‘Even now, my Lord,’ the messenger gasped breathlessly, ‘he requests your support for the Lady Nicola refuses to open the east gate so that my Lord de Bréauté can debouch into the city!’
William looked about him. He could see the furious work being undertaken at the city’s west-gate, but his eyes were rheumy and he asked D’Earley what he made of it.
‘My judgement from here?’ D’Earley asked.
‘Aye.’
D’Earley screwed up his eyes. ‘Perhaps we are almost through, perhaps not…’
‘Christ’s blood,’ William snapped, ‘hand over my standard, ride forward and find out!’
As D’Earley galloped off, William waved his son up beside him. ‘Will, take your mesnie and go to Falkes’ support. Use my authority to compel the Lady Nicola’s men to yield and open the castle’s east gate the moment I beak through this confounded obstruction.’
Once Will had gone, William waved the remainder of the army forward. ‘Momentum,’ he muttered to himself, ‘we must maintain momentum and strike at as many points as we may.’
As he approached the city wall D’Earley rejoined him, accompanied by Peter des Roches. His eyes glittered through the slits in his helm. ‘My Lord, we have men inside, they tear down the stones and bricks from both sides…’
‘How long before we can pass a horse…?’
‘A matter of minutes!’
‘Then we advance…’
‘My Lord, have a care,’ Des Roches reached out and grabbed the bridle of William’s destrier, ‘we have yet to clear it properly, do not, I beg you attempt this thing piecemeal. Send forward scouts…’
‘God’s lance, Peter, the time for scouts is long past! John here tells me a horseman may pass and that is what we shall do,’ he added, putting spurs to the destrier and calling over his shoulder for his squire to fetch his lance and helmet. ‘Forward!’ he roared.
‘Be not hasty, my Lord!’ cried Des Roches, ‘If you are lost no matter that we gain the victory…’
But William had already couched his lance and his mesnie was on the move. D’Earley had grabbed the Pembroke banner from its temporary minder and the squire attending William was shouting, ‘My Lord! My Lord! Your helm! Your helm!’
Seeing William determined to carry the gate the instant a single horseman could get through, Des Roches stood in his stirrups and bellowed at Longsword. ‘Bring up your battalion, good my Lord!’ Thereafter he fell-in behind William as the Earl checked his headlong advance and paused to lace his helmet.
As they approached the walls they crossed the enemy’s abandoned siege lines, only to find they were not entirely empty. Passing the perrière a man emerged from beneath it. He must have been dozing, for he made directly for the assembled stone pile, as if eager to display his zeal to the approaching chivalry. Too late he realised his mistake; with a single cut of his sword, John Marshal sent the wretch’s head bouncing ahead of them like a pig’s bladder kicked by prentice boys.
By the time William and his immediate escort reached the west-gate it was almost cleared and could admit two horsemen at a time. As they rode up the men who had been labouring at this task jumped back, covered in lime dust, laughing and shouting to urge on the English chivalry as the column narrowed its front and followed William and D’Earley – who had lowered William’s standard – through the opening. Behind William, Des Roches drew rein, blessed them with the sign of the cross and ordered them to take up their arms and follow their betters into the city. Then he urged forward the men under Longsword who were coming up behind.
‘For God and the Marshal!’ he bellowed. ‘Here! God help the Marshal!’
*
By breaking into Lincoln through the north gate in the wake of the retreating besiegers, the Earl of Chester had attracted a counter-attack from the Anglo-French coming up from the lower town. But the gradient of the hill was sufficient to slow most of the enemy so that Ranulph had fought his way through the press of houses along the High Street to the point where it met the defunct Westgate Street before meeting serious resistance. And it was here that the column following William, Will Marshal, Des Roches, and William Longsword crashed into the enemy flank, beginning a furious mêlèe.
