by Wayne Grant
Roland snatched up his longbow and quiver as he picked his way down the back side of the makeshift barrier. Other men saw the French boats on the river and, recognizing the danger, followed him in a mad scramble over the barricade. Looking back to the south, Roland saw scores of French knights, now mounted, spurring their horses forward in a desperate effort to ride down the fleeing Englishmen. But their charge had come too late as the last of Invalids scurried up and over the barricade and out of reach.
Roland alighted on the roadway of the bridge and sprinted over the southern span toward the town. He looked over his shoulder and saw Jamie Finch hot on his heels.
“Jamie!” he shouted, pointing to a torch set in its iron holder by the island guard house. “Burn it!”
***
Sir Robert Mandeville stood atop the keep of Château Gaillard and looked down on the Seine three hundred feet below him. By the light of the moon he’d watched the line of boats come around the bend in the river, their oars gleaming in the pale light. The sight made him sick to his stomach and he cursed the foul luck that placed him in charge of Richard’s precious fortress just as the French decided to take it!
He’d never wanted to come to France, but after three years of excuses, the King had lost patience with him and he’d been ordered to Normandy in the spring. He’d left the peace and tranquillity of his estate in Essex full of foreboding, for he had no experience of war. To be sure, he came from good warrior stock. His father had been a renowned soldier, but he’d been killed when Robert was a babe. His mother had raised him to follow in his father’s footsteps, hiring men to train him in the martial arts, but he’d never taken to fighting.
He’d come into his majority when Richard was off to the Holy Land and had managed to avoid taking sides when John rose against the King. For the past three years he’d managed to duck service in France, but finally the order had come and he had been out of excuses. Thankfully, he’d not been immediately thrown into one of Richard’s bloody campaigns. Not wanting to spare one of his veteran knights, Richard had ordered Mandeville to oversee the work of the chief engineer at Château Gaillard, a duty that he had performed diligently.
But now the French were coming.
Mandeville felt his heart beating like a drum in his chest as he watched the boats reach midstream and head directly toward the bank where the bridge connected to the river gate of Les Andelys. He sent up a swift prayer that somehow the town could be held, for the defences of the castle itself were not complete. One delay after another over the past month had left critical parts of the fortress’ defences unfinished and vulnerable. The main gate that passed through the outer bastion was still not hung and the windlass for the drawbridge between the bastion and the outer bailey had not been mounted. If the town could not be held, the French could march right through the open gateway of the bastion across the drawbridge and right up to the walls of the inner bailey!
None of these shortcomings were his fault, but he would assuredly be blamed if the castle fell into Philip’s hands. Then a chill thought struck him. Mercadier had taken no prisoners at Gamaches, save the few that Inness had released. Would not the French do the same here? Mandeville ran a hand nervously through his long dark hair, damp with sweat as the fear of being blamed was replaced by the fear of being butchered by the triumphant French.
Looking back at the river gleaming in the bright moonlight he saw a small flame flare up on the far end of the bridge. In moments, the flames leapt higher and the far bank became visible in the garish light of the growing fire. Even at this great distance, Mandeville could see that the road was choked with men, horses and wagons. This was no patrol. The French army had come to take Château Gaillard and all he had to defend himself and the King’s castle was a company of mutinous cripples.
***
It was now simply a race for the open gate of Les Andelys between the French boats and the Invalids with everything at stake. As Roland crossed the island at the centre of the river he turned to see the last of his men clear the barricade and Jamie Finch torch the pitch-soaked wood. He headed over the northern span of the bridge, passing Sergeant Billy, stumping toward the far bank as fast as his one wooden leg would take him.
Further on, he saw Brother Cyril and three of the Invalids who had missed the mad charge against the French knights to help the monk carry Tom Marston’s body to the island. They reached the end of the bridge and Roland saw Cyril motion them toward the open gate. He saw them disappear into the town, leaving Cyril standing at the end of the bridge, watching the French boats coming straight for him. The little churchman hated war and avoided killing as a rule, but he loved the Invalids and to protect his own flock, he made exceptions. Roland saw the monk draw a long dagger from his belt.
Behind him, Roland could hear the Invalids coming fast, but the French boats were now only twenty-five yards from shore. He stopped and ripped an arrow from his quiver as his men pounded past him. He took a moment to calm his breathing then sent a shaft arcing across the dark water, taking the helmsman of the lead boat in the neck. The man slumped over, his dead weight pushing the tiller hard to the right. The boat veered sharply to port and headed back toward midstream.
Roland nocked another arrow and took out the helmsman of the second boat, which swerved so sharply toward the bank that it capsized, pitching men into the strong current. The third boat frantically backpaddled as men raised shields to protect themselves and the man at the tiller. The trailing boats in the flotilla seeing the chaos ahead of them added to the confusion as some tried to hold their position against the current while others turned toward the bank or back toward midstream.
Roland felt a slap on his shoulder and turned to see Declan, breathing hard behind him. The Irish knight took a second to catch his breath before speaking.
“I’m last off the island,” he gasped.
