by Frank Payton
As I had agreed with Albrecht, my men were assembled separate from the rest. All were men-at-arms, heavily armoured and weaponed. All had visored helmets. We wore white surcoats emblazoned with the red Cross of St. George back and front, with the same device on our shields. Most favoured, as I did, a plain straight sword, and carried in addition a rondel dagger or a ballock knife as a second weapon, or for giving the coup de grace. Others relied for their main weapon on either a double or single bladed axe, or a heavy mace. But some had been equipped with the heavy iron mallets used to pound in the stakes for the camp tents.
I explained our role to the men. Briefly, after breaking through the iron bars of the watergate, we would assemble on the river bank and then make for the nearest gate in the wall. Moving in a solid phalanx of three hundred, we should be able to crush our way through any opposition. I expected most of the defenders to be on the wall to repel the main attack anyway. On taking the gate, we would unbar and open it to our men on the outside.
“What about the water under the walls?” came a voice out of the darkness.
“There should be none, or very little. Even now the river is being dammed up, and the water diverted into the ditch around the town. It will be a shock to those inside to see their water supply disappear, I’ll be bound.”
This drew some grim laughter, and I continued. “But to clear the way we shall have to break the iron bars under the wall. Luckily, I’m told, the bars are badly rusted, so we should not have too much trouble. The Almains with Master Sterz will enter through the watergate on the other side of the town. We shall know them by their white surcoats.” I looked around the men and noted the tension, how they waited like hunting dogs on the leash. “We move when the moon is in full sight above the town. Now, we wait.”
We settled down in our position opposite the watergate. There was a bustle of activity on the walls. Our preparations had been watched. Indeed, the defenders could hardly have failed to notice. We had made no pretence of secrecy.
However, we had assumed too much. Perhaps we had been overconfident that the dice were heavily loaded in our favour, for as we watched, the huge gates nearest to us swung open. A torrent of horsemen flooded out and flung itself at the nearest attackers, who were completely taken aback and struggled to put up a defence. They were under John Brise’s command, and even at the distance which we were from the action, I could hear his bull’s bellow as he strove to rally his men.
Someone had planned well. Savoy knew that we could not attack the town on horseback, and he also knew that our men-at-arms were usually supported by archers. Night, however, is no time for accurate shooting, moonlight or not. We could not help them, and the uneven fight was not good to watch. But over many years I had found that when all seemed lost, the right course of action will somehow present itself. Suddenly, I knew what must be done. I called to Ralph.
“Get over to Master Brise. Tell him to fall back, but slowly. This should draw the horsemen out, further from the gate. They may not realise their peril until too late. Then they may be surrounded and cut off.”
Ralph dashed off and was soon lost in the semi-darkness. I watched anxiously for some confirmation that my message had been received. It seemed a long time a-coming, but gradually the mass of footmen began to retreat, step by step. They had locked shields, and hacked and stabbed at the horses as their riders forced them up to the line in order reach down with their long lances. The poor beasts shied away, carrying their riders along the line, and soon all was confusion, and the shock of the charge was broken. Then the men-at-arms on each flank of the little battle began to lap around the horsemen like waves on a rock, and the tide of battle turned. Saddles emptied, and the battered riders sought to retreat. But few of them survived the flailing swords to ride back through the already closing gates, which boomed shut as the last survivor rode through at a gallop.
It was time for us to move. The attack had begun in earnest. With a roar, men flowed forward with the scaling ladders. As these were placed against the wall, the first men began to climb. Holding their shields above their heads, they sought to avoid the missiles raining down upon them. Those lucky enough to reach the top began to fight desperately in order to establish a foothold on the parapet. Those who were not so lucky were hit by stones and crossbow bolts and fell heavily upon those below, causing confusion and injury or death to themselves and others.
But we could not merely stand and watch, so I led my men off in the direction of the watergate. We were seen as we crossed the ditch, which by then was running with icy water from the diverted river. Crossbow bolts began to whip amongst us, and some found their mark. Men fell screaming with pain, the short stubby shafts sticking through their armour.
