As if to prove Simon’s point, cries of pain began to ring out here and there on the wall. The next volley from below was even denser. One of Simon’s men was hit in the act of loosing an arrow. His shriek was more of rage than pain, for the bolt only caught him in the outer part of the thigh and with little force. He even fired his shot and hit his man before he squatted behind the shield and wrenched the bolt out.
The trouble was, as Simon could see when he darted out to shoot and slid back, that there were nearly a thousand men opposed to his fifty. Four or five to one was about equal force for an assault, since the men on the walls had so great an advantage. However, here they were outnumbered by many more than that. Either someone had given good advice and Henry had taken it for once, or the king’s own impatience had worked out the correct answer. No reserve was being held back. All Henry’s forces were in action.
The density of bolts from the attackers was greatly inhibiting the effectiveness of Simon’s archers. There was so continual a rain of quarrels that the men could scarcely find a chance to loose their own arrows. Simon himself was hit both times he stepped forward to shoot. His mail was superior to that of his men; one quarrel did not bite and the other slid along his upper arm, nicking the skin but doing no other damage.
Sheltered by the curtain of crossbow fire, the assault forces were busily laying their spanning devices over the brush, logs, and mud with which portions of the moat had been filled. Simon’s men cursed and grew more daring, trying to pick off the crews who were working. Although they made a few hits, the cost in injuries to themselves was too high, and Simon shouted for them to let be and take care. Once the assaulters started to climb the ladders, the crossbowmen would have to stop shooting or they would hit their own men. Then Simon’s men would have the advantage again.
More warily now, the archers continued picking off a man here and there, cleverly trying for those in charge of the working parties or men who were doing crucial tasks. The caution, coupled with the accuracy and deadliness of the great Welsh bows, paid well. Only one man was wounded badly enough so that Simon directed he be carried down. Many others were lightly hurt; with their injuries bound they were able to continue to fight.
Those among the attackers struck by the wide, barbed head of a longbow shaft were not so fortunate. The narrower head of a crossbow bolt could be drawn out with little further hurt; the longbow arrow had to be pushed through or cut out. If it was pulled out, the flesh was torn in a wide swath because the broad back-sloping barbs caught and held wherever they entered.
Despite the efforts of the archers on the walls, the spanning devices were set and ladders began to rise. Two out of three of Simon’s men laid aside their bows, picked up stout, hooked poles, and began to try to push the ladders over. This was tricky work, since the crossbowmen shot as hard and fast as they could to prevent it. Fortunately, as the defenders bent low in the crenel openings, they exposed less of themselves as targets. Those who had retained their bows continued to shoot at the men trying to raise the ladders.
As rapidly as the ladders rose, they were tipped over. Here and there one remained upright long enough for some men to mount. When they were about halfway up, the crossbowmen in that area began to slack their fire. That permitted more daring efforts to overturn the ladders, and Simon could hear the cries when the efforts were successful, the ladders tipped, and the men fell.
Now Simon could see that some of his men were deliberately waiting until the ladders were half-full. He weighed the danger and the profit and then shouted for the other teams to do the same. There was a chance that the men would misjudge their timing and so many would get up on the ladder that it would become too heavy to overturn, however, the few assaulters that could get up on the wall from one or two mistakes could be swiftly dispatched. On the other hand, dropping the men in the moat would eliminate most of them. If they fell on the blocked portions, they would break their bones; if they fell into the water on either side, burdened with their armor, they would drown.
Because the opposing army was large, discouragement did not come quickly. As fast as ladders were pushed over, others rose. Some were broken, but more were ready to replace those splintered. Eventually one remained upright in Simon’s section and a captain swung through a crenel opening, thrusting with his sword and spitting an unwary Welshman. With a shout of joy, Simon snatched up his shield, drew his sword, and rushed forward to engage. This was his business, and he dispatched it well and swiftly, knocking aside the man’s shield with his own and taking him in the neck with his sword.