Roland looked back toward the far end of the bridge and saw flames climbing up the sides of the barricade there. Jamie Finch had done his job. He turned back to the river and saw that Frenchmen from the capsized boat had managed to drag themselves up on the bank, but a score of men were swept downstream and not seen again.
The boat that veered back toward the middle of the Seine, rammed into a piling beneath the bridge and its crew fought to keep from being swept beneath it. One of the more daring Frenchmen climbed up the pilings and hoisted himself onto the roadway of the bridge, beckoning his comrades to join him. He got a clothyard shaft in his side for his trouble and toppled into the dark water, just missing the boat below. This was enough to convince his fellows to release their hold on the piling and let the current carry them beneath the bridge and out of sight of any archers looking for a target.
As the trailing boats milled about, a man stood and issued brisk orders. As one, the remaining French boats swung in toward the shore and grounded on the muddy bank beneath the timber walls of the town. Scores of Frenchmen leapt out and ran through the muck toward the gate.
Roland grabbed Declan by the arm and together they broke into a mad run over the north span of the bridge. Sir John Blackthorne watched them come holding one of the heavy timber doors open a crack. On the wall walk above, the Invalids were throwing stones at the advancing French to little effect and screaming encouragement at their two leaders who were running for their lives toward the still open gate.
Sir John gauged that the French would win this race. As he was reaching for his sword, he felt someone shoulder his way past him. It was Seamus Murdo. The big Scot bulled his way out the gate and turned toward the French struggling up the river bank. They were not prepared for this sudden assault by an enormous Scotsman growling war cries in Gaelic and swinging his long-handled axe in long deadly arcs as he bore down on them. The lead men recoiled and those following could not check their momentum. They became entangled with those in front as Roland and Declan reached the gate.
“Seamus, back!” Roland shouted and the big Scot turned and lumbered back up onto the roadway. As soon a
s the three men passed through the crack in the gate, Sir John and a half dozen Invalids slammed it shut. More men hoisted heavy beams up to brace the wooden doors as the two young knights bent over and gasped for breath. Finally, Roland looked up at Murdo.
“Very much obliged, Seamus,” he managed to get out.
For the first time in his three years with the Invalid Company, Seamus Murdo smiled.
“A pleasure, lord.”
Storming Les Andelys
On the south bank of the Seine, French engineers fought to save the English bridge. Grappling hooks were flung onto the blazing barricade, snagging and tearing loose pieces of the makeshift barrier and pulling them into the river. Slowly the bonfire was reduced to a smouldering pile that was doused with river water, sending up clouds of steam.
The wood of the roadway was green and that saved the structure from being completely consumed by the flames. A thirty foot section of the bridge decking had burned through, but the supporting structure beneath was still intact. By an hour before dawn, the engineers had laid new beams across the gap and the southern span of the bridge was restored.
On the north bank, the remnants of the French river force twice tried to storm the river gate, but were rebuffed. As the sky lightened in the east, they prudently retreated to the island to plan their next assault. By the time the King was roused for his breakfast, Cadoc had sent two hundred infantry over to the island as well as a large wheeled ram. The mercenary general bowed to Philip when he appeared.
“Shall I order the assault on the town, your grace?” he asked.
The King surveyed the repairs to the bridge and frowned.
“I wouldn’t tarry,” he said. “Richard is at least two days away, even if he comes with only his mounted troops. But I want the castle in our hands before he arrives. He’ll rush to save his beloved Château Gaillard and if he fails to bring his whole army, perhaps we can do here what we failed to do at Aumale!”
“Shall we take prisoners, your grace?”
Philip frowned.
“After Gamaches, I think not!”
***
In the final hours of darkness, the Invalid Company frantically worked to prepare for the onslaught they knew would come. The chief engineer and all of the craftsmen had strangely disappeared from the town after the firing of the bridge, leaving the Invalids to improvise hasty defensive measures. Holding the town with a hundred men against an entire French army was impossible, but Les Andelys was not what the French had come for. The castle on the hill was the prize they sought and the English would use the town to buy time—time for Bertrand Dieupart to reach Neufchatel and King Richard.
Heavy wooden beams were ripped from nearby buildings to further brace the river gate and new barricades were cobbled together blocking alleyways on either side of the main road leading from the river up to the town square. A solid line of new wooden buildings lined that road, limiting the French advance toward the centre of town to a single narrow lane. Halfway up that lane, the Invalids built another barricade.
As the sky lightened in the east, a trumpet sounded a long series of notes from the opposite bank of the river. Declan was standing next to Roland on the wall walk near the river gate when the sound echoed across the water.
“It must be the signal to retreat,” Declan said dryly.
“I’ll watch for a white flag, should they choose to surrender,” Roland replied with a grin.
“Will you parole the entire French army? That’s what landed us here to begin with.”
Roland laughed at that. For not the first time he silently thanked God for Declan O’Duinne. No matter how grim the circumstances, his old Irish friend could always find ways to lighten the mood. More bugle calls rang out across the water and Roland could see men starting to move about on the island. He turned and looked toward the high ground northwest of town.
