Deus Militis - Soldiers of God

by Jonathan A Longmore

  Their momentum was broken as the arrows and bolts thudded into the unprotected men who were struck in the faces, legs and chests. At that short range the mail split as the barbed heads struck with a power that simply shattered and forced the iron rings apart. The front of the Ram dropped and ploughed into the bridge and the survivors huddled together as shields were closed together again in a vain effort to protect them all. Slowly the attackers pulled back. The Ram was left where it was and the bodies of the men killed and wounded were left with it.

  Gilbert watched in silence as the rebels retreated for the second time, leaving behind their dead and dying; men who squirmed and grunted in pain and waited in agony expecting the Royalists to climb over and kill them. Several started to crawl back towards the west bank and screamed and cried as more arrows and bolts struck them. The order was no quarter and that would be adhered to. No prisoners and no mercy.

  ‘What do we do with their wounded?’

  Gilbert removed his helmet before he answered the knight who had posed the question,

  ‘Leave them, let them die where they are, they are traitors….all of them!’

  A bolt struck one of the injured rebels adding to his injuries but not killing him. His groans and screams finally sparked some element of compassion in the defenders and they looked at Gilbert to admonish the man responsible. He turned and raised his helmet, ‘ENOUGH!’ he shouted, ‘They’ll die soon enough!’

  The sounds of the battle on the other side of the city could be heard but on the bridge the silence was only broken by the pleas of the wounded. Some continued to crawl away and several staggered to their feet and helped each other as they tried to get back to the other side of the river.

  ‘Watch your fronts, they’ll be back,’ Gilbert turned and strode back into the bridge house and ascended the steps to the top. He looked out over the river and watched as the remains of the attackers sloped back across the flats towards the horsemen, one of whom he knew was de Montfort. He gave a cold smile and looked behind him at the south wall.

  Chapter Twenty

  The men on the south wall were fighting a desperate battle, casualties were mounting and the walls and battlements were covered in blood as heads were crushed and limbs hacked. De Clare’s men had charged en masse, screaming obscenities at the outnumbered garrison. Their shields were peppered with the arrows and bolts from the defenders, but some found their target and those men fell, their blood soaking into the ground. By the time they reached the walls they slowed and held shields above their heads as protection from the missiles raining down on them.

  Men died on both sides of the wall as they exposed themselves to the archers and crossbowmen. Knights on horseback screamed at the foot soldiers to move forward and up. The ladders were flung against the walls and men started to climb, but the narrow angle made them unstable and they were pushed away using the split poles. Men fell backwards, winded as they landed, some becoming targets as bolts and shafts pierced their flesh. More men lifted the ladders again, this time at a better angle and started to climb.

  The shallower angle and the weight of those climbing prevented the ladders being pushed away. Buckets of boiling water were carried up from the fires in the street and poured down into the faces of the rebels. Scalded men fell backwards, plummeting down to the ground which was quickly turning into a sea of bloody mud, churned up by the trampling of men still trying to climb, anxious to breach the wall or die.

  Men on the ramparts fell wounded and dying as the rebel archers found their targets exposed and took their fill sending missiles screaming over the heads of their own men. All the while the mangonels pounded the city walls and the east gate which was starting to buckle under the accurate strikes as rock after rock struck the portcullis and the surrounding brickwork.

  Sheer numbers forced men up the ladders, as they reached the top they hacked and thrust at the men on the walls who retaliated by slashing down onto heads and arms using hammers, axes and swords.

  The Templars were masters at their trade, consistent in their killing and skilful in using their huge shields to protect themselves from the arrows, their swords biting into flesh and splitting skulls apart, pushing blades into faces and taking off heads and limbs.

  Sir Geoffrey chopped down time and again onto men who fell into the mud below. One man reached the top of the wall and hammered his axe down onto the Templar commander’s shield in a desperate attempt to beat him back. The rebel exposed his throat and Sir Geoffrey took a step forward and thrust his blade under the man’s chin. The force of the thrust took the blade through to emerge at the back of his neck and the man crumpled lifeless over the wall onto the battlement. The Templar had to put his foot into the dead man’s face to force the blade free. He stamped on the dead man’s head as he parried a blow from a falchion with his shield and countered by taking his new attacker’s head clean off. The head went flying, the headless corpse dropping like a stone onto the men behind clearing the ladder of rebels.

  Still more men crowded around the ladders eager to take their turn as a second wave of rebels moved towards the wall, shields high, ready to climb.

  De Capo looked about at the bodies, he wasn’t scared but he was losing too many men and they hadn’t even lost the wall. FitzAlan stood like an Ox screaming as his sword arm pumped up and down, over and over, cutting and hacking. His shield was covered in shafts and he was bleeding from a wound to his sword arm, but it made no difference to his speed and ferocity. While de Capo watched, another bolt skimmed off FitzAlan’s helmet and went careening off into the city where the flames were dying down but the smoke still rose.

  Sir Roger fought as viciously as the next man and similarly let his blade do the work, hacking at heads as they appeared. Men screamed, grunted and yelled and as those on the ladders fell they were replaced. The clashing of blades and the soft squelch as steel bit deep into flesh filled the air and blood sprayed over men as they fought for their lives. Every man fighting was covered, their faces streaked in gore and sweat.

