The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  Still, it was income.

  What was needed was a clash at arms where before all the world gunnes would save the day – but how could they, in such small numbers that were being placed?

  Over the months Jared heard the same story from other halls. Disbelief, reluctance to commit, cautious orders.

  At the first anniversary of the guild there was much promise but little pay-off reported and at the round-table meeting it was conceded that there had to be one particular big step forward before gunnes could take their rightful place in war.

  Unless the clumsy gunnes could be brought to where they were needed quickly they could never play a crucial part. And in the event that a retreat was ordered, the pieces had to be specifically defended or abandoned to the enemy. There was no easy answer and Jared wrestled with the problem.

  Rosamunde was not dismayed and stood by Jared, keeping the Barnwell main commercial interests safe.

  Jared’s mind kept straying back to the same alluring prize: if a true wall-smasher finally made the light of day, warfare would be changed for ever.

  As he travelled about on the business of the guild the thought stayed with him. It was not out of reach – he could see the path forward but it was going to be a long and expensive journey.

  The snows of winter had only recently retreated when a visitor called.

  The man introduced himself with a sweeping bow. ‘Peter van Vullaere of Bruges. Do I find myself addressing the Grand Master, perchance?’

  A jovial, confident fellow but with an air of shrewd worldliness, he was dressed in a considerably superior manner to most of the members of the guild.

  ‘You do. Jared Barnwell of Coventry.’

  ‘Then I dare to say we have business together. I’ve a friend in Bruges, thought I’d be interested in a curiosity. A gunne – a devilish contrivance that attracted me greatly. I’ve a mind to go further with it.’

  ‘In the commercial line?’

  ‘Indeed. Yet I observe that this gunne has a fatal flaw – it is too heavy and lumpish for its purpose. Master Jared, I have an idea that’s set fair to answer this, but I’ve not the mechanicals to make it. Mijnheer Streuvel urges me to seek your guidance. Do you …?’

  Instantly alert, Jared answered evenly, ‘I’m sure we can assist. Tell me, this idea of yours to—’

  ‘Yes, well, shall we to details? You have the craft, I have the idea. How do you think we might proceed?’

  ‘The Worshipful Company of St Barbara desires nothing greater than that the gunne does take its just position as king of the battlefield. You have our every aid and encouragement … but I’m thinking it were better from within the fellowship of our guild.’

  Jared detailed the advantages: mutual exchange of wisdom and ideas to accelerate development, collective support and above all the preservation of the mysteries to maintain quality and pricing.

  He had van Vullaere’s undivided attention.

  ‘Should you desire to enter upon the guild then there’s commercial advantage aplenty.’ He went on to detail the value of the guild in providing gunne foundry services, the hire of ready-trained gunners and, if needed, an extra supply of gunne-powder.

  There was a definite quickening of interest but Jared judged it better not to show too eager and left it to Rosamunde to lay out the details.

  She came back well satisfied. Peter was known to her through reputation, a well-respected wine merchant who quite saw the merit of standing together to develop the market. He was willing to abide by the precepts and statutes of the guild and stood ready to be initiated. What was more, he had an immediate compelling prospect that in due course he would divulge.

  Peter’s idea turned out to be simple enough but had impressive possibilities.

  It seemed the armies of the Low Countries used a fiendish device to make up for their lack of numbers. It consisted of a wide platform with wheels to the side and with an upright shield in the front with ports for archers.

  Its employment was for one cruel purpose. Fixed immovably along the broad front of the vehicle was every kind of blade, from spear to halberd, pike to spontoon, protruding in a lethal hedge of steel. At the rear of the device was a trailing pole, and in the shelter of the shield soldiers would lift and launch the vehicle forward and ram it bodily at speed into the crowded ranks of the enemy, skewering a dozen or more at a time, before drawing it back for another mass killing.

  Peter’s plan was to mount a gunne behind the shield where it would be protected but more to the point, the wheeled platform would give full and instant mobility for rapid deploying.

  ‘Brother, your idea is masterly!’ Jared told him. ‘I’ve a mind to assist you myself. What’s the name of this engine at all?’

  ‘Name? Oh, most soldiers would call it a ribaudequin.’

  One was acquired and in the privacy of the island workshop Jared inspected it carefully. There was no doubt that it could be done – the gunne block would be made fast to the platform and the gunners need not fear arrow or bolt while they plied their weapon when wheeled close to the foe.

  Yet there was a disadvantage. A single gunne with its slow rate of fire was not going to terrify the enemy indefinitely. What was needed were several that could be deployed alternately, keeping up a dismayingly unpredictable succession of firings.

  More gunnes? This would make for a heavy, unwieldy apparatus taking away its chief advantage.

  ‘Make ’em smaller?’ Peter suggested doubtfully.

  It was one way, and would have the advantage of increasing the firepower and therefore terror value. What if it were taken to extremes, say a gunne with a ‘pea’ the size of a grape or less? It would be much smaller, lighter and more could be mounted. This was a battlefield weapon!