Matt Sayers’ voice boomed from within his helmet. “Up with your shields, you fool rabble! Hold them high! Close ranks! Keep moving!”
Even so, some wavered under the attack from above. But I had foreseen this, and ordered Giles Ashurst to send archers to cover our close approach to the wall. Out of range of the crossbows, they now sent showers of arrows against the defenders. Cries of pain and dismay came down to us, and the rain of bolts slackened and almost ceased.
We tramped on, almost up the wall. Small stones and then larger ones fell upon us. Men were knocked unconscious and fell without a groan. These missiles could be pushed over the battlements without exposing the men above to the arrows, and since we had to enter the tunnel under the wall, we took some punishment. Twice I was knocked to my knees as large stones hit my shield full on. My arm ached, and I was dizzy with pain. Eventually I made it to the shelter of the watergate. I leaned against the side wall to recover myself as more and more of our men crowded in. The hammer men in the front went forward and began to pound at the iron bars.
As the two lads had discovered, the bars were badly rusted, and it was not long before the hammers broke through. We followed, Matt Sayers and I, with Ralph and Marco. The rest stumbled along in the pitch darkness behind us. There was much cursing and chattering.
“Quiet! Quiet! Goddamn you all back there!” I called. “No noise now, unless you wish a colder welcome at the other end.”
They fell into silence, and we carried on into the darkness. At long last a hoarse whisper came back from the front. “A light showing up front, Sir John. Could be a fire—it looks to be red and flickering.”
“Good. Giles’s men were to shoot fire arrows into the town. One of you go and see what lies ahead.”
Against the glow I saw a single figure detach itself from the first group. Moving slowly, he went on—sword in hand, shield up. In the stone tunnel there was silence. No one moved. We held our breath as the dark figure turned.
“Clear ahead. No enemy in sight,” came his muted call.
“Good! Let us get to it.” I drew my sword and settled my shield securely on my left arm. “Forward! Form up on the left bank. Keep a sharp eye open for the enemy.”
As quietly as was possible for a body of men so large, we moved out of the mouth of the watergate and grouped ourselves in a solid phalanx of steel—nigh three hundred of us. Ralph and Marco were on my left, Sayers to my right. The tall man-at-arms flourished a long-handled mace and grinned, showing white teeth. “This’ll do for a few, Sir John, have no fear.”
We closed our helmets and at my signal began to move towards the gate to our left, where defenders were clustered, peering over the wall, their backs to us. The first hundred yards was without incident. Then a shout went up from some Italian men-at-arms and foot-soldiers. They turned to face us and we were swept by a rain of bolts, while shouts of defiance reached our ears.
Fortunately they were too far away for the bolts to reach us with deadly force, and our raised shields intercepted the ones that did reach us. No one was killed or even wounded. Then, suddenly, came a change. I heard Marco’s voice calling out a spate of Italian. What he was saying I could not even guess. Some voices came from behind me.
“The young whoreson’s giving us away
. Kill him!”
There was a surge forward, and swords were raised at Marco, but he stood firm. “Tell them, Sir John, I have told Savoy’s men we are friendly—that we have been sent to help.” He turned. “See, they are breaking up and going on to the wall.”
“Stop that, you fools! Marco has thrown them off balance. They think we are allies. Now is our chance, before they realise the truth.”
I ran forward and the whole pack followed. The cry went up. “St. George! St. George! A-Hawkwood! A-Hawkwood!”
Too late the enemy turned to face us. We were amongst them, felling them like dumb oxen, but they rallied, and fought back with some vigour.
I threw myself forward, sword flailing, my shield arm jarring under blows from swords, maces, shortened lances. My shield clanged from more than one crossbow bolt. I slammed my mailed right fist, with the sword pommel, into the face of a man-at-arms with an open fronted helmet. He grunted as the blow shattered his nose and cheekbones, dropped and rolled away, clutching his face and head.
