Warlord oc-4

by Angus Donald

  In truth, Tours was not one town, but two. To the east was the older settlement, containing the castle of Tours, the cathedral and the archbishop’s palace — this was on the north bank of the River Cher, a tributary of the Loire. On the Loire river itself, to the west, further north and clustered around the Abbey of St Martin, was the new town of Tours, known as Chateauneuf. Made wealthy by the lucrative trade down the Loire to the sea, Chateauneuf was walled, neat, opulent and filled with tall timber-framed houses. It was a distinct settlement. The two towns of Tours were separated by fields of green wheat and neatly ordered vineyards. Having crossed the Loire by an impressive stone bridge, it was here that Robin and his men made their camp, directly between the two halves of the city, in a position to threaten either one with siege or assault.

  ‘The townsfolk are wonderfully nervous, Alan, I can smell it,’ said Robin, after he had summoned me to his newly pitched green woollen tent in the middle of a flattened wheat field. Robin rarely used the tent on campaign, preferring whenever possible to sleep under the night sky, but it was an impressive rig, embroidered with scarlet and gold thread at the seams and constructed of thick, soft woollen cloth of the finest quality. Robin himself was dressed in his grandest clothes — black silk hose embroidered with gold, ending in elegant kidskin slippers and an emerald silk calf-length tunic over the top. His head bore a fine black hat with a jaunty peacock’s feather on the side; a golden chain adorned his neck and his fingers displayed half a dozen rings of silver and gold, studded with fine jewels. He was unarmed except for a dainty pearl-handled eating knife next to the pouch at his waist. He rarely dressed this way — and never on campaign. And I realized that he was dressing to play the part of the great magnate, the noble earl. I also had the feeling that he was intending to use the tent for a small piece of theatre. The sides of the tent had been raised and buttoned back to allow cool breezes to temper the warm June day and, from my stool at the campaign table in the centre of the space, I could, with a slight turn of my head, clearly see both parts of the town of Tours.

  Robin seemed to read the unasked question in my mind. ‘The Tourangeaux are frightened of us, Alan, and they are right to be. And I intend to make them even more uncomfortable. They should be here any moment.’

  ‘What have you in mind for them?’ I asked.

  ‘You are the man who is so keen on justice: I think they should pay for their wavering loyalty to the King. In the name of justice.’ Robin grinned at me; I did not particularly care for his expression.

  At that moment, Little John came into the tent. He was dressed in an old-fashioned, short-sleeved knee-length mail coat, freshly burnished, that seemed too snug for his massive chest; he had a round shield slung across his back, his blond hair was neatly plaited into two fat ropes that framed his battered face, and he was gripping his double-bladed axe, which I noticed had been polished to a bright sheen. He was accompanied by two of Robin’s biggest and ugliest bowmen, all scars and scowls and knotted muscles, who after acknowledging me cheerfully, pulled up their hoods to shade their faces and stood like statues at the back of the tent emitting menace like heat from a brazier.

  ‘Is this really necessary, Robin? All this… thunder and lightning? The Tourangeaux are not the enemy. They have declared for Richard, you know.’ I had divined what my master was up to, and while I knew it would amuse him, I also recognized that it was not the sort of behaviour the King would have condoned. But sometimes, in his lordly pomp, when he played the great earl, I forgot that in his heart of hearts Robin was still an outlaw thief, his love of easy money and mischief embedded deep into the bone.

  ‘Just trust me, Alan, and follow my lead — we will all profit handsomely by this. You’ll see.’

  We did not have to wait long. Robin told his new squire, a big oafish lad called Gilbert, who was son of a Yorkshire neighbour, to serve John, himself and myself with golden cups of wine, but not to offer anything to our guests when they arrived. If they were so bold as to complain of thirst, they were to be given earthenware beakers of water, he said. Poor Gilbert looked utterly confused by this breach of etiquette, and so I sent him to summon Thomas, and Robin repeated his instructions to my squire. Thomas said nothing but merely nodded his head in his steady, intelligent way, and went immediately to see to the arrangements.