  The design of the gunne suggested itself: one not a long way from his first attempts, but taking advantage of bronze casting. From one mould would be made dozens of identical weapons, pointing to a mounting of anything up to four or six on one ribaudequin. Several of these would make for almost a continual fire and it would be a fearless opponent who could withstand this for hours – and the mercenary armies he’d seen were far from this.

  CHAPTER 89

  The first piece arrived from the foundry and was tested.

  Used to the slam of sound from a full-sized gunne the harsh cracks of the smaller were disappointing to Jared’s ears. The lead ball carried for several hundred yards but had lost its force over a hundred, but this was not the point: a movable focus of terror was what was being provided.

  Assembling more pieces had shown serious problems, however.

  When they were side by side it was found out of the question to load one while the other was firing. This was overcome by mounting all six gunnes in a frame and treating them as one – loading separately then firing together, in a single hideous volley of death.

  The other complication was that because loading was from the mouth of the gunne, the gunners exposed themselves while readying. The answer to this was a hinged shield placed a pace or two in front, dropped only when the gunnes fired.

  By trial and error it was found that not just six but as many as a round dozen gunnes clamped together could be serviced in one ribaudequin. With trivial improvements this was what they were going with!

  ‘You mentioned a prospect?’ Jared asked Peter as they prepared the accounting for their making.

  ‘Robert, Count of Nevers.’

  He looked for a start of recognition but seeing none, sniffed and added, ‘As you English know nothing of what’s happening outside your precious island, he we call “The Lion of Flanders”, for we must lay our independence as Flemings at his feet. Tireless to defend us against the French, who desire nothing better than to possess our lands for its wealth and trading position, he’d lust after any means to add teeth to our army.’

  It was but a day’s barge journey for a demonstration ribaudequin to round the coast to Zeebrugge, the Hansa trading port for Bruges. In a few days more they were outsi
de the frowning red-brick towers of the residence of Count Robert.

  ‘This is what you’re showing me, for all your noise?’ The heavy-faced and unsmiling nobleman said, circling the ribaudequin with a sceptical leer, an ungainly low wagon with twelve pipes laid side by side and not much else.

  ‘I beg you may allow us to show you its spite,’ Peter said with a bow.

  He signalled to the waiting assistants who raced away to stretch a line between two posts. A score of cattle hides, still bloody from the shambles, were quickly hung up.

  ‘These are the enemy, sire, who dare to oppose you,’ Peter explained, drawing the count away from the ribaudequin, ‘For which they will pay dearly – upon your order.’

  Robert looked at the ribaudequin and then grunted, ‘So? Do what you must.’

  Peter raised his hand. Six men, newly trained, grasped the trail pole and rapidly wheeled it into place, taking position behind it. The yeoman gunner snatched a hot wire from the brazier and leaping up behind the gunnes, waited for the signal.

  The hand dropped. In a single movement to the connected powder train he touched them off as one.

  It was cataclysmic – the synchronised crash of a dozen gunnes through lightning flash and smoke, an appalling shock that stunned the senses.

  And when eyes turned to the hides there was no more doubt. Over half of them now bore gaping rents and tears, silent witness to the beast’s ferocity.

  CHAPTER 90

  Diksmuide, the Netherlands, AD 1321

  The long line of Flemish soldiers wound ahead on the ruler-flat land, the dour figure of Count Robert riding in the van, his coat-of-arms of sable lion rampant on a yellow shield visible to all. Their destination was Diksmuide, where Baron Courcy had brazenly led his Burgundians in an ambitious attempt against the heartland of Flanders.

  There were six ribaudequins in his train with their support carts, the gunners marching alongside. And with them were Peter van Vullaere and Jared Barnwell, riding together.

  The French were waiting for them: a spreading line in the distance; the pennon-topped tents of their camp just visible behind them; standards, colours and the jagged glitter of weapons in the forefront.

  Jared was by now a fair judge of military affairs and saw that while it would be a clash of some thousands it would by no means be on the scale of some he’d seen.

  The Flemings were nearly all foot soldiers, a mix of stolid Hollanders and German mercenaries with few knights or men-at-arms a-horse. The enemy seemed to be composed similarly and their massing promised an evenly matched pitched battle of the bloodiest sort.

  The Lion of Flanders and his men marched forward with determination and spirit. Count Robert was an astute warrior and had prevailed again and again against some of the best the French had thrown at him.

  A mile clear he halted. The French were the invaders, they could come to him.

  One close-packed horde ranged against another. Pikes, swords, warhammers, maces, daggers. There was little point in manoeuvring in the din of battle and all would be decided by deadly hackery, man on man until one or the other broke or made a heroic last stand.

  Robert’s position was risky. Spread thin, five separate blocks of pikemen faced out, each heading a larger force of foot soldiers. The front facing the enemy, therefore, was broader than they but at the same time invited the French to punch through their centre – but was that what Robert wanted? Allow the enemy to pierce the line and then enfold them from the flanks?

  The gunners were summoned and all became clear.

  With a massed beating of drums and a bloodthirsty roar the French began their advance but there would be no concentrating to a central thrust – the baron was going for a crude bludgeoning frontal attack.

  The Lion of Flanders did not flinch, patiently waiting for the host to draw near, his plans well laid.

