Deus Militis - Soldiers of God

by Jonathan A Longmore

  Ranulf nodded in agreement, ‘What about the barricade?’

  ‘Between the ditch and the bridge, and I want it to go into the river, if they try and flank the ditch the archers can skewer the bastards,’ Gilbert looked at Ranulf and grinned before continuing, ‘and behind the barricade I want more spikes, random angles and heights, lashed together and sunk firmly in, don’t want the bastards to pull them out, we need to make the bastards bleed, make it hard for them……God damned traitors! Once that’s done we barricade the bridge near the end, and again in front of the gate, put some archers out there….when they come the archers can take their fill, but we’ll need shield men to protect them from the rebel arrows.’

  ‘And if they try an approach from the river?’ Ranulf asked.

  Gilbert laughed, ‘If they try that, they’re dead, once they fall out of the boats, they’ll drown or choke in the mud….the archers will pick them off in the boats, and we’ll use fire arrows….something they won’t use because they want the bridge intact….as do we.’

  ‘At least we have the advantage,’ said Ranulf, ‘narrow access we can defend with fewer men, and as their front ones fall, the rest behind will falter.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Gilbert, ‘that we do, we can make this a murder trap…...see to it Ranulf, and get torches…..we do not stop until it is finished......and Ranulf…’

  Ranulf had started to walk away but stopped and turned back to Gilbert who continued, ‘I’m glad you and Henry are here, might just make the difference.’

  Ranulf nodded and grinned, ‘Like old times, eh?’ He turned and strode back across the bridge with the sergeant of the guard. A few shouted orders later, and half of the gate guard disappeared into the city with several of Henrys men to add weight to their argument, ‘persuading’ men and boys to cross the bridge and start the makeshift fortification.

  Wagons and boats were commandeered for the barricade; the boats were holed so the rebels couldn’t use them, although several of the boat owners managed to push away towards the estuary in a panicked effort to save their livelihood. Their boats were more important to them than the politics of their masters.

  ‘Let them go,’ said Ranulf when the fleeing boats were pointed out to him by the bridge guard, he turned to the sergeant, ‘start collecting stakes, get them sharpened and dug in, and once they are in place, smear them with shit.’

  The sergeant grinned and walked off to comply with his orders.

  Ranulf stood in the centre of the bridge and watched the activity on the far bank, knights, men at arms and townspeople all working together for a common cause, the protection of their city and ultimately their lives. The sight gave Ranulf some hope Gilbert’s defences would slow the rebels down and maybe buy enough time for the King to arrive.

  He felt a presence behind him and turned to find de Capo surveying the work he was supervising. A crossbow man stood beside him, the crossbow hanging loose over his shoulders, ‘A personal guard for the commander,’ de Capo gave a humourless smile, ‘won’t let me out of his sight.’

  ‘It’s always good to have someone watching your back.’

  ‘The men are busy,’ de Capo said as he watched the stakes being dug in.

  ‘It won’t stop them, but it might hold them up for a bit.’

  ‘Any delay will help,’ replied de Capo, ‘but as long as the Keep holds, we’ll prevail.’ He turned and looked up at the four towers; ‘I want you to command the Keep once the Barons arrive.’

  Ranulf couldn’t hide his surprise, ‘Me?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Henry, he holds you in high regard and I need a man I can trust.’

  ‘You don’t know me!’

  ‘No, I don’t, but Henry knows you, and Sir Roger knows Henry, and if they say you are the man to have, I accept their judgement. You’ll accept the task?’ De Capo waited expectantly.

  ‘Aye,’ Ranulf grinned, ‘seems I have already been volunteered.’

  ‘Good,’ de Capo scanned the defences that were rapidly being constructed, ‘walk with me while I have a look at Gilberts work,’ he said, ‘if we are going to fight together we should know each other a little.’

  The two men walked across the bridge to where Gilbert stood surveying the work in the decreasing daylight. Braziers and torches had been set up along the perimeter of the ditch being dug and the work would continue until it was finished, or until the enemy arrived. Several boys from the city population ran past them carrying stakes and dropped them on the pile on the far bank and ran back to get more. Four men were busy sharpening the ends and placing them in a different pile, ready to be dug into the ground.

