‘I’ve given my oath not to escape; I have not betrayed you or the King; that I swear!’
‘What are you doing here?’ Gilbert demanded, ‘And who’s he?’ Gilbert glared at the man standing next to Richard with a smirk on his face.
‘I am Fabien le Breton, Chevalier and sworn man to Simon de Montfort,’ le Breton removed his helmet and gave a small bow of his head.
‘Hmmph,’ Gilbert spat on the ground, his contempt for the French Knight obvious. He ignored le Breton, ‘I respect your honour Richard, but if you wish we’ll kill the Frenchie and you can stay here!’
Le Breton raised his eyebrows at the comment and looked at Richard who smiled and shook his head, ‘Thank you Sir Gilbert but my word is my honour.’
Gilbert nodded once, ‘Your choice Richard, but if you’ve come to ask me to yield the answer is no!’
‘The Earl promises there will be no sacking.’
Gilbert gave a cold humourless grin as the sounds of the city burning could be heard,
‘There’s nothing left to sack!’
‘He has promised.....’
Richard was cut short as Gilbert continued, ‘De Montfort is a traitor, and that rabble he calls an army can bleed and die on this bridge!’
Richard took a step forward prompting le Breton to do the same, ‘I promise you,’ he said urgently, ‘it is not a rabble. They are disciplined, well-armed and determined.’
‘They’re traitors and they’ll die like traitors.’
‘Is that your final answer?’
‘Aye Richard it is, did you expect any other?’
Richard shook his head, ‘No.’
‘Go back Richard, take the Frenchie and tell the traitor to send his dogs in; we’ll cut the bastards down and die doing it.’
Gilbert turned and strode back to the bridge house without a backward glance.
Chapter Seventeen
The first attack on the bridge was failing. The number of dead men mounted as they continued to press forward against the barricade that protected a direct assault against the gate house. The first fifty men who crossed the bridge had been supplemented by another fifty and both groups of men were bombarded by arrows and bolts pouring onto their heads from both flanks and the gate house.
Simon de Montfort’s fears were confirmed when the first of his soldiers charged into a wall of Pole arms. Those men had the long handled weapons thrust into their faces and they screamed and fell as the blades, hooks and iron tips gouged and slashed, blinded and maimed. The survivors of that first blood soaked attack hacked and cut with axes and swords and the pole arms were eventually overcome and chopped to pieces reducing them to short splintered poles.
The first fallen bodies created another barrier for their comrades to climb in order to reach the defenders. The blood running freely across the bridge caused the attackers to slip and fall, making them easy targets for the archers who continued to pour shafts and bolts into the crowded mass of men. Those reaching the barricade were met by an onslaught of hammers, axes, falchions and arming swords. Climbing a barricade with a shield was no mean feat and they paid the price as heads were crushed, limbs slashed and blades thrust into faces and any soft fleshy space the defenders could find.
At first men screamed at each other and hurled abuse but the shouting and exchange of abuse eventually stopped. Better to breathe than shout and men hungrily sucked in the air, fighting to keep upright before their stamina was sapped. The only noise was the clash of blades and the groans and screams of the wounded. The fight was desperate until exhaustion overcame the attackers and they withdrew at the sound of a horn from the west bank.
Half the men in the first attack were either dead, or wounded severely enough to be sent to the surgeons, many to die of their wounds. The defenders only lost their pole arms and suffered some minor injuries.
Gilbert watched from the top of the bridge house while the rebels backed away with their shields held high, a protection from the archers continuing rain of missiles. He wasn’t smiling; there was nothing to smile about when brave men died whatever side they were on. He knew they weren’t retreating because they were scared, but because de Montfort knew exhausted men would die easily and there was too much blood and too many bodies to climb over.
As the rebels retreated, soldiers ran out from the bridge house with buckets of water for the men at the barricade to drink from and to wash away any blood. Gilbert turned to the man next to him, ‘Edwin, make sure the men are replaced, the least we can do is have fresh men ready for the next attack, and make sure all the arrows and bolts that can be recovered, are.’