  The delegation of Tourangeaux arrived at dusk. It was headed by the Archbishop of Tours, a sharp-eyed old stick named Barthelemy de Vendome, and he was accompanied by the castellan of Tours Castle, a mutton-headed knight of middle years called Sir Roger. The bulk of the delegation consisted of merchants from Chateauneuf — I remember them only vaguely as plump, greasy, balding men, nervously wringing their velvet caps in sweaty hands — wearing as many jewels as Robin, but somehow making them seem like cheap, tawdry copies. The Archbishop was calm, almost regal; the knight Roger was scowling, but the merchants of Tours did, as my lord had prophesied, seem extremely frightened.

  They stood in a slightly forlorn huddle in the southern entrance to Robin’s tent, while my master observed them coldly from a throne-like chair at the back. Fine beeswax candles had been lit, and their yellow light danced across the planes of Robin’s handsome, impassive face. To the right of Robin’s throne, Little John and the two ugly bowmen glowered and glittered at the delegation full of martial spirit and apparent bloodlust. To Robin’s left, Thomas and I stood in silence, trying to look stern.

  For a long, long while nobody spoke. Finally, one of the merchants cleared his throat, but before he could say a word, Robin roared: ‘Silence, you traitorous dog!’ It was shockingly loud and jolted every man in the tent. And then Robin returned to a brooding silence for another seemingly endless length of time.

  Finally my master began, in a voice as cold as a crypt: ‘King Richard is coming here,’ he said. ‘He is coming in fury, with all his might — a thousand noble knights of England and Normandy. He will arrive at this wretched place on the day after tomorrow.’

  Archbishop Barthelemy was smiling crookedly, apparently enjoying some private source of amusement. The head merchant licked his lips. Sir Roger looked deeply puzzled: ‘We are all, of course, Richard’s loyal men, entirely at the King’s command,’ the knight said hesitantly.

  ‘Loyal? Faugh!’ said Robin, and once again silence fell over our gathering. He raised his right hand and pointed his index finger accusingly at the group of bewildered laymen clustered around the knowing bishop, moving it slowly left and right, like a crossbowman taking aim.

  ‘King Richard… is… coming,’ my master intoned slowly, jabbing with his finger at the foremost merchant, a fat man in a red robe trimmed with fox fur, ‘and when he is here, his wrath will know no bounds. The torments of Hell will be unleashed upon your miserable, turd-hoarding, flea-breeding, rat-feasting excuse for a town.’ He paused for a moment, and said: ‘He knows everything. He has learned the full extent of your perfidious dealings with King Philip.’

  ‘He has? How could he possibly…’ stammered the head merchant before his hand flew to his mouth. Then, realizing what he had revealed, he plucked wretchedly at his tawny fur collar in confusion. ‘What I mean is, we have had no such dealings with the French. We have remained steadfast, utterly loyal. We are King Richard’s faithful subjects. Faithful unto…’

  ‘Death?’ said Robin, lifting one eyebrow.

  Nobody spoke for several moments. Then Robin continued: ‘The Lionheart is coming with all his legions… and he knows that you have connived with King Philip to deprive him of his rightful revenues! And he is wrathful.’

  Sir Roger spoke; he sounded a little fretful. ‘We shall welcome him, open our gates, and honour him as our true lord when he arrives here,’ he said. ‘We are all agreed…’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the merchant. ‘We are all agreed. We will prepare a great feast for all his knights, and have maidens strew his path with rose petals. Our monks will sing hosannas at his arrival. Our hospitality will be the most lavish ever offered a monarch… absolutely no ex
pense will be spared…’

  The head merchant tailed off in the face of my master’s glower. Robin remained silent, dominating the delegation with his odd, silver eyes. I could see pearls of sweat breaking out on the brows of the merchants.

  The Archbishop cleared his throat delicately, his faint superior smile remained in place. ‘Perhaps there is some way in which we can assuage the righteous anger of the King?’ he suggested, with a tiny flourish of his hand.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Robin.

  ‘Perhaps if we were to make some solid gesture of our loyalty to His Highness…’ The Archbishop cocked his head on one side, and raised an eyebrow at Robin.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Sir Roger, now absurdly, puppyishly eager. ‘But what? What does he want?’

