Behind the Bishop of Winchester’s battalion, with a light guard under Sir Alan Basset, William’s advocate as the King’s guardian, came the sumpter horses, the creaking wagons, the laden roncins, and a handful of women. Some were the churched wives of sergeants-at-arms, women who would act as nurses to the wounded, but the majority were mere drabs; all, however, were sisters-in-war and carried knives. There were no siege engines but, to avoid confusion, with the exception of the standards of the leaders of the battalions, all other Barons and knights had been ordered to leave their banners in the baggage train. Unwilling not to have their personal devices present in whatever might befall, many of them had had their staves lashed upright and their bright emblazoned fields left to blow in the breeze.
Regarding the women sitting on the wagons, some few on nags and sumpter horses, under this panoply of heraldic devices, John D’Earley had quipped that they frightened him more than the men.
‘What? If you were one of the enemy, or if you were wounded and had to submit to their ministrations?’ William asked.
‘Either, my Lord.’
William had grunted, then spurred his horse, overtaking the column as it rode alongside the broad River Trent. Behind him he had heard the jingle of harness, the dull thud of horse-hooves on the damp sod and the flutter of his standard in the wind of their advance as D’Earley and his guard rode close upon his destrier’s haunches.
William had drawn rein and ridden for a while with Des Roches. The Bishop had exchanged his cope and mitre for a coat of mail and a steel helm, and his crozier for a lance. Like all the Barons, knights and sergeants-at-arms, he wore a cross upon his breast and back. For few moments they had maintained a desultory conversation, then William had remarked: ‘It is deeds now, Peter, we have dwelt on words over-long.’
‘Aye,’ The two men exchanged meaningful glances. The entire enterprise hinged upon two factors: the intelligence that the main body of the enemy lay to the south of the city, and a notion mooted by Des Roches and seized by William – a march along the line of the Trent, and an attack from the north-west.
*
The Trent flows north from Newark to its confluence with the Humber; Lincoln stands upon the Witham, which flows east, then south into the Wash and – in general - the entire locality is flat, seamed by watercourses and ditches, arable land known as Lindsey that also included areas of marsh, water-meadow and wet grazing. Two roads led to Lincoln from the southwards, the ancient Fosse Way from the south-west, and the old Roman road, Ermine Street, directly from the south.
Under its gallant chatelaine, the Lady Nicola de la Haye, the city of Lincoln proved an exception, standing high above the surrounding countryside at the distal point of Lincoln Edge. Walled, its upper curtilage contained the cathedral and castle, the former in its eastern part, the castle an integral part of the western wall of the city. The lower town, clinging to the southern slopes of the eminence and abutting the Witham, offered the best entry to a besieging force. Here Ermine Street passed through the southern gate, turned briefly into the city’s High Street and climbed the hill upon which stood both castle and cathedral, before emerging through the northern gate and resuming its former identity. This lower town had already been penetrated by the Anglo-French army.
To avoid an obvious approach up either the Roman road or the Fosse Way, a relieving force could take advantage of Lincoln Edge, the ridge of which – running from the north-west to the south-east - led directly to the west-wall of the castle, and the southern slope of which gave some measure of protection, while the gentler slope to the north enabled the army to deploy to its left unseen by the enemy, even when it had detected the presence of hostile forces riding along the ridge.
As the Royalists mounted up in the May twilight of that Saturday morning, William altered his dispositions for the coming battle. Anticipating a mounted attack over the firm and open ground of the Edge, he now placed Des Roches in command of the cross-bowmen with orders to draw his charges out in extended order. They were instructed to use their weapons with care and strike at any charging knight, if possible from his unshielded side. William also ordered two hundred of his mounted men-at-arms to be ready to kill or hamstring their own mounts, to form an instant obstacle to the enemy, horses being reluctant to trample their own kind in a mêlée. Falkes de Bréauté, now in command of the Bishop’s division, would join William and Longsword in the centre of the English line, leaving Ranulph of Chester to form up on the left.
