall above to find its way through. It struck Roland just below the collar bone, the bodkin head of the quarrel spreading the links of his mail coat and driving into his flesh.
The impact made him stagger and fall backwards leaving a gap in the English line. A brave Frenchman lunged into the opening, and was killed for his trouble by a quick thrust from Declan’s broadsword. The Irish knight tried to turn and see to his fallen friend, but more Frenchmen were surging toward the opening in the line. Behind him, Brother Cyril cried out at the sight of their young commander struck down. He leapt forward, grabbing Roland by one arm and dragging him back from the shield wall. He laid him next to Seamus Murdo, picked up a shield, and ran to plug the gap in the line.
Still the French came.
***
Down by the Seine, Gaspar Foucault picked at a piece of meat stuck between his teeth as he leaned against the railing of the bridge. The faint sounds of battle coming from the castle on the ridge swelled then died then grew again. Foucault looked up that way shaking his head.
“Wish you were up there, eh, Jerome?” he said with a snicker to the second guard stationed at the south end of the bridge.
Jerome was half of Gaspar’s age and flushed at the older man’s words. He started to answer, but bit back his words. He knew Gaspar would mock him as always if he answered honestly. He did wish he was up there with his comrades attacking the great castle of the English king.
He’d spent the better part of a year on garrison duty at Dreux and had been excited when King Philip had called them up to join this new campaign. Now he found himself idly guarding this bridge while his friends across the river were winning glory! He looked at the small squad of men still collecting the dead bodies from the previous night’s fight and thought his duty was hardly better than theirs.
He knew his friends would return from the battle up the hill with all the swagger of veterans and stories to tell the tavern girls back in Dreux, while he would have nothing to boast of beyond keeping watch on an empty road. He glanced longingly up at the castle then turned away. He heard a man shout and saw the burial detail bolt into the nearby woods. Puzzled, he looked up the road.
It was no longer empty.
***
Eighty armoured knights, all that could be scraped together from Evreux and Vaudreuil, reached the bridge at a full gallop. The two guards posted on the southern end of the structure stood frozen to the spot until the English were nearly on top of them, then both leapt over the railing and into the Seine. Baldwin did not turn aside to notice if they sank or swam.
With a sound like rolling thunder, the great warhorses rumbled over the southern span of the bridge and onto the island at midstream. The guard post there was unmanned and the English charge never slackened as they whipped their horses onto the northern span. Ahead Baldwin saw two more guards, pointing and gaping at the oncoming riders. They tried vainly to close the river gate of Les Andelys, but the doors had been ripped from their hinges by the French ram and not yet repaired.
The charge rolled through the gate, up the river street of Les Andelys and into the town square that was choked with the supply and baggage trains of Philip’s army. Baldwin did not stop to take stock of this treasure. His infantry, which was hot-footing it over the bridge behind him, could deal with the plunder. Baldwin of Bethune wanted only one thing—revenge.
***
The rider reined in before General Cadoc and the King of France in a cloud of dust.
“Your grace, the English! They are in the town!” he reported breathlessly.
Cadoc grabbed the young rider’s arm and snarled at him.
“You’re seeing things, boy!”
The rider shook his head.
“I swear, my lord. Mounted knights—lots of them. I saw them ride into the square!”
Cadoc shot a glance at the King who was looking anxiously at the small hillock that blocked their view of the town. Philip touched the flanks of his horse and had started down the switchback road before Cadoc could intercept him. The mercenary general whipped his horse to catch up and snatched the bridal of the King’s horse and forced the animal to halt.
“Your grace, I will go,” he said and it was spoken as a command, not a request. For the French king to risk his own person was foolish and Cadoc was not about to let his generous patron ride into harm’s way. With the King stopped, Cadoc spurred his horse down the road and reined in as it crested the hill.
Below, he saw heavy cavalry emerging from the east gate of the town and starting up the road toward the castle. At least sixty riders were in view, but he could not guess how many might still be hidden from sight in the town. Worse, he saw the bridge over the Seine was filled with marching infantry. Somehow an English army had materialized out of thin air to strike them in the rear. He jerked his reins and spun his horse around, galloping back up the hill.
Philip saw his trusted general whipping his horse up the hill and knew the news must be bad. As the man reined in next to him, the King slapped his gloves on his thigh in frustration.
“Has Richard now grown wings, Cadoc?” he lamented.
“It’s not Richard, your grace. I recognized the banner.”
“Who then?” the King demanded.
“Bethune, your grace. Baldwin of Bethune.”
***
An army may be hard like a diamond, but if struck at just the right point, it will shatter. Such was the fate of the French at Château Gaillard. As Baldwin and his eighty knights crested the hillock driving their tired horses forward, the French infantry caught sight of them. Those who had faced heavy cavalry in the open did not wait for orders. They broke and ran.
As the panic spread, whole formations scattered off the road and ran for their lives. Men still clambering up the scaling ladders looked down the hill in disbelief and began scrambling back down.