As William’s men had debouched into Westgate Street, they received covering fire from the north rampart of the castle which rose upon their right. From here, and every other suitable vantage point of the entire circumvallation of the castle, the bowmen of Falkes de Bréauté and the Lady Nicola, took a deliberate aim at the struggling destriers of the French knights and their English allies as they struggled up the High Street from the south. As the fighting increased in intensity, the bowmen slipped out of the castle and occupied the houses lining the streets, from where they did dreadful execution, especially among the vulnerable horses. When De Bréauté finally sallied from the castle, he was quickly surrounded and captured, then as quickly retaken by his own men as William made his junction with Ranulph of Chester.
Seeing the mass of enemy horsemen and foot-soldiers in front of him, William drove his destrier at them at full tilt, aware that, with Des Roches encouraging the men at the breached gate, Longsword had forced his way forward to appear by his side.
Suddenly awake to the new enemy on their flank, a group of Anglo-French knights wheeled to their left, into Westgate Street, where William and Longsword met them in the shock of battle. Both recognised the device worn by the leading knight: that of Robert de Ropelai, whom William had last seen at Runnymead. De Ropelai drove at Longsword, shivering his lance before William, standing in his stirrups and wielding his sword, dealt a passing blow at his back that tumbled Ropelai from his charger.
The fight became fierce and bloody. No quarter was being called-for, nor any given. It was war á outrance, the niceties of the tourney cast aside in the battle for England itself. Confined by the narrow streets, the clash of arms, the shouts and exhortations, the whizz and thunk of quarrel and arrow, the neighs and screams of suffering horses and the shouts and shrieks of wounded men, seemed magnified as the tight swirl of killing moved slowly south.
Having long since flung his lance aside as useless in such tight circumstances, William laid about him with a fury that courted notice. The indecision and confinement of the enemy, unable to move reinforcements through the streets and under the vigour of the Loyalist assault, began to give ground. But it was slow going and hot work. The knights’ destriers were unable to make much progress, rearing up and kicking forward with their steel-shod fore-hooves as they had been trained. William and Longsword fought side-by-side; John D’Earley, skilfully managing his charger with his knees, both advanced William’s standard and covered his master’s rear with his sword-arm as the two Earls pressed inexorably forward.
Eventually the furious mêlèe reached the west front of the cathedral where a long disused graveyard offered a space for the matter to be decided. Here, William realised, the fight began to ebb from the enemy. Those Anglo-French still coming up Lincoln’s steep hill from their main encampment in the south were breathless by the time they reached this killing ground long occupied by death, and here – at the summit of the hill, outside the cathedral - William encountered Thomas, Comte de la Perche.
With Longsword and D’Earley close, and with De la Perche surrounded, William called upon his enemy to yield, reaching out to grab De la Perche’s bridle.
‘Never!’ roaded De la Perche, causing his destrier to rear and tear the bridle from William’s grasp.
‘Yield my Lord Perche! For the Love of God, you can do no more here!’ William bellowed above the din, but again De la Perche refused.
‘God damn you, you French bastard!’ roared a knight, coming up close with a shock, sword in hand.
‘Croc!’ shouted Longsword, who recognised Reginald Croc, one of Falkes de Bréauté’s senior routiers, ‘stay your hand!’
But it was too late. With considerable skill, De Croc thrust his sword through the oiliére of the French nobleman’s helmet.
Jerking backwards, his destrier again caracoling, De la Perche struck out with his own sword, held in both hands, hammering William with three tremendous blows upon his helm before toppling backwards over the rump of his destrier into the dust.
The fight had almost deserted the enemy and William was able to have one of his mesnie dismount and loosen De la Perche’s helmet. When it was withdrawn the Count lay stone dead; Croc’s dextrously placed pointe had penetrated De la Perche’s brain.
William looked down upon the stricken Frenchman; the fact that they were distantly related did not then occur to him. That he had not been granted a death in battle and that its possible agent, De la Perche, had struck three great blows at him after being technically killed, did however.