‘What about their dead?’
Gilbert raised his eyebrows at the comment, ‘What about them?’
‘Do we leave them there?’ Edwin asked.
‘That we do Edwin, that we do,’ Gilbert rubbed his arm, ‘another barrier, one of their own men, they’ll have to trample their friends if they want to get to us.’
Edwin nodded and left to carry out the orders while Gilbert looked across the river as the last of the attackers left the bridge. Wounded were being carried and dragged and several riders were sitting watching the proceedings. He knew one of them would be de Montfort and he could see a man standing nearby who looked like Richard. He shook his head and turned to the stairs, it was time he joined the fight.
~
On the opposite side of the river Simon de Montfort watched as his men moved slowly back across the bridge, bloodied and scarred. They carried their wounded past the Earl who nodded at them in respect for their effort; he could see from their faces they wanted their revenge.
Turning to Jaxon, his face an impassive mask he spoke softly, ‘We need boats.’
Jaxon nodded, ‘Aye, but the men looking for them have yet to return.’
‘We need to get rid of that barricade,’ de Montfort narrowed his eyes as he looked around and stared at the nearby trees.
Jaxon followed his gaze, ‘You have an idea?’
‘Aye,’ said the Earl, ‘I have an idea.’
Chapter Eighteen
The men defending the city watched helplessly as the mangonels were slowly pushed into position. Two targeted the east gate and two the south gate. De Clare didn’t care where he got in as long as he got in. His archers and crossbowmen moved slowly towards the city wall behind their Pavise shields, large wicker rectangles with struts to hold them upright while they released their arrows at the defenders with almost total impunity.
De Capo stood on top of the east gate tower and tried to assess the weakest point. If the gate fell rebels would storm in with little his men could do to hold them. At least a hundred of the rebel cavalry rode towards the mangonels facing the east gate, preparing to charge in once the siege engines had done their job. The foot soldiers would try and breach the south wall first, dividing his forces. They had moved closer to the wall, a line of cavalry behind them and he wondered, not for the first time if he should have abandoned the city and concentrated on the defence of the castle. The smoke from the burning buildings still drifted to the east climbing higher. It would be been seen for miles and people would know Rochester burnt!
‘SHIELDS……COVER!’
He spun round as he heard FitzAlan scream the command and watched as several hundred bolts and arrows sliced through the air at the defenders. The warning shout and experience proved a life saver for most of the men. For several it didn’t and they paid the price. For one it was the final toll as a bolt thumped into the centre of his forehead. His falchion fell from lifeless fingers as he was flung backwards off the ramparts and into the street below. The first volley had been expensive for such an undermanned garrison, one man dead and four injured; two in the throat and two in the chest. The injuries were serious enough to take them all out of the fight, probably to die at the hands of the surgeon. FitzAlan shouted at a Templar Sergeant as the injured writhed and groaned behind the thick stone crenulation, ‘Get them off the wall,’ he ordered.
&nb
sp; As several men dragged the wounded down the steps a second volley struck, there were no casualties but the thump, thump, thump of arrows and bolts as they struck shields was a reminder of the defenders vulnerability even behind the thick stone blocks. A third volley struck, again bolts and arrows hammered into shields and skimmed off the flint forming part of the walls sending a show of sparks and razor sharp shards over men. One man was struck high in the shoulder as a crossbow bolt ricocheted off one of the crenulations, only to bounce off the mail he was wearing. He looked at the man next to him who grinned, ‘Lucky bastard!’
One of the volunteers from the city wasn’t so lucky. Curiosity made him look between the crenulations to see what was happening. He paid with a crossbow bolt that struck him full in the mouth, shattering his teeth as it ploughed through and penetrated deep into his head, the tip emerging at the base of his skull. He was dead before his head hit the stone rampart!
De Capo ducked as several shafts flew his way. He shouted down at the gate, ‘Sir Geoffrey!’
The Templar looked up and told de Capo what he wanted to hear, ‘It’s done.’
‘Get back to the wall,’ de Capo shouted, ‘I need you there.’
