by Wayne Grant
***
Roland and Declan watched as the lead rider expertly swung his horse around to circle them, gradually tightening the ring until he was no more than twenty paces away. The remaining riders, all expert horsemen, fell in behind their leader until there was a circular wall of horseflesh surrounding the two lonely figures trapped in the middle. Once the circle was complete, the leader raised his arm and slowly reined in his mount, He stopped, facing Roland and dismounted. His men followed. All had drawn broadswords.
As the leader moved toward him Roland readied his own short sword. He expected to die, but would not make it easy on these Frenchmen. Like a flash of lightening, a vision of Millie rocking their baby son in the timber hall of Danesford came to him. To not see her again in this life was painful to bear, but the path that led him to this dusty road in France was the same one that had once led him to her. However this day ended, he knew he had lived a lucky man.
As the French knight drew nearer, he tensed, ready to spring forward and close the distance on the man with the longer sword, but the Frenchman suddenly stopped in his tracks. He stared hard at Roland, then raised an arm.
“Arrêt!” he ordered.
His men halted where they stood, confused by the order. The knight ripped off his helmet and leaned forward looking intently at Roland.
“You…you are… Inness, no?” he asked, his voice full of surprise.
Roland stared back at the man. The Frenchman’s long blond hair was soaked with sweat and matted to his head, but he had not forgotten the face. Standing before him was the Vicomte de Dammartin, the nobleman he’d paroled at Gamaches.
“Yes…oui, my lord. I’m Inness.”
The Frenchman nodded. For a moment he stood there, his brow furrowed, then he turned and issued curt orders to the men behind him. They looked startled and one spoke up angrily, pointing at the two Englishmen. The French nobleman gave the man a cold look, then repeated his orders. The men behind the Vicomte began to move aside, leaving a clear path up the road.
“Go! Go!” the young nobleman said, jerking his head toward the castle on the hill. “This day, Inness, you are …chanceux.” He stopped, searching for the English word. Roland spoke little French, but he easily understood the man’s meaning.
“Lucky, my lord?”
“Ahh, oui! You are lucky!”
***
The two knights ran up the long winding road to the castle without looking back. As they reached the crest of the first hillock, Roland glanced over his shoulder. The town was swarming with the French army.
“I wonder how much trouble our friend will be in for letting us go,” Declan gasped as they neared the southern bastion.
“He’s a Vicomte,” Roland gasped back. “He’ll not hang, but he’ll pay a price I’d wager.”
“Honourable men do not fare well in this war,” Declan said as they reached the bridge over the dry moat.
“Even the lucky ones,” Roland managed as they stumbled through the gate of Château Gaillard.
The Stand of the Invalids
Chief Engineer Blakemore had not been idle since leading his craftsmen over the drawbridge and into the southern bastion. The sharp smell of pitch struck Roland’s nose as he and Declan stumbled across the bridge that spanned the dry moat and into the arched passageway of Château Gaillard’s main gate. No sooner had the two knights cleared the bridge, than the chief engineer ordered it burned. From the wall walk above, men dropped torches onto the wooden span and it caught quickly, sending dark smoke billowing skyward.
Inside the gatehouse arch, the two knights had to squeeze through a narrow crack between the massive oaken doors that had been heaved into place across the entrance. The doors were still not hung on their hinges, but Blakemore had improvised as best he could to blockade the gate.
“Welcome, my lords,” Blakemore said, hailing the late arrivals as they staggered into the small courtyard of the southern bastion. “Happy you could join us. I thought my workmen and I would have to defend the castle alone, but I was right happy to see your lads when they came running up from the town. I don’t know how you delayed the French this long, but I’ve tried to use the time wisely,” he said.
Blakemore’s workmen, with ample help from the Invalids, were bracing up the doors with heavy beams as the old engineer spoke. Roland looked around the small courtyard at the centre of the triangular bastion and noticed that Blakemore had raided the castle’s armoury to supply his craftsmen with weapons. Those not engaged in securing the gate held swords, spears and a few had picked up crossbows. He also noticed the smouldering remnants of the drawbridge leading to the middle bailey.
“What happened there, Master Blakemore?” he asked.
“The castellan ordered it burnt, lord, and I obliged him. I thought it better he stay over there than be underfoot here. I expect he’s somewhere in the keep about now, pissing himself.”
Roland slapped Blakemore on the shoulder.
“Well done, Chief Engineer.”
***
Sir Robert Mandeville tried to control his panic as he watched from atop the keep as the French swarmed through Les Andelys and started up the road toward the castle. Behind them, the bridge over the Seine was choked with infantry and siege engines. For the hundredth time since he’d been awakened in the night, he cursed his luck for having been left in command at such a place and such a time.
Who could have known the French would strike now? And he’d had nothing to stop them with save these castoff cripples and their insolent commander. Even the workmen had turned mutinous, marching over to the southern bastion and burning the drawbridge behind them. None of this was his fault! But, oh, he would be blamed—that’s if he survived.
He’d heard that both sides had stopped taking prisoners as the bitter war had worn on. His stomach lurched as he watched the unending column of the French army moving through the town. Glad that he was alone, he bent over and retched on the roof of Richard’s jewel of a castle.