Philip did not try to rally them. At Cadoc’s insistence, the King was surrounded by his personal guard and escorted up to the plateau above Gaillard, then off to the east toward Gisors and safety. To his credit, the mercenary general tried to salvage what he could. He ordered a trumpeter to sound the recall and sent an aide to warn the men still fighting within the bastion of the danger. Baldwin and his knights were no more than a hundred yards from him when he finally fled up the plateau and followed the King off toward the east in the gathering darkness.
***
Inside the southern bastion, the men of the Invalid Company sensed an ebbing of the French onslaught. Behind the front ranks of the enemy a ripple of panic began to spread. From outside the walls, trumpets sounded and men, who a moment before had been hurling themselves at the shield wall, started to back away.
Those in the rear turned and made for the archway only to be turned back by a big man on a warhorse charging through the splintered gate and slashing to his left and right with his broadsword. More mounted men followed and terror spread through the French infantry stranded within the small courtyard. Some managed to get to the top of the wall and flee down the scaling ladders. But for most of the French troops still trapped in the bastion, there was no place to run. They threw down their weapons and surrendered
Brother Cyril and Declan lowered their shields and
rushed back to see to Roland. The commander of the Invalids was bleeding badly, but had managed to sit up.
“My lord!” Cyril cried, “we must find you a surgeon!”
“There are none that I know of in this place, Cyril,” Roland said quietly. He looked down at the eight inches of crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. “It had to be a bodkin head to pierce the mail,” he said. “Should come out readily enough.”
With that, he reached up with his right hand, clenched his teeth and pulled. The quarrel slid out, its head intact and red with blood. Where it exited his chest, blood now ran freely, making his mail coat glitter in the flickering torch light. He held the bloody shaft over his head and grinned in triumph.
Then he fainted.
.
Requiem for the Fallen
It was full dark when King Richard led his exhausted warhorse through the ruptured gate of Château Gaillard. He and his relief force had fought until long after sunset and had only broken the French resistance at the ridge as night fell. Scores of men, scions of the noble houses of France, lay dead on the bluffs above the valley of the River Andelle and a like number of English knights lay beside them—the price that had been paid to clear the road. The French had finally broken after the man who commanded them fell. The King did not know the man’s name, but he saluted the corpse of Simon de Dammartin as he passed by.
The English relief column was met at the west gate of Les Andelys by men from the garrison at Vaudreuil who proudly assured them that the town and castle were safely in English hands. As they rode through the town, a few torches illuminated the way. Bodies could be seen lying where they had fallen during the battle.
Bertrand Dieupart peeled off from the column of exhausted riders and walked The Grey to the stables near the barracks. He’d find a bag full of grain and a bucket of spring water for the gelding that had run for an entire day and night.
Richard led his tired men up the long switchback to the main gate, then dismounted to cross the beams the French engineers had laid across the dry moat. Marshall and Ranulf climbed down from their own mounts and followed the King over the crude bridge. Beneath them the moat was clogged with the bodies of the French. As they emerged into the courtyard, the King stopped in his tracks.
Against the far wall, two score English dead lay in neat rows. The badly wounded lay everywhere, being tended to as best they could by their comrades. The King turned to Ranulf, tears in his eyes.
“Send a man to Rouen. I want every surgeon in the city here before morning!”
Ranulf nodded and relayed the King’s order to an aide who hurried to comply. At the sight of the King, exhausted men hauled themselves to their feet. Baldwin of Bethune, Count of Aumale, strode across the courtyard to greet his liege lord. Before the man could speak, Richard wrapped him in a fierce embrace.
“Baldwin…” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion, “how?”
The Count stepped back, his own eyes brimming. For a moment, words stuck in his throat. He coughed, embarrassed to be making such a display before his old friend and sovereign.
“The Queen,” he said simply. “I came on her orders, but it’s the men here,” he added, sweeping his arm to encompass the living, the dead and the wounded in the courtyard, “who saved your castle and mayhaps the war, Richard. I’ve not seen the like of it before.”
Richard nodded as he looked at Blakemore’s craftsmen and the men of the Invalid Company.
“Nor have I, Baldwin. Nor have I. I don’t know how I can repay them.”
Earl Ranulf, who had hung back as the King greeted his old friend stepped forward and whispered something to Richard. The King nodded.
“I’ll see to it, my lord.”
Richard was turning to Marshall to confer on how to deploy their troops when a noisy commotion erupted in the archway that led from the southern bastion to the middle bailey of the castle proper. The small garrison there had hauled wooden planks into position to span the ditch where the burnt drawbridge had stood and Sir Robert Mandeville now hurried into the courtyard. He rushed to the King and bowed deeply.
“Your grace, praise God you’ve come!” he declared breathlessly. “It’s been hard fighting, but we held the bastards off. Your castle is safe!”
The King’s face flushed. He looked at the exhausted and blood-stained men barely staying on their feet in the courtyard, then back at his castellan who hardly had a hair out of place. He slapped Mandeville across the face sending the man reeling backwards until he tripped and fell on his backside.