As the army closed with its objective, William again rode up and down the battalions, encouraging his men, shouting at them that they: ‘Be of good cheer! God has delivered the enemy into our hands! Let us hasten to fall upon them, for now is the hour!’
*
The ancient city of Lincoln had been under intermittent siege for two years. In the most recent investment, it had endured three months of continuous blockade and the newly arrived forces of Quincy, FitzWalter and De la Perche had ravaged the surrounding countryside for victuals and firewood. These rough routiers were bound to be encountered and, as the Royalists began the ascent of Lincoln Edge, their scouts made them aware of enemy horsemen in the offing, a fact which when reported to William simply made him urge his forces on at an increased pace.
‘At all costs,’ he growled anxiously, ‘we must not lose the initiative.’
William’s use of Lincoln Edge to both cover and facilitate his approach and thereafter to gain a favourable tactical position had been at the suggestion of Des Roches, and at first it seemed as though the ruse had worked. As they gained height and the view of the city and its environs, they saw below the magnificent cathedral the colourful swirl of mounted chivalry, and the duller eddies of mounted men-at-arms, forming up. They saw too the siege lines and their engines, which encircled the city.
William despatched his squires to the other battalion commanders as they drew out their men from line-of-march to array, verifying that they knew the enemy were aware of their presence and to ready themselves for the shock of battle.
‘My Lord, they retire!’ John D’Earley cried, pointing to the south-east where the movement, far from being an advance, or even a deployment inviting an encounter on the lower ground of their enemy’s own choosing, was turning retrograde. D’Earley stood in his stirrups and looked along the Royalist line, then sat back down again in his saddle, emitting his famous chuckle.
William, highly annoyed at the disobliging retreat of the enemy, could see no reason for mirth and said so.
‘But my Lord, ’tis the banners on the baggage carts; they seem like more chivalry in our rear. They think us overwhelming.’
But William had no time for this, he was thinking hard, for it was now clear that FitzWalter was withdrawing into the lower town, the larger, southern portion of the city. He turned his horse and galloped back through the Royalist lines to regain height, drawing rein when he had a clear view of the castle, above which flew the banner of Nicola de la Haye.
The advance of the Royalist forces had begun to clear the Edge of any enemy forces of substance investing the west, and, or so it would seem, the north sides of the city.
‘John,’ he called to his nephew who, with D’Earley and the handful of knights forming William’s personal body-guard, had followed him on his reconnaissance, ‘take four men and see if you can get under the walls unmolested to send word to the Lady Nicola that we shall not abandon her.’
William watched for a moment as John Marshal rode off before returning to his place in the line of battle which stood, in bold array, frustrated of its carefully planned encounter. By the time he got back to the side of his son, Falkes de Bréauté, Ranulph of Chester, Longsword and Des Roches had all ridden in for orders.
‘They have fooled us, God damn their souls,’ snarled Ranulph of Chester.
‘Not so,’ William began, before being interrupted by Des Roches.
‘But we have no siege engines, William.’
‘The castle,’ William said. ‘I have s
ent John to reconnoitre. Do you take your crossbowmen forward. From what I have seen we might enter the castle, for its defences are much damaged. God knows how it has held out this long, and there is a large engine before it that we may use…’
There was a good deal of discussion, before Des Roches moved to obey William’s order, whereupon there was a sudden disturbance among the commanders’ escorts.
‘My Lord!’ They all turned to where a knight pointed out that: ‘John Marshal is returning.’ A few moments later William’s nephew rode up with a strange knight beside him. Both men’s horses were blown, suggesting a headlong flight.
John reined-in alongside William. ‘This knight, my Lord,’ explained John Marshal, indicating the stranger, ‘is Geoffrey de Serland; he comes from the Lady Nicola directly and met me as I encountered four French knights, whom we beat off.’