Somewhere off that way was the King and the English army. Dieupart and The Grey should reach Neufchatel sometime this very morning if the Norman hadn’t lost the way or The Grey hadn’t finally taken a misstep. Roland had little doubt the King would not dither once he heard the news. But Neufchatel was forty miles away and moving an army that distance did not happen quickly. He prayed they could keep the French at bay until the Lionheart arrived.
***
“Burn it!” the castellan ordered.
The old engineer squinted at Sir Robert Mandeville, not sure he’d heard the man correctly. He’d been roused from his quarters for the second time that night by the castellan’s men well before dawn and hustled up to the castle along with most of the craftsmen in the town. Now Mandeville was ordering him to burn the drawbridge between the triangular bastion and the outer bailey!
“We must wait, lord. The town is still in our hands Those boys down below seem to know what they’re about. They’ve bloodied the French proper. And if the town falls, they have nowhere to retreat to, save this castle. You can’t burn the drawbridge until those lads down in Les Andelys are safe across it.”
“The men in the town are of no concern to me, sir,” Mandeville snapped. “They must fend for themselves. I am charged with securing the King’s castle and, unless you can get those damned oak doors hung on the bastion gate before the French arrive, I will at least bar their entry into the outer bailey! You will burn the drawbridge, which I remind you cannot be raised. Is that understood?”
The engineer frowned.
“You’d leave good English lads outside to fight alone and in the open, lord?”
“You are too quick with questions and too slow to follow orders,” Mandeville snarled. “You will do as I say immediately or answer for it!”
The old engineer shrugged.
“Very well, my lord,” he said and turned away. He wanted to say more, to tell the man to his face what a fool he was, but in his many years of dealing with the likes of the castellan, Alfred Blakemore had learned that to attack ignorance only invited a counterattack.
Still, of all the follies he’d seen in his three score years, this one was the worst and while he had not lived to a ripe old age by disobeying his betters, there was a limit to the foolishness he could stomach. He gave Mandeville nothing more than a bob of his head as he left.
As he passed out of the keep and into the inner bailey, his craftsmen gathered around him anxious to know what they were to do. They followed him down the ramp into the outer bailey and to the gatehouse that opened onto the drawbridge between the outer bailey and the gate bastion. There he stopped.
“The castellan has ordered me to fire the drawbridge and I will follow those orders,” he said quietly.
“What of the lads in the town?” one of the carpenters inquired. “They’re putting up a fight!”
“Mandeville says leave ‘em.”
“Bastard!” one of the stonemasons muttered.
“Coward!” Another man growled.
Blakemore nodded.
“That is why I will be crossing over to the bastion and firing the drawbridge behind me. I’ll not leave those boys to face the French alone. You men are not soldiers and may do what you will. I’ll not say ill of any man who stays behind. But if any of those Invalid lads manage to make it out of the town alive, they’ll need a place to make a stand and maybe we can help.”
The Chief Engineer was a man of few words and this was the longest speech he’d given in ten years. He turned and walked across the drawbridge. Every craftsman in the outer bailey followed him over. He turned to one of the carpenters among them and pointed to the drawbridge.
“Kindly burn it,” he ordered.
***
As the eastern sky began to brighten, Bertrand Dieupart slowed The Grey to a walk then dismounted. He’d just passed through a tiny hamlet and over an ancient stone bridge to find a green meadow with a clear stream running through it. During the long night, the big gelding had done all he’d asked of it, but even The Grey needed feed and water. The horse headed straight for the stream and plunged its muzzle in, lapping u
p the cool water. Bertrand lay on his stomach and did the same until man and horse had their fill. As the gelding began cropping grass, Bertrand pulled the saddle off his back and found clumps of dry grass to wipe the animal down.
He’d admired this horse from the moment he’d seen it and had heard his new comrades speak of The Grey with something close to awe.
Now he knew why.
The gelding was a big horse, far bigger than most palfreys and only a little smaller than a warhorse. He had big shoulders with rear haunches to match and long legs. The Grey had kept up a steady trot for hours through the night, only slowing when Bertrand made him. The Norman had grown up around fine horses, but he’d never seen one like The Grey.
Finishing his rub down, he saddled the gelding and mounted.
“Only a little further, mon grand gris,” he said softly, and The Grey broke into a trot with no further urging from his rider.
***
The iron-clad head of the ram slammed into the river gate with a thunderous boom that could be heard as far away as the castle on the hill. Mindful of the King’s insistence upon haste, Lambert Cadoc had ordered the attack to commence at first light. The heavy ram, its oaken frame supported by six solid wheels, had rumbled over the northern span of the bridge in the dim light like some strange armoured beast. Covering the ram, and shielding the dozen French sappers pushing it, was a peaked roof, also of oak and sheathed in iron.
Behind the ram came a host of Genoese crossbowmen, deployed to drive any defenders from the walls while the ram did its work. The men who operated the ram were veterans of many a siege. They had forced breaches into fortresses with much more formidable gates than the simple timber one they now faced. As they reached the gate, the sappers moved with practiced efficiency, placing chocks behind the wheels, grasping the handles on either side of the of the oak log suspended on chains and hauling the ram backwards. As it reached the limit of its rearward swing, the sappers lunged forward, adding their weight to that of the log as it crashed into the river gate.
