Roger Lacy had already paraded his garrison and announced that under no circumstances were they to throw food or clothing to the evicted civilians. ‘You will find it hard to resist their cries, particularly those of the women and children, but it may help to remember this. Each crumb you dispense will prolong their agony and weaken our resistance. If the French see we are feeding the civilians, they will not allow them to leave. On the other hand the enemy are not monsters and must face that hillside day after day. They will not let the infants die there, though they’d like us to believe it. It’s a test of resolve. We must be monsters, at least for a while, or we shall lose Gaillard. But the French are not rationed in anything and, when they realize we are deaf to the civilians, they’ll let them pass.
‘That said, I must warn you; any man who aids them will be judged as a traitor. Be he workman or common soldier, he’ll be hanged from the barbican tower. Be he priest or sergeant, he’ll have his hands severed at the wrist. Be he knight or nobleman, he’ll be stripped naked, branded over the heart and sent out from the castle. The French will recognize him for what he is and treat him accordingly. Now go back to your posts, and pray God we’re soon relieved.’
The French continued to bombard the castle with arrows, crossbow bolts, missiles and the putrescent carcasses of sheep and goats – a noisome reminder that meat was plentiful, outside the walls.
The defenders burned the carcasses, or threw them back, though they were more selective with their arrows and had already dismantled a stone out-building, using the blocks as missiles for their catapults.
The civilians clung precariously to the hillside. A group of them made a feeble attempt to scale the castle wall, then fell back under the garrison’s pitiless gaze. Their injuries were appalling, and their screams forced the watch-guards to move away.
Another misguided civilian assembled a dozen of the more presentable women and sent them down the rocky slope to plead with the French. They were collected by a patrol, escorted to the enemy lines, then raped and murdered, their bodies thrown into the river. By the time the rain had chilled to sleet, the last of the infants had died, and the survivors were chewing the roots of thorn bushes, or bludgeoning each other for possession of an ants’ nest. Above them, the garrison existed on its diet of barley-mash, whilst below, the enemy courted the remaining women with fresh-caught fish, or a steaming disc of bread.
Roger Lacy no longer walked the walls. He had been trapped into taking the civilians, trapped when he’d evicted them, and was now trapped by the enemy’s refusal to let them leave. The long-time friendship between Gaillard and Les Andelys had been reduced to mutual torment, the casual everyday greetings turned to shrieks and invective, the civilians pleading for mercy, the soldiers snarling rejection.
The French had not yet found a way to assault the castle, though their shafts and quarrels had filled the infirmary. The defenders had not yet found a way to raise the siege, though they too had inflicted heavy casualties on the besiegers. And between them, their bodies flayed by wind and hail, their blood poisoned by the grubbed-out roots and verminous river rats, were the refugees from Les Andelys, the unwanted friends of Gaillard. Of the four hundred who had been evicted from the castle, almost half were dead or dying, and the first snow had yet to fall.
Chapter Seven
…Flow of France
December 1203–October 1206
Christmas at Canterbury made nonsense of the king’s predictions. He had warned Isabelle to expect a dull time, then arrived to find the Archbishop’s palace ablaze with candlelight, the air filled with the plangent sounds of lute and dulcimer.
Hubert Walter had invited a number of his friends to attend the festivities, though he had only asked those who were in sympathy with the monarchs. As a result, John and Isabelle were accorded a rapturous welcome, and the queen leaned close to hiss, ‘An echoing vault, wasn’t that your forecast, husband? Just you and I and the prelate, peering at each other through the gloom? Then who are these others, if not figments of the imagination?’
Before leaving Corfe he had advised her to eat her fill, assuring her that she’d be licking the plates at Canterbury. ‘One look at Walter shows you he lives on air and prayer. I swear his bones rattled during our coronation.’ It was an unmemorable joke, though Isabelle reminded him of it as the palace servants brought the chickens, hares, partridges, rabbits, peacocks, pork and venison to the table. There should have been swans, Walter apologized.
