Gilbert nodded as he shouted down, ‘Welcome to Rochester my Lord, a little respect for your elders wouldn’t go amiss,’ he raised his eyebrows in mock chastisement, ‘we’ll talk later....follow the road to the castle.’
Henry raised a hand in salute and nudged his horse forward. Several of his knights followed suit by acknowledging Gilbert as he watched the column enter the city before ordering the gates shut and barred.
Inside the city walls, the atmosphere was thick and oppressive; the normal hustle and bustle of a main centre of commerce was absent. People with fearful faces stared through doorways as the knights rode past, shoulders low as they relaxed after hours in the saddle. The snorting and heavy breathing of the horses, blown from their long ride mixed with the jangling of steel as weapons and armour rattled together. The route through the city on the old Roman road led to the bridge, but before that was a cross roads that severed the ancient highway.
Henry knew a runner would have been dispatched by Gilbert as soon as he had been identified. In normal circumstances a reception would have been hastily organised, but Henry knew the man in charge very well both as an antagonist and as a friend and such protocol would be ignored.
He and his men rode slowly along the road past the low thatched houses that clustered together on both sides. Wood smoke filled the air and the clang of a blacksmiths anvil rang out across the roofs like a death knell for the city. At the cross roads the riders arrived at the market place which, compared to normal times was almost deserted. To his right Henry could see the north gate, and to his left the road led to the Cathedral and the south gate. Ahead of him the road west contained a straggle of people on foot and in carts making their way towards the bridge to cross the river; pilgrims, merchants, and families who had decided to leave the city before the firestorm of siege arrived.
Henry and his Knights were silent as their horses continued to slosh their way through the mud and puddles still on the ground, soaked after two days of heavy rain. Mid April and the sun struggled to break through the bleak clouds. The Kings nephew looked up at the sky. The weather seemed to be reflecting the state of the country as a whole, a country in the middle of a civil war.
Nature appeared to mimic the mood of the people; hungry and repressed. Henry believed they needed a victory, believing even the most down trodden peasant would cheer for a royal victory that would bring calm, although the people might have said a good harvest would have been preferred!
He rode past a priest, his black habit splashed with mud. He was hunched over a young boy and systematically thrashing him with a piece of birch. The boy, squirming in the mud at the side of the road struggled and yelled as the thin stick struck him on the back and the head. The stick was raised and swept down again and again, and with each strike the priest yelled, ‘Thief!’
Before Henry could do or say anything the knight riding next to him reined in his horse and stopped. Henry followed suit and glanced to his right to see the knight looking back at the boy. The column of men and horses behind came to an abrupt halt and the knight looked at Henry, ‘A moment my Lord.’
Henry looked resigned at what was about to happen but still felt something had to be said,
‘What are you doing Ranulf?’
‘My duty,’ replied Ranulf. He looked at the men behind him and they all watched, equally as resigned as their leader.
He turned his horse towards the priest who, due to the intensity of the thrashing he was giving the child was unaware of the line of knights staring down at him. He grunted and cursed when Ranulf’s horse barged forward knocking him flying onto his side in the mud. The priest screamed and scrabbled to his knees, mud plastering one side of his face. He cursed and as he tried to stand, slipped and fell hard. The boy started to crawl away before stopping and looking up at the angry looking man mounted on the huge black horse towering above him and the priest.
The closeness of the horse forced the priest to remain where he was and he cowered, ‘I am a priest!’ he barked, ‘a priest!’
‘You’re a coward,’ replied Ranulf, ‘what has the boy done to you that you whip him so?’
‘He is a thief,’ the priest cried, ‘and God is punishing him.’
‘Stand up.’
‘What?’
‘I said stand up,’ demanded Ranulf as he drew his sword and pointed it at the priests face.
Henry watched and shook his head slowly as he pulled his horses head around so he was facing the scene, ‘Ranulf!’
‘A moment my Lord!’
As the priest stood, Ranulf placed the tip of his blade under the priest’s chin and applied pressure, forcing the priest to raise his head so he could look into his face, ‘What did he steal?’