  The Archbishop’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling of the tent and back down again, as if he were seeking the gift of patience from the Almighty. He murmured: ‘Perhaps some small contribution to ease the pain of the Lionheart’s heavy expenditure in this war, a small emolument…’

  ‘Perhaps not a small contribution,’ said Robin.

  ‘Oh,’ said the head merchant, and his fur-covered shoulders sagged under the weight of comprehension.

  I was not present when the merchant and Robin thrashed out the details of the douceur that the city of Tours would offer up to cool King Richard’s temper. Robin usually preferred to have as few witnesses as possible for his shady money dealings, and when the Archbishop and Sir Roger had left, John, Thomas, the bowmen and I quit the tent, leaving my lord and the miserable-looking head merchant to haggle for almost an hour until a price had been fixed.

  The next day, at noon, when the money had been delivered, however, Robin could not keep his delight to himself. ‘Two thousand pounds, Alan! Two thousand pounds of silver. That is what I wrangled from the guilty bastards. I had no idea Tours was so rich. Perhaps I should have persuaded Richard to sack the place and we could have filled a dozen wagon-trains with our plunder!’

  I found this side of Robin’s character disheartening: I wanted him to live up to the noble behaviour that I knew he was capable of and which I had witnessed so many times — yet I also recognized that he harboured a hunger for silver, almost like a drunkard’s lust for wine, that could cause him to do the most unspeakable things solely for personal gain.

  ‘How much of that will our good King Richard see?’ I said, perhaps a little too sourly.

  Robin looked at me hard, a glint of steel in his grey eyes. We were once again in his tent, alone but for a clerk who was seated in the corner, making notes on a parchment roll. In the centre of the floor was a waist-high mound of small, lumpy linen bags that chinked whenever they were moved by the clerk’s counting hand.

  ‘Most of it, Alan. Almost all of it,’ Robin said coldly. ‘I’m sending Richard two-thirds of the money — a full two thousand marks this very afternoon.’

  ‘That is very generous of you.’ I could not keep the vinegar out of my voice.

  Robin stared at me for a long moment. ‘Earlier this year, you will remember, Alan, I was forced to give up a very lucrative trade in the East, at King Richard’s demand. I think I have the right to compensate myself fully for this loss. Do you not agree?’

  ‘The King gave you half a dozen new manors to compensate you for that loss, as I recall.’ In spite of myself, and my great regard for my lord, I was becoming angry at Robin’s unabashed greed. ‘Is that not enough for you?’

  ‘He gave me a few manors, yes, and you the rich manor of Clermont-sur-Andelle, as I recall,’ Robin’s tone was icy. ‘But your Clermont and the Norman manors that Richard has given over to me are presently occupied by the enemy; all of them are in the eastern part of the Duchy and are now under the control of Philip’s men. Nary a penny will either of us see from those gifts until the French are beaten. Richard gave us both rewards that we must fight in his cause to claim. That is largesse with rather large strings attached to it, don’t you agree? So I believe that I am entitled to a little taste of honey when I secure some trifling payment from a pack of shifty merchants who have been thoroughly disloyal to their rightful lord.’

  Robin was genuinely angry now, but I could only tell by the cool, reasonableness of his tone — and the dangerous glitter in his eyes. I had no wish to argue further with my lord over this matter, and so I bowed and bade him a good day. As I turned to leave the tent, I caught a glimpse of an object moving very fast out of the corner of my eye. I whirled to face Robin, and something large, hard and round smashed into my chest. I only just managed to grasp it, rocking back on my heels in surprise.

  ‘That is your share, by the way,’ said Robin drily and I looked down into my hands and saw that I held a heavy, bulging linen sack, the round outline of silver coins clearly visible through the thin material.

  You may call me a hypocrite — and I shall surely have to answer for it on the Day of Judgment — but I kept that money: five pounds of mint-bright silver pennies. It was half what the manor of Westbury yielded in a whole year! I could make excuses, such as I needed it to pay for new weapons, saddlery and tack, or that my clothes had been worn by hard travel and needed replacing. But the truth is I wanted to have it: like Robin, I was not immune to the lure of Mammon. I shared a little of it with Hanno and gave a few shillings to Thomas — but the rest I wrapped in an old sheepskin and stuffed guiltily into my saddlebag.