And so it continued, the king stupefied by the prelate’s hospitality, the boundless variety of diversions, the wines and delicacies that weighted the boards. John’s birthday was celebrated with a morning’s hunt, during which the diplomatic Walter arranged for a captured boar to be caged in the forest, then hamstrung and sent blundering across the king’s path. With a roar of surprise, John drove his spear deep into the animal’s neck, then wheeled in triumph as the archers loosed their shafts. Word of his success preceded him home, and he returned to find Queen Isabelle waiting to lead the applause.
Four days later the Archbishop gave John a silver clasp, in the shape of a tusky boar. He did not bother to tell the king that the brooch had been cast a full week before the hunt.
Throughout their stay at Canterbury, the royal couple devoted the afternoons to serious discussion. Whatever the topic – the inertia of the nobility, the situation abroad, the need for an invasion fleet – the talk led back along well-trodden paths to the Exchequer and its empty coffers. Officials arrived to plead their case, and it was decided to levy an immediate tax on income and possessions. Both Henry and Richard had employed this method to finance their wars, though even the officials blanched at the figure John proposed.
‘My father asked for a thirteenth part of the country’s wealth, and my brother exacted a tenth. But our present condition is far more serious. Henry held the French at the border, and Richard did his fighting in Cyprus and Palestine, whereas we face the enemy almost on our doorstep. If the people of England are to be roused from their torpor, they must be made to feel the pinch.’
The officials murmured agreement, but he waited for Walter’s cautious nod of assent before adding, ‘I want one-seventh of the value of all goods and chattels. We are not yet taking their property, only their movable possessions, so they’ll have no great cause to squeal. On the contrary, it’s the first real demand we’ve made on them in years.’ Jabbing a finger at the officials, he asked, ‘How much will it yield, assuming there’s no wholesale deceit?’
‘It’s hard to say, my lord king, but it should be somewhat in excess of £100,000. And if one adds to this the rents and port duties—’
‘Which we will,’ John nodded, ‘those and a few other things I have in mind.’ He noticed that neither the officials nor the Archbishop had mentioned a subscription from the Church, but he let it pass for the moment. He’d wait until they were ready to leave for Oxford, then inform Walter that if the laity could produce £100,000, so could the clergy.
The king and queen enjoyed the festivities, though they thought Walter foolish to have paraded his wealth. There should have been swans, indeed!
* * *
On the other side of the Channel, bad weather hobbled the war. The fields around Rouen lost their identity as snow blanketed the land, and the patrols were called in, their work done better by the watch-guards in the towers. There was no sign of the French, though they were known to be encamped less than ten miles from the city, with their largest force encircling Château Gaillard.
Ironically, the garrison at Rouen had also grown in strength, a last refuge for the suzerains, knights and men-at-arms who had been driven from their own threatened fortresses. They arrived looking grim and weary, expecting to be accused of cowardice, then bowed with relief as Marshal and Briouze commended their good sense. ‘You’ve shown courage to have held out this long, messires, and we’d rather have you with us than rotting in a French dungeon. No doubt you did what you could to slight your castles before you left?’
Most of them nodded and described how they’d set fire to anything that would burn, prised corbels from the roofs and stairways, wrecked the catapults, fouled the water supply and, in some cases, set traps for the new occupants.
A few of the warlords objected to the question, unwilling to admit that they had suffered anything more than a temporary reversal. ‘The king is even now raising an army in England. Come the first fine weather, they’ll make the crossing and we’ll be in our homes again by Easter.’
‘Pray God you’re right,’ Marshal told them, ‘though I’d rather the French did not receive their gifts intact.’
More men found their way into the city. More snow drifted over the roofs and ramparts, dragging a final curtain across the year. The common soldiers were kept busy chipping ice from the wall-walks, or greasing the chains and ratchets that worked the defensive siege-machines. Twice a day the barbican detail lowered and raised the portcullis, smearing more grease on the winches and clearing the snow from the murder-holes above the gate. Palfreys and destriers were exercised in the main bailey, whilst the archers took turns to practise at the butts.