  De Capo looked over the wall and saw the second wave had reached the ladders. He knew now was the time to release Henry who could stop this attack in one swoop. Exhaustion was starting to take its toll on both sides but de Capo had no reserves and if the second wave got over the top it would all be over. He turned to one of the squires who had been shadowing him since the attack started, ‘Tell Sir Henry to attack!’

  The squire didn’t need telling twice and he raced along the battlements towards the south gate. De Capo looked to the east as another rock flew through the air, it struck the portcullis and the vibration was evidence of a successful hit as the iron gate trembled in its housing and started to buckle. He had no defence against the mangonels. A hundred horsemen sat waiting to charge once the gates had collapsed and even Henry wouldn’t be able to deal with that many.

  He watched as one of his men hacking down at the enemy fell backwards with an arrow in his face. As a rebel started to climb over the top De Capo ran and smashed his shield into his face crushing bone and cartilage, the man lost his footing, fell backwards and landed with a thud in the mud below.

  The next rebel pushed himself up onto the wall, shield held high, taking the blows from de Capo’s sword. Another man pushed him from below and he fell forwards, the momentum pushing him over the wall onto the battlement. He rolled and slashed wildly with his sword and De Capo had to leap back to avoid a blow to his leg. He screamed in rage and sliced backwards at the next man climbing over.

  The fight was as quick as it was vicious and both men rained blow after blow against each other. There was no skill, just brute force and de Capo won as his blade cut into the collar bone of the rebel who slipped backwards as he dropped his blade. He turned on the spot expecting to find the man behind about to strike and instead saw a mountain of a man with a double headed axe grinning as blood dripped from the blades. The rebel had been cut almost in half.

  Yet another of the enemy appeared on the ladd
er and before de Capo could respond the big man had swung his axe and bought it down onto the skull splitting it in half down to his shoulders. The body slumped onto the men below and they all fell with the corpse into the bloodied mud. De Capo thumped the Axe man on the shoulder in thanks vowing to thank him again if they survived.

  At last he saw Henry and his men appear and he watched and prayed this would work.

  ~

  Henry of Almain and his men rode out of the south gate in full armour. One of the mangonels had started to target the south gate from an acute angle and although the strikes were hitting the target the Portcullis was holding. The risk to Henry’s men were the archers but the move was unexpected and if they used their speed they might all survive. The enemy archers would have to expose themselves to release their shafts at the moving horsemen, and the archers on the Keep and the wall would have the chance to return the favours.

  As soon as the last rock had struck, they raised the portcullis as fast as men could turn the handles and the gates were pulled open. Henry and his men rode out in groups of five; once the first group were clear of the gate they turned to their left and charged abreast of each other along the south wall hacking and trampling men. The ladders were struck and smashed by swords and maces as they made their murderous charge towards the south eastern corner of the city.

  The second five followed, picking off the survivors of that first charge and trampling on the bodies of dead and wounded. Unexpected, the appearance of heavily armed horsemen riding though the crowded men caused a sudden panic.

  The next five headed towards the mangonels targeting the south gate. The men behind the mangonels only had the protection of wicker shields and stared in horror as the small group of knights galloped in their direction. The last five of Henry’s men had orders to attack the archers, as many as they could in the time they had and they charged in line abreast trampling Pavise shields and hacking down at the men who were trying to turn and shoot at the small horde of armoured knights.

  The effect was devastating and Henry’s surprise attack turned the tide of the battle as the enemy foot soldiers hesitated and started to retreat. The rebel knights who had been screaming orders found themselves hemmed in by their own men and unable to counter the Royalist sortie.

  Henry reached the south east corner and pulled his horse to a sliding halt; he lifted his visor and saw his men had cut a swathe through the enemy ranks. The men on the first mangonel were being chopped to pieces, while the men on the second had started to run back towards the dead ground. The rest of his knights were being equally murderous with the archers, who being lightly armoured fell swiftly to the sharp steel that sliced and hacked down at them.

  He looked to the south and saw the enemy cavalry were starting to move towards the city, finally realising what was happening. Only seconds had passed but he had achieved his mission; he had carried the fight to them! He raised his sword and screamed, ‘ALMAIN BACK TO THE CITY!’

  His men heard the cry, and turning their mounts galloped back to the south gate, slicing and trampling any enemy they could.

  The rebel cavalry had started to charge and they increased their pace to a gallop as they saw the south gate still open. Henry pulled his horse to a stop and watched his men hurtle through. As the last one entered he faced the enemy and raised his sword at the rebels before turning his horse and kicking her hard, leaping into a canter and bolting through the gate. The portcullis was dropped instantly and the gates closed and barred. The charging enemy slowed and eventually stopped before meandering about in groups as the chance to enter the city vanished before their eyes.

  Henry leapt off his horse and ran up the steps to the battlements above the south gate, his men following. With his bloodied sword still in his hand, he glanced left and right ready to join in the fray. But when he saw the men on the wall had ceased fighting, he started to relax and slowly removed his helmet. Some had slumped to the floor on their haunches, while others had fallen to their knees.