With Longsword and William staring at the dead man, Croc sought to justify his action. ‘The order was no quarter,’ he spluttered.
‘We have the upper hand,’ riposted Longsword.
‘You might have had ransom,’ added Des Roches, riding up.
‘The day is not yet ours,’ snapped William, ending the diversion, and turning his attention back to the enemy on the lower slopes of Lincoln Hill with its narrow High Street.
While the death of De la Perche might have demoralised the French, there remained the forces of the English Barons under Quincy de Saur and Robert FitzWalter who, cast back down the hill, were reforming, urged on by the two chief rebel Barons. However, they were in a weak position as the Loyalist forces came down the hill from the cathedral, their blood up and a decisive victory in prospect.
Slowly the rebels were forced back; then their resistance crumbled. First it was the foot-soldiers who, knowing that death or maiming awaited the defeated, abandoned their superiors. Then the knights, struggling against the press, their horses shot under them by crossbow-bolts, or hamstrung by the Royalist foot-soldiers, began to fall back, some on foot, to be seized as hostages. Finally the Barons and French magnates, bereft of support, increasingly exhausted and pressed downhill by the Loyalists, caved-in.
Then, just at the point at which William lifted his sword to order a general advance, Sir Alan Basset, whom William had left to guard the baggage train, appeared in the enemy’s rear. Frustrated at being denied any part in the fight and unable to enter the city through the breached gate for the press of men still passing through, Basset had taken the initiative.
Descending the Edge and passing round the south-west corner of the city walls, Basset caught the flood of men pouring out of the southern gate, to cross the River Witham and escape southwards along Ermine Street.
The rebels emerging from the south gate found the lifting bridge an obstacle to their escape, for a wandering cow had blocked the mechanism which allowed the sponson to be raised and let barges through. Now the frightened and ensnared animal aided the Loyalists’ cause. Some of the men trapped by this hapless creature jumped into the Witham, others sought escape, east and west, over the softer ground where, only that morning, they had lain in their siege lines, their main encampment a short distance off on the other side of the river. And behind them came the pursuing Loyalists, descending the hill pell-mell, Will Marshal in the van.
The younger Marshal burst through the gate, hacking left and right, his squire behind him bearing his own standard overshooting and falling – horse and all – into the river. Here, on the banks of the River Witham, the rebellious Barons of England made their last, feeble stand, and here at last Quincy de Saur and Robert FitzWalter fell into William’s hands.
William drew rein alongside FitzWalter. ‘Your sword,’ he commanded abruptly, ‘and unhelm.’ Fitzwalter handed over his sword and removed his casque, whereupon William did the same. ‘Where is Hugh of Arras?’ he asked next, referring to the man who, under Louis’ orders had, that Lenten-tide, laid siege to Lincoln and later summoned the help of others. FitzWalter shrugged.
‘Escaped to the south, my Lord,’ someone offered, ‘with a handful of chivalry.’
Then Des Roches rode-up, his shield dented and his sword-blade bloody. ‘The day is ours, my Lord Marshal,’ he said gleefully, jostling his destrier close to William’s. Then, removing his own helmet and leaning over his saddle-bow, he lowered his voice, ‘Reginald Croc has been delivered to God’s judgement.’ William stared at Des Roches. Not for the first time the ambiguity of the man struck him. ‘He killed De la Perche treacherously…’ the Bishop explained.
‘Upon your orders?’ William asked.
‘By mine own hand,’ Des Roches replied.
‘Fine work for a Christian Bishop,’ William muttered, pulling his charger’s head away from that of the Bishop’s.
*
‘Old habits die hard, eh, John?’ William remarked with a grin, his hand about a large stoop of wine in the great hall of Lincoln Castle. John Marshal grinned back. Unlike their English allies, seeing their cause lost and no reason to fear their enemy’s vengeance, many of the French knights had surrendered in the dying moments of the battle. Seizing the opportunity thus offered, some of the Loyalist knights had taken hostages in hope of ransom, John Marshal among them. ‘What is your tally?’
