The Iron Castle

by Angus Donald

  I had one other less-than-heroic encounter in Caen that wretched Christmas. It was during a lavish dinner hosted by the King on the feast day of St Thomas à Becket, and I was returning to the hall after a visit to the garderobe, when I found myself confronted by the tall, dark form of Humphrey and his shorter russet companion, Hugo.

  ‘You!’ said Humphrey. ‘I haven’t forgotten you!’

  They had both fully recovered, it seemed, from the lesson I gave them in the summer, and I saw with satisfaction that Hugo’s nose had been badly set and bore a knobbly bump in the centre.

  ‘Well, thanks to the mercy of God, I have managed to forget both of you. And I do not wish to be reminded. Now, get out of my way,’ I said.

  I wore no sword, it being the dinner hour, and neither did they, but I had my misericorde, and I was fairly certain I could put the two of them down without too much difficulty. Going by our last encounter they had little prowess. But, more importantly, it seemed unlikely they would try to knife me in the corridor outside the hall where the King himself was feasting. The prospect of either of them challenging me to a duel was laughable. Still, I kept my hand on my dagger and watched carefully as they shuffled to the side to allow me to pass.

  ‘There will be a reckoning between us soon,’ Hugo hissed as I slid past. I was so close I could smell his rank breath. ‘A reckoning for you, hireling – and that traitorous child you play gaoler to in Falaise.’

  ‘It’s a pity,’ said Humphrey, ‘but that disloyal Breton whelp will never see his own children at play.’

  Hugo cackled at his companion’s words as if he’d said something clever.

  I did not care. I was beyond them by now and heading back into the warm hall – but that last exchange rang oddly in my ears. Why did Hugo find it so funny?

  I got drunk with Vim, the mercenary captain, on my last day in Caen. Robin joined us briefly in the Wolves’ tower, but he slipped away when it became clear we were both planning to go at the wine in a determined, warlike fashion. Robin almost never drank to excess and he was busy with the King day and night in those days. I was drinking hard because I had behaved so boorishly towards Tilda and I was fairly certain I would never see her again. The nuns of the Abbey were very well protected against the sinners of the world, and particularly against rough and lustful soldiers. Vim drank, he told me, out of boredom. His men were well-trained, he only had a handful of them with him in Caen, and he had two competent sergeants to do the day-to-day organisation, food, pay, discipline and so on.

  ‘We have not seen a decent battle since Mirebeau, Alan,’ he slurred at me. ‘We are men paid to fight – and there is no fight!’

  ‘In the spring…’ I began.

  ‘Yes, in the spring we might see a little movement, but for now we trot merrily around from castle to castle with the King and his cavalcade of overbred silk-soft fools, while the Earl of Locksley holds John’s cloak hem and wipes his bum after he takes a shit, then feeds him his warm milk at bedtime. Our lord tells the King he must take swift action against Philip, against William des Roches and against the Bretons – not that John listens. Maybe I should sell my sword to Philip, he seems a far better King than our one. More like a man. They all hate him, did you know that?’

  ‘King John?’

  ‘No, Robin – yes, they hate John, most of them anyway, how could you not? But they do not like our own lord either. He has no lands in Normandy – so he has no stake in the ruling of the duchy. And he has the King’s ear. John trusts him, you see; he trusts him because he pays him, and he gives more and more of the castles over into our hands, with the lands that support them. In the spring I am to recruit and train another five hundred men – had you heard that, Alan?’

  ‘That is good, surely,’ I said. ‘It will mean more silver for Robin, and for us, too. The pay is good, is it not?’

  ‘I do not complain about the money – money is good. But it makes you soft. The more money I have, the more wine I drink. The more wine I drink, the softer I become – like an old man. I want to feel a bright sword in my hand, a swift horse between my legs and an enemy’s neck under my blade.’

  I rode back to Falaise leather-tongued, my breath stinking of half-digested wine and unfulfilled lust – with Kit frowning and tutting all the way at my uncouth state.

