Lord of the Sea Castle

  Up and down the wall Welshmen were fighting their own duels with those Gaels who had managed to scale the inner defences. The enemy whooped like fiends as they leapt over the fortifications to attack. It was as if they were possessed by madness. Several of the Welsh archers were already down, their prone bodies lying across the allure with horrific wounds. He could see at least two more wounded lying twisted in the bailey where they had been cast by the enemy.

  He tucked the axe in his belt and scooped up his spear, nodding to the boy next to him as he walked past. An archer ten paces down the allure had a body at his feet and was hacking at another man as he attempted to climb over the wall. Close by, two men wrestled on the allure, rolling dangerously close to the edge of the platform. Borard stopped to help the Welshman only to find that he could no longer tell friend from foe. It was only when one appealed to him in stuttering French that he acted, stabbing the other man in the nape of his back as he tried to throttle the life from his foe. Borard pulled the bowman to his feet as another helmeted head appeared from beyond the wall to attack.

  ‘Keep fighting!’ he shouted and pointed at the bearded face. Close quarter fighting had broken out along the entire length of the palisade and where Borard saw an opportunity to help one of the Welshmen he took it, but he could already see that his men were tiring from their exploits. The enemy kept coming over the wall and it was all the Welsh archers could do to keep them at bay. Another dart zipped past his head as he shoulder-charged another Gael, sending the man tumbling head-first into the side of one of the turf-roofed houses below.

  ‘Keep fighting!’ he shouted again. His head spun from his efforts. ‘We only have to keep it up until darkness falls!’ Borard wasn’t entirely sure how long it was until sunset, but he recognised that the sun was already to the west. ‘Lay it on them!’

  It was as he lifted his hand to shout encouragement to the Welshmen that a javelin cast from the outer defences struck him in his left shoulder blade. Borard screamed in pain and dropped to his knees. Anger and pain coursed through him as he pulled the weapon from his flesh. He barely had time to notice how deep the rent to his armour as another set of bare feet landed next to him and he had to rise and grab the Gael’s arms before he could bring his falchion down upon his head. Sweat poured down Borard’s brow and streamed between his clenched teeth as he fought with his enemy. Pain scored across his back. He could feel his grip faltering and before he lost hold he brought his knee up into the Gael’s thigh. The man cried out in pain and the split second distraction allowed Borard to elbow the man above the eye with his mail-clad arm. The Irishman stumbled away from him and became embroiled in another fight.

  The pause allowed Borard some respite and he clung to the battlements with both hands, breathing heavily because of the pain dispensing from his wounded back. He had to fight the desire to close his eyes as he rested his head on the gap between two sharpened timber trunks. He found that he could see the whole way to the inner barbican between the walls through the shaped timber posts. The whole avenue between the fortifications was filled with men. They shouted and surged, cursed and climbed, killed and were killed. There were always more attackers to take the place of the fallen. He saw how great sections of the allure on the outer wall had collapsed but it had not stopped the enemy. Gaels who had hurled all their darts and throwing axes had taken to flinging pieces of the wreckage across at the Welshmen opposite. One had even built a fire and Borard watched as the man tried to encourage a flame from the small pyre. He was close enough to the inner gates now to see the effect of so many men pressing against them. The heavy timber boards were reinforced with spars on the inside, but the weight of so many was causing them to bend and warp inwards as the pulsating mass gushed forwards again and again. He knew that in a matter of moments the gates would be forced and the Norman fort overrun. A dam can only hold back flood water for so long. Their only hope was that Raymond’s plan would save them.

  Borard had barely the energy to lift his arms in defence as another Gael scaled the rampart and collapsed on top of him. Rolling to the floor, Borard hugged the man to his chest rather than fight, refusing to let him go or allow him to take hold of a cudgel in his belt. Instead the Norman officer gathered his breath and summoned all of his remaining energy.

  ‘Raymond!’ Borard screamed. ‘Raymond!’

  It was only a matter of minutes after he left Borard’s side that Raymond heard the signal that the enemy had penetrated the outer walls of Dun Domhnall. Not that he needed warning; their feral screams rang over the headland. It was a sound that heralded Norman doom.