The priest froze and spoke through gritted teeth as his eyes looked down at the blade pressed hard against his throat, ‘Bread.’
‘Bread?’
‘Bread from the church,’ said the priest, his eyes forced to one side, still staring hard at the steel blade, ‘it was the Bishop’s bread.’
Ranulf moved the blade away from the priest’s throat and tapped him on the side of the face with the flat side, ‘My apologies Father, for a moment I thought the transgression, the sin this hungry child had committed, was one our Lord Jesus Christ would have said was minor.’ Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as he turned the blade so the edge was pressed against the cheek of the priest who’s eyes grew wide with fear, ‘I didn’t realise he had committed the most horrific of sins, of stealing bread from the Bishop who I have no doubt is a fat bloated pig!’
‘He is a thief,’ the priest said meekly, ‘The law……’
The priest whimpered as Ranulf pressed the blade into the priest’s cheek, splitting the skin and allowing blood to seep out of the wound and dribble down onto his chin, ‘The law? God’s law or the law of men like you?’
‘Ranulf! Stop it!’
The priest breathed a sigh of relief as the blade was pulled away from his face. He looked up at Ranulf with fear in his eye, nodding vigorously when Ranulf ordered him, ‘Give the boy the bread.’
The priest reached under his habit and threw it down at the boy who snatched it up and bit into it hungrily.
‘All of it,’ demanded Ranulf.
The priest was confused, ‘That is all of it!’
Ranulf looked down at the boy who was busy stuffing the last piece of the bread in his mouth in case it was snatched away again. It had barely covered his tiny hands. He gripped his sword hard and pointed it in the priest’s face, ‘You whipped him for stealing that scrap?’
The priest stared at the sharp steel as he shied away from it, ‘I had no choice,’ his voice quaked with fear, ‘it is my duty to the church!’
‘It may be your duty to the church, but it is not your duty to God.’
‘RANULF….ENOUGH!
Ranulf turned towards Henry with a look of apology on his face, ‘A moment more my Lord,’ he turned back to the priest, ‘Go back to your hole, but if you touch this child again I swear I will scar you!’
The priest didn’t need telling again and he half ran, half stumbled as he made his way across the muddy road towards the Cathedral, clutching the small wound on the side of his face.
The line of knights watched with amusement, there was nothing more satisfying than a priest running scared. None of them liked priests; pious, greedy and hypocritical. It seemed every demand they made in the name of God was for their own good.
‘Have you finished?’
Ranulf looked around and saw a baker standing by his stall in the market place, ‘Almost, my Lord.’
Henry slumped in his saddle, a weary look on his face, ‘Make it fast, we have a war to fight.’
Ranulf sheathed his sword and looked down at the boy who sat huddled on the ground staring up at him with the look of a frightened deer, ‘Follow me.’
The boy watched quizzically as Ranulf pulled on his reins and nudged his horse into the market place and made his way slowly towards
the baker’s stall. An old lady stood huddled under a drab head scarf and handed over a coin for a few slices of bread before she scuttled away; fearfully glancing back at Ranulf. Grim faced men in mail always meant death.
Henry and his men sat motionless on their mounts, watching as Ranulf stopped directly in front of the baker, his horses head drooped above the stall breathing and dripping nasal moisture over the bread. The baker watched expressionless and the few people in the market place, customers and stall holders alike stopped to see what was unfolding.
The baker carefully moved the bread on his stall to avoid the horses dripping nose and looked up at the armoured man, ‘Do you want to buy some bread?’ He held the spoiled loaf.
Ranulf sat straight and looked at the baker who returned his stare with a look of disdain. Ranulf glanced down and found the boy had followed and now stood silently beside his right leg, ‘No, I don’t want bread; I want to know who this boy is.’
The baker looked at the boy and shrugged his shoulders, ‘He’s an orphan, mother died in childbirth a good ten years ago, father was Edwin, a fisherman, died a month or so back, drowned. Boy’s been begging since.’
