B00B9BL6TI EBOK

by C. B. Hanley

  The knight continued. ‘But what if this person didn’t simply know that you carried a message, but also knew the content of it? If that’s the case, then it’s possible that he’s already informed the French of it and they might be aware of our plans.’ Edwin hadn’t considered this and felt a jolt to his heart as he looked at the knight, grim-faced now. ‘This is important – I must warn the lords. If we’re attacked out on the open ground then all will be lost.’ Sir Gilbert nudged his horse and cantered forward to where John Marshal rode at the head of their section of the host. Sir Reginald returned to his pastime of baiting Edwin about ‘his girl’, and Edwin’s face grew red once more.

  It was the hour of Prime, and the knight Robert Fitzwalter was standing on the walls of the city, looking out over the countryside to the west. Behind him, the mangonels and petraries under the command of the chief engineer were continuing their deadly work, sending huge stones hurtling into the castle. He was so used to it by now that he barely noticed when another huge crash sounded – at least this one hadn’t been followed by a shriek of agony. There was something almost cowardly about standing around here letting the common engineers break down the castle walls bit by bit. There were noblemen in there who deserved better than being crushed to death by rock. He had come here to fight, damn it, and he chafed at the inaction. Still, it didn’t look as if the walls would be able to hold much longer, and once a breach had been made he would be one of the first into it; then there would be fighting aplenty, proper man-to-man combat with sword or lance.

  He sighed as he scanned the countryside again, wondering how he’d ended up here, an Englishman in England, under the command of a French noble. It all went back to King John, and his refusal to … but what was that? Over there on the ridge to the north-west?

  He looked again more carefully and realised that his first instinct had been correct: it was indeed a column of armed men advancing towards the city. They were nowhere near within bowshot range yet, but he shouted for a party of archers to come up anyway, while he ran for his superior.

  Saer de Quincy, the Earl of Winchester, didn’t particularly appreciate being hauled away from his breakfast, but as soon as he heard the news he jumped up and shouted for a man to saddle his horse. Then he and Fitzwalter rode with all haste out of the city on to the plain to reconnoitre the new force.

  ‘Who are they, my lord?’ Fitzwalter was sure he knew the answer, but he had to ask just to break the silence as they cantered over the ground. He felt very exposed being outside the walls, but the approaching men were still some distance away, so there was no danger.

  ‘It can only be a relief force,’ replied the earl, ‘for we aren’t expecting any of our French allies to arrive from the south.’

  Fitzwalter winced again at hearing the words ‘French’ and ‘allies’ in the same sentence, but he had made his bed and now he must lie on it.

  The earl continued. ‘I can’t see properly, for the sunlight is glinting off their armour. Your eyes are younger than mine – can you make out the banners?’

  Fitzwalter strained his eyes. The banners were hanging limply at the moment, but as he watched a slight breeze came upon them and they floated out so that he could see the devices. His blood ran cold. He had known who it must be, but the stark sight of the emblems reminded him of how deep his trouble might turn out to be. Arrayed against him were the forces of the regent and the king.

  De Quincy took the news calmly, saying only that it was to be expected, and bidding Fitzwalter ride back to summon their overall commander, the comte de Perche. ‘It doesn’t look as though they are overly large in number. We’ll probably be able to attack them out on the open ground and cut them to pieces before they get anywhere near the city. But the comte will no doubt want to see for himself. Go now.’ Fitzwalter urged his horse into action.

  Chapter Ten

  Edwin tried in vain to calm himself. The attack on the city was about to go ahead. He had seen two men ride out from inside and examine the host, before being joined by a third man, and there had been much pointing and waving of arms. Had the ruse worked? Had they been deceived as to the size of the host, enough to put them off attacking over the open ground? The tension grew and grew within him. If they were going to be assailed, when would it happen? Now? In a few heartbeats’ time? He couldn’t stand the waiting, the apprehension. He needed to scream and run, but he couldn’t. He had to stay, for those were his orders; he couldn’t run home and hide until all this was over. How would he face his lord?