  ‘God’s teeth, there is a lot of the bastards,’ Caradog commented as the river of men flooded down the passageway towards the inner barbican where he and his nine best archers stood with Raymond. The rabble of men screamed and shouted up at the defenders. Their voices rattled the walls. The enemy had begun casting their darts and javelins up at the battlements, and Caradog did not want his warriors wasting those few arrows that they had left.

  ‘Hold fast,’ deep-voiced Caradog told them. ‘They’ll get what’s coming to them soon enough.’

  As with Borard, Raymond had quickly outlined the ten archers’ place in his scheme to Caradog and then together they had spent several frantic minutes collecting every available arrow onto the barbican for the Welshmen to use. Many of those sixty left with Borard had been furious at having to hand over the arrows and more than once Caradog had been forced to step in to assure his folk that Raymond was not trying to get them killed by robbing them of their primary weapon.

  ‘Hold until I give the signal,’ Raymond insisted in Caradog’s direction as he made for the ladder that would take him to the bailey. ‘Then give them every arrow you have left.’ He paused as he swung his feet onto the rungs and locked his gaze with that of Caradog. ‘Borard will hold them, you make a gap, and I’ll deliver the killer punch. Hold until you see the signal.’ He waited for the Welshman to nod his head and confirm that he understood before he began climbing downwards.

  That the fate of the fort now lay in the hands of those Welshmen who had, a month earlier, been his most ardent of enemies, was not lost on the captain. He hoped that Caradog’s kinsmen realised that Ragnall would not distinguish between any of those inside the fort, be he Norman or Cymric. They would live or die together. As he turned to take the second ladder from the allure to the floor of the bailey, he glanced at the frighteningly few men who would face the initial charge of Ragnall’s army and prayed that the sixty archers under Borard’s command were up to the task. It would all be for naught if they could not hold back the horde until he had made his final preparations. The din from the enemy was thunderous in volume and Raymond could feel the weight of the men between the walls rumble through the wooden fortifications to make the ladder shiver in his fingers. He fought back the urge to glance at Ragnall’s army over the battlements for he knew that it would do no good whatsoever. He had set his plan in motion and all that was to be done was to follow it through.

  Now the wine is drawn, it must be drunk. The old Norman saying went some way to allaying his fears though he would happily have had a mug of wine at that moment rather than merely repeated the words.

  His resolve lasted until his feet touched the bailey and saw the enemy’s effect on the gates. It was dark beneath the barbican, the sun having traversed the sky to lie low to the west, but every few seconds Raymond could see a long, vertical shard of light squeeze between the gates as each impact thumped against the outside. Had he more men he would’ve sent them to brace the inside, but he could spare no-one to secure the gates.

  Misgivings assailed him.

  ‘St David, allow me five more minutes,’ he begged at the sky. With effort he backed away and forced his stare from the gates. It was then that he spotted a group of pages huddling together under the fighting platform close to the hay barn. Rocks and darts thrown over the wall, as well as broken bodies of fallen warriors, lay all around them.

  ‘Boy
s!’ he shouted and waved a hand in their direction indicating that they were to follow him towards the cattle pens. The pages, all under thirteen years old, looked terrified as they reluctantly broke from cover, but Raymond did not have the time to ease their fears. They squealed as a sudden barrage of rocks plummeted over the rampart and thudded into the bailey nearby.

  ‘Get a brazier going and collect some torches. Then come back and hide in there,’ he ordered, pointing towards the space between the twisted fence of the cattle pens and the white daub wall of the marshalsea. ‘I have a task for you all and it may be the difference between the fort falling and our victory. Make sure and return.’ The pages nodded before running off to complete their task.

  Raymond was met at the door to the marshalsea by his remaining milites and their esquires. Questions and demands accosted him as he entered and it was all that Raymond could do to not scream at his warriors to be silent.

  ‘Why are we hiding here while the enemy attack?’ Asclettin demanded of his captain. He, like all the seven remaining members of Raymond’s conrois, was ready to fight. He had his chainmail coif up and his spangenhelm propped under his arm. His sword was belted to his hip.

