Lionheart moe-4 Page 7

  Both Baldwin and Robert had soon been recognized in the ballads of the third member of the quintet, Jean de Nesle. De Nesle had such distinctive hair, the colour of dry flax, that he was known to everyone as ‘Blondel’. Not only was he one of the great troubadours of his age, but he was also a prodigious warrior, just as capable of striking an enemy a mortal blow with his mace as he was of smiting a lady with his beguiling lyrics.

  Then there was a man from Provence known only as ‘Mercadier’, who was very dark skinned with jet-black hair. He spoke with an accent strongly influenced by the language of his region (which, I was told, was mainly spoken in Barcelona and the lands south and east of the Pyrenees). In his late twenties, he had the aura of a man to be avoided. Straight away, it was obvious the Duke would want him as an ally in battle, not as an adversary.

  The oldest of the five was perhaps three or four years older than me. Although no more than thirty, he had already established himself as the epitome of the chivalrous knight. The name William Marshal had already been in circulation in Europe for several years; it was a name I had heard mentioned many times with a hushed reverence. And now here he was, larger than life, standing before me.

  Famously, when his father, John the Marshal, Keeper of the Horse for the old King Henry, was fighting for the Empress Matilda in her war against King Stephen, young William was taken as a hostage by Stephen. When John the Marshal refused to relinquish Newbury Castle to the King, Stephen threatened to tie the boy on to a trebuchet and launch him over the walls and into the castle’s keep. His father then responded with the riposte, repeated over many a camp fire, ‘Do your worst, I still have the hammer and the anvil to forge more and better sons!’

  The King was at first furious at the response and ordered that the five-year-old boy be sent to his death as a human missile. But when the boy showed no signs of fear and just looked at the King defiantly, he relented and ordered his release. Thus, the legend of William Marshal was born.

  Another story had become legend, even though it had happened only a few years earlier. It was said that while campaigning for King Henry, William Marshal had been badly wounded in the thigh and that the gash was big enough to accommodate a man’s fist. Lying as a prisoner in the dungeon of his captor, Guy of Lusignan, infection and a slow, painful death was almost inevitable. But such was the impression the young knight had made on the ladies of the household, they secreted bandages and ointment in a loaf of stale bread and had them sent to his cell. He made a full recovery before being ransomed by Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  Perhaps a couple of inches taller than six feet, he had a red mane not unlike Duke Richard’s, but he was much broader and had the handsome but rugged face of a man who had enjoyed many a fierce skirmish. His noble prowess had brought him to the attention of Duke Richard’s mother, the redoubtable Eleanor, who had made him one of her courtiers and, it was rumoured, one of her lovers. He also caught the eye of her husband, King Henry, who took him into his service. Eleanor had entered him into endless tournaments, all of which he had won, and Henry had made him a captain in his guard and entrusted him with campaigns and the putting down of revolts. He was given lands in the north of England and in Wales. And thus, through his physical and martial prowess, he had been elevated from minor nobleman to one of England’s most powerful landowners.

  Later that night, Father Alun and I were invited to dine with the Duke and his five loyal lieutenants. As I had five loyal men of my own, I decided to dub my men the ‘Little Quintet’ and Duke Richard’s men the ‘Grand Quintet’. Not usually overawed by the company of lords and knights, I should not have been anxious, but I knew that this group of men and their Duke were not only among the most remarkable in Europe, but that our future depended on them accepting Alun and me into their circle. I also knew that, one day, we would have to gain their acceptance as equals. I feared not at all for Alun, whose wisdom and intellect were a match for anyone, but I was a knight and would have to earn my right to stand with them as a soldier.

  The Duke did not prepare the ground well when he introduced us.

  ‘My friends, let me introduce Sir Ranulf, a knight from Lancaster, which I am told is in the far north of my father’s empire. He is sent to guard me by my grandmother, the Empress Matilda, although why it has taken so long for him to arrive is a mystery – after all, she has been dead for ten years!’