  ‘Ever thought about taking the Cross?’

  ‘Never thought about it,’ said Ranulf, ‘maybe if Henry decided to go I would go with him, but I’m not sure I’m ready to sell my soul for the church just yet.’

  ‘Henry told me about the boy and the priest, it was an honourable thing you did.’

  ‘Just keeping a promise to an old friend,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘and the sight of a man of God thrashing a hungry child is not what our Lord intended, of that I am sure!’

  ‘Are you sure of your faith?’

  Ranulf watched as Gilbert stood over a group of men who were frantically digging the ditch, ‘I have faith in that man there,’ he slapped his scabbard, ‘this sword, and the swords of the men I ride with.’ He looked at de Capo and wondered where this was leading, ‘Any other faith needs to earn my respect before I believe in it.’

  ‘But you believe in God?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Ranulf countered.

  ‘I do,’ admitted de Capo, I believe in God and his son, but I don’t trust the bastards who claim to be his servants.’

  ‘Yet you took the cross,’ Ranulf glanced down at the coat of arms adorning the front of de Capo’s surcoat.

  De Capo sighed, ‘Aye, I took the cross. I took it for God, not the priests and the bishops. Three years spent killing men for believing in God differently to us made me realise it was not God’s work I was doing.’

  ‘And now you’re here fighting for the King.’

  ‘My vows were to God and the King,’ de Capo said as he crossed his arms and watched Gilbert berate a man for not digging a stake in deep enough, ‘Jerusalem is not our world and not our land. We are invaders, but one thing I have learnt is each man has a destiny, however small.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Ranulf as he looked at de Capo, noting the firm set of his jaw and the sparkle in his eyes he knew could only be caused by one thing, ‘I was fortunate enough to meet Evelyn earlier.’

  De Capo half smiled as he continued to watch the people working hard to defend the bridge, ‘Ah, so you are the knight who felt compelled to berate me for bringing Blanche here.’

  ‘It’s a strange thing to do.’

  ‘You think I had any choice in the matter,’ de Capo looked at Ranulf and slapped him on the shoulder, ‘her middle name is stubborn, Ranulf. I was smitten the first time I saw her, but I have absolutely no control over her, so if you can get her to leave I will be forever in your debt.’

  Ranulf noted the use of his first name in the familiar, without using his title and he understood they would be friends, ‘I’ll command the Keep for you and I promise I will talk to your Lady, with your permission of course.’

  De Capo smiled, ‘Good, you have it, now let us speak with Gilbert.’

  Gilbert turned as Ranulf and de Capo approached him, ‘We need more archers,’ he said, as if de Capo could muster more than they had.

  ‘We need more of everything,’ replied de Capo despondently.

  Gilbert spat and swore, ‘A pox on all traitors…..there are men in this city who can draw a bow, if we’re going to hold this bridge and this castle, we need more archers…..make the bastards bleed for every inch they take.’

  ‘You know this bridge better than I,’ said de Capo.

  ‘I need someone to find men who can draw a bow; the Bow Master would be the one to speak to.�
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  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ promised de Capo, ‘if there are more archers to be found we will find them.’

  He and Ranulf turned and made their way back across the bridge to find the Bow Master, both grinning at each other as they heard Gilbert curse and shout orders, ‘Put the damned stakes at waist height, lash them together you pox ridden fool…..you…..make sure there’s a stinking turd on all of the points….if we can’t stick them to death we’ll stink the bastards to death!’

  ‘Glad he’s on our side,’ said Ranulf.

  ‘Aye, replied de Capo, ‘before the week is out a lot of Englishmen will die because of him.’

  They walked into the outer bailey and made their way toward a group of archers, who despite the failing light were still practicing their deadly art. They were testing a new type of arrow head on sacks covered in plate armour and mail, with a shield on a frame placed in front of them. They appeared to be happy in their practice, and laughed and made fun of any man who did not hit the target in the right spot. They were under the command of a man called Jerold. De Capo and Ranulf stood silently as Jerold took his turn and loosed an arrow that flew straight and true, penetrating the shield and punching through the plate into the mail; piercing the sack it covered exactly where a man’s heart would be.

