A Place Beyond Courage (22 page)
Lady Salisbury’s eyes widened. ‘Has he turned traitor?’
‘Let us say he isn’t trusted at court by those who matter. Rumour has it that FitzGilbert is only waiting for Robert of Gloucester to land and he’ll declare for him. He was in the field at Devizes and marshalling, but he was being frozen out by the King and his cronies. Mark my words, there’s a rift looming. If you build castles of sand, then someone is bound to knock them down.’
15
Marlborough Castle, Wiltshire, September 1139
Hands on hips, John watched the supply carts roll into the castle bailey. There were barrels filled with sheaves of arrows, mail shirts, bags full of spare rings and rivets. There were ash-stave spears cut from specifically felled trees in Hamstead’s park, shield bosses and blanks, coils of chain, hogsheads of pitch, tuns of wine, more barrels of salt fish and pork. And still the carts rumbled in. Not for nothing did John have a reputation as one of the most skilled quartermasters in England and Normandy.
He had increased the fortifications apace at Hamstead and the building at Ludgershall was going forward too. His grip on the valley of the Kennet was so strong now that nothing moved without his knowledge.
Aline crossed the ward to join him, picking her way timidly between the supplies being unloaded and carried off into storage, jumping as someone dropped a barrel with a loud bang. The staves split and a bundle of arrows spilled across the yard.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked in a high, frightened voice. ‘I don’t understand.’
He threw her an exasperated look. ‘I have already told you. It is because I am a grain caught between two millstones and I intend those millstones to crack before I do.’
Except for fear, her eyes were blank. John mustered his patience. ‘Look,’ he said, slowly and clearly, ‘Baldwin de Redvers has landed an army in the name of the Empress and taken Corfe. Robert of Gloucester and the Empress are still in Normandy, but will soon land somewhere on the south coast to lay claim to the crown - yes?’
Aline nodded.
‘I control the approaches. Any army landing on the south coast cannot afford to have me either in front or behind them. I guard the road to Brian FitzCount’s fortress at Wallingford, and Wallingford defends a strategic crossing of the Thames.’
She nodded again, looking uncertain.
‘Stephen expects FitzCount to defect to the Empress the moment she sets foot in England, so Stephen needs to be within striking distance of Wallingford. To do that he has to have control of Marlborough.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘He seems to believe that I intend defecting too. He may well come here and try to take this place from me - and I’m not about to let him do that.’
Aline clutched her prayer beads. ‘But couldn’t you tell him you are loyal?’
He gave a bleak laugh. ‘I could, but being believed is a different matter when others are constantly pouring poison about me into his ears and blocking up all access save to their own ambitions. I could easily have been brought down with Bishop Roger in June. It would have suited certain members of the court very well indeed.’
Her voice rose a notch. ‘But if Stephen comes and you open the gates and surrender, he will know you are true.’
John clung to his patience. ‘If Stephen comes to Marlborough, acknowledges my loyalty and confirms me as its castellan before a slew of witnesses, I will open the gates to him and serve him to my last breath. If he demands my submission and the return of this castle, he leaves me no option but to bar the way to Wallingford. The choice is his.’
Another cart rumbled into the bailey and riding behind it were three tough-looking soldiers - mercenaries to judge from their appearance. Leaving her side, John went to speak to them, intent on recruiting if they were of the right material. A forlorn figure, Aline made her way back to the keep and sought the comfort of her chaplain.
Five days later, John was breaking his fast in the great hall when his constable interrupted the meal with the news that King Stephen was approaching at the head of an army.
The news surged through John like fire but he showed no reaction on his face. He picked up his cup, finished the contents and unhurriedly rose to his feet. ‘Close the gate,’ he commanded. ‘Get the archers to the battlements and bring out the spare sheaves. We’ve drilled this often enough. You know what to do.’
Aline laid a hand on his sleeve, arresting him as he prepared to go and don his hauberk. ‘Don’t do this,’ she whimpered. ‘Don’t defy the King. You mustn’t fight, dear Holy Mother of God, you mustn’t!’