  There was great laughter at my expense and I faced the dilemma of whether to assert myself, or bide my time for another occasion. I looked at the Duke’s trusted companions and realized that if I had any chance of earning the respect of these men, now was the time.

  ‘My Lord, I think Earl Harold was waiting for you to acquire the maturity that would be necessary for you to embrace your future and, of course, in choosing me for the task, to find the right man to join your service.’

  Duke Richard did not react angrily, but smiled a little.

  ‘You see, Sir Ranulf is quick with his answers, like his mentor, Harold of Hereford, Earl of Huntingdon – who, before you hear it from the camp gossip, gave me a lesson in manners when he brought this knight to me.’

  William Marshal’s ears pricked up when he heard the name Harold of Huntingdon.

  ‘Well, my dear Richard, if you were given a lesson by him, I would suggest you heed it. There is no finer man in the Empire.’

  The Duke looked suitably meek.

  ‘Indeed I will, William; it was delivered along with the back of his hand. I remember it well.’

  The Duke then turned to Father Alun.

  ‘And this, gentlemen, is Father Alun. I am told that he is so wise, he might be Archbishop of Canterbury one day. I think he’s been sent by my grandmother to save my soul.’

  Mercadier was the first to make the obvious quip.

  ‘Really, do you want me to tell him he’s too late?’

  The ensuing laughter took the sting out of the Duke’s barbed introductions, and we enjoyed a convivial evening of good humour. We exchanged tales of chivalrous knights and their ladies and drank abundant quantities of the strong wines of Aquitaine, for which I was acquiring a particular fondness.

  The arrival of Duke Richard’s senior commanders seemed to rouse his army. We broke camp the following day and marched at pace through the remote forests of Gascony. We followed the old Roman road, which cut through the forests along routes as straight as the flight of an arrow. The ground was as flat as a calm sea; we saw very little other than endless miles of evergreen trees, and made rapid progress.

  The conroi of Duke Richard’s senior lords rode in strict formation, but the Brabançon infantrymen were less disciplined, while the archers and bowmen made their way in long lines, not unlike the march of ants. The most impressive group was the siege engineers and sappers. They moved in lengthy columns of wagons drawn by oxen. The wagons were packed with the impressive tools of their trade: axes, mallets and chisels; ropes, pulleys and winches; leather, iron and timber in myriad shapes and sizes.

  The whole caravan was controlled by a fascinating mix of men. Some had the brawn to fell the trees, hew the timber and manoeuvre the huge siege engines of various kinds; others had the brains to calculate trajectories and distance; a few could do both. Nothing seemed beyond their dexterity or powers of invention. They could build simple battering rams, scaling ladders or towers, or construct complex trebuchets and catapults large enough to hurl rocks as heavy as two men over 200 feet in distance. They could dig tunnels under castle walls, using men with no fear of confined spaces, or use pitch, oil and animal fats to make incendiary weapons to set fire to gates or undermine stone walls with intense heat. When mixed with sulphur or quicklime, the incendiaries could be hurled over castle walls to the great distress of anyone inside.

  Their final skill was to ‘scorch the earth’. If the Duke anticipated a long siege, he would order that the entire countryside around the offending fortification be stripped of anything that could be consumed or be of use to anyone inside the walls. Wells were pois
oned, crops burned, livestock killed or driven off, and barns and homes razed to the ground. It was a ruthless measure, but a very effective one, which would render the local lord’s domain worthless – quite apart from the devastating impact on the local peasants, who bore the brunt of it.

  The Duke commanded an impressive military machine which, when unleashed, could destroy vast swathes of territory like a plague of locusts. As I watched it drive through the forests of Aquitaine, I made myself a promise that whilst in the service of the Duke, I would learn as much as I could from these artillery engineers and their weapons of vast destruction.

  The Duke had assigned Alun, myself and our men to William Marshal, a decision about which I was relieved. He was clearly the first among the equals in the Grand Quintet and the one with whom I had the best chance of developing a rapport.

