Warlord (Outlaw 4) (46 page)

With those jesting words he shamed me into rising and following the Locksley men down into the castle of Milly.

Thomas was not dead – praise God and all the saints in Heaven. He had received a nasty sword cut to the head, but his helmet had taken the force of the blow and while he was a little dazed for a day or so, and his cut scalp had bled copiously, within a week he was his old cheerful self.

Prince John was eloquent when he praised William the Marshal’s actions that day – and not a word was said about the Earl of Striguil’s blatant disregard of his orders to leave us to assault the castle alone. Victory forgives all, it would seem. John hanged all the men-at-arms he had captured, which to me seemed unnecessarily cruel – though not, of course, the knights. These downcast warriors were chivvied into a storeroom and locked in while our men-at-arms sat outside and gleefully computed their probable ransoms in loud, mocking voices, meant to be heard.

The Locksley men had taken a dozen casualties in the assault: but only six dead, which included two Westbury men and Alfred. It crossed my mind to seek out the man who had apparently twisted his ankle in the attack and so avoided making the assault, but I did not have the stomach for it. If I found that he had been shamming, I would have had to hang him as an example to the others, and I could not face the task. That was pure weakness on my part, I admit, but I was heartsick that the men had performed so badly. And they knew it.

I sent them back to Château-Gaillard the next day with a wagon containing a dazed Thomas, and told them to inform Robin how the battle had taken place, and to describe truthfully their part in it. I kept the remaining ten Westbury men with me, for while we too had been dismissed by Prince John – a detachment of the Marshal’s men were to garrison Milly – and told to return to the saucy castle,
I wanted to make a private pilgrimage with my own men before returning to Robin.

We took a detour on the way home from Milly, and wandered a little to the north of our original line of march. And two days after the assault, I found myself, with ten good Westbury men around me, sitting my horse in almost exactly the same spot slightly back from the tree line, that I had occupied with Thomas and Hanno three years previously. I was gazing out between the branches at the manor Clermont-sur-Andelle – the rich manor that had once been promised to me by the Lionheart. Or rather I was gazing at the place where the rich manor of Clermont had once been.

It had been totally devastated. In truth, we had been able to smell the place on the slight breeze from half a mile away. It was the familiar stink of rural destruction: sour wet smoke and rotting carcasses, with notes of dung and despair. We trotted down across the water meadow where the two black-headed knights had flown their brave falcon to the bridge over the River Andelle, and not a living thing did we see. A holocaust had engulfed the whole settlement here, and recently, at a guess, no more than a few days ago. The hall and its surrounding palisade had been burned almost to the ground – the mill had been fired and it looked as if the fine flour in the air had exploded, too, a common enough risk, and all that remained was the massive millstone squatting like a blackened round table amid the piles of ash and charred wood. Even the church had been burned down; and the broad fertile fields of green barley and wheat had been trampled by many horsemen. The destruction was complete, absolute – as if ruin was the real objective and not gathering booty, or foraging for food. It was as if a malevolent being were punishing this manor and its wretched inhabitants for some nameless crime.

The people were all gone – perhaps driven to take refuge in a local monastery, or even to swell the throngs of beggars in the
stews of Paris, though I noticed a dozen fresh graves in the churchyard, and concluded that a few villagers must have lingered long enough to bury their dead before they departed. All the livestock had disappeared, too, perhaps taken by the villagers, perhaps driven off by the marauders.

The marauders: I knew who had done this. It was Mercadier’s work. I knew that they had passed through this area a few days previously. Was it a strike at me? Was Mercadier trying to punish me for being given this manor by Richard? It seemed slightly odd behaviour, even for a ruthless warlord like Mercadier, a little moon-crazed, to be honest. I had not been receiving the benefits of these lands before they had been despoiled, and I would not have any chance of garnering any profit from them now. But I had not been damaged by his actions; I would not miss revenues I had never received.