The garrison had all heard of the refugees’ plight at Gaillard, and a group of chivalrous young knights sought Marshal’s permission to rescue them. ‘We’ll follow the route you took, my lord, get behind the enemy lines and—’
‘How many do you represent?’ he asked courteously. ‘Apart from you ten, how many are there?’
‘We have not yet started to recruit, Earl Marshal. We wanted to secure your permission before announcing—’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt again, but you put too fine a point on your hopes. Do your recruiting first, and then, when you’ve raised a sizeable force we’ll discuss it further. But be warned. The people on that hillside below Gaillard are peasants and villagers. They are not of your station, nor even sergeants or mercenaries.’
‘They are nevertheless our people,’ one of the knights retorted. ‘Ours and God’s.’
‘So they are,’ Marshal nodded, ‘though I doubt if that simple truth will impress the garrison. However, you must put it to the test.’
Three days later the chevaliers abandoned their scheme. It had been greeted with raucous laughter, withering stares, even outbursts of anger. ‘You ask us to ride through a wasteland of snow in order to drag these civilians from their perch? You want the Angevin nobility to risk life and limb for a huddle of farmers and snout-nosed serfs? Why not make a crusade of it, and we’ll save all the dogs and foxes on the way? Be your age, messires. Cudgel your brains.’
The Williams Marshal and Briouze had now held joint command of Rouen for three months. It had seemed an unlikely alliance at first – the austere and critical Earl of Pembroke standing side-by-side with King John’s favoured accomplice – but it had worked out well. Briouze was the official governor of the city, though, as his admiration for Marshal increased, he conferred more readily with his stiff-legged compeer.
But there was still one subject on which Briouze would not be drawn; the whereabouts of the king’s nephew, Arthur of Britanny.
Time and again he had thought of sharing his agony with Marshal, but had always stepped back from the brink. Scarcely a day passed without the memory grating like a fractured bone, and he had lost count of the bodies that had wallowed on the surface of his dreams. So real were they and so vivid the recollection of his own disgrace, squatting by the wall, that he had twice awoken in a soiled bed.
He had to steel himself to enter the assembly hall, and he kept clear of the far window and the stretch of riverbank beyond. He could no longer hold a stone wine jar without seeing his hand tremble, and he raged at anyone, servant or suzerain, who broke a vessel at table.
The barons were impressed by his anger. Briouze had obviously come to regard Rouen as his adopted home, and wished to conserve the dishes.
* * *
At Oxford, the year had ended in misery and panic. There were less than twelve hundred dwellings within the walls, yet the castellan had received orders to make a quarter of them available for the visitors. He discussed the problem with the burgesses, and it was decided to vacate the houses nearest to the castle, then work outwards, street by street. It was as impartial a method as any, though there were ugly scenes as the soldiers dragged the more stubborn occupants from their homes. Those who had friends in other parts of the city moved in with them, whilst the less fortunate were billeted on strangers.
The task was almost finished when the first snow-flecked riders clattered in. And after that it seemed as if the procession would never end.
Witness the arrivals… William of Wrotham, Keeper of the Ports… Reginald of Cornhill, the Chamberlain of London and custodian of the Mint… Ranulf, Earl of Chester, one of the most powerful barons in the land… Geoffrey fitz Peter, Justiciar and Earl of Essex…
Witness William de Ferrers, Earl of Derby… William de Warren, Earl of Surrey… William de Redvers, Earl of Devon… William d’Albini, Earl of Arundel… Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester… Roger Bigot, Earl of Norfolk… the Earls of Warwick and Huntingdon…
Witness the Bishops of Winchester and Norwich… militant barons such as Robert FitzWalter, William de Mowbray, Saher de Quency…
Witness a group of King John’s loyal seneschals and freelances, among them Gerard d’Athies, Engelard de Cigogné, Peter Stoke and the unswerving Constable Saldon…
Witness these and five times their number, each with his consort of knights, squires, mounted archers, common mercenaries, priests and household servants…
Witness the nation’s response to its prodigal king…
* * *
…who had by now fallen out with his Christmas host.