  In the second week of January, in the year of Our Lord twelve hundred and three, two riders entered the Castle of Falaise. It was a blue, clear, cold day, and Kit and I were raising a sweat in the chilly courtyard, sparring hard with each other with sword and shield, battering and blocking, lunging and parrying. The riders were hooded and cloaked against the weather and I paid them little attention – I was concentrating on keeping Kit’s blade from my body. They dismounted by the stables, gave their horses over to the castle grooms and went directly into the keep. At the gatehouse one of the men turned and looked at me, noisily clashing arms with Kit, and smiled. I held up a hand to stop the bout and saw Humphrey smirking at me. I met his look with a cold glare, then turned back to Kit. Humphrey followed his companion into the keep. Doubtless, they have dispatches for Lord de Burgh from King John, I said to myself. I will avoid them and they will soon be on their way. But something about their arrival troubled me. And as Kit and I were sluicing the sweat away in the wash-house, a half hour later, I felt a cold wind on the back of my neck and shivered. I recalled the words Humphrey had spoken: It’s a pity – but that disloyal Breton whelp will never see his own children at play.

  Then I was afraid. Not for myself, for Arthur.

  I pulled on my linen chemise over my wet and soapy body, grabbed my sword belt and strapped it on, tucked the misericorde into the back, pulled on my boots and told Kit to dress himself as swiftly as he could and then find Lord de Burgh and bring him to the lowest level of the keep. Then I hared across the courtyard, and clattered down the stone steps, through the kitchens, down again another floor – I could hear the shouting by then – ran past the armoury and stores, and burst into the dungeon.

  Chapter Nine

  The dungeon was as hot as Hell itself. And seemed to be as full of tormented souls as the Devil’s domain. Shouts of rage and cries of sheer terror split the smoky air. The brazier had been lit and the heaped charcoal was glowing cherry red. Rollo and his rat boy stood by the far wall and the rack of implements, and two men-at-arms were by the nearest two cells, those holding Geoffrey and Hugh de Lusignan, and these two captive lords were standing at the bars of their cages and shouting defiance with all their might. In the middle of the room, King John’s two bachelors had stripped off their tunics and chemises and wore thick leather aprons tied around their naked torsos. Humphrey, nearest the brazier, held an iron poker, its tip glowing like the dying sun. His face was covered with sweat and his hand was protected against the heat of the metal by a filthy rag. Hugo held a pair of sheep shears, two viciously sharp long triangles of iron connected by a U-shaped rod. Behind them, by the open door of the empty cell, stood Sir Benedict Malet. On the wall to my right, naked as a babe, was pinned Arthur, Duke of Brittany. His hands had been manacled above his head to short chains hanging from the wet black wall a yard apart. His feet were similarly widespread and chained to the floor. His emaciated body was milk white, but for a scattering of scabs and sores and an angry red mark in the shape of St Andrew’s cross that had been burned on his hairless chest. His skinny ribs were heaving with agony but his mouth was open, round and soundless.

  I pulled Fidelity from its scabbard and roared, ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  An absolute silence fell over the ten men in that small room – the Lusignans ceased their shouting, Arthur suddenly closed his mouth, Benedict opened his and gawped at me like a dying fish, and the King’s bachelors glared at me with undisguised loathing. Then everybody began to speak at once.

  ‘Oh, Sir Alan, oh, thank God, sir—’

  ‘How dare you burst in like—’

  ‘This is a filthy outrage, by all the laws of chivalry—’


  ‘Sir Alan, this is really no concern—’

  ‘Silence!’ I bellowed. To my surprise I was obeyed instantly.

  ‘You, sir’ – I pointed my sword at Hugo, who still held the shears in his right hand – ‘what designs have you on my prisoner?’

  Hugo pulled back his plump shoulders. ‘We have been charged, by our sovereign lord, and yours, King John of England, rightful Duke of Normandy, to render this foul traitor seedless and sightless, so that he may never shatter the King’s peace again with his contumelious rebellions.’

  ‘What!’ The phrase ‘seedless and sightless’ fluttered around inside my head.

  Humphrey spoke: ‘The King himself has charged us with the castration and blinding of this traitor. I warn you, sir, you impede us in our duty at your own peril.’

  I glanced involuntarily at the shrivelled genitalia of the chained Duke, which bore a mere wisp of ginger hair above his tiny member and tightly bunched sack. Before I could reply, I heard the patter of boots outside the door and Kit came into the room. He was alone.