John tightened his lips. ‘I have no choice. I am not going to hand over this castle for him to bestow on one of his cronies. Do your duty. Prepare hot water, splints and bandages. We are going to need them.’
Her face drained of colour. ‘I . . . can’t. I . . .’
‘Then tell your women to do it and go and pray,’ he said curtly, and somehow managed to refrain from shaking her. A good battle captain had control and knew where to position each man. Aline was a weak reed; he couldn’t rely on her except as a conduit for prayers. Prising her grip from his arm, he left the trestle and hurried to don his armour.
As he had suspected, as soon as Stephen arrived beneath Marlborough’s walls, he sent forth envoys, demanding John hand over custody of the castle or face the royal wrath. It did nothing for John’s optimism that one of the envoys was William Martel, and another Hervey de Leon, husband to Stephen’s bastard daughter, and plainly the intended new castellan for Marlborough.
‘Tell the King I will not yield this castle,’ John replied with frozen courtesy when he met the men at the gate in the outer defences. ‘I have done everything he has asked of me and served him well. I have not broken faith.’
‘But you are breaking it now,’ Martel pointed out, eyeing the burly soldiers guarding the entrance, their hands gripped around spear hafts and sword hilts.
‘I was not the first to do so. Tell the King to confirm to me the lordship of Marlborough and I swear to serve him faithfully. Should he refuse me and demand I yield this keep into another’s hands, then let him fight me tooth and nail for every inch of ground.’
Martel looked down his nose. ‘The King will not be given an ultimatum by one of his servants.’
‘And I will not be told my business by another one,’ John retorted.
Martel’s bony face flushed. ‘I will give him your message,’ he said, tight-lipped, and turned his horse. De Leon had not commented throughout the exchange, but his gaze ranged the walls of Marlborough with a possessive air that made John’s hand twitch at his sword hilt.
Once Martel and de Leon had ridden away, John climbed to the battlements. He knew Stephen would decline to accept his fealty. If Stephen’s weak good nature made him vacillate, Martel and de Leon would stiffen his resolve.
John had had trebuchets assembled on the wall walks, and two great picks like giant beaks for tearing attackers off siege ladders. Mounds of sling stones were stockpiled against the hoardings together with staves, spears and barrels of arrows. He paused beside a pair of arbalesters from Ghent, whom he had recruited during the siege of Bishop Roger’s castle at Devizes.
‘Shoot anything that comes in range unless it’s bearing a flag of truce,’ he said. ‘Keep the whoresons pinned down.’ He made a circuit of the wall walks, checking positions, making sure that every man knew his part and was alert. He briefed his senior knights, and paused to watch Stephen’s camp disgorging its supplies.
‘There’s a trebuchet,’ said Benet. ‘And two perriers. Ladders too.’
John nodded. ‘Make a note of what you see, and how Stephen has set up his guard posts. I want to know every move they make.’
John was dozing on a pallet in the bailey gatehouse when Stephen’s men attacked in the grey light before sunrise. At the first blare of the horn, he was up from his mattress, on his feet and into his hauberk. Buckling on his sword, he ran out to the wall walk and began issuing commands as the siege ladders slammed against the palisade timbers. A few gestures, some rapid orders and the missiles began to fly at their assailants: arrows, stones, chunks of timber. John seized a gaff and went to help pry a ladder off the palisade and send it crashing into the ditch with its burden of men. He grabbed his helmet from his squire and set it on his head, over arming cap and coif.
‘Is this supposed to be a surprise attack?’ he scoffed. ‘God, I’ve seen better stealth from a feast-day parade!’
‘Arrows!’ someone shouted as a shower of dark flights swooped overhead and rained down on the bailey, skidding on roof slates, lodging in the thatch that John had had thoroughly soaked during the night.
‘Bastard!’ snarled Benet.