‘And now he’s left to beg?’
‘Times are hard,’ claimed the baker, ‘people don’t want another mouth to feed.’
Ranulf stared stony faced at the baker, ‘Why don’t you take him in, I’m sure you can spare a crust.’
The baker looked down and shook his head before glaring at the horseman before him with a look of contempt, ‘I’ve got four daughters, why don’t you take him in?’
Ranulf looked round at Henry and the rest of the weary men, and as he looked down at the boy who stood shivering he thought back to the words of his mentor, ‘Every time you do a good thing, God will smile on you!’
He reached into the bag hanging from his saddle and pulled out a small pouch that jingled as he shook it. He threw it at the baker, ‘Aye, you’re right, times are hard. This is for your daughters and the boy.’
The baker stared at the pouch of coins that lay on his stall, glanced at the boy who stood waiting for these men to decide his fate and looked up at the knight.
‘Now you have a son,’ said Ranulf. He leant to one side and gave the boy a push.
The baker picked up the pouch and stared at the contents.
‘Don’t mistreat him,’ warned Ranulf. He turned his horse and made his way back to the column with the baker staring after him.
Henry leant on his pommel and made a face at Ranulf, ‘Can we get on with this war now?’
Ranulf looked at him and smiled, ‘After you my Lord.’
The column of weary men and horses continued towards the castle. As they rode through the gates into the outer bailey they were met by a flurry of activity as every able bodied man and woman within the walls rushed about moving weapons and stores into the inner bailey ready for removal into the safety of the Great Keep. At the top of the Great Keep four men stood, staring out at the four points of the compass, lookouts waiting to glimpse the first sight of the enemy who would try and seize this great bastion. Henry looked up at the huge building towering high into the heavens, and wondered at the marvel that men could build such a citadel.
‘Sir Henry!’ The booming voice of the Constable of the castle and High Sheriff of Kent, Roger de Leybourne forced Henry to turn his eyes back to the ground.
‘Sir Roger!’ Henry dismounted and strode towards the Constable and both men embraced, Henry grinned, ‘Looks like you’re expecting a fight.’
‘Aye,’ the Sheriff looked into the face of the young knight and glanced at his men who sat on their chargers watching the two men greet each other, ‘another siege on this fine city….only this time we are for the King….which Uncle do you side for, the traitor de Montfort, or the King of England?’
‘Fear not Sir Roger….I am my Uncle Henry’s man and we are here to fight for you and your city.’
‘And you are nobly welcome. By God’s grace and your help we shall prevail against the traitors,’ he nodded at the watching riders, ‘a fierce looking body of men.’
‘Indeed they are,’ said Henry casting an eye back over his men, ‘all weighed, blooded and trusted…..a thousand men like these and I could retake and hold Jerusalem for a hundred years.’
Sir Roger clapped Henry’s shoulder, ‘Well until that time they are welcome to fight and die here…..the castle must be held until the King arrives.’
‘And arrive he will,’ proclaimed Henry, ‘for am I not his favourite nephew?’
‘Let us pray he’s not too late,’ said Sir Roger, ‘as you can see, we are a little busy.’
Henry surveyed the scene as orders were being shouted. The sound of iron being pounded by the smiths came from the castle forges as they worked overtime to make arrowheads. A stream of people carried weapons and provisions into the castle, and the sounds of the animals as they were herded into the inner bailey for slaughter once the siege started mixed with the cacophony of noise. A cart loaded with arrow shafts arrived through the gates and he watched as men unloaded and carried them to the fletchers who were busy splitting the ends. They fitted them with newly forged steel barbed heads that would cause fearful injuries to the flesh, and spliced the feathers to ensure the flight was straight and true.
‘You and your men look tired.’
Henry nodded, ‘Aye, we travelled through the night to get here.’
‘Well, I’m pleased you are here,’ Sir Roger replied, ‘We weren’t expecting any more men to join us, the rebels control much of the southeast.’