Raising a gauntlet, Sir Geoffrey ran to the steps, climbing them as another volley struck the walls and narrowly missing him as he snatched his shield from where he left it.
‘MANGONEL!’
The cry went up from the men on the east wall and was followed by a resounding thump as the first rock landed short of the east gate and off target, rolled along the ground and crashed against the city wall. The shock wave passed through the stones and was felt by de Capo as he descended the east gate tower to make his way back to the south wall.
The trebuchets on Boley Hill continued their offensive and another rock struck the Keep as a second rock, on target from the mangonels simultaneously struck the east gate, pushing the portcullis protecting the timbers of the gate to its limit. The volleys from the rebel archers had stopped; instead there was a continuous and steady hail of missiles flying through the air at the men on the city walls.
De Capo ran towards FitzAlan who strode along the battlements contemptuously ignoring the enemy attempts to kill him. Several bolts struck his shield and an arrow glanced off his helmet, he stopped and snarled across the wall, ‘Bastards!’ Another arrow flew past his face, so close he could feel the draft as it carried on and disappeared into the flames of the city. He turned and screamed at his own men, ‘And you’re all bastards too, keep your God damned heads down!’
‘Sir John!’ De Capo kept his shield held high, not trusting to luck to keep him alive.
FitzAlan turned and glared at him, exposing his right side to the enemy. His eyes blazed with fury as several arrows skimmed past his head, ‘What?’
Three arrows struck de Capo’s shield in succession and FitzAlan simply grinned, raised his sword and swept down through the shafts snapping them like twigs, ‘I think you have enough to carry Sir Ralf, don’t need those as well.’ A crossbow bolt skimmed his helmet gouging the metal and he turned and pointed his sword at the archers, before bellowing, ‘Your mothers a whore and your sons will die of the pox!!’
De Capo shook his head in disbelief at FitzAlan’s disregard for his own safety, ‘Sir John, if you die I will be very unhappy.’
FitzAlan laughed, ‘Very well, I’ll make sure I don’t die, not today anyway,’ he looked away and shouted at two squires in the street carrying some poles with split ends, ‘You, bring those up here.’
The squires struggled up the steps and knelt down with the poles cradled in their arms as FitzAlan protected them with his shield, ‘You make sure every fourth man has one of these, and keep your goddamned heads down.’
The squires nodded as they crouched and made their way along the wall. The poles were designed to push the ladders away from the walls, a dangerous act as it exposed the man using it to the archers.
‘How many men have we lost?’ De Capo asked.
‘Six that I know of,’ replied FitzAlan and the bastards haven’t started properly yet.’
Both men flinched as a rock from one of the mangonels targeting the south wall struck hard and bounced off into the street. A second rock struck seconds later and the wall shuddered. The barbed missiles continued to fly at the walls and several men stumbled backwards as they fell victim to the onslaught.
FitzAlan was fuming and he stomped along the battlements cursing and swearing, ‘You sons of whores, I will kill the next man who gets hit by one of those vagabonds and traitors, keep your goddamned heads down!’
If de Capo wanted to smile, the roar from the rebels stopped him and he looked as a thousand men charged towards the wall.
He stood upright and screamed, ‘ARCHERS!!’
Chapter Nineteen
Gilbert stood behind the barricade with his men, his shield and sword at the ready. An open faced basinet was his choice of helmet. Head protection was fine but when the visor was fitted it gave a claustrophobic feeling and restricted the view. He also felt the need to scream and shout when he crushed skulls and plunged his blade into another man’s flesh.
He felt the ache in his left arm as he carried his shield and once again wished he could be with his beloved. There were only ten men with him on the bridge, he knew those numbers were sufficient, ten had resisted the first assault and now there were eleven including him.
The rest of his men were positioned on top of the bridge house, the north east corner of the curtain wall, and the city wall to the north of the bridge House. They were armed with longbows and crossbows ready to pour a hail of devastating horror onto the next attack. The broken pole arms had been replaced and even with just eleven men, the bridge was crowded.
