by Clint Dohmen
“Surprise,” Duncan threw in.
“Yes, surprise. We need to get inside the castle before they know it and before they receive reinforcements from the countryside, or we will not be able to take it.”
“Huh, well, it’s starting to sound an awful lot like skullduggery of some sort may be necessary,” Simon stated delightedly.
“I’d think that would put an Englishman like you right in your element,” Duncan said.
“And it would at that. We’ve been duping you poor Welsh dullards for centuries now, and you’ve yet to catch on.”
“So,” Kojiro continued, “any thoughts on getting us in the gate?”
“Well, the most likely place for me to get help will be down by the docks on the coast. I started off cleaning decks and scrubbing hulls like a common sailor, and if I had to guess, I’d say some of them still remember me. One of my old teachers was the dock master at the mouth of the River Exe. The river leads inland to the City of Exeter and goods from the coast are taken to the castle all the time.”
“So it may be possible to get a few of us inside the castle with a delivery from the dock,” Duncan stated the obvious.
“Yes, I believe it’s possible. There is a bridge that crosses the castle ditch on the north side that can be approached without going through the city proper. There is less chance of being noticed if we avoid the town and can hide men behind the hill north of the ditch. If we could take the tower through subterfuge and hold it until we get Duncan’s archers inside, it could work.
“Of course the other issue is, I’m not going to be able to march across the countryside with my dear cousin and one hundred of his Welsh sheep fanciers without word getting to Lord Blythe.”
“So you will require a seagoing vessel of some sort,” Aldo added helpfully.
“Yes, and my chances of finding one on short notice that is not owned by an annoying, rotund Venetian are remote.”
Chapter 49
The Mouth of the River Exe
IT HAD TAKEN a week to plan and outfit the expedition.
The advantage of time was that everyone had largely recovered from their cuts, stabs, bumps, and bruises. The disadvantage was that word had now spread across the countryside of Richard’s demise so that Yorkists everywhere tread cautiously.
The new king had ordered no retribution to be carried out against the common soldiers who had fought against him, but the same was not true for nobles. Richard’s loyal retainer William Castesby, who fought gallantly at Bosworth, had been caught and beheaded. The Earl of Surrey and Duke of Northumberland were both stewing in the Tower of London, anticipating similar fates. Some of Richard’s loyal backers had escaped, and the rumor was that they planned a Yorkist counterstrike. In the immediate aftermath of Bosworth it seemed that very little had changed, other than the fact that the Yorkists no longer had any viable claimants to the throne.
In fact, Lord Percy Blythe had ordered his lands to mobilize, notably late to make it to Bosworth, however. Since the county of Devon, in which Exeter was located, was a longstanding bastion of Lancastrian support, Lord Blythe did not expect an enthusiastic turnout from its residents, but he knew he could count on the Yorkist knights that he had bequeathed land to, and slowly, those who had not fought at Bosworth, or had survived the battle, had trickled into the castle, answering his call to arms.
Each knight brought with him as few as three or as many as twenty loyal servants, either squires or men-at-arms. Lord Blythe estimated that he had two hundred loyal men with him in the castle, but he expected that number to increase dramatically by the end of the week as his outer lands and nearby Yorkists flocked to the safety of Rougemont Castle. He did not know what threat he faced or even if he faced a threat, but he thought as long as his castle would be costly to take, he could bargain with the new king to maintain his lands.
Lord Blythe’s most trusted knight was Sir George Penn. Sir Penn was not big or strong, although he fancied himself so, nor was he overly gifted with intelligence, although he personally saw himself as quite a thinker, but he was loyal to a fault and he had brought twenty fanatical men-at-arms with him. Lord Blythe also took comfort in the fact that Sir Penn, not being blessed with any original thoughts himself, strongly believed that all of Lord Blythe’s thoughts were brilliant, ignoring all evidence to the contrary when necessary. But Lord Blythe didn’t need Penn to be smart or strong, he needed him to obey, and he needed him to bring men, both of which he accomplished admirably. With a few more shipments of food and drink from both the port and his lands and a few more men, he would be able to withstand a siege long enough to draw terms from even King Henry himself.