  ‘Where is Lord de Burgh?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Kit, ‘he would not come. I told him you desired him to come to the dungeon but he dismissed me and said he was too busy for my nonsense.’

  ‘Do you think my uncle does not know what goes on in his own castle?’ Sir Benedict spoke. ‘These men have a warrant from King John himself. They do his express bidding. Carry on, Hugo, do your duty.’

  Hugo took a step towards Arthur and lifted his iron shears.

  Fidelity lashed out, almost of its own accord and smashed the shears from the man’s hand; the clatter they made on the stone floor seemed deafening.

  The two Falaise men-at-arms drew their swords, a rattling rasp of steel blade against wooden scabbard.

  I turned and pointed the index finger of my left hand at them. ‘If either of you men move so much as another hair, I will kill you both upon the instant. You hear me?’ The two froze. I turned back to the room. ‘This man, this duke of royal blood, is my prisoner. I have responsibility for him. Those were the orders I was given by my lord, who received them from the King. I will not allow him to be harmed. I swear, upon my honour, that I will kill every man in this room before I will allow him to be touched. Do you understand this?’

  Nobody said a word. But I heard Kit drawing his own sword behind me – a warm, comforting sound when a man is in a tight spot.

  ‘Sir Benedict,’ I said, ‘go upstairs right now and fetch Lord de Burgh down here. Tell him if he does not come then he is a coward, a churl and a man without honour. And tell him that when I have finished slaughtering these scum I will come upstairs and tell him so to his face.’

  ‘Sir Alan, be reasonable, this is none of your concern. The King—’

  ‘Go and get your uncle. Now.’

  It cannot have taken more than the time it takes to say ten Hail Marys before Hubert de Burgh marched into the room – but it seemed like a month in winter. No one moved, the only sound a whisper from Hugh de Lusignan, who murmured, ‘God bless you, sir’, from behind his bars, and a groan from Arthur, who had closed his eyes and hung his head against his chest. The dungeon air was as thick as sour curd.

  ‘What the Devil do you think you are playing at, Dale,’ said Lord de Burgh, stepping into the room. ‘Why are you improperly dressed? Put your sword away this instant. That’s an order.’

  I looked down at my body and realised I wore no more than a wet, partially transparent white chemise. My bare legs were shoved into an old pair of leather riding boots. I could feel a cold breeze around my nether regions. I suddenly felt quite ridiculous and sheathed Fidelity with fumbling hands. Arthur gave another low moan. I saw then that Lord de Burgh had half a dozen men-at-arms at his back. One of them was pointing a loaded crossbow at my heart.

  I drew a breath of hot, stale air.

  ‘My lord,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘This man here is my prisoner, he is my responsibility—’

  ‘No, sir, he is not. I am the castellan of this castle. I am the lord here. He is my prisoner and my responsibility. You men carry on’ – he gestured at Hugo and Humphrey – ‘continue your work. Fulfil the task you have been given by the King.’

  I lost myself then. ‘If you claim it, then you must take full responsibility for the Duke’s safety, my lord. You call yourself a man of honour, you pride yourself on your honour, you boast of it ceaselessly’ – I realised I was yelling at de Burgh – ‘yet you would close your eyes and let a helpless man, a prisoner who surrendered to our forces in good faith, be horribly mutilated in your own castle. You, sir, have less honour than any man here, for you have the power to prevent this crime against all the laws of God and man, but you lack the courage to do anything about it.’

  Lord de Burgh sucked in a gasp. I thought he would order his men to take me and I had a tight hand on Fidelity’s hilt.

  He glared at me for a long time, his breathing hard and heavy.

  ‘You shame me, sir,’ he said. ‘You, a low mercenary, a raggedy sword-for-hire, would put me to shame – you of all people dare to question my courage and my honour.’ He bellowed this last word.

  Then he said quietly, ‘You are right to do so. God’s blood. God’s holy blood. Benedict, release the prisoner from his chains and secure him back in his cell.’

  ‘Uncle?’ said Benedict.

  ‘Do it now, boy. And you fellows,’ Lord de Burgh jerked his chin at Hugo and Humphrey, ‘you men have no more business in this place. I suggest you return to your master forthwith and tell him the lord of Falaise will not permit this sort of barbarity to take place in any castle that he has the honour to hold.’