I sat in my saddle looking down at the half-burned carcass of an elderly nag that lay half in and half out of the charred remains of the stable block. What could Mercadier mean by this excess of destruction? Was he saying that I should never possess this land? Certainly, even if Philip’s borders were pushed back and I were to take on this manor, as the King intended, I would have to spend a good deal of silver to restore its fortunes; rebuilding the church alone could cost half what I received in a year from Westbury. And if the labouring people did not return, I would have to find villeins from somewhere to work the land; perhaps even parcel some of it out to freeholders. It did not seem worth the trouble. Yes, Mercadier’s actions seemed perplexing to me. What was he trying to achieve? Was he merely saying, by this destruction of a manor that might one day have been mine, that he hated me? It seemed so.

Chapter Twenty-five

I returned to Château-Gaillard to find Mercadier a hero, crowned with fresh laurels and riding even higher in our King’s favour. While I had been assaulting the insignificant castle of Milly, the mercenary had boldly attacked the mighty stronghold of Beauvais – the lair of Bishop Philip, a loyal Frenchman and sworn enemy of our King. And the grim-faced captain had even managed to capture the feisty Bishop of Beauvais, outside the walls in full armour, and bring him bound and furious to Château-Gaillard, where he had been promptly imprisoned in the deepest cellar. Capturing Richard’s enemy had been a stroke of good fortune; capturing him fully armed and helmeted for war meant that Richard could keep this high churchman imprisoned. And there was a satisfying symmetry to this coup, from Richard’s point of view. The Bishop had been responsible for the rumour half a dozen years before that Richard had ordered the assassination of the King of Jerusalem, a lie that had given the Holy Roman Emperor an excuse to keep the Lionheart in chains in Germany. Now it was the rumour-mongering Bishop of Beauvais who languished in chains.

King Richard gave a lavish feast in Mercadier’s honour, which
I was obliged to attend, although mercifully I was not asked to perform my music. I caught my enemy’s eye as he sat at the right hand of the monarch, basking in his favour, and he grinned smugly at me. I smiled back, and politely inclined my head. And thought:
I shall kill you one day – perhaps not today, perhaps not this year – but one day I shall surely give myself the pleasure of watching the spark of life being extinguished in your eyes
.

In the weeks that followed, I spent a good deal of time working with my ten remaining Westbury men, training with them and taking them on mounted patrols around the neighbourhood of Château-Gaillard. King Philip’s men held the powerful castle of Gaillon only five miles to the south-west of Château-Gaillard and so the patrols had some purpose, not only in providing intelligence about enemy troop movements, but also in providing regular skirmishing practice for my men when we encountered enemy patrols. We had no orders to stay and fight and die, so we did not do battle
à l’outrance
, as the saying goes, when we encountered the enemy; we would try to ambush them occasionally, and they us, but if we were overmatched we exchanged a few cuts and cheerfully fled for our lives.

Two of my Westbury men particularly distinguished themselves that summer in Normandy: a tall, quick-witted lad called Christopher, whom we all called ‘Kit’ – who single-handedly killed a French knight with his lance in a mêlée, and Edwin, known as ‘Ox-head’ – a thick-bodied youth, immensely strong, with a large poll, as his name suggested, and a wide easy smile. Ox-head was a natural peace-maker in the troop but was a fearsome man in a fight, using his strength to batter down his opponents. But the natural leader, after me, was Thomas: it was he who forged these men over the course of the summer into a small but deadly fighting force.

We were, of course, differentiated from Robin’s men by our red surcoats, but we also kept ourselves apart from the bigger force of
men in green, while maintaining cordial relations with them as best we could. Their hesitation at Milly had not been forgotten by my men, and it was much resented, although I had forbidden them to speak of it. And while Robin’s men outnumbered us ten to one, we began to feel that we were a superior force: tight-knit, hard-fighting, disciplined and well trained – for I made sure that we exercised in arms together every day, rain or shine, in the courtyard of Château-Gaillard. I was proud of them.

That summer the war went Richard’s way almost entirely: he captured Dangu, a small castle only four miles from Gisors – during which, it must be said, Robin’s men fought heroically under their silver-eyed lord – and we all had a sense that the frontier between Normandy and the French King’s possessions was being pushed back towards its rightful location. At one point, Richard’s furthest scouts were able to make a quick raid on the outskirts of Paris – although, in truth, like rabbits they merely robbed a few vegetable gardens and scampered away when King Philip sent a sizeable force of knights to confront them. But we were winning the war in the north, and we all knew it.