  Impressive as the Duke’s siege army was, it was not a battle army, nor was it big enough to fight wars on a grand scale. I was certain that William Marshal understood these shortcomings and I felt confident that, with his support, this was the area where I could make a significant contribution to the Duke’s future.

  By the middle of January we were deep in Gascony, outside the walls of the ancient settlement of Dax. The Duke chose ground for his main camp to the west of the town, about a mile away across the River Adour. It was familiar ground to him, next to the beautiful chapel of St Paul. The chapel had been built by his mother, Eleanor, on a site famed for its thermal springs, which had been used since Roman times.

  He had chosen his camping ground for recreational reasons as well as for military ones. Not only did he intend to warm himself in the balmy waters, he also planned to immerse as many of the local girls as he could and frolic with them to his heart’s content. He was young and virile and had an immense appetite for the fairer sex. Of course, the rest of us were not averse to cavorting with the local women – especially William Marshal – but none of us could compete with the phenomenal tally of the young Duke. Father Alun’s passions were entirely cerebral – at least, as far as I could discern – and he was the only one not to indulge himself by using the warm pools for purposes other than bathing.

  Few armies marauded in the depths of winter, but Richard was driven by a passion for war not unlike his ardour for nubile girls. His five lieutenants were also driven by the lure of combat, while his Brabançons had an equal fervour for geld. It was a powerful combination and one to which the stubborn lords of Gascony would soon succumb.

  When Duke Richard’s main camp was complete, he sent a messenger to Dax, demanding the surrender of Pierre, Viscount of Dax, and his ally, Centulle III, Count of Bigorre, who had brought his garrison from his own fortification in Tarbes. The Duke’s terms were harsh: an oath of loyalty to King Henry, a repudiation of all previous oaths and the payment of one hundred pounds of silver to the King’s exchequer. Failure to comply would result in the storming of the walls of the city, the emptying of its treasury and the total destruction of the Viscount’s palace. Not only that, both men would be sent to Caen in chains to throw themselves on the King’s mercy.

  Despite the ominous presence of the Duke’s army – a force of at least 700 Brabançons, and almost 150 elite cavalry commanded by the Duke’s Grand Quintet of senior lords – the two Gascon lords were defiant. Our estimates, based on knowledge derived from locals hoping to win favour with the Duke, suggested that no more than 200 men manned Dax’s Roman walls. Nevertheless, the message from inside, bellowed in Euskara, the strange local tongue of the Pyrenees, was blunt: ‘Take your horde back where it belongs. We will have no truck with one of the Devil’s Brood!’

  The final part of the response was particularly pointed and intended to infuriate the Duke. The term ‘Devil’s Brood’ had become widely used by the enemies of King Henry to describe his offspring. It was based on an old prophecy about a devil’s curse on the lineage of Henry’s father, Geoffrey, the Count of Anjou. It was an insult that had been oft repeated during King Henry’s many recent disputes with his sons and with his wife, Eleanor.

  The Duke was languishing in the thermal springs with a young Gascon wench when the tenacious and offensive reply was repeated to him. He flew into a rage. Damning the local girl with guilt by association, he pulled her from the water and, despite her utter embarrassment at being naked, kicked her up the arse and ordered that she be left beneath the walls of Dax. He then bellowed at the messenger.

  ‘Tell those inconsequential Gascon lords that when I have them in my grasp I’m going to flog them in front of the gates of their city with every man, woman and child in their domain looking on!’

  Not in the least perturbed by his own nakedness, with long, purposeful strides he then strode out of the pool and walked the hundred yards to his tent. The girl he had dismissed so cruelly was standing barely five yards away, pulling on her clothes and sobbing profusely. Behind her, with admonishing glowers on their faces, were William Marshal and Blondel.

  They said nothing; they did not need to. Richard stopped, looked at the two men somewhat sheepishly and then turned to his steward. He reached into a pouch on the man’s belt and gave the girl a piece of silver.

  Then he patted her on her backside in a conciliatory gesture.

  ‘My steward will feed you. Make sure you’re ready for me when I get back.’