  He saw de Capo talking to a large man carrying a double handed axe, sticky with blood and pieces of flesh. He recognised him as the baker from the day before. There were a number of men from the city on the wall, a lot had died but their numbers had been enough to help. Henry smiled inwardly as he realised the incident with the Bishop may have helped save the day.

  He turned to his men, ‘Go and help the wounded, if they can’t fight get them back to the Keep.’

  Looking out over the wall he saw foot soldiers and archers making their way slowly back to the dead ground. Groups of enemy horsemen huddled together and watched as the survivors of that first attack dragged themselves and their wounded comrades out of arrow range. He could see a group of knights in animated discussion and he assumed it was probably de Clare fuming and arguing with his lieutenants.

  The trebuchets on Boley Hill still flung their rocks at the Keep and the men guarding them had formed a protective circle when they saw what happened to their comrades at the wall when Henry sallied out. The east gate continued to be struck by the rocks from the mangonels to the east but the Portcullis still held.

  The constant stream of bolts and arrows had ceased and the mangonels to the south had fallen silent. He watched as FitzAlan checked the dead and wounded and grimaced as he put the wounded rebels to death with a quick thrust in the throat.

  Sir Roger and de Capo walked along the battlement towards Henry, both covered in blood as were all the men on the wall. Squires and servants from the Keep appeared with buckets of water for slaking the thirst of the living, and archers and crossbow men started to retrieve bolts and arrows, checking to see if they could be re-used.

  For now the attack on the south wall had been stopped and de Capo gripped Henry’s forearm and half smiled, ‘Well done, they might not be as keen next time.’

  Henry looked at the shattered men, ‘Do you think we can hold again?’

  De Capo shook his head, ‘No, but I don’t think they’ll attack again today, I wouldn’t. They’ve lost a lot of men.’

  ‘So did we!’ interjected Sir Roger, ‘at least half of the men on this wall killed or wounded and they still outnumber us fifteen to one, and that doesn’t include de Montfort.’

  All three men looked towards the bridge; they could see Gilbert standing on top of the bridge house and he raised an arm. De Capo looked up at the Keep. Ranulf stood watching the scene and another rock struck the Keep and another stuck the east gate and sent the vibration along the wall, ‘The bridge still stands.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Sir Roger, but if we lose the City, then what?’

  De Capo looked east and watched as another rock flew in an arc and crashed against the east gate portcullis sending yet another shudder through the wall, ‘We can’t hold one without the other…..we may be forced to give up both and retreat to the castle until the King arrives.’

  ‘You hold a lot of stock on the King!’

  The men all turned at the sound of FitzAlan’s booming voice. He looked like he had been dipped in a vat of blood and left to drip. Covered in the sticky liquid he epitomised the entire day’s events. His shield attached to his left arm hung loose by his side and the sword in his right hand was red to the hilt.

  ‘The King will come,’ proclaimed Sir Roger, ‘he gave his promise and he will not want to lose Rochester!’

  FitzAlan grunted and spat blood, ‘Aye, maybe, we’ll see.’

  They all looked at the rebel army and watched the activity of men moving about, picking up the pieces and standing around. Horses cantered towards the woods and a number of horsemen clustered around de Clare’s standard which stood proud in front of a tent being erected behind them. Another group of horsemen trotted towards the city wall and stopped just out of arrow range. One of them removed his helmet and raised an arm. He nudged his horse into a walk and slowly approached the city.

  De Capo called out in both directions, ‘LET HIM COME!’

  The men on the walls shifted their posit
ions to see the rider; some stood while others remained crouched looking through the crenulations. Wounded men were being tended to, a cart had been brought to the wall and those who couldn’t walk were carried down the steps and placed in it to be carried back to the castle.

  Sir Roger recognised the rider, ‘Humfrey, de Clare’s lieutenant.’ He grinned although with his face covered in blood and grime he looked like a beast from hell baring his teeth, ‘Maybe they want to surrender.’

  ~

  Humfrey looked around at the carnage. Corpses lay in the mud, their blood mingling with the muck and severed limbs, headless torsos and broken bodies with guts split and innards trailing out onto the ground, all adding to the misery of the moment. There were still men laying with injuries so severe they couldn’t move or be moved and their groans were pathetic pleas for help.

  His horse stepped over bodies and he carefully guided the beast to walk between the remains of comrades. Stopping close to the wall, his eyes darted about nervously, waiting for the bolt he expected to come his way. He was covered in mail and plate and his surcoat carried the crest of de Clare, a prime target for an eager bowman. He looked up at the four knights standing together watching him and cast his eyes along the wall at the faces of the men staring down at him. Bloodied and weary, emotionless, blank faces of men fighting for a cause they believed in, or simply fighting for their lives.

  The mangonels had stopped their bombardment as had the trebuchets. The commanders of both had been ordered to cease while Humfrey approached the city. No one spoke and the silence after the bombardment amplified the groans of the wounded on both sides of the wall.

  He looked up at the Keep and stared for several seconds before turning to the men on the wall, ‘I am Humfrey, sworn man to Sir Gilbert de Clare!’