***
The Vicomte de Dammartin and his riders were the first to reach the burning bridge over the dry moat. The young French nobleman sent a rider galloping back down the road to find engineers to span the new obstacle. He and his men dismounted out of bow range and watched as the flaming structure collapsed into the chasm that Roland and the Invalids had recently excavated.
From atop the bastion’s gatehouse, Roland watched as more men from the French army began to gather on the road. From this perch he could see for miles in every direction, but at the moment his gaze was fixed to the north. If help was to come, it would be from that quarter.
By now, Dieupart and The Grey must have reached Richard’s camp at Neufchatel. Were the English, even now, rushing to relieve the few defenders at Gaillard? It was said that the last time the King raced to save one of his castles from the French he’d almost marched his army into a trap. Would he be wary now? Dropping his gaze to the gathering French strength on the road, he had little choice but to hope the English were coming soon. If they did not, the King’s bold castle would be in the hands of Philip Augustus and its defenders would be dead.
***
Philip sat on a soft cushion in the abandoned tavern in Les Andelys, his backside aching as usual. He sipped on a cup of bad wine as he listened to Cadoc’s report. It had been a disappointing day, though not disastrous. He had hoped to achieve complete surprise and have Château Gaillard in his hands by dawn, but in that he’d been thwarted. The defenders of Les Andelys had been given an hour’s warning and had defended the bridge and the town with surprising skill and tenacity. It had taken his army over twelve hours to clear the bridge and town and, somehow, the English defenders had managed to escape up the hill to the castle.
Once the fortress was in his hands he would make inquiries as to how they had managed that, but for now he must focus on the problems at hand.
“General Cadoc, when will your men be in position to storm the castle?” he asked.
“Our en
gineers are hauling dirt and stone to fill the moat before the southern bastion and scaling ladders are being brought up from the trains now, your grace. All should be ready in three hours.”
Philip nodded. The French King had built a reputation over the years as a master of siegecraft. From early on he’d shown a talent for the careful and methodical reduction of a fortress by battering down its wall or mining beneath them, or, if those methods failed, starving out the defenders. As his war with Richard had amply proven, he was less talented at managing the chaos of open battle where the English king excelled. For clashes in the field and for taking a fortress by storm, he relied on Cadoc.
“We must assume that word had been sent to Richard in Neufchatel, General. He may already be on the march.”
Cadoc nodded.
“It’s likely, your grace, but even with the delays we’ve encountered, we should have the castle in our hands long before the English arrive.”
Philip frowned.
“I appreciate your confidence, General, but with Richard, nothing is ever certain. So, I want you to dispatch our cavalry up the north road toward Neufchatel. Order de Dammartin to find defensible ground some miles from town. If the great Lionheart comes down that road, he’s to be stopped before he reaches the town—at any cost.”
Cadoc raised an eyebrow. Phillip was known to be fond of de Dammartin, but this was war and the French king would not blink at sacrificing his young favourite to gain a victory. Cadoc approved of the man’s ruthless streak. It was why he knew Phillip would beat the English in the end.
“As you wish, your grace,” he said, turning to order an aide to fetch the Vicomte de Dammartin.
***
Roland peered through an arrow slit in the northwest tower that formed one point of the triangular southern bastion. He’d made his way to this protected observation point after a hail of crossbow bolts whizzed by his head each time he tried to look over the battlement of the gate house. What he saw was disheartening.
The bridge that led to the bastion gate had burned to cinders, but the French had loaded wooden beams onto wagons and were busily working to bridge the gap. Behind the wagons carrying the beams, a team of four draught horses had hauled the wheeled ram up the hill and all along the east-facing wall of the bastion, men were rolling stones into the dry moat. Standing watch over all of these efforts were two hundred crossbowmen protected by large shields. Their presence provided ample protection as the engineers prepared the ground for the assault to come. They would do the same when the assault force stormed the walls.
Roland backed away from the narrow gap in the wall and motioned for Declan to take a look.
”We’ll hardly be able to show our heads above the walls when they’re crossing the moat,” he said. “Not with that many crossbowmen on the other side.”
Declan stepped back, having surveyed the French progress outside the bastion.
“Aye, not if ye don’t want to be a pin cushion. We’ll have to wait until the bastards are practically on top of the wall and in the way of their poxy Genoese archers to have a go at ‘em.”
Roland nodded.
“I counted over forty scaling ladders. It will be hot work on the wall.”
“And we can’t forget the gate. They’ll have a new bridge up in an hour and those doors won’t stop that ram for long.”
“If they make it inside, we’ve nowhere left to retreat, Dec, and I don’t think the Vicomte will be able to save us a second time.”
Declan snorted at that.
“You always have a plan, Roland.”
Roland made no reply as he stepped forward and took another look across the moat. The French engineers and sappers were moving with desperate speed to prepare the ground for their attack. He shifted his gaze to the north. From the narrow slit he could just see where the road crossed over the top of the hill on the far side of Les Andelys. For a moment his heart leapt as he saw a column of riders there, but the moment was brief. The riders were heading north, no doubt to intercept and delay any relief from Neufchatel.