De Serland came forward. ‘My Lord Marshal, I give you greeting. The Lady Nicola saw your advance and begs you to come on with all your bataille. She can admit you into the castle and…’
‘My Lord,’ Longsword interjected, ‘this is folly, to get ourselves caught within Lincoln spells disaster…’
‘Aye,’ added Ranulph. ‘Better we draw off…’
William held up a placating hand. ‘Let us not act hastily.’ He turned to Des Roches. ‘Do you my Lord Bishop, lead your men forward as I desired. Falkes shall support you. Clear the siege lines and when you are within bowshot of the castle walls, go forward with this fellow…’ William turned to De Serland. ‘If you got out, I presume you can get back in?’
‘If we are lucky, my Lord, and number but two,’ De Serland replied. ‘There is a postern and the enemy have partially abandoned their western siege lines on your approach, though there are still men to the westwards of the city.’
‘Then go, Peter, you have knowledge of the place. Pass through the castle postern and reassure the Lady Nicola and ascertain the true state of affairs regarding the enemy. In the meanwhile we must bring up the sumpter horses, feed the men and water their mounts.
*
The army stood to its arms after it had broken its fast. But such had been the early hour of its start that the day had not yet reached noon before the Bishop of Winchester rode back. De Serland came with him, with messages of thanks from Nicola de la Haye, but it was Des Roches’ intelligence in which William was the more interested.
Realising the importance of his news, Des Roches was intent on milking it for all it was worth, claiming he knew what he had to reveal all along, but concealing what it actually was that he had discovered until William, driven almost to distraction, cut him short.
‘Very well, my Lord Bishop, you have explained how the enemy now occupy the entire city, both its upper and lower parts, but what in the name of God is it that you hold from us for, I swear to you that if it proves mere bluster and we lose what we have gained…’
‘’Tis a blocked-up gate, My Lord,’ said Des Roches with an oily triumph as the nobles surrounding him stirred uneasily. The spectre of division amongst his commanders rose again in William’s imagination.
‘And?’
‘Its doing was ill-done and it leads directly into the city just exterior to the castle bailiwick…’
‘From the west?’ asked William anxiously.
‘Aye, my Lord,’ responded Des Roches in an insolent tone and feigning surprise, as if his explanation were not clear enough for even William’s illiterate mind to grasp.
‘If its doing is so ill-done,’ asked William Longsword, ‘how is it that our enemy has not yet exploited it? They have been here three long months…’
Des Roches shrugged, ‘who knows, my Lord of Salisbury. What is not obvious from the inside, though discernible to a perceptive man, is even less so from the outer, but the mortar is weak and…’
‘How long would it take to clear?’ William broke in.
Des Roches shrugged. ‘Two, mayhap three hours, if you employed sufficient men.’
‘And in what state are the walls of the castle?’
‘Much broken down by the enemy’s mangonels and a trébuchet, there is a large perrière left before the postern…’
‘And the city’s walls?’
‘In like state, though perhaps not so much so.’
William ignored the apparent contradiction in Des Roches’s words and thought a moment before rapping out a series of orders. ‘My Lord Bishop, your crossbowmen are to cover the ramparts.’ Turning to Falkes de Bréauté he said, ‘get your men forward to dig me out this gate, for by God I would go hence into the city by this route.’
‘But my Lord…’ began Ranulph of Chester before William stopped him short.
‘You my Lord of Chester, shall have your desire and attack now, creating a diversion. Do you take your battalion around to the northern wall and see what might be achieved at the north gate. If you cannot break in, do whatever you may to draw off those within who might obstruct our path once we force this obstructed gateway…’
‘If it exists,’ Ranulph remarked sourly, glaring at Des Roches.
‘Oh, it exists, my Lord of Chester,’ Des Roches crowed, ‘and the Lady Nicola will have her men cover us, that I have already arranged.’ The man was positively preening himself.
‘Did you also ask that the Bishop’s Palace should be made ready for your arrival too?’ asked Ranulph, to which Des Roches smirked, somewhat embarrassed. ‘You did?’ sneered the Earl, ‘By the Rood, I hope your arms are as strong as your conceit!’