“So, George, I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?”
“Indeed they are, my lord. I trust we will have sufficient food and wine?”
“With another big trade ship and the fall harvest, we will have both. I’ve instructed the traders at the dock to bring me all the wine that stops at my wharf, whether the owners like it or not. It’s a new tax that I’ve come up with until further notice.”
“That sounds like a wonderful way to do business, my lord. Do you need me to send men to enforce your taxes?”
“No, the brutes that offload cargo down at the docks have the muscle to strike fear into the heart of the devil himself. And I’ve already had a few of them executed for pilfering from my cargoes so I think I can count on them to do their job. But thank you for your offer.”
Chapter 50
ALDO WAS SKILLED at sailing by the stars, thanks to his interactions with Arab traders, and Simon knew the local tides and ocean depths around the mouth of the River Exe. Using their combined expertise, Simon was able to pilot the Triarii at night to a safe mooring two hundred yards off the wharf.
“Did Simon tell you that bad things usually happen when we set forth on dinghies?” Aldo asked Duncan as they rowed towards the wharf.
“No, he never mentioned it.”
“I wasn’t asked,” Simon helpfully pitched in.
He peered into the blackness of the wharf as the gunwale of the boat nudged up against the wood of the dock. The black of the night was lighter than the black of the ocean, and the boat’s occupants could see roughly twenty forms outlined against the faintly starlit sky. Simon, unhelmeted and with a cloak covering his armor and the coat of arms on his tabard, stepped onto the dock and evaluated his welcoming party to the best of his ability.
Their outlines ranged in height, but they were all big in the shoulders. Their biceps bulged around crude weapons. Simon remembered the cudgels, clubs, and staffs well from his childhood. He’d learned most of the dirty tricks he used in combat from the fighting he’d done on these docks. One man stood out as being older than all the others, and Simon fixed his gaze on that man.
“Jesus, you’ve gotten old, Maurice. And although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, you’re uglier than the last time I saw you. I sure hope the night is playing tricks on my vision, and in the morning you will no longer look like a wizened old shrew.”
“You spoiled, impudent, little maggot,” Maurice replied. “I wouldn’t have recognized you but for that bitchy, whiney, little woman’s voice of yours.”
“I see you’ve brought a bodyguard with you. Did the lord of the manor send you to greet me?”
“That officious piece of sheep dung? No.” Maurice spat on the ground. “I’ve got spotters on the coast, and they told me there was a juicy Venetian trading ship in the vicinity. If you hadn’t stopped here, we would have gone looking for you.”
“So you’re reduced to piracy these days, is it? I have to say, with your low moral character, inferior breeding, and poor sense of judgment, I’m not in the least bit surprised.”
“And you’ve done well with yourself from what I hear. International idler, friend to the French and Welsh, no wife, no children, and no prospects. Your father would be proud.”
With such a heartfelt welcome, Simon could not contain himself any longer; he walked swiftl
y towards his old mentor from the docks and embraced him with a strong hug that nearly squeezed the wind out of the old man.
“What do you want from me this time, young Master Lang?” Maurice Browning, former master of the docks and current proprietor of the Pig and Whistle asked in a voice that he meant to be harsh, but the intonation came across as caring.
“I need you to let me assist your sons with a delivery tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 51
0500 Hours,
Bear Street, Exeter
THE RICKETY CART trundled up the gentle slope. Despite having nine men to guide it, the cart made painfully slow progress. The road was narrow and it was a quagmire of mud, animal excrement, fish heads, pig guts, beer, and piss. On occasion, a stray pig or dog, foraging for food among the filth, would ground the cart to a halt. The heavy load wasn’t helping much either.