  Richard’s enforced contrition of sorts had brought the incident to a close, while the silver shilling held tightly in the girl’s grasp had transformed her demeanour from tears to smiles. The Duke disappeared into his tent, hurriedly followed by his steward.

  When Richard re-emerged fully dressed, wearing his gleaming armour and carrying his glistening weapons, he cut an impressive figure. His lithe athletic frame, now enhanced by his ducal finery and the regalia of battle, conjured an image of a god of war from ancient mythology.

  Like Ares or Mars, he seemed all-powerful and indestructible.

  6. Destruction of Dax

  To see the Duke’s army prepare for a siege was awe-inspiring. His woodsmen had been felling trees since dawn and his sappers and siege engineers began to assemble their devices, ready to roll them into position. Carts of stones, pots of oil and bundles of fuel for fires were made ready. The archers and bowmen chose their ground and set themselves to ensure that should any opponents on the walls of Dax have the audacity to raise their heads above the parapet, a hail of arrows would encourage them to lower them without delay.

  When all the paraphernalia was ready, and the ballista and catapults had been assembled from their sets of parts, everything was rolled towards the west bank of the Adour, from where the city was well within range. Some of the trebuchets were the size of oak trees, and the scaling towers were just as tall. They moved slowly but inexorably on huge wooden wheels, making the ground tremble as they passed. It was like watching a race of giants trundle forward. Beneath them, in their shadows, were our archers and infantry, the size of mice.

  All was set just before dusk, when most commanders would retire for the night. Not Duke Richard; he thought the fading light of evening was the ideal moment to launch a fusillade of fire on to the defenders of Dax.

  By the time the fires were blazing and the arrows and the various catapults had been loaded, it was fully dark. Then the Duke issued the order to launch the missiles. It suddenly became as bright as day, but with a golden glow, as the entire scene was washed with the tint of fire. Much as it looked captivating to those of us outside the walls of the city, to those inside it was the beginning of a nightmare reminiscent of the infernos of Hell.

  Fire arrows embedded themselves in the timbers and thatch of the more humble of Dax’s buildings. Where human flesh was the landing ground for the arrows, they did even more dreadful damage. The wounds were made much worse by the searing heat of scorching pitch.

  The contents of the catapults did similar damage, but on a massive scale. Clay pots of pitch exploded on impact, spewing their flaming contents in every direction. Buildings started to burn ferociously
and people ran for their lives. Many were unable to run, already consumed by the fires as buildings received direct hits, roasting everyone inside like carcasses on a spit. Some inhabitants, their clothes and hair alight, managed to escape from doors and windows, but they were only able to stagger a few feet before falling to the ground in balls of flame.

  Despite the horror of the first salvo, and the screams of anguish it produced, after thirty minutes or so all became calmer within the city. Fires still raged, and we could hear frantic attempts to douse the flames, but the sounds of panic and chaos subsided; the city was well organized and its inhabitants resolute.

  But the Duke was not finished.

  He rode up and down the lines of siege engines and archers, shouting, ‘One more tonight, lads, then early to bed, early to rise… Oh, and there’s a piece of silver in it for all of you!’

  Huge cheers greeted the pecuniary inducement and the men set about loading another volley of incendiaries. As they did so, and our fires illuminated our positions, the defenders of the city seized the opportunity to loose hails of arrows at us. Few hit anything meaningful, but they were a nuisance and Mercadier and Robert Thornham supervised the response of our men. Our volume of arrows far outweighed the defenders’ volley, and soon their archers ducked down beneath the parapets.

  Dax possessed a few ballista of its own, and stones and pots of boiling oil soon began to fall on us – but not with any intensity, nor with much danger to life and limb. Our sappers and siege specialists were able to launch a second volley of fire almost unhindered. We suffered a few casualties, but the Duke had a corps of well-trained physicians skilled in the techniques of mending stricken bodies. Few armies had had such men in the past, but Christian armies had seen their value and acquired the techniques during the crusades in the Holy Land, and they had become commonplace in Europe.