‘My Lords!’ William snapped. ‘We have yet a hard day’s work ahead of us. Now set aside our damnable jealousies. Salisbury, you shall hold the reserve.’ William completed his dispositions and stared about him. ‘Any questions? No? Very well, then to your posts, My Lords and Gentlemen, and may God go with you and may He crown our arms with victory and let us send the French and their English allies to Hell before the sun sets.’ The chorus of ‘Amens’ was accompanied by breast crossing as the extemporised Council of War broke-up.
*
William eased himself behind a gorse or broom-bush; he was not sure which. He realised that he was taking an unnaturally long time in his evacuation, that he was muttering to himself, and that beyond the shelter of the gorse there was the sound of singing. The army were in high spirits, imbued with the cheerfulness of crusaders yet to be mauled by the enemy. He stared at the prickly bush in which he concealed his person and remembered Henry the Young King using it, the yellow plante genet, as his mesnie’s token on one occasion at a tourney in the Vexin, but he could not recall where.
He felt queer; a sensation that was not the same as the nervous tension prior to action that he had experienced both in war and on the field of tournament. There was something wrong with him, something very wrong, that had begun with the frequent night-time pissing of which he had heard men who reached his age suffered. Now there was some malady in his bowels. He again recalled with dread the foul end of Curtmantle, a great King brought low by disease and a failing body. Was he, William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and much else besides, destined for such a filthy and disgusting demise? Still squatting over his excrement, he offered up a prayer. Better to die in battle than shitting in Isabelle’s fine Irish linen, by God!
Suddenly resolute he rose and cleaned himself as best he could, then emerged from the bushes to where his squire waited with his coat of mail, surtout helm, sword and destrier.
A short distance off John D’Earley was mounting up at the head of a cluster of knights. Dragging on his coat of mail, William watched him take the Pembroke standard from a waiting squire and heft it. By the time William’s head was clear of the surtout with its white cross, D’Earley was walking his horse towards him.
‘The Bishop of Winchester reports the way is almost clear, my Lord. In my judgement, we should advance our power before the enemy knows what we are about.’
‘Very well,’ replied William, ‘though I am sure that by now the enemy will have guessed.’
William
mounted his destrier. It seemed the great beast could already scent the coming battle, for it stirred restlessly beneath him. He settled his sword and then kicked his charger forward.
‘My Lord,’ the squire reminded him, holding it out, ‘your helm.’
‘Eh?’ William turned in his saddle. ‘Not yet. I wish to see properly. Hold my lance too…’
Then he spurred the destrier to a canter as John D’Earley, his escort and his squires, fell in behind him.
*
The convenient gorse bush had been on the north face of Lincoln Edge and as William crested the low rise he saw the whole army astir. Away to the left – east wards – Ranulph’s forces were already close to the old Roman gate in the north wall, while De Bréauté’s were massing behind Des Roches’ under the west wall, clustered around the enemy’s abandoned perrière, exchanging a hail of arrows and cross-bow quarrels with the defenders, themselves under a shower of bolts from the walls of the castle.
Longsword’s battalion was moving up and as William and his guard approached the city’s west wall a horseman was observed riding pell-mell from the north-gate.
‘My Lord!’ the man cried as he drew rein in a swirl of dust, ‘My Lord of Chester urges you to hasten! The north-gate is breached, for it had been left open for the remnants of the enemy retiring into the city and we forced it in their rear.
For a moment William considered diverting the entire attack, but as he waved Longsword forward another messenger arrived. Besides setting men to dig-out the filled-in west-gate, Falkes de Bréauté had taken half his men directly to the castle’s small postern, which, being part of the city’s western wall, opened onto the countryside. Shouting for it to be opened in the name of King Henry and the Marshal, he had stormed across the castle bailey taking with him some of Des Roches’ cross-bowmen who, with his own archers, reinforced those defenders on the ramparts of the castle facing into the city, from where they redoubled the harrying of the enemy by the defenders.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 65