  Then he struck. From the rear and between the blocks to the front poured every archer he possessed. And with the bowmen were the gunners, wheeling their engines of war to where they would play their part, at an angle to the enemy flanks.

  The archers loosed off three volleys and the enemy advance halted to face the hail. The bowmen retired and the ribaudequins were brought forward.

  Both sides seemed to hold their breath at this audacity – until the gunnes spoke.

  Diabolical lightning and thunder were called down and invisible death struck deep into the French ranks. In terror they turned to flee but were held to a crush by those behind.

  The archers returned to the slaughter followed by a second ribaudequin to each side.

  It was merciless. Not only was there maiming and killing by plunging arrows and unseen death-dealing missiles, but as dread and panic seized them, instinctively the soldiers fell back and the crowded ranks were wedged into a tight, immovable press. It grew worse, the rear not seeing what was happening, shoving forward and making the inner a living hell of heaving, desperate bodies, helpless, suffocating, dying.

  Exactly what Count Robert had intended.

  The third ribaudequin came up and delivered yet another savage onslaught into the struggling mass. Now there was blind panic as the outer ranks turned in to escape the appalling punishment and one which they could not fight against: the end could not be far off.

  As if in grieving for the misery and slaughter taking place on the earth beneath, the grey heavens wept – a gentle, sad light rain. It sharpened the colours of steel and heraldry and thinned the runnels of blood in a forlorn endeavour at cleansing away the brutality of man.

  And it nearly ended the battle.

  Recharged, the first ribaudequin was propelled to the fore and the yeoman gunner raised his red-hot wire and fired the weapon.

  One gunne alone cracked out viciously – the others varied from a fizzing pop and gouts of evil-smelling smoke to a tired sparking or nothing at all.

  The ribaudequin was rapidly withdrawn and Jared hurried over to see what had happened.

  It was the powder; even the smallest hint of damp it seemed killed its ardour. This was calamitous: and if gunnes must retire at the first sprinkling on the field of battle …

  Jared felt all eyes on him as he tried to think.

  The gunnes must be sheltered while they were charged ready, but as soon as they were exposed to fire they would be silenced by the rain.

  Meanwhile the drawn-back ribaudequin had to be readied. Gunnes half-fired had to be cleaned of their coarse fouling – and worse, the unfired ones awkwardly emptied of their contents.

  It was deadly work and at the third gunne the inevitable happened – a sudden flash and smoke and the gunner was looking in dazed shock at the stump of his right hand.

  A second ribaudequin was brought up. This time there was no firing at all.

  A messenger from the count rode up, demanding to know why the gunnes were not serving out death at this critical stage of the battle. Distracted, Jared mumbled something about a temporary resting but it was clear they were in deep trouble.

  All six ribaudequins were now silent and the enemy had taken notice of this, regrouping and facing the dread engines, plainly of a mind to wreak a terrible vengeance.

  The rain shower petered out, leaving the ground wet and slippery but this came too late: it had done its worst. All powder was now suspect, for every barrel in the supply carts had been opened to feed the gunnes. It was nothing less than a complete routing.

  Distant shouts turned into an impetuous clamour. The French were on the move again.

  A weak sun began to appear – did they stand or flee?

  Unlike at Arezzo, these gunnes could be moved and Jared had every man available clapping on to the trail poles and heaving the sorry contrivances, slipping and sliding back through the blocks of Flemish soldiers who jeered and cursed them – and past a furious Lion of Flanders.

  The archers were sent out to delay the inevitable, the bowmen hooting and mocking as they passed.

  Every barrel of powder was ruined but there was a chance.
In one of the supply carts Jared had had the foresight to put aside sealed pots containing the elements that would be mixed together to yield more gunne-powder should the battle have spilt over into the next day.

  He worked like a madman at the mortar and pestle. All it needed was enough to charge say, three gunnes apiece on each ribaudequin.

  The first was made ready and launched at a trot through the ranks again and positioned.

  At the sight of it the enemy’s forward impetus slowed and quietened.

  The ribaudequin remained silent. And by degrees the advance turned into an uneasy milling – then the gunnes cracked out viciously, finding an easy mark in the tight-packed host. Another was hastened up on the other flank and the punishment resumed.

  It couldn’t last.

  Baron Courcy sent in his knights against the gunnes. In a massed thunder of hooves they burst out around the trapped mass in a heroic martial display, lunging straight for the gunnes.

  Jared knew it would be nothing less than butchery at the exposed ribaudequins but he had one last card to play.

  Every one of them, full-charged or no, was turned to face their galloping nemesis and touched off together.

  As he’d dared hope the flash and blast of the gunnes was too much for the horses. They swerved and skidded to a halt, rearing up in fright. Their riders were sent crashing to the ground and the animals fled in terror.

  It was more or less a stalemate.

  Then, as if by common consent, the two opponents drew back slowly, leaving the field to no man.

  Peter was well satisfied with his ribaudequins and from his own pocket rewarded the gunners, but Count Robert was less enthusiastic. True, the gunnes had done their work: the trapping of men in a lethal crushing, but in his view the cost of it all was exorbitant and much the same would have been achieved by outlaying on more common archers.