  ‘The next man who misses the heart,’ shouted Jerold, ‘holds a target shield for every man to loose ten arrows at!’

  The group of archers looked at each other, any laughter dried up. A target shield, very thick and very heavy was not a pleasant prospect. Men had been struck by poor aim in the past. A static target was not too bad, but Jerold was not happy any of his archers missed the mark and he would just as easily demand a moving target.

  De Capo and Ranulf stood to one side while the archers took turns to release their arrows at the targets, each one striking true, most penetrating and some not. Ranulf subconsciously fingered the mail beneath his surcoat and raising his eyebrows glanced at de Capo, ‘Where in God’s name did they get those from?’

  De Capo shook his head and his eyes met those of Jerold who had turned at Ranulf’s comment.

  He rested on his bow and looked them both up and down. He nodded at de Capo and smiled at Ranulf, ‘Scare you does it?’

  De Capo was surprised at the insolence of the man but kept quiet as Ranulf rose to the bait, ‘Until you miss and we get close and slice your pox ridden bellies open!’

  Jerold smiled, ‘Aye, well said….but you need to get damned close to do that.’ He removed one of the arrows from the pile beside him and handed it to Ranulf, ‘Here, this is what’ll kill you before you get close enough to kill me, damn sight more powerful than his crossbow,’ he said scornfully looking at de Capo’s bodyguard who simply grinned back.

  Ranulf looked at it, a thin narrow arrow head without barbs, ‘A bodkin?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jerold, ‘a bodkin, nothing special about it is there? Except the Smith has found a way to harden the tip….and with a direct hit the shields will be useless and these ladies will rip through into the flesh every time and you noble men in your mail and fancy plate will die!’

  Ranulf felt the tip, shook his head and handed the arrow to de Capo who held it in his hand and stared at it with narrowed eyes, ‘How has he hardened it?’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Jerold, his smile changing to a frown, ‘he won’t say….threatened him, tried to bribe him, even had a priest order him and threaten him with excommunication and the bastard still won’t tell…..typical Smith…..they keep their secrets so they stay valuable.’

  ‘Why has no one mentioned these before?’

  ‘This is the first time we’ve used them,’ said Jerold, ‘no point telling you unless they work.’

  ‘And they work?’

  ‘Well enough, Sir Ralf, well enough.’

  De Capo handed the bodkin back, ‘If they work I want as many made as possible.’

  ‘I’ll tell the Smith,’ Jerold said.

  ‘I have another task for you.’

  Jerold eyed both men suspiciously but listened as de Capo explained what he wanted. Jerold shook his head, ‘I can spot an archer at one hundred paces, but whether he is any good is another matter, but I’ll send these scoundrels out and bring back every archer we can find.’

  De Capo clasped Jerold’s arm, ‘Good, make sure they report to you and put them through their paces, we don’t have much time left. Report to one of us when you’ve found them.’

  Chapter Seven

  Twelve miles to the north west Simon de Montfort sat in his tent holding a counsel of war with his Barons and Knights. The next day, the seventeenth of April his army would reach the Medway; that was the date he agreed with de Clare. Scouts had been sent out to spy on the bridge defences and he waited patiently for their return with news. His army rested, pickets were out and fires lit. There was no need to hide. The royalists knew they were coming and like de Clare he supplied pigs to be slaughtered to feed his men, for well fed men always performed better and harder.

  De Montfort turned to Jaxon, ‘When we get there I want you to scour the bank for boats, as many as you can find. If we can’t get across the bridge we’ll have to do it the hard way and attack the city from the north.’

  Jaxon shook his head, ‘I don’t think the men will be too happy about that.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was ideal,’ snapped de Montfort, ‘you think I want to go across on a boat while the bastards pick us off…attack across boggy land.....get sucked into the mud, get stuck like roasted hogs? Spread the word if they don’t take the bridge they’ll be in boats and half of them will likely drown…and if they don’t drown they fight in a bog......maybe that’ll make them fight a bit harder.’