  He had dismounted, and watched as the Earl of Chester and his men peeled off from the rest of the host, ready to go around to the north side of the city in order to assail the gate there. The sound of combat emanating from that quarter would be their signal for a mixed group of men to move forward and enter the castle via the postern. Then some of them would sally out into the streets to create a diversion, aided by the crossbowmen who would stay inside the castle and shoot down from the walls, while a small group comprising Edwin himself and a few others would slip around to the city’s western gate and open it. Yes, that is what will happen.

  And still they had not been attacked.

  His stomach cramped as he stood, and he thought he would embarrass himself, but his thoughts were distracted by the sound of shouts and the clash of steel issuing from the north. The signal. The Earl of Chester’s men had struck the first blow, and now it was his turn. He ran forward with the others, expecting at any moment to hear a deadly rain of arrows hissing down, but none came. The men inside the city obviously had other things to worry about. Lord, protect me this day.

  As they neared the castle, the postern opened and the first of the crossbowmen entered. Edwin waited his turn and then passed through the small gate for the second time in several hours. Then he was inside the castle, wincing and ducking his head as a thunderous crack signalled another stone hitting its target. His heart beat faster with the terror. How had the garrison survived such an onslaught for so long? Surely they must have been driven mad by the fear. He kept his head down as he moved forward quickly into the courtyard, even though he knew deep down that this would do him precious little good if he were to be hit by one of the gigantic missiles. He would be crushed like an ant, the rock shattering his bones. Desperate to take his mind off that image, he followed the man in front as the rest of the party formed up. Those with crossbows ran up the steps to the curtain wall and took up position, while Falkes de Breauté and his men waited by the main eastern gate of the castle. Once everyone was ready the bar was lifted, and with a great shout the knights and men began to pour through into the city, weapons at the ready. Edwin drew his dagger and followed.

  They were still sitting in the kitchen when the first sounds of battle erupted. It was Margery who heard it first, recognising that the noise was different from the horrible reverberations of the stones crashing into the castle, but not knowing what it meant. But the two men seemed to understand: they both leapt to their feet.

  ‘Combat!’ Master Pinel opened the back door to hear better. ‘The men from the castle must have come out to fight.’

  Gervase was beside him. ‘Either that or a relief force has arrived.’

  Alys felt her heart soar. He’d done it! He must have returned to the castle in safety and passed the message on. The king had sent an army and they would be saved.

  But there were more immediate concerns. It was Mistress Guildersleeve who voiced them first. ‘There will be fighting in the streets of the city. We must protect our homes.’

  Gervase took charge. ‘Mother, come home with me now. Alys, is your front door barred?’ She nodded. ‘Good. Now take anything else you can find and pile it up behind the door, in case anyone tries to break it down.’

  Master Pinel took up the theme. ‘I’ll do the same in my home, although Appylton’s place must, I fear, be left to fend for itself. Is there any way of defending the yard?’

  Gervase thought for a moment. ‘We’ll see. Come.’ As they all hu
stled out of the door, he turned and cast a parting remark to Alys. ‘Once the doors are barred, take the children upstairs and hide. If anyone does get in, they might only loot the shop. God protect you.’ And then they were gone.