Patient to the last, Archbishop Walter had explained that John’s second demand for £100,000, this time from the Church, was excessive and unreasonable. ‘We will pay what we can, but it will be nowhere near the arbitrary figure the officials suggested. We are not wealthy, my lord.’
‘But I say you are, Walter, and I’ve the documents to prove it. Let’s see, now; what shall we take as an example? Winchester?’
The Archbishop stayed silent. It had been a rhetorical question.
‘Winchester,’ John repeated. ‘Held by Godfrey de Lucy, I believe. One of the more profitable Church estates, and yielding an annual income of not less than £3,000. Added to which, the good bishop owns and has earnings from the castles of Taunton, Farham, Wolvesey and somewhere else, I forget. And how many similar estates are there? How many other episcopal baronies throughout the country?’
‘I don’t carry such knowledge in my head. I’d have to check.’
‘Don’t bother, I’ve already done so. There are thirty-nine or forty.’ An ominous pause, before he added, ‘Including your own see of Canterbury, which you’ll agree comes close to Winchester in land and revenue.’ The king was too small to clap Walter on the shoulder, so he squeezed his arm and said, ‘Don’t look so mournful. I’m not going to steal the altar- cloths. I’m merely showing you that your fears are groundless. With forty bishoprics and God knows how many parish churches and priories? Of course you can afford it. You raised the money for Henry and Richard, so why not for me?’
‘It would not be for you,’ the Archbishop corrected sourly. ‘If it was done at all, it would be for England.’
During the ride from Canterbury to Oxford, the weather matched their mood. John and Isabelle travelled ahead with their entourage, while Hubert Walter and his consort lagged a mile behind. They shared the same overnight quarters, but there was no more laughter or music, no extravagance of any kind. Frugality was the watchword now, and neither king nor churchman would be seen squandering England’s money.
The critical Sparrowhawk was delighted with her husband. Not only had he stood firm under Walter’s forbidding gaze, but had researched his case and kept a bridle on his tongue. It was John and not the prelate who knew the revenue of Winchester, the names of the castles, the number of profitabl
e sees. And there was more to come, for his study of the documents had unearthed some interesting facts about the nobility. They would baulk and bluster, that was to be expected, but they’d find their king uncomfortably well versed in their affairs. John Softsword, maybe. But no less John Shrewdhead.
* * *
The council lasted a week and was, by common consent, as exhausting as a seven-day war. Prayers were said, and Hubert Walter invoked God’s blessing on their endeavours. Formal greetings were exchanged, some of the barons kneeling in homage to the king, others muttering pointedly to their friends as John welcomed them by name.
It was a necessary ritual, but no sooner had the king invited the minor barons to swear fealty than the first barked questions were loosed.
‘We hear there are more Frenchmen outside France than in it, and that the best work goes to their masons, building prisons to house our leaders. Is it true we’ve lost half the Norman nobility?’
‘Why did you not return to us before now, king? Were you too busy ceding territory to the invaders? Have you already made a treaty with Philip Augustus? We’ve heard it’s so.’
‘Where’s the Earl of Pembroke these days? You banished him to England when he should have been in Normandy, and now he’s absent from this all-important council. We know you dislike him, king, but at least his words ring true. And come to that, where’s the Duke of Brittany? There’ve been some fine tales about his disappearance. Walled up alive, that’s a popular version.’
‘Stoned to death at Falaise!’
‘Stoned to death, yes, but in Rouen itself! Is that the truth of it, my lord king? Could you produce him, alive?’
And so it had gone, whilst John yelled rebuttal. No, there were not more Frenchmen. No, there was not a treaty. No, he was not purposely keeping Marshal at a distance. No, Duke Arthur had not been walled away, and would be released at the proper time. No to their accusations, but yes to his!
The Wolf at the Door Page 17