The cart was loaded with mead, cider, and beer. The oak casks that were being transported came in various sizes. There were a couple of kegs, half a dozen firkins, eight barrels, and two hogsheads. Squatting in one of the hogsheads was Kojiro. The space inside was cramped and pitch-black, and the ride was bumpy. Kojiro wasn’t enjoying his first visit to Exeter.
“Not much further,” Simon said to the large cask.
The men could have used the wider and straighter High Street, but Bear Street was much more discreet.
“Rougemont Castle?” Neno asked in hushed tones, looking at a red brick building in front of them.
“No, that’s the Bishop’s Palace,” Simon said.
The palace looked like a stronghold and could easily have been mistaken for a castle. Simon, Neno, Maurice, and Maurice’s three sons all studied the building.
“Tricky Dicky lodged there in November 1483 while he was gallivanting around Devon, executing people for treason and sorcery,” Maurice hissed.
“Tricky Dicky,” one of Maurice’s sons was repeating to himself aloud, over and over again. He couldn’t stop grinning at the witticism.
The group headed north again until they came upon a large knoll. They carried on up a slight slope and finally saw the back entrance to Rougemont Castle. The barbican was three stories high, and the iron portcullis was raised.
“We are nearly there. Stay still,” Simon said to the cask.
“Hai,” Kojiro replied.
“Halt, who goes there?” a guard shouted from a distance through the light mist.
“It is I, Maurice. I am delivering the ale.”
“Advance one to be recognized,” the guard yelled.
The man at the portcullis recognized Maurice and his three sons, and his eyes widened at the sight of the barrels. He paid little attention to the other dock workers that he did not recognize.
“Maurice! You’re a sight for sore eyes; I assume you have a toll to pass the gate?”
“We do, we do,” Maurice grinned widely as he rolled a firkin of mead off the cart for the guards. The other two guards pulled their halberds back to port arms and allowed Maurice to lead the cart into the castle. The cart slowly wheeled forward.
“I see about twenty soldiers,” Simon said under his breath as his eyes searched the ramparts.
Far more than a normal morning guard watch, he thought.
The cart came to an abrupt stop just after it went under the portcullis.
Simon started to reach underneath his robe to remove his sword and dispatch the gatekeepers, but Maurice put his hand on Simon’s and smiled. Simon watched as Maurice’s three tree-stump-shaped sons walked hurriedly up behind the guards they had just passed, swiftly removed the guards’ helmets, and cracked their skulls with their cudgels. The attacks were swift and brutal. None of the guards let out a sound.
Simon tapped hard three times, and Kojiro leaped out of the oak container. He put his left hand on his chin and pushed violently. Crack. His neck felt much better.
“Sorry, I guess we didn’t need to have you in the cask after all,” Simon apologized. “I didn’t think they’d let us all in the gate.” He then pointed at the gatehouse, and Kojiro walked briskly to the door leading into it. He opened the door and came upon a guard fast asleep on a chair leaning backwards against the wall. Kojiro sliced him diagonally from the top of his right shoulder across to his left waist. The man woke up in time only to look at Kojiro in wide-eyed bewilderment as his entrails spilled out.
“Maurice, take your sons and get Duncan and his archers from behind the hill. We will try to hold the gatehouse until they arrive. Neno, stay here with me.”
Kojiro quickly and silently climbed the steps to the next level of the gatehouse where an unaware guard turned away from the arrow slit he had been gazing out of. The hot confines of the gatehouse had caused the man to remove his helmet, as well as the abrasive mail that surrounded his neck. Kojiro, with one conservative forward stroke, sliced open the guard’s jugular vein.
Kojiro continued up another flight of stairs to the last level where doors on either side of the tower opened out onto the ramparts. Sentries stood just outside both doors on the rampart catwalk. Kojiro moved to the man on the left first, but while he was slicing that guard’s throat from behind, the guard outside the right door just happened to glance over.
“Enemy inside the gates!” he screamed out in warning before rushing Kojiro with his battle axe.