Once de Montfort’s men returned to attack, Gilbert’s men would close in together and form a solid block of armour as they slashed and hammered the enemy. Until then they watched and waited for the next attempt.
The shouts from the castle and the city drifted across this small battlefield and Gilbert tried to ignore the furore behind him and concentrate on his own task. He could hear the screams of men fighting. The pounding of the Keep and the walls continued to cause tremors that shot across the ground and made the bridge vibrate.
‘Sir Gilbert, look!’
The man next to him pointed at a score of the rebels carrying a ram made from the trunk of an English Oak. They walked slowly towards the bridge before stopping and waiting for their comrades who formed either side with shields high.
‘To your front!’ Gilbert shouted as the rebels stepped onto the bridge.
~
The bridge shook as the Ram was carried towards the barricade. Shield men crowded in either side of the men carrying the Ram, their shields the only protection from the murderous assault of steel that would soon be flying into them. They moved forwards slowly, the Ram was heavy and the section at the front protruded six feet from the leading men. At the last moment they would scream and smash into the barricade. If the Ram did its job and broke through, the slaughter would begin! They were strong and vicious, but they carried mail and every piece of iron and steel they carried added to the weight, stretched the sinews and pulled at the muscles in their legs and arms. Their backs were strong but this was testing them to the limit. They reached the halfway point and the leading man shouted, ‘Stop!’
The Ram was lowered to the floor and the men all huddled under the shields, caught their breath and flexed their aching muscles. There would be no second chance, if they didn’t break through they would be exposed to a slaughter with themselves as the victims. The men carrying the Ram had no shields and once they had broken the barricade they would charge through and fight like demons, or die like lambs. Without shields they had to rely on speed and shock tactics. Half a dozen men were packed together at the front with shields high to protect them from a frontal attack by the royalist archers.
When Gilbert first saw the Ram he sent one of the men back to the bridge house
, returning with half a dozen longbow men who took their place behind the barricade. Their orders were simple, cut down the leading men with the Ram, go for their feet and legs, maim and injure.
As the Ram got closer the crossbows and archers on the walls let loose their missiles and they pounded the line of men with a firestorm of bolts and shafts. Arrows fell from the sky and some found their mark, but not enough to stop the advance. The men with shields hammered on them, screaming and hurling abuse at the defenders, a fearful noise designed to cause panic to the men they were attacking. Helmets bobbed up and down and faces appeared and disappeared just as quickly. Men who were struck and fell were trampled on by those behind, and screams mingled with the curses shouted at the bridge defenders.
Despite the constant storm of arrows and bolts flying into the men crossing the bridge the Ram slowly crawled towards the barricade. Twenty feet from their target the line of men stopped and the shields closed up. The defenders stood ready, pole arms out and shields at the ready. The archers in the front notched arrows and stood ready to draw and release. They could release two to three arrows in the time it took the men to charge that distance with the Ram, more if the leading men fell. The weight of the Ram would make it drop at the front and the whole venture would fail.
Gilbert waited to give the order and his men closed in, ready to repel the attackers. He knew they would have to retreat if the Ram succeeded and the portcullis was up ready for the men to run into, and ready to drop as soon as they were all back inside.
Behind the wall of shields the men with the Ram started stamping their feet and the bridge shook and trembled with the vibration. The arrows and bolts continued to plough into the attackers and despite the shields closing up men were still struck. The screech of a horn blasted through the cacophony of men’s voices and a roar went up as the shields at the front were dropped and the Ram was hefted forwards, men screaming, their faces contorted with fear, anger and rage, a mass of men in mail charging at the barricade.
The front two men dropped like stones as arrows pierced their faces, before their broken bodies hit the bridge the next volley was let fly and the men behind suffered the same fate. The front of the Ram dropped and the men with shields at the front dropped them and grabbed the Ram replacing their fallen comrades. As one, the storm of arrows from the defenders on the walls and the bridge found their targets and the front men and those behind fell and screamed as the men behind trampled across them.
Deus Militis - Soldiers of God Page 36