A mace was descending upon my own head, and I had to be quick to catch the blow on my shield. Turning it away, I clashed body to body with the wielder of the mace. We strained against each other for some moments like wrestlers. I passed my sword from right to left hand, and scrabbled for the dagger at my right hip. My opponent divined my purpose and grasped my hand like a vice, striving to turn it away. Stepping back suddenly, I threw him off balance, and his grip slackened and broke. At last I drew the dagger and plunged its keen point through the mail about his neck and throat. The dark blood flowed over his surcoat and he fell away with a gurgling scream.
I reeled on in the press, feeling faint after that encounter. Ralph, Marco and John were ahead of me, and the Italians were falling back on the wall. I knew we had to get to the gate. Struggling through clusters of embattled men, fending off and delivering blows as I went, I slowly regained my position at the front line. The opposition before us was beginning to fail. It seemed also that the fighting above us on the wall was turning in our favour, as more and more white coats appeared on the parapet.
“We must gain the gate, Matt,” I gasped. “They’re falling back.”
“Aye, Sir John. Come on, you laggards!” he roared. “To the gate! Away with these knaves!” We swept on, over the last few men-at-arms who stood before us.
“Unbar the gates! Open them wide, and stand aside!” I shouted at the wearying men. They flung themselves, yelling, on the bars and winches, and worked like fiends. With a groaning and a creaking, the massy gates began to move. As they did so, eager hands on the outside lent their aid.
A press of steel-clad bodies pushed against the timbers, and anon the gates swung wide. We stood aside and allowed the torrent of our men to sweep in and engage the defenders. Behind us, the Italians had rallied and stiffened their ranks with fresh men. The town was by no means in our hands yet.
“How now, Jack?” John Brise appeared at my side, raising his visor. I had seen him come down from the wall. Never the one for the easy way, he had fought his way up a scaling ladder and over the wall. I imagined him raging along the parapet with swirling sword as one of the Northmen raiders of old, his men behind him like a pack of ravening wolves.
“Well enough,” I said. “But they’ve made a tussle of it—and it isn’t finished yet.”
He grinned. “We’ll see.” With that he slammed down his visor and flung himself into the melee once more The noise was tremendous. Hemmed in by the town walls and the narrow streets, the clang of weapons, the yelling and shouting, screaming and groaning, seemed far worse than in an open battlefield.
I gathered our men together again and, with Matt Sayers, once more entered the fight. The resistance was stiff, and in the crowded streets it was scarcely possible for the dead to fall. But in the end the weight of our number of fresh men from outside the walls, all eager for their share in whatever spoils of war were to be had, began to tell. Slowly the defenders were pushed back towards the castle. I decided it was time for me to withdraw from fight and so dropped back. Ralph and Marco joined me.
“Are you wounded, Sir John?” Ralph sounded anxious, Marco looked worried. They were both breathing heavily and had dented shields and bloodied swords. Ralph limped.
“No, no. I am well, but it is now time for our latecomers to take over the work. We have played our part for a spell. You have both carried yourselves as men this night. I am proud of you.”
I slapped them both on the shoulder, and they grinned at each other like schoolboys.
“We will look for Master Sterz and his men, and see how they have fared,” I told them. “Look out for an inn or a wineshop, where we can take our rest and a cup of wine—if there is any left in this town.”
*****
As the last few defenders, fighting furiously, were driven back into the keep, Albrecht and I met for the first time since the attack began. We leaned on our swords and looked at each other. A slow smile spread over his face.
“Well, my friend, we meet again in the midst of yet another stricken town,” he said. “You are not hurt, I hope?”
“No, no. My luck still holds, though that fellow gave me a hard fight before I slew him.” I pointed to where the body of a tall man-at-arms lay face down on the cobbles. His right hand still clutched the shaft of the great axe with which he had come near to killing me. Albrecht frowned and walked over to the body. He stooped and rolled the dead man over. “Hmm, a German by his armour.” He looked around. “Where is his shield?”
I pointed to where it lay, a little to one side.