“Your grace!” the man wailed.
“You, sir, are a disgrace,” the King snarled. He turned to Marshall. “Have this coward locked up, William.”
Marshall sent two of his knights to take Mandeville into custody. Chief Engineer Alfred Blakemore spat on the ground as he watched the castellan being dragged off.
With nothing left for a king to do, Richard took a last look around the courtyard. There were heaps of French infantry lying dead there, a tribute to the bravery of their enemy. The King turned toward the corner where the Invalid Company had made its final stand. With tears in his eyes, he raised his great broadsword in salute to the living and the dead gathered there, then strode out of the ruined gate.
***
With the King’s departure, Declan ordered a hasty muster of the men. Sergeant Billy called the roll of the Invalid Company and reported twenty-four dead, forty-eight wounded and one missing.
“It’s Henry Mayfair, sir,” Butler said of the missing man. “They think he fell into the river while we were defendin’ the bridge. He might a made it out, some ways downstream.”
“Could he swim?” Declan asked.
Sergeant Billy shook his head sadly.
“No. His mates say no, but maybe he floated. We can always hope, can’t we?”
“Aye, Billy. We can do that much,” he said. “And Roland will want to see the names once he’s able.”
“How does he fare?”
“Cyril stopped the bleeding and thinks he will live.”
“Well thank the good Lord for that,” said Billy as he handed over a rolled-up piece of parchment. “I had Sir John write the names down for me.”
Declan unfurled the parchment and started down the list, but stopped, disheartened.
“With our losses at Gamaches we’re down to a third of our strength,” Declan said wearily. “It feels like a defeat.”
Sergeant Billy snorted at that.
“Tell it to the French.”
***
By first light, the surgeons began to arrive from Rouen and immediately began to work on the most grievously wounded. Seamus Murdo had survived the night thanks to his bull-like constitution and Brother Cyril’s efforts, but he was pale as a ghost by the time John Clement, the King’s own surgeon, went to work on him. The quarrel lodged in the big man’s leg had a barbed head that took the surgeon until midmorning to remove.
Clement took Cyril aside and gave his opinion on the big Scot’s recovery.
“Not likely to live,” he whispered. “I’ve done what I can, but he’s lost too much blood.”
“He’s a strong man,” Cyril countered.
Clement shook his head as he wiped bloody hands on his apron.
“I’ve seen men his size die of much less,” he said with finality and walked away.
Declan had stayed by Roland’s side during the night, spelling Brother Cyril who was tending to Murdo. By the time Clement saw him the gash was barely seeping blood. The white-haired surgeon examined the gash below the collarbone carefully, then ordered Roland to sit up and cough.
“Spit!” he ordered and Roland managed to find enough liquid in his dry mouth to deposit a glob on the ground. Clement poked at it with a bony finger, spreading it around, then held up the digit to the morning light.
“No blood in his spit,” he announced, “so it missed the lung. If it don’t fester, he’ll live.”
Clement reached into a large bag and rummaged ar
ound, finally drawing forth a flask of honey. He smeared it on the wound and laid a piece of fresh linen over the opening.
“Tie that up and change the linen every few days,” he instructed. “If it starts to stink, cauterize it with a hot iron. The rest is in God’s hands.”
***
By noon, all of the wounds had been tended to and the injured were moved into a small barracks building inside the bastion to get out of the sun. As night fell, Roland grew feverish. Cyril sniffed at the wound but it didn’t smell foul. All through the night, he and Declan brought cloths soaked in cool well water to lay across his forehead. As they waited for dawn, Cyril prayed steadily for God to intervene.
At first light Roland sat up and groaned, but managed a feeble smile.
“Water,” he croaked through dry lips. “And food,” he added.
Cyril touched his head and pronounced the fever gone.
“The power of prayer!” the little monk proclaimed.
“And cool well water,” Declan replied.
“Help me up,” Roland said, and the two men each grasped an arm and tried, as gently as possible, to help their friend up. He stood, a little wobbly at first, but soon seemed to steady himself. He looked at Declan and Cyril.
“We must see to our dead,” he said.
“Aye,” said Declan. “Sergeant Billy has made the arrangements. The men will be gathering soon. We weren’t sure if you’d be well enough.”
Roland nodded and felt himself sway slightly. He laid a hand on Declan’s shoulder.
“I’ll have to be,” he said.
***
Declan led Roland out into the courtyard where the Invalids were gathering. Those that could walk followed their young leader through the broken gate and up a narrow path to the plateau overlooking the fortress. From here, Château Gaillard and a great stretch of the Seine valley could be seen. It was a good spot to lay men to rest and, in the rocky soil, twenty-four graves had been dug. Standing over them, Brother Cyril cleared his throat.
“Our Lord,” he began quietly, “said greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. These were our comrades, and good men all. They died among friends. May they now be at peace.”