  Chapter Seven

  King Richard was delighted with the ‘gift’ that Robin had squeezed from the Tourangeaux — and no royal notice was taken of the fact that my lord had appropriated a fat slice of it. So the King was well pleased with us, and as a mark of his approval he made the Locksley men his honour guard and reserve force in the engagement two days later, when he assaulted the formidable castle of Loches. He stayed only one night at Tours, lodging with the mutton-headed Roger and, as promised, there were celebrations, rose-petals strewn and monks singing Hosannas at his arrival. The very next day, Richard rose long before dawn and marched his army the thirty-odd miles south-east to Loches.

  The castle, which stood on the borders of the counties of Berry, Touraine and Poitou, was the eastern gateway to Richard’s continental lands. It barred the path along the Loire Valley, denying that route to the King of France and his vassals who held the lands to the east. Loches was famous for its massive, thick-walled keep, and had the reputation for being almost impossible to take by force. It was only occupied now by the French troops because Prince John had cravenly given it away to Philip as part of a secret deal they had made together when they were united against Richard. Sancho of Navarre’s men — a strong force of a hundred knights and a hundred and fifty crossbowmen — had been besieging the castle for more than a week, but Lord Sancho himself had been suddenly called away to the south, across the Pyrenees, to his father’s deathbed. His remaining men had neither the will nor necessary heavy equipment to capture Loches in his absence. The Spanish troops had surrounded the castle and prevented anyone from entering or leaving it — but there had been little else they could do. With King Richard’s arrival, all that was about to change.

  To my mind, Loches was the very opposite of the castle of Verneuil, with its weak, stubby, crumbling keep and strong outer walls, which I had defended so successfully only ten days before. Loches had a huge, oblong, immensely strong stone keep about eighty foot long and forty foot wide, and soaring up more than a hundred feet into the air with a slight taper towards the top. It loomed over the rest of the castle, completely dwarfing it — the rest consisting of a twenty-foot-high stone curtain wall, only two-foot thick but studded with half a dozen round towers and surrounding the usual timber buildings: stables, a forge, bakeries, cook-shacks, barracks and so on. There was a large stone church in one corner of the castle bailey, and a chapter house — for this mighty fortress had been built around an ancient monastery. To the east of the castle flowed the slow River Indre, which through time immemorial had protected its flank from attacks coming out of the territory of the kings
of France.

  In many ways, Richard’s attack was a classic of its kind and amply demonstrated my King’s mastery of all the arts of war. After one very hard day’s travel, with all the men-at-arms and servants ordered to assist in pushing the great siege engines along the dusty road that ran for a goodly way beside the Indre directly from Tours to Loches, and knights galloping up and down the column urging on the sluggards, Richard had his entire force of more than a thousand men encamped outside the walls, a little to the north of the castle, by dusk.

  The French garrison continued to defy us, of course. And the next day, in the weak pink light of early morning, when the heralds had reported to the King the castle’s bold refusal to surrender, the bombardment by the massive ‘castle-breakers’ began.

  Robin and I were with the King on a slight rise about a quarter of a mile to the north of the castle. Robin had not yet forgiven me for questioning his ruthless mulcting of the merchants of Tours, and he barely spoke to me as the sun climbed into the sky to herald a glorious June day. I sat astride Shaitan, stroking his glossy black neck, and a tiny, cowardly part of me was grateful that I would not, unless something went badly wrong, be engaging in the brutal, slogging fight that the day promised. On the far side of the King, on a huge white stallion, sat William the Marshal. That well-seasoned warrior had begged leave to storm the first breach in the curtain wall, claiming that it was his right — but the King had merely thanked him for his zeal and said calmly: ‘This is work for Mercadier’s men. They know their business well and today they shall demonstrate that they are worthy of their hire.’

  ‘I must insist, sire, that you give me and my men the honour of making the first assault,’ the Marshal had growled, glaring at the King like a hungry mastiff that had had a juicy bone stolen from between its jaws.