  ‘But, my lord,’ said Humphrey. ‘We—’

  ‘Go now!’ said Lord de Burgh. ‘Go quickly before I set you in the Duke’s place and use these instruments upon you myself.’

  I thought that my relationship with Hubert de Burgh would have been destroyed by our clash in the dungeon that day, and by my intemperate words. I had called him a coward and a man without honour to his face, and I truly expected him to take his revenge on me, or at the very least challenge me to fight him for his good name. Instead, he thanked me. At dinner the next day he placed me beside him at the high table, in the position usually occupied by Benedict. His nephew was banished beyond the ornate silver salt cellar with the lesser knights, and spent the whole meal stuffing meat and bread into his mouth and glaring at me while Lord de Burgh helped me to the choicest cuts of beef and praised my courage and integrity.

  ‘I fear I misjudged you, Sir Alan,’ he said. ‘You have shown me the path of honour and I thank you for it, from the bottom of my heart. I cannot imagine what the King was thinking to send those two poltroons here. I expect it was a fit of bad temper, an imbalance of the humours; unfortunately the King is prone to these rages, as you may have heard, just like his blessed father was before him. He does not see clearly what is right and wrong when the red rage descends. So I thank you myself for preventing this foul crime from taking place, you showed great bravery, and I believe that King John will thank you, too, when he realises his mistake.’

  I doubted it. But I was content to enjoy being in Lord de Burgh’s good graces for a change.

  Arthur thanked me, too, with tears running freely from his eyes, when I brought him a pair of roasted pigeons and a flask of cider the next day.

  ‘You are an angel, Sir Alan, an angel sent from God to deliver me…’ the boy was sobbing with relief and gratitude; he made me feel uncomfortable. For I had only behaved as any decent man would, and poor Arthur was still a prisoner in a stinking cell. Furthermore, at the back of my mind I knew that this passage of events was not over. Whatever Lord de Burgh thought about King John, I knew from my own experiences with him that he did not like to be thwarted in anything. And Hugo and Humphrey would surely not forget their second humiliation at my hands.

  A week or so later the castle was thrown into turmoil by news brought by a courier from Rouen. Queen Isabella
had been surrounded in Chinon by the rebels and John, urged by Robin, it seemed, had ridden south with half the Wolves to her rescue. It might have been a repeat of the Mirebeau triumph, except that as soon as John left Normandy, Robert d’Alençon – that gloomy yet, I had sincerely believed, decent and loyal lord – went over to King Philip, offering the French King his castle in exchange for confirming him in possession of his lands. At the same time Ralph of Beaumont, a Norman knight from the east, had done the same. King John, alarmed at this double treachery, had retreated back to Argentan by a circuitous route to avoid the Castle of Alençon, now in enemy hands, and Robin had gone on alone to Chinon to rescue the Queen.

  A rumour, no doubt based on knowledge of the orders given to Humphrey and Hugo, was spreading that Arthur had been tortured and murdered in Falaise – and it was this false news that triggered the defections of the lords d’Alençon and Beaumont. Worse, the Bretons, enraged that their Duke had been dispatched in such a cowardly fashion, had broken out of their duchy once again and the borders of Anjou and Maine were aflame.

  Hubert de Burgh himself was incandescent with rage. He paced about the great hall, calling down God’s vengeance on traitors and liars. ‘He lives, the Duke lives, by God’s blood. He lives and we all know it. You most of all, Sir Alan. Why do people not believe that Arthur still lives?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, if you were to show him to the people, then the word might spread…’

  De Burgh spun on his heel. ‘I cannot have Arthur carted across the breadth of Normandy to reassure fools and silence rumour-mongers. The risk is too great. He might be rescued, or seized by another Norman traitor to be used as a bargaining counter. He might escape! God forbid. No, I have issued a proclamation and sent it east and west, swearing by my sacred honour that Arthur lives and is well. That shall suffice. The Duke of Brittany must remain under guard at Falaise.’

  That was not to be, for a month later, another courier arrived with orders from the King himself. Arthur was to be brought to Rouen immediately – in chains.