Richard was also making great strides in his diplomatic struggle, as well. He had forged a lasting peace with his old enemy in the south, Raymond, Count of Toulouse, whose father and grandfather, encouraged by the French, had plagued the House of Aquitaine in their most southerly dominions. In July, we had the honour at Château-Gaillard of a visit from Baldwin, Count of Flanders. He was a handsome man; tall, fair of face, with a soldier’s carriage and a straight, honest gaze. In the presence of Count Robert of Meulan, William of Caïeux and Hugh of Gournay, all of whom had recently abandoned the French King and come over to Richard’s side, the Count of Flanders signed a formal treaty with our King stating that neither would make peace with Philip without the other’s consent. In exchange, the Count received a ‘gift’ from King Richard of five thousand marks.

The French King now faced enemies to his north and west, and it was not long before Baldwin of Flanders made good his pledges to Richard and invaded Artois, besieging the French-held castle of Arras. Philip’s vigorous response surprised almost everybody. The French King replied with massive force, first striking west, retaking Dangu, and pushing back Richard’s forces in Normandy, then surging north to relieve Arras. We had all perhaps been too confident of victory – Richard was in the south in the county of Berry with the bulk of the army when Philip struck and one hot morning in August I found myself looking east from the battlements of Château-Gaillard to see a huge French army below me – hundreds of knights, thousands of men; I could even see a fleur-de-lys fluttering from a knot of horsemen to the rear of the force.

However, Philip had no intention of besieging the saucy castle; he was just trying, once again, to intimidate us, to keep us penned in Château-Gaillard while he planned his attack against Baldwin. And he succeeded: with Richard and Mercadier in the south, we had not the man-power to engage his army, and Robin, who was Constable of the castle in the King’s absence, ordered us to stay put behind its walls. ‘You do not exchange a position of strength for one of weakness,’ he told me one night over a cup of wine in his chamber at the top of the north tower in the inner bailey. ‘Philip cannot stay outside our walls for long, and we cannot sally out and attack him without courting disaster. Besides, our orders are to hold this castle. Richard is storming through Berry and the Auvergne – I’ve had word that half a dozen castles in the south have fallen to him. And Baldwin is at Arras, in the north, which will fall to him soon enough, if it is not relieved. Philip cannot stay here.’

So we did nothing. As Robin had predicted, Philip soon departed and, in a series of swift marches, covered the hundred or so miles north-east to Arras, relieved the beleaguered garrison and pushed Baldwin’s troops back almost as far as Flanders. But in his blind
fury, and driven by an ardent wish to punish Baldwin for his disloyalty, Philip fell into the Flemish trap. The French advanced, but Baldwin’s troops retreated ahead of him, burning the crops, driving livestock before them, and destroying the bridges after they had been crossed – and behind Philip’s army, too. It was no doubt a cunning manoeuvre on Baldwin’s part, but I could not but remember the destruction at Clermont-sur-Andelle and wonder what the ruined peasants of Flanders would eat this coming winter with their crops and livestock gone. Still, it was no business of mine, and Philip’s men, deprived of food and forced to forage from a barren landscape, began slowly to starve. The French king was being humiliated, and we rejoiced at the news.

Now facing disaster, Philip tried to make a separate truce with Baldwin, which would have allowed him to extricate his men from Flanders and unleash them on Normandy, but that steadfast prince of the Lowlands showed his rectitude: the noble lord remained true to his agreement with Richard and resolutely refused to parley with the French heralds.

It was a summer of war, a summer of victory, but like all good things it had to come to an end. Richard’s men had been covering themselves with glory in Berry, and Baldwin’s had fought the French to a standstill in Flanders, but when the King of England and that honest Flemish Count met in Rouen in September, it was to discuss the terms of the truce they would jointly make with Philip. The war was not over; Philip had merely been hemmed in, his borders shrunk in the north, the west and the south, but it was the time of year for all combatants to take a breath, and rest their limbs in the cold months of autumn and winter.