  ‘Those Welsh bastards aren’t to be trusted with the defence,’ Dafydd FitzHywel, Cymric himself, added.

  Thurstin nodded in agreement and picked up a lance from the weapons rack nearby. ‘Borard needs us on the wall, Raymond. We are going. Now.’

  It was the unrest of the coursers and remounts – rather than Raymond’s appeal – that quieted the conrois. Each owed his livelihood to his horse and their care was paramount. Almost as one the milites turned to calm their mounts rather than race to the walls.

  ‘It’s time for their evening feed,’ Christian de Moleyns said, and ordered the esquires behind him to give each horse some mixed oat and bean bread to satisfy their hunger.

  ‘I have a plan,’ Raymond told his men as the teens, led by William de Vale, the most senior, went about their work. ‘I think it can stop the attack, but we need to act quickly if it is going to accomplish anything.’

  It was Asclettin who hissed a reply. ‘Well, spit it out then.’

  ‘We ride out and attack the enemy.’

  For many seconds no-one replied to Raymond’s statement. The only sounds were those of the battle going on outside and those of the horses eating. It was almost inevitable that Walter de Bloet broke the silence:

  ‘You want us to open the gate and to charge into that host?’ he asked, lifting his left hand to point towards the sound of Ragnall’s mass of warriors. ‘We would be surrounded and cut down in seconds. No! We will take every man and boy onto the palisade to help Borard. We do not have time for your nonsense, Raymond.’ A frustrated groan escaped from between his teeth. ‘I cannot believe Strongbow put you in charge of his conrois!’

  ‘But he did give me the responsibility, Walter,’ Raymond stated as forcefully. ‘Not you, his nephew, not his son-in-law, Roger de Quincy, and not his uncle Sir Hervey. Me.’

  The conrois and the esquires had stopped what they were doing to listen in to the discourse. It was an argument that had been building between Walter and Raymond for two years. Both men had been part of the conrois led by Walter’s father, Sir Reginald, which had accompanied Strongbow and King Henry’s daughter to Germany for her wedding to the Duke of Saxony. Barely a day after crossing the frozen Rhine, they had been set upon by bandits. The young princess had not been hurt and the brigands had been chased off. The only casualty had been old Sir Reginald who had taken a spear to his side. Everyone had expected Walter, Sir Reginald’s fourth son, to succeed to his father’s role as captain, but Strongbow had intervened and to the surprise of all had advanced the younger, less well-connected Raymond to the position. If anything, the death a month later of Walter’s childless uncle, the Lord of Raglan, and his elder brother’s elevation to that lofty station had made Walter’s jealousy of Raymond even worse.

  ‘I was made captain,’ Raymond insisted again. ‘Above all of you…’

  ‘Proving nothing except Strongbow’s foolishness,’ Walter de Bloet answered sullenly.

  Raymond watched the reactions of his conrois. Asclettin bared his teeth in embarrassment at Walter’s words while Denis d’Auton started to intercede on Raymond and Strongbow’s behalf. The captain held up a hand for silence.

  ‘Perhaps Strongbow was foolish, Walter,’ he said. ‘Or it could be that he felt that having lost so much to King Henry that he had to be able to trust those in positions of power in his household if he was to hold onto what little he had left. You know as well as I do that Roger de Quincy and Sir Hervey would do anything to get their portion of Strongbow’s estate. So neither of them could be trusted as captain…’

  ‘And me? Now I cannot be trusted? What have I ever done other than serve him to the best of my ability all my life? What have I done to deserve such contempt?’

  Raymond closed the gap between him and Walter, planting a large hand on his chainmailed shoulder. ‘You have an elder brother who would claim Striguil if Strongbow died. You are his nephew and a threat.’ He urged Walter to understand, but he could see that his resentment at being overlooked was never going to disappear. He didn’t have time for Walter’s interruption and nor could he do without his sword if his plan was to succeed. So he tried another course.