  Alys was terrified, hardly able to move, but as she looked at the stunned faces of the children she realised again that she would have to be the strong one. She tried to sound decisive. ‘Margery, Edric, take Papa’s chair and put it behind the shop door. Then take these stools and try to wedge them in to keep everything fast.’ Used to the voice of authority, they obeyed without speaking, starting to drag the heavy chair through to the shop. Dear Lord, she hoped they wouldn’t look too closely at the mess of fabric near the fire. She turned to Randal, who was shaking. She could barely get him to understand her. ‘Randal, help me.’ He didn’t move. She knew how frightened he was, but this wouldn’t help him. ‘Randal!’ Still he stood, quivering and rooted to the spot. Hating herself, she drew back her arm and slapped him across the face, hard. In shock he brought up his hand, looked at her and burst into tears. She could have wept herself, could have curled up on the floor, sobbing until her heart broke, but there was no time. At least she’d roused him. ‘Come now. Help me move things across to block this door.’ The kitchen door, opening as it did on to the private yard, only had a fairly light bar which wouldn’t withstand much of an attack. She did as best she could by heaving the flour barrel over to it and packing around it every other movable thing she could find.

  Once they had barricaded themselves in as best they could, she took them all upstairs, where they huddled together in terror, praying that they might survive the day.

  Sir Gilbert’s horse pawed the ground as he waited with the rest of the regent’s part of the host. They were on the ridge to the north-west of the city, waiting for the gate to open. He’d heard the clash of weapons from the north gate, where the Earl of Chester’s men were attacking, and had seen Falkes de Breauté’s party entering the castle’s postern. Reginald and Edwin were both there, and he prayed for their safety while he waited.

  And waited.

  He shouldn’t let himself become too nervous. Think about what you’re going to do. Now was the time to find out whether Edwin had risked his life in vain, whether the information was true, whether they were going to get into the city unopposed or whether they would end up being sitting targets for a forewarned and forearmed enemy force. What would happen to his estates? What would …

  That wasn’t the right thing to think about. He needed distraction and fortunately it was provided, for the regent rode up in front of his men, removed his helmet and began to address them. His oration was spirited, and men straightened in their saddles as they listened to him declaring that they were fighting for a just cause, to drive the French out of their realm on behalf of the true king, and crying out that God was on their side. As a roar went up from the host, Sir Gilbert had a momentary heretical thought that the enemy were probably also claiming that God was on their side, and that presumably He couldn’t be supporting both factions at once, but despite this, he still found himself stirred by the words of the old man. He was a knight, it was his calling to fight for a just cause, and today he would do it, by God. He felt his heart lift and the cares about family and estate melt away. He was here, he would engage in battle, and the Lord would decide the outcome.

  The regent ended his speech amid rousing cheers and turned to face the city. He seemed about to ride off, but one of his men ran forward with his helmet, which he was evidently about to forget to don, and stopped him. Then he too was encased in faceless steel, a killing machine ready to cut his way mercilessly through the enemy forces. He took his position as the papal legate – ah, that settled it, of course: if the Pope supported them then God must really be on their side – blessed the host. All eyes were on the city gate, and as Sir Gilbert looked at it he thought he saw the tiniest crack appearing in the opening. Or was he imagining it? No, it was definitely opening, but only the Lord knew who would be behind it. He readied himself for the charge.

  Sir Reginald watched as the crossbowmen rained their deadly bolts down on the besiegers. The order had been given that they should concentrate on killing the horses of the enemy, rather than the men, for which he was glad. For one thing, it still felt slightly odd to be fighting against fellow countrymen, even if they had allied themselves with the French, and for another, there would be the possibility of capturing other knights for ransom. Besides, men of rank should be fought by other knights in proper hand-to-hand combat, not merely mown down from a cowardly distance by commoners.

  While these thoughts ran through his head, he was preparing with other mounted men to sally forth into the city. This was it – his chance had come. Falkes de Breauté gave the order and as the gate was opened he watched John Marshal and the men on foot run through, and then he rode out, ready for battle.

  The first thing he noticed was that city streets weren’t made for fighting on horseback. The space immediately outside the castle gate had been cobbled, and his horse slipped and slithered as he tried to control it. After that it was slightly easier, the stones giving way to earthen roads, but the fight would be along a narrow front, made worse as the hooves churned up the ground into a mire. Still, he would make the best of it. Combat was his reason for living, and he felt the elation building up within him and the smile growing on his face; he whooped as he spurred towards the foe.