‘He’s trying to pin us down and distract us so he can bring his ram close enough to the bailey gates.’ As a second arrow storm whickered overhead, John ducked along the palisade boards to help at another point where a ladder had gone up. A stone from the palisade perrier flung outwards towards Stephen’s soldiers and there was a satisfying thud, following by dismayed and furious expletives from the besiegers.
As the first of Stephen’s men reached the top of the ladder, John knocked him off it with his shield, used his sword on the second, then left it to Benet and a serjeant to finish the deed and throw the ladder down into the ditch.
The dawn brightened and the sun rose in a fiery ball. Mist layered the area below the ramparts like the finest linen as John fought to keep King Stephen from gaining the bailey. Arrows flew between the camps in a continuous rain, Stephen’s tipped with burning pitch in the hope of firing the bailey buildings. John had bucket chains at the ready. When a shed caught fire, the blaze was immediately extinguished. He used fire arrows of his own when Stephen tried to bring forward his ram and directed the perrier on the wall to lob stones at it, until Stephen was forced to order a retreat.
Shoulders heaving, John stood beside his banner on the battlements and watched the royal troops withdraw. He took the cup of watered wine his squire offered and drank with gratitude for his throat was on fire. When he removed his coif and arming cap, his hair clung to his scalp in sweat-drenched tendrils.
‘How long before they come again?’ gasped Benet.
‘Afternoon, mayhap,’ John answered as he recovered his breath. ‘They may try again before dusk, then again tonight unless we can maul them badly enough to think twice. They’ve lost more men than we have. Their ram’s damaged and they’re going to have to repair the ladders too.’ He blotted his brow on the cuff of his gambeson. ‘If they bring up their trebuchets, they’ll break through, but the keep’s well protected.’ He gestured behind to the masonry wall ringing the castle mound.
‘You expect them to break through?’
‘Depends how long we can hold them. Stephen won’t sit here for ever. Either he’ll want to negotiate terms or he’ll grow tired and leave. I know him; he won’t stick.’ He handed the cup back to his squire. ‘Put the reserves on watch and stand the men down.’
Throughout three days of incessant assault and counter-assault Aline had moved from Saint Nicholas’s chapel to bower and back to chapel, trying to pretend she didn’t hear the shouts and screams of battle, the whump of the trebuchets, the crash of stone, the sporadic assault of fire arrows. She kept the shutters tightly closed in her chamber and had her chaplain read to her aloud. She couldn’t bear this constant knife edge. They had wounded men and two had died, but she had not gone to help tend the injuries, knowing that it would make her ill. John had not asked it of her either. She knew she was failing him, but even for duty, she could not face up to the sight of broken bones and mangled flesh. The most she had managed was to make bandages and funeral arrangements. She had lit candles and prayed because that was what she did best. She felt drained by the anxiety of being under siege. In her mind’s eye, she imagined herself running out to the King, weeping that she was sorry, that it was all a mistake and he could have Marlborough if only he would let them leave in peace. John, on the other hand, seemed to be revelling in the challenge. Aline had never seen his true mettle before, and the sharp, incisive warrior prowling the keep was even more the stranger than the man who occasionally shared her bed and sat at table with her in the great hall. If she had barely known him before, now she was at a complete, bewildered loss.
Despite John’s determination, it was inevitable that the King’s forces would eventually break through the first line of defence. John was prepared; indeed, the first barricade had held a couple of days longer than he expected, and even if Stephen’s troops did take the bailey, they would gain little. John retreated behind the ring wall protecting the castle mound. It meant that conditions were cramped, but he could still launch an attack from the inner wall walk and the battlements.
‘Are we going to die?’ little Gilbert asked him. Fear glistened in his big eyes and there was a tremble to his chin.
It was a damp autumn morning, grainy with mist, and John was breaking his fast in the great hall before heading to the battlements.
He looked at his son. ‘Eventually, yes,’ he said, ‘but not yet, God willing. What put that thought into your head?’ He wondered if the child had fixed on the notion because of the handful of men who had been killed on the walls, and the talk of the soldiers about the push and pull of battle.
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