‘Seven, my Lord, all bannermen.’
‘We have adequate accommodation for them, my Lord,’ offered a delighted Lady Nicola, whose welcome of William and his principal men into the castle keep had been warm.
In the coming two days it became clear that he had dealt the enemy a telling blow: over three hundred knights and numerous sergeants-at-arms had fallen into the Royalists’ hands. As for Lincoln, a heartless judgement being made by the Lord Bishop of Winchester that its citizens had given the enemy material support, the billeted army plundered the hapless townsfolk. Some terrified women and their children took to boats to escape the looting and rapine, only to drown when their over-loaded and inexpertly-handled vessels capsized.
Such local support of the rebels and, worst of all the French, was extended to the Church, whose clergy were thus excommunicated. As a consequence, Peter des Roches also led a ferocious assault on the cathedral treasury and encouraged the theft of everything ecclesiastical thereby most conveniently rendered ‘unholy’. From his successor as Precentor, he looted eleven thousand marks in ingots of pure silver. It was indeed fine work for a Christian Bishop, and such was the jubilation among the victors, that they ever afterwards recalled the event as ‘Lincoln Fair’.
But William took no part in these gross excesses. On the very evening of the battle, leaving Ranulph of Chester and William Longsword to prepare for a march on London, he and his close escort rode for Nottingham. Here William knelt before the young King who sat in state, the Papal Legate standing at his side, and laid the sword of FitzWalter at his feet.
‘God has graced your arms, Sire. Lincoln is yours,’ he said simply.
CHAPTER NINE - SANDWICH May – August 1217
William’s body ached when he woke next morning. At the age of seventy-two he had spent twenty hours in the saddle the previous day and wielded his weapons with great energy for about three, but he had no hesitation in ordering the knights of his mesnie to ready themselves to ride out that Sunday morning.
It was the eve of the Feast of Pentecost and they rode out of Nottingham to the sound of chanting, a small piquet of four knights and eight sergeants-at-arms in the van, with John D’Earley bearing the great green and gold standard with its rampant read lion riding on William’s quarter. D’Earley’s arms ached too, but his heart burst with pride for again being the bearer of the Marshal’s device. From time-to-time D’Earley regarded the man riding ahead of him for whom he felt he would lay down his life. The Marshal, as he was most popularly known, was the greatest man in the Kingdom, and it was not just John D’Earley who thought so.
D’Earley had been present the previous evening as William had presented FitzWalter’s sword to the King. He had watched the young monarch, who had all the presence of an Angevin Prince which, D’Earley privately prayed, would not turn him into a man like his father, John, or his uncle, the Lionheart
, or even his grandfather. Something better had to come out of this House of Anjou, something better for the Kingdom of England.
Without doubt, the boy possessed an innate intelligence and with it a precocity for which he was by now well-known. Nevertheless it had been rather a pathetic encounter, for nothing was yet certain in the future of Henry III. He might have been anointed King of England, but England was a divided realm and the lad’s question to his Guardian expressed much of his personal anxiety.
Having bent to touch FitzWalter’s sword as a gesture of acceptance, he had naively asked William, ‘Have you secured me my Kingdom, my Lord Marshal?’
And Willian had responded, ‘Not yet, Your Grace, though our work at Lincoln has dealt with a goodish part of your enemies. There yet remain those under the Dauphin in the south.’
‘And how, my Lord, shall you deal with them? Pray tell me, for I am eager to understand the waging of war.’
‘I pray, my Liege,’ William had responded, ‘that you never have to face a rebellion once this is over, but first I must let the dogs have their bones.’
‘By which you mean..?’
‘It is necessary, my Liege, to bind men to your cause by more than oaths of fealty. Few men risk their lives willingly for such notions, and honour and chivalry can be as shifting as sand. A great number of the enemy were taken at Lincoln…’
‘You mean the rebel Barons?’ the King had queried.
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