‘We were headed north to meet up with the King,’ explained Henry, ‘until we heard that Rochester still stood and a siege was imminent.’
‘I’m grateful,’ Sir Roger pointed out a knight walking the west curtain wall that overlooked the river, ‘Once your men have rested and fed, tell them to report to the Earl of Surrey and he will appoint them to their duties.’
Henry followed Sir Rogers’s gaze, his eyes narrowed as he recognised the tall man, ‘John de Warenne! I trust he won’t be changing sides again?’
‘Such is the nature of these times and civil wars,’ said Sir Roger, ‘we all seem to change sides, do we not?’
Henry smiled and acquiesced, knowing the reference was to him. He had changed sides in the past, one year for the King and the next against him. The politics were intricate and complicated and a man could switch sides simply because one person said a wrong word. Henry knew his remark was unwarranted and could most easily have been referred to him, ‘Aye, we do Sir Roger, I think all men here have been on opposing sides at one time or another, at times our allegiance is not as it should be’.
‘True, but I trust him to fight for the King, as should you. Come with me, if you’re not too weary we’ll view it from the top, I want you to meet the garrison commander.’
Henry watched the Earl of Surrey checking the length of the wall overlooking the river. In these strange times men changed sides like the wind changed direction and it wasn’t uncommon for an army to cross to the enemy halfway through a battle. The Earl stopped and turned, as their eyes met Henry nodded and the Earl returned the gesture as he continued his check of the wall. Henry walked over to his men and gave orders for them to stable their horses and when they had rested, report to the Earl of Surrey for instructions before following Sir Roger towards the inner bailey and the Great Keep.
Ranulf watched Henry talk animatedly to Sir Roger as they entered the inner bailey. He glanced about; impressed with the enormity and sturdiness of the Keep and the castle. His experienced eye noted the efficient design created to prevent people entering. When Henry had first suggested riding to Rochester, Ranulf had been nervous. He had been involved in the siege of a city and castle before and the outcome was not what he had expected. Massacre, murder, rape and everything that he as a knight swore to fight against had been committed, and he had been on the side that committed it. But now, having seen the Keep, he started to think that
perhaps he was on the right side of the walls this time.
Chapter Two
Henry of Almain had ridden through the night in full mail and plate to reach Rochester but despite this made an easy climb to the top of the great stone tower. As they entered the Fore building to the Keep, Sir Roger stopped and introduced Henry to de Capo. Both men weighed the other up in an instant and both liked what they saw. They were evenly matched, both in age and stature and their manner towards each other exhibited mutual respect. As Henry stood beside the Sheriff and de Capo he surveyed the scene below, looking out over the river to the west and the straggle of people leaving the city.
The breeze at ground level had become more like a gale at the top of the Keep, the flags flapped wildly and the men in the towers twenty feet higher wrapped their cloaks tightly around themselves. Henry looked up at them and thought how miserable and cold they looked. He leant through the crenulations and looked down at the moat which had been dug out around the castle walls. It was mainly dry with spikes dug into the bottom.
‘You can see our weak point,’ said Sir Roger loudly as he looked south. ‘That hill is where King John sited his Mangonels and pounded the castle. The walls withstood the pounding but the rocks still damaged the flesh.’
‘Is there any way we can hold that hill?’ Henry looked thoughtful, ‘We would have the high ground, if we can hold the hill and the bridge they will be forced to attack from one direction only, east.’
‘No,’ said de Capo, ‘to hold the hill I would need at least ten times the number of men, even with the extra men come to join us we will be hard pushed to hold the baileys, let alone the city.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Henry asked.
‘Two weeks,’ said de Capo as he looked out over the city, ‘Two weeks without a sight of any rebels….we thought you were de Clare’s men.’
‘My apologies.’
Sir Roger shook his head, ‘These walls should be defended by Englishmen; but not against Englishmen.’
Henry and de Capo exchanged a glance at the emotional outburst from the Sheriff, they both knew emotion at a time like this was not healthy and Henry looked towards the south,
Deus Militis - Soldiers of God Page 24