Kojiro ducked a roundhouse swing from the guard’s axe so that the edge flew just over his skull. He sprang back up and stabbed both swords forward into the man’s face. The sharpness of the blades pierced the man’s ocular cavities like butter, and he flopped to the ground.
Simon moved inside the gatehouse where they stepped over the mess of the dead guard. “Neno, stay here and don’t let anybody through the doorway.”
“Si, mi pilot.”
Simon carried the standard that he had taken from the cart and rushed up the stairs to the third level of the gatehouse, where Kojiro stood next to the bodies of two guards. Simon crossed the weakly lit, straw-colored floor and climbed up a wooden ladder through a door in the ceiling until he stood at the top of the gatehouse. There he once again raised his family standard over Rougemont Castle.
Duncan saw the rose and dragon banner being hoisted just as Maurice and his sons reached him. “Twll din pop saes!” he screamed.
His men screamed out in return, “Twll din pop saes!”
Simon stood at the tower eyeing the Carmarthen archers swarming over the hill. He only knew a smattering of Welsh, but he understood the war cry coming from their mouths. ‘Arseholes to all English’ probably wasn’t the most appropriate battle cry at the moment. He would have to have a word with Duncan.
Chapter 52
THE GUARD’S SHOUT had been heard, and men-at-arms quickly began to assault the gatehouse doorway. Although there were experienced Yorkist soldiers involved in this assault, none were getting through alive. Neno whipped his naginata around in the doorway. Any man who stepped into his funnel of death came out with fewer limbs than he started. Soldiers were also attacking the gatehouse from the ledges on the rampart. Kojiro held one entrance and Simon the other.
Duncan screamed a guttural cry in Welsh as he led his men through the open gate, filleting a half-dressed man-at-arms who had just come freshly to the fight from the barracks. His men swarmed over the small crowd of fifteen or so Yorkists trying to force their way through the door to the gatehouse, and Duncan took a quick survey of the castle interior. The enemy garrison soldiers were emerging from the barracks within the grounds, funneling into the three towers that they still held and bunching up as they made their way around the ramparts towards the gatehouse held by Simon and Kojiro.
“Archers on me!” Duncan shouted.
“Cymru!” the Welsh archers shouted as one.
The archers trusted Duncan implicitly after his skillful command at Bosworth. He first directed his men to shoot at the bottlenecks of men grouped on the ledges around the third floor entrances to the gatehouse. Within a minute, the archers from Carmarthen had
loosed six flights of arrows, and the men on the ledges who were not skewered by arrows died at the blades of Kojiro and Simon. Duncan then directed them to shoot at the men exiting the barracks, and soon the deadly arrows caused the flow of men coming out to slow to a trickle.
Lord Blythe stepped outside the main residence and into the castle courtyard to a scene he was not expecting. Sir Penn, still adjusting his skirt armor, stepped out of the cool castle residence and into the bright sunlit courtyard behind him. He too was baffled by what he saw. How did the enemy get into the castle? Who was the enemy? What was his lord going to do about it? How was he going to protect his own ass? These were some of the preeminent thoughts in his mind.
Lord Blythe made a very quick, very insightful review of the situation. The enemy didn’t seem to number more than a hundred. They’d taken one of the two gatehouses, and their archers had his troops pinned down.
“Dog’s bollocks, it’s the troublesome Langs,” Lord Blythe mumbled as he looked atop the gatehouse. The dragon standard fluttered unmistakably above the gatehouse. I need more men, he thought as he surveyed the havoc wrought by Lang’s archers.
His men still held three of the four towers, and it appeared that the enemy did not have his numbers, but their archers were deadly. His men could not get out of their barracks because of the damn longbows, but he had peasants to spare in the village. He needed fodder for the archers, so his trained men could advance behind them.
“Light the cauldrons,” Blythe shouted.
Guards ran to the large iron pots on the ramparts. The barrels, holding a mixture of oil, quicklime, and sulfur, were lit. Black smoke billowed up from the pots and out above the castle walls. The signal was to summon the troops quartered in town.