One of Simon’s men dragged the corpse out from under his master’s feet and with the help of a companion tossed it over the battlement. Meanwhile, Simon had engaged the second man. While they traded blows, another of Simon’s Welshmen leaned daringly from a crenel opening about ten feet away and began to pick off the climbers on the lower part of the ladder. Simon dispatched his second opponent, who was also tossed over. He was not dead and screamed as he fell.
More shrieks drifted up as others fell from the ladder. Several of the bowmen had taken cues from the one initially shooting at the climbers. A third man put his leg over the crenel opening, thrusting his shield smartly outward to push away a man-at-arms who struck at him with his sword. This move was successful, but unfortunately for him Simon was on the side and took his leg off at the knee. He screamed and continued to do so as he, too, was thrown over the wall. By then the load on the ladder had been sufficiently lightened that the men with thrusting poles could topple it.
Simon wiped his sword on his surcoat, no other cloth being immediately available, and resheathed it after an alert glance up and down his section of wall assured him there was no further danger of anyone getting up from a ladder. He was aware that the rain of crossbow bolts was much diminished; quarrels must be running out. In fact, it seemed that the attack as a whole was tapering off. Almost as soon as Simon was aware of the thought, he heard the blare of horns calling a retreat.
It was only then that Simon realized he was soaking wet with sweat. That seemed odd, for mornings in September were chilly enough, and aside from the little time he had been engaged with those men who had reached the battlements, he had not been exerting himself violently. Only it was not morning. Simon looked stupidly at the sun blazing down from the southwest. Two-thirds of the day had passed, and he had not been aware of it.
Recalled to the anxiety that had occupied him just before the attack began, Simon looked again toward the southwest, but lower. The siege towers had been withdrawn to a safe distance. Simon sighed, thinking of the captain who had led his men onto the wall and was now dead. Geoffrey was always at the head of his men also. Not Geoffrey, Simon prayed. Dear God, not Geoffrey. I will never be able to go home again. How could I look into Joanna’s face? I should have been beside my brother, not supporting those who opposed him and enjoying myself.
With that fear, his own physical discomforts began to press on him. He became aware that his mouth was dry with thirst and his stomach ground with hunger. That was nothing, but if he sent a man to have food and drink brought up, he could also ask about Geoffrey. Before he had a chance to act on this idea, he saw serfs running from the kitchen quarters bearing loaves of bread and rounds of cheese. Others followed more slowly, lugging huge kettles of soup or stew and barrels of beer. Resignedly Simon sat down and rested his back against the wall. It was not likely, anyway, that anyone would have any sure word of Geoffrey for him.
They ate on the walls, watching the king’s forces while the serfs ran back and forth bringing new arrows from the store of weapons, replacing any broken thrusting poles or dulled or damaged weapons for the smiths to start working on, and gathering the spent crossbow bolts to refill the quivers of their own crossbowmen. The leeches came around to wash and bandage the lightly wounded and direct the worst hurt to be taken down for treatment.
Simon had seen it all before, and after a while he stood and looked out toward the king’s camp. There seemed to
be a conference taking place there, but it was too far away for Simon to tell who attended it. All that was clear, then, was the result. The massed men broke up and drew away. Apparently there would not be another assault this day—or the defenders were supposed to believe that it would not be renewed.
But it was no device to deceive. Simon stayed until the clang of cooking pots and armorers came faintly from the camp, indicating that there really would be a period of quiet. He then chose a few men, all unhurt, and ordered them to watch closely for any hint of a surprise attack. The other men were to try to sleep, as it was quite likely the next attack would come at night. Those on guard could amuse themselves by firing burning, pitch-headed arrows at anything they hoped they could set afire.
Having done his duty, Simon went down and joined the other leaders in the hall. Richard was listening to reports and it was quite clear that they had sustained very little real damage. They were still in excellent condition to withstand anything the king could throw against them. As soon as he could, Simon made his way to Richard, waiting impatiently for him to be free of business for a moment. When he could, he asked about Geoffrey, naming his arms, but Richard had not seen him at all. The siege tower he had faced had been commanded by the Earl of Ferrars.