  ‘In me the earl sees a man without connection to his house, a man totally reliant on his purse. He perceives me to be one of the few men in his employ who can be controlled. Raymond le Gros. Raymond the Fat. Raymond the cowhand.’ He pursed his lips as he spoke. ‘That is why I was made captain, Walter, rather than you.’ He took a deep breath and raised his voice so that everyone in the marshalsea could hear. ‘But I want to be much more. In this land we all have the chance to be more than mere milites or esquires in Strongbow’s household. Here, in Laighin, he who is brave enough can become a great lord and gain vast domains.’ He looked deep into Walter de Bloet’s eyes. ‘Here we can be our own men. We need not be beholden to another, be he uncle, brother or lord.’ That seemed to cause a change in Walter’s manner and Raymond could feel his shoulders relax under his hand. ‘But we must first prove ourselves to Strongbow and we can only do that by demonstrating our skill in battle.’ He walked past Walter so that he was amongst his men. ‘We must preserve this bridgehead. At all costs, we must do that. Perhaps you are right and the best thing to do is to climb up onto that wall and fight them hand-to-hand.’ Several voices grunted approval to this plan, but Raymond stamped out the spark of opposition before it could grow. ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘A hundred cannot defeat three thousand – not in a fair fight. There are too many in Ragnall’s army to defend that wall, no matter how hard and how long we fight. But I know a way to take them on and I promise you it will be successful.’

  ‘You want us to attack,’ Amaury de Lyvet said, ‘but I don’t understand how we can force them back, Raymond. There are only seven of us,’ he reminded his captain.

  ‘Thirty,’ said one amongst the esquires. Raymond recognised him as Fulk, the butcher’s apprentice from Westminster, who had performed so bravely during Jarl Sigtrygg’s initial attack. ‘That is if you include us.’ He puffed up his chest, daring the older man to deny him his chance to prove himself in battle. Behind him his fellow esquires, both older and younger, looked aghast at the boy’s swagger.

  ‘Even with thirty it is quite impossible,’ Amaury stated with an irritated look towards Fulk. ‘I want to avenge my brother, but that would be madness.’

  Raymond nodded his head. ‘How many more would it take for you to follow me into the fight?’

  ‘A hundred,’ Walter de Bloet interjected. His tone betrayed much of his old insolence.

  The captain turned to look at his rival. ‘And if I can promise you fifty of the strongest, most unstoppable cavalry to ride ahead of you into battle outside the walls, would you follow them?’

  Walter looked suspiciously at his captain. ‘If you can magic up fifty, I wil
l lead the conrois myself.’

  ‘Then get ready to charge for I shall hold you to that vow.’

  ‘Raymond?’ the page asked and reached out to tug at his sleeve. ‘Master Raymond, sir?’

  The captain was lost in his thoughts and did not answer immediately. Before him a brazier burned black and orange. He stared into its depths. The moment had arrived for him to set his plan in motion, to see if his small army’s will to survive was greater than the enemy’s desire to kill. It was time.

  ‘Master Raymond?’ the page tried again.

  In his hand was an unlit torch. He knew that once he pushed it into the glowing heart of the fire there could be no turning back. For if his plan failed to drive the enemy from before their walls there was no contingency plan, no alternative stratagem.

  There was victory or there was obliteration.

  And yet Raymond hesitated. His scheme had many parts and it relied on each man playing his role to perfection: Borard and his Welsh warriors holding the wall; Caradog and his archers’ expertise on the barbican; Walter de Bloet and the conrois, now mounted and ready for battle; and Raymond the Fat and his team of seven pages with the most important task of all. If any should fail, it would mean their downfall.

  ‘You made sure that the marshalsea was clear of horses?’ he asked the boy a third time. ‘You moved Ferrand to a safe distance?’

  He nodded in reply. ‘Into the old fort, master. Sir Hervey shouted at us, but we didn’t listen and came back as you said.’

  Raymond clapped the page on the shoulder. ‘Remember as soon as it is done you will have to help me again rather than run up to hide with Sir Hervey.’ It was a caustic statement, but the boy did not seem to notice. If his plan failed all his warriors and horses would have to join Strongbow’s uncle behind the stone walls of the citadel. There they would await defeat for, without access to the well in the bailey, they could only hold out as long as the small store of wine lasted.