“This is a device I have seen before somewhere,” he said, “but I cannot remember where.” He beckoned to a nearby page, gave him the shield and some instructions in the Almain tongue, and sent him back to camp.
“We will see if Der Alte Helmut, our armourer, can tell us who the man was, or, at the very least, whose retainer.” He drew a deep breath. “Now I feel I could drink a bucket of wine, for I am as dry as a desert.”
Nearby, Ralph had found an inn—empty, but with a plentiful supply of wine. Others soon trooped in, John Brise full of noisy accounts of the action, and Giles Ashurst, jesting as usual with tall tales beloved of the archer kind. Matt Sayers sat silent, his surcoat smeared with the blood of enemies. Jack Onsloe slid morosely into a seat, drank two cups of wine in quick succession, and sank into his habitual gloom. The two Wills, Preston, and Turton, came in and took their wine off to another table and spoke quietly to each other.
John Brise nodded in their direction. “I wonder what those two are plotting?” he said. “How to hide some loot, I’ll wager. They’re always whispering together, after a fight. Up to no good I’d warrant.”
I ignored him, having learned that this was just his way, to grumble about such things. Nothing ever came of these matters. He was not to be quietened however, on this occasion.
“I’ll swear my back is broken, Jack. I fell down the last few steps from the wall and across a block of stone. I shall be a week before I can ride, I’ll be bound.” He looked so miserable that we all burst into laughter.
“Ride what?” said Giles with a grin, cocking an enquiring eyebrow.
Jack stared. “Ride what? Ride what? Why, a horse, you jack fool,” he rumbled. Again we dissolved into laughter, except for Albrecht, who could never understand our rough English humour. He merely smiled politely, and shook his head in disbelief.
Suddenly he stood up. “Where is Ritter von Felsingen?” he barked to one of his guards. “Go, find him. Bring him here!”
But it was Ralph who provided the answer to Albrecht’s question, as he stumbled in through the tavern door. “Sir John! Master von Felsingen is trying to kill Marco,” he gulped, “and there is a maid and a dead man. Will you come?” He rushed away. We drained our cups and clattered after the boy.
He led us down a narrow street and across a darkened square. The only light came from the fires started by our men and the full moon in the blue-black sky. The dead litt
ered the cobbled ground. Here and there a stricken soul groaned or cried out in final agony. On one side of the square was set a large house, by the look of it the house of a man of some substance. A number of Albrecht’s men-at-arms clustered around the door. They parted to let us through, and we rushed after Ralph up the wide stairs to the first floor.
The room we entered extended across the full width of the house. It was well lit by tall candles, and by the moonlight. I remember painted walls and hung tapestries. There was a long table of polished wood, and heavy wooden chairs stood about. In one corner was an iron-bound chest, broken open and the contents spilled out, showing the gleam of gold and silver.
Amongst all this stood Marco, backed into a corner. Behind him crouched a richly attired young girl with streaming black hair, wide-eyed with fear. Marco’s crossbow was held in front of him, cocked, a bolt at the nut, ready to shoot. Von Felsingen stood in front, long sword held high to strike. I noticed that Conrad Harzmann half leaned, half sat on the end of the table, his sword swinging idly in his hand as he watched the scene, a slight smile on his lips. Behind von Felsingen lay an elderly man, unconscious. Blood from a head wound seeped on to the floor.
“What in Hell are you doing, Werner?” rapped Albrecht.
“I’ll tell you, Master Sterz,” declared Marco. “He wants the girl, and I’m in the way. If he moves, I shoot. At this distance the bolt will pass through him, armour or no.”
“My men will hew your head from your shoulders in the next breath, insolent puppy!” shouted von Felsingen.
“But by then you’ll be dead,” returned Marco, with a twisted grin. “It will avail you naught.”
I stepped forward. “No one is to kill anyone. Put up your bow, Marco—and you, Werner, your sword. It is plain that this youth sees what you do not. The girl is clearly of gentle birth, and you as a knight are sworn to protect such as she, and the helpless. What of your oaths of chivalry now?”