“If you mean the demon with the lion and Danish ax on a green ground, bend sinister,” Philip Bassett said, “I have this to thank him for.” He pointed to an ugly bruise on his forehead. “But you need not worry. He is in the most excellent health, damn him.”
“No, do not damn him,” Simon protested, laughing with relief. “I am sorry for your bruise, but he is my brother.”
“And you could not cozen him into joining us instead of opposing us?”
Simon blinked at the idea of cozening Geoffrey, who could think rings around anyone else he knew. Joanna might manage it, but no one else could. However, all he said was, “He is the king’s cousin, Salisbury’s bastard.”
It was easier to explain Geoffrey’s attachment by a blood tie than to get involved in his belief that the friends of the king could eventually bring him to reason. Philip Bassett was of fiery temper and would not appreciate Geoffrey’s desire to convince rather than force, but he would understand the bond of blood.
“Well, then, I will not wish him ill,” Bassett agreed wryly, “since he is dear to you, but I hope he will be sent elsewhere—or that I will. He is not large, but he is a terror! He cost us more men than all the others put together and actually came across and held a piece of the wall for a time. There were moments when I thought he would win his way to the tower door. It was only the call to retreat that drove him off.”
“I thank God he came to no harm,” Richard said with a sigh. “Geoffrey FitzWilliam is a fine man.” His mouth quivered and his eyes grew bitter. “God’s curse and all the ill we are doing each other should fall on the Bishop of Winchester, who has brought us to this pass. May his body bear the pains of all the wounded, and his soul the weight of the sins and hate he has forced upon us all.”
“Amen,” Simon said, but the pain in Richard’s face called to him and he said, “But there is no hate between me and Geoffrey. You must not think that. Where there is love, there is also understanding. We each honor the other that he holds to his principles.”
“It is all the fault of the Bishop of Winchester,” another man said. “If the king had kept to his natural advisers—we of the old barony—instead of turning to a man long absent from this realm and steeped in foreign ways—”
“Yes, and that is what we must enforce upon Henry,” Philip Bassett said hotly.
Because he was thinking of Geoffrey, Simon was inspired to unaccustomed tolerance and understanding. “It would be better to convince the king softly than enforce,” he said. “Henry has a long memory.” An uncomfortable silence followed this all-too-true remark, but Simon was still thinking of Geoffrey and his last conversation with him. “Yet we may all come scatheless out of this, if it can be shown that what we have been saying a moment ago is true—that the causer of the trouble is Winchester, that on him the blame should fall, and when he is gone all men will be at peace and return to their duty.”
Richard could not help smiling at Simon, whose youthful face was so much in contrast to his sage advice. “It is my purpose,” he said. “I only wish you could tell me how to bring it about.”
Simon nodded. “But I can. Geoffrey gave me the answer. He said to me that the king only likes apples that drop into his hands. If they do not, first he kicks the tree and then, having hurt his foot, he blames the last person who mentioned apples to him—”
“What is this nonsense of apples and trees,” Philip asked irritably, taking literally what Simon said.
However, Richard was staring at Simon with deep interest. “Lord Geoffrey is a wise man,” Richard said, “but it will be a neat trick to know when the apple should drop so that the blame does not swing back to the tree. It is, after all, possible to fetch an ax to obtain apples.”
Although it was pretty stupid to consider killing a tree to get at its apples, Simon made no protest because he felt it would be typical of Henry’s behavior. He only shrugged and nodded, adding Geoffrey’s final caution. “Even if the moment be right, it may not serve its purpose perfectly. Henry is not so light-minded that one or two disappointments will make him change his opinion of a man he has trusted from childhood.”