  But immediately in front of him was an enemy knight on horseback. There was no time to set his horse into a proper charge, but he barrelled into the man, shoving his mount sideways. He couldn’t get his long lance into position, so he simply threw it at the man’s face to distract him momentarily while he drew his sword. That was better – he was able to move his right arm more freely now, ignoring the stabbing pain from his broken hand, which was still sore after the night’s exertions. He struck a sound blow at his opponent’s helmet: the knight was obviously stunned as he let slip his own weapon and slid off his horse. This would be a good opportunity for a capture, but unfortunately the press around him was too thick and he had to leave the man where he was lying in order to focus on further enemies.

  Now he was surrounded by knights on foot, their dead and wounded horses lying still on the ground or thrashing their legs, crossbow bolts protruding from bleeding wounds. One knight reached up to try and seize his reins, intent on stealing his own steed, but he lashed down with his sword and saw the other fall away. More foot soldiers came towards him, commoners this time, defended only by light gambesons, and he laid about him mightily until he was surrounded by a pile of the dead.

  Around him his compatriots were doing the same, but they had slowed. The impetus of their very short initial charge had worn off and they were becoming mired in the small confines, surrounded by more and more enemies. Ahead of him he saw Falkes de Breauté being pulled from his horse down into the press, and he pushed his own mount forward, lashing about him with his sword and using his shield as a battering ram, until he was over his fallen leader. He held off the enemies long enough for Falkes to stand and recover himself, but his horse had gone. Shouting to Falkes to pull himself up on to his steed, he tried to stay still long enough for the man to haul himself on to the beast’s back, but it was difficult with so many assailants. A few more of his companions thrust their way forwards so that Falkes had the time and space to grab his saddle and try to heave himself up, but they were becoming hard pressed. A glancing blow caught him on the leg and he winced, but the damage wasn’t serious, thanks to his mail chausses. More and more enemies came at him. The sortie was being repulsed, and he was stuck. Was he going to die here?

  As he ran through the gateway, Edwin had nothing in his mind other than the thought of imminent death. To his surprise, this failed to materialise, and he followed John Marshal and six other men around to the north side of the castle.

  There they were confronted with the sight of the massive western gate to the city. Edwin heard John Marshal swear
, and at first he thought that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, for the gate seemed blocked behind tons of fallen masonry and debris. As they picked their way forward, however, it became clear that, apart from the bar across the gate itself and one or two pieces which had been left to disguise the rest, all the remaining rubble had been artfully placed to make it look as though the gate was blocked, when in fact it would be the work of moments to open it. He gave thanks for the souls of the brave men who had dared to defy their oppressors to clear the way, some giving their lives to do so.

  Urged on by John Marshal, the men started to heave at the rubble and hurl it aside. Edwin tucked his dagger back in his belt and worked as fast as he could, tearing the skin of his hands on the rough stone and still in great fear, but the crossbowmen in the castle were doing their job well, and not a single enemy soldier appeared to distract them from their task. Finally all eight of them set their hands to the great bar and heaved it out of its metal sockets to throw it aside. They seized hold of the gate and began to drag it, protesting, open. As soon as the first chink appeared, a great shout came from outside and some of the regent’s men ran forward and pushed it from the outside, until finally it lay wide open, offering access to the city for the hundreds of knights standing ready.

  The men on foot quickly stepped back to allow them entry, and Edwin had to jam himself back against the wall to avoid being crushed by flying hooves. First through the gate was the regent himself, charging through the gap and roaring his men forward, armour shining and bright surcoat streaming; a sight which was to remain burned in Edwin’s mind until the end of his days – the greatest hero of the age storming into battle in the cause of righteousness. Then he was gone from sight, followed by a torrent of steeds and men, forcing their way in and hurtling into the narrow streets. After them came the footsoldiers, taking advantage of their lighter bodily protection to leap over the fallen debris.