He stepped back and looked at Declan. Their only hope had been help from the north, but that now would take a miracle and he doubted God was granting any of those in this bloody war. Surrender was no option, not after Gamaches. Perhaps all that was left to them was to die like men.
For he had no plan—no plan at all.
***
The Vicomte de Dammartin reined in his warhorse at the top of the steep ridge and looked down on the narrow stone bridge that spanned the River Andelle in the valley below. The Vicomte knew good ground when he saw it. They’d ridden seven miles north from Les Andelys searching for just such a spot. He led his men down off the ridge and into the valley. The bridge over the river was narrow and that would help them check the English advance, but a quick reconnaissance revealed a ford less than a mile downstream. If his scouts had found the crossing, so would the enemy. Still, getting across the river would slow the English for a while and once they’d forced a crossing, there was still the ridge to the south.
He ordered sixty of his men to defend the bridge, sent two men to watch the ford and ordered the rest of his cavalry back to the top of the ridge where they would conceal themselves until needed. De Dammartin and his men had been humiliated at Les Andelys and for the young knights of the French heavy cavalry, the blow to their honour was intolerable. The young nobleman also knew that word of his leniency to the young English knight he’d set free would inevitably reach the King.
For de Dammartin, the stakes were of the highest order. If they failed here, his disgrace and that of his men would be total. But if they stopped the English long enough for the infantry to take the castle, the tarnish to his reputation would be wiped clean. As he looked up the road to the north, he resolved to die before letting the English king drive him from this spot.
Let them come, he prayed.
***
Roland looked along the east wall of the bastion at the men who hid behind the battlements waiting for the storm they knew was coming. The Invalids, who’d held the city walls of Chester against John’s mercenaries and the timber walls of Deganwy against the fearsome Dub Gaill Danes sat idly along the wall walk as the minutes dragged on. Some chatted with nearby comrades and others yawned, having lost sleep during the French attacks the night before.
Sprinkled in among his own men were Blakemore’s craftsmen and labourers. These men, new to war, clutched their unfamiliar weapons with white knuckles and mumbled prayers to the Almighty as they waited. Brother Cyril moved along the wall at a crouch, offering solace to those who sought it on this grim afternoon.
In the small courtyard, a score of men, led by Declan O’Duinne stood ready behind the unhinged doors of the main gate, waiting for the inevitable breach. He saw Sergeant Billy tightening the straps that kept his wooden peg attached to the stump of his leg. Near him was Seamus Murdo, leaning against the stone of the gatehouse, his big hands resting on the butt of his long-handled axe. Outside the walls, the sounds of rocks being feverishly rolled into the moat and wooden beams being wrestled into place died down leaving an eerie quiet hanging over Château Gaillard.
When the last beam spanning the dry moat fell into place with a reverberating thud, a roar went up as the French infantry sprang forward, running and stumbling across the filled-in moat to the base of the bastion’s eastern wall. With them came the tall scaling ladders, which they heaved into place, overtopping the battlements. Planting the base of the ladders five feet from the bottom of the wall, the infantry swarmed upwards, the boldest among them first onto the rungs.
“Stay down!” Roland screamed.
Rise too soon, he knew, and he’d lose a dozen men to the crossbows. But for one of Blakemore’s carpenters, the urge to do something was just too strong. Ignoring his orders, the big man rose up, grasped the top of the ladder nearest him and tried to shove it back into the moat. It would hardly budge, the weight of the men on the rungs weighing it down. The carpenter grunted an
d pushed for a moment more, then took three crossbow quarrels in his chest. He toppled backwards into the bailey, landing next to his own sawhorse and raising a cloud of dust and wood shavings. Roland cursed to himself and rose with his shield to peer over the wall. The French were halfway up the ladders.
“Wait for my command!” he roared as he squatted back behind the parapet. He counted to ten, then rose with his shield once more.
“Up!” he shouted. “Up!”
The Invalids sprang up, roaring their own war cries and drowning out the French. The bold men who had rushed to be first up the ladders were met as they neared the top with a storm of steel, the battlements now bristling with battleaxes, swords and spears. A few managed to fend off the blows from above, but a dozen more did not. Lurching backwards, they fell, some into the rubble that filled the moat and others onto their comrades below them on the ladders. But for every man that fell, another took his place and the attackers inched upward, clawing their way to the top of the wall.
Below, the French sappers hauled the ram over the beams they’d laid across the moat and rolled it under the arch of the gatehouse. Roland had placed two of his Invalids with crossbows in the small chamber above the arch where murder holes gave them a shot at the attackers below. Two men were felled before the rest, recognizing the danger, ducked beneath the protective roof of the ram. They set the chocks behind the wheels and swung the heavy oak ram backwards. It crashed into the doors with a splintering sound.
Declan watched as the bracing beams slid back a few inches. A small crack could now be seen where the two doors met in the centre of the gate. Men rushed to put their shoulders against the beams as the ram struck home again. Alfred Blakemore shook his head.