  Jaxon agreed, ‘Aye, I’ll spread the word.’

  The sound of a horse coming to a halt outside the tent followed by the thud of a man hitting the ground and urgent sounding voices caused all inside to turn to the entrance. A patrol had returned and the flap was opened by one of the guards. The scout walked in covered in mud and perspiring heavily having ridden hard to get the news back to de Montfort before the army moved off. He stopped just inside the tent and looked about him; he made eye contact with de Montfort, strode forward and stopped a swords length away,

  ‘Well?’ de Montfort demanded.

  ‘They’re fortifying the approach to the bridge.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We couldn’t get close enough to see everything, but there is an earth rampart in front of a ditch, beyond that there is a barricade of wagons and boats, and the ground is heavily spiked…..and the bridge is being blocked.’

  Jaxon sat up straight, ‘Spiked, heavily?’

  The scout nodded, ‘And deep and it looks like they’ve smeared the tips.’

  De Montfort stared at him, ‘With what?’

  ‘Shit my Lord!’

  Fabien le Breton chuckled at that comment, ‘Donc, c'est la façon de guerre anglais, je pense, vous vous battez avec de la merde, où est l'honneur dans cette?’ ‘So this is the English way of war I think, you fight with shit, where is the honour in this?’

  De Montfort glanced at le Breton and ignoring him spoke to the scout, ‘You’ve left a man there?’

  ‘Yes my lord, he will stay until you arrive, or unless he has more urgent news.’

  De Montfort dismissed the scout and turned to Jaxon, ‘Fifty men, plus two shield men for each man as protection while they remove the spikes. Godfrey, your archers would be well advised to hit their targets else this could become very costly.’

  Godfrey acknowledged the statement with a nod of his head and the evening continued with de Montfort and his men discussing tactics once the bridge had been taken. They were all aware the castle could be held by a lot less men than the number who would be attacking. They also understood the biggest problem would be the Keep, and even if they were able to take the baileys; the Keep would still stand against them. They would attack from the north; take the bridge, and the castle from the city
side, while de Clare would attack from the Boley Hill side. This had already been agreed and late into the evening de Montfort called a halt to the discussions and dismissed his men to their own tents, ‘We’ll know soon enough if we’re to die and I’m confident the King will hide in his palace and let his people die for him…..we leave at dawn.’

  Fabien le Breton and Jaxon remained behind, they would be dismissed separately. He trusted all his men but these two he trusted more than most. There were times when he needed to hear the truth, however much it angered him. Jaxon and le Breton would always oblige even if it was a truth he didn’t want to hear.

  De Montfort stood, ‘Albin!’

  His squire appeared from behind a curtain separating his bed from the rest of the tent and took sword and belt that was handed to him. De Montfort turned his back on Albin, apart from his personal guard Albin was only one of three men who he trusted to stand behind him with a blade. Albin placed the sword and belt on the bed and returned to start untying the mail and plate de Montfort still wore. His mail coif and helmet were already placed on a wooden cross stand where his Hauberk would hang. He stood while Albin untied the leather laces keeping the shoulder and upper arm plate attached to the Hauberk and removed them , carefully placing them on pegs on the cross stand. De Montfort had a small breast plate attached to his Hauberk and this was also removed before Albin could untie the rear of the mail shirt. He moved round to the front and slowly pulled the mail off leaving de Montfort clothed in his padded Gambeson. His plate greaves were removed from over the short leather boots he wore. He stretched and sighed with pleasure as the weight of the cumbersome armour was removed, albeit for a short time. He undid the Gambeson himself from the front and stretched his arms backwards as Albin removed it.

  Jaxon and le Breton had watched silently as their commander relieved his body of the weight and Jaxon poured him a beaker of wine as he sat back down. He took a sip and held the beaker in both hands as he leant back and relaxed, ‘Well?’

  Jaxon looked quizzical, ‘My Lord!’

  ‘The truth Jaxon, tell me the truth!’