“You are right about that too,” Richard sighed. “However, all this is not to the point at this moment. First we must be sure the apples are not shaken loose by kicking the tree.”
“My lord, what apples? What tree?” Philip asked. “I swear there is not an apple left on any tree in all South Wales.”
“We are the apples and Usk is the tree,” Richard replied, smiling at Philip’s confusion, “but Lord Geoffrey was doubtless speaking in a parable. Never mind that now. Let us consider how we can cause the greatest loss among our attackers at the least cost to ourselves.”
“We can load the ballistas and catapults and fire them at the camp,” Philip urged promptly. “They set up far too close, either trusting to your mercy—or contemptuous of your forbearance.”
Simon tensed slightly. Philip Bassett might not recognize a parable until it was explained to him, but in matters of war he had keen good sense. Until now, Richard had made no move at all that could be called aggressive, but now his eyes were thoughtful as he considered Bassett’s remark in the light of his earlier conversation with Simon.
In a moment, however, he had shaken his head. “Whether they be bold, trusting, or foolish, I will not attack my liege lord,” Richard reiterated. “Some day I will need to answer for this to my peers, or, when I die, to God. Thus far, I hope, I have done nothing beyond my right.”
“You take too strict a view. If the king has declared you outlaw, are you not freed from your oath in the sight of man and God?” Philip asked passionately.
“I do not wish to be free,” Richard said, frowning. “I wish to be a loyal vassal, to be reconciled to my lord in such a way that there will be honor for him and safety for me and for us all.”
“The Great Charter,” Simon put in, it having been drummed into his head ever since he was a child, “must be upheld. Henry must understand that all men—kings also —must live within the law.”
“And I agree to that with all my heart,” Philip insisted, “but I believe it will be necessary to give the king a sharp lesson before he will come to the same understanding.”
“Perhaps,” Richard conceded, “but I will not affront my lord yet. Let him see that even in war, even though he mocks me and tempts me, I will not move against him. Let us talk of our defense now—and before I forget, Philip, if Geoffrey FitzWilliam comes against you again, do him no hurt if that be in any way possible. If he can be taken prisoner, by all means do so. He is dear to the king and would make a most excellent ambassador to plead our cause. Pass that word, and I will also.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Simon exclaimed.
&
nbsp; “I did not say it for your sake,” Richard said, smiling nonetheless. “It will do us no good to harm those the king loves, and especially not those who, I believe, agree with our purpose in their hearts.”
Chapter Thirteen
An attempt at a surprise attack that night failed miserably. Although it was difficult to tell, Simon thought the king’s forces had taken more hurt than in the daylight. One siege tower had been burned to a charred skeleton by a flaming barrel of pitch that hit it just right, so that it exploded, spreading fire too widely to be quenched by sand or water or smothered by wet hides. It was not the tower Geoffrey had been on, but his position might have been changed, and Simon had something new to worry about.
A third assault followed the very next dawn. Aware of weariness, Simon felt some concern that Henry’s huge force might be divided, one part resting while the other attacked. He soon realized, from the lack of enthusiasm of the attackers, that they were as weary as he and his men. They never even got ladders up this time, and the archers on the walls again took a heavy toll. For the first time Simon saw the men hanging back, needing to be urged and threatened by their captains.
This was an utter stupidity, Simon thought as he watched the troops retreat toward their camp. It was an act that the king would be likely to urge out of spite, but Simon could not understand how the great warlords, like Ferrars and Geoffrey, could have permitted Henry to have his own way—unless they did not wish any assault to succeed!
Simon was not alone in this opinion, and others, older and wiser, argued against Philip Bassett when he urged again and again that Richard ride out and attack the king’s army now that they were in disarray. Richard would have resisted in any case, but it was easier for him because so many of his supporters now agreed with his passive role. So they sat and watched each other for four days. On the fifth, a mighty assault was made. New siege towers had been built and the king’s forces flung themselves against the walls of Usk with a mad ferocity that spelled desperation.
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