A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Once relative calm had been restored, Richard wanted to know all they could tell him about the castle. What he heard was not encouraging. Perched on a steep sandstone cliff a hundred feet above the River Leen, it had three separate baileys, separated by deep, dry moats; the outer bailey was enclosed by a timber palisade, but the middle and inner baileys were protected by stone walls and the square tower keep was on a rocky motte fifteen feet higher than its bailey. Continuing the bad news, David, the Earl of Huntingdon, told him that the castle was strongly garrisoned and Randolph, Earl of Chester, reported that it was said to be provisioned for a lengthy siege, making it unlikely the garrison could be starved into surrendering. But Richard had no interest in that approach, for the more time he spent in England dealing with John’s rebellion, the more time it gave Philippe to seize Norman towns and castles.

  “Show me,” he said, and they led him out to see the stronghold’s defenses for himself. The siege camp was a large one, occupying the deer park to the west, the open field and hill to the north, and the streets closest to the castle gatehouse that faced the town. The people unlucky enough to live in this exposed area had fled to safer neighborhoods in the two boroughs of the city, their houses appropriated by the earls for lodgings and command headquarters. Richard studied the castle with a frown, for he saw at once what a challenge it posed. He felt anger stirring when the Earl of Chester said the garrison remained defiant, refusing to believe the king had truly returned.

  “They will not be doubting for long,” he vowed and pointed to the house closest to the castle. “I’ll set up my quarters there.”

  André grinned, remembering Richard’s first great military triumph, when at age twenty-one, he’d taken Taillebourg, a castle said to be utterly impregnable, pitching his tents so provocatively close to the town walls that the garrison could not resist the temptation and sallied forth for a surprise attack upon the young Angevin duke. Only it had not been a surprise, for Richard had been expecting it, and when they tried to retreat back into the town, Richard and his men forced their way in with them and soon had the victory. The garrison at Nottingham would not be so foolish, but André felt sure many of them would be unnerved to see the Lionheart’s banner flying so close to their walls.

  They’d been joined by Richard’s uncle, Hamelin, the Earl of Surrey, who’d returned from escorting Eleanor to the Holy Trinity priory in Lenton, a mile to the south. But as he started to assure Richard that she’d been given a warm welcome by the prior, crossbowmen up on the castle walls began to shoot down into the camp and several soldiers were struck, one of them collapsing almost at Richard’s feet, a bolt driven through his eye into his brain. Looking from the dead man to the cocky defenders, cheering their success, Richard’s eyes darkened to slate, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword.

  “We attack now,” he said. “Arm yourselves.”

  THE EARLS HAD ALREADY filled the outer moat in preparation for an assault, although they’d not yet launched one. Since the first ring of defenses was timber, Richard called for a battering ram, his crossbowmen giving such effective cover that the defenders on the wall were unable to offer real resistance. When the wood splintered under the impact, Richard was one of the first to clamber through the shattered gate into the outer bailey, with his knights right behind him, shouting the battle cry of the English royal House, “Dex Aie!”

  Men up on the middle bailey walls began to shoot at the invaders, but they were carrying large shields that deflected most of the bolts and at first they advanced almost unopposed. When the besieged realized they were in danger of losing the outer bailey, they hastily organized a sortie and came running through the barbican to confront the attackers.

  Richard maimed the first man to challenge him, the downward sweep of his blade taking his foe’s arm off at the elbow. Since regaining his freedom, he’d occasionally worried that his skills might have become rusty from all that time in captivity, but he found now that his body and brain still functioned in lethal harmony, his instincts and reflexes as sharp as ever. Feeling like an exile who’d finally come home, he wielded his sword with such ferocity that he left a trail of bodies in his wake and his men were hard-pressed to stay at his side.

  Hand-to-hand fighting was always bloody and it was particularly vicious as Richard and his men cut and slashed and pounded their way toward the barbican, his soldiers inspired by his example and the rebels showing the desperate courage of the cornered. Their crossbowmen could no longer shoot down into the mêlée, unable to distinguish the enemy from their own, and that freed Richard’s arbalesters to launch their own offensive. Whenever a man dared to pop up in an embrasure to aim at the attackers, he was targeted with such deadly accuracy that they soon cleared the walls. Those watching from the windows of the tower keep realized with horror that the castle’s fate hung in the balance.

  What saved them was the coming of dark. The tide of battle had turned in the favor of the attackers, and the defenders were being inexorably forced back toward the barbican. Some men bravely held their ground to allow the others to retreat into the middle bailey, but that meant the fleeing soldiers could not raise the barbican drawbridge without trapping their comrades, and the fiercest combat of the day happened in the constricted space of the barbican. By the time the king’s men had secured it, the sun had set and dusk was chasing away the last of the light.

  The bailey was strewn with the wounded and the dead. Once they’d tended to the injured, retrieved the bodies, and put their prisoners under guard, it was full dark. They were exhausted, bloodied, and jubilant, theirs the intoxicating survivor’s joy of men who’d triumphed over their enemies and over Death. They knew the worst still lay ahead, for even though they now controlled the outer bailey, the rebels were ensconced on high ground behind sturdy stone walls. But for tonight, they wanted only to savor the day’s victory, none more than Richard.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Richard held a council of war and told them that he wanted to build mangonels and petraries, saying they’d not launch any more attacks upon the castle until the siege engines were completed and positioned. That was met with unanimous agreement, for none of them were eager to assault those formidable stone walls, and the Earl of Chester volunteered to send men out to a local quarry to search for suitable stones.

  “Good. We’ll be throwing more than stones, though. How would you all like to see a demonstration of Greek fire?”

  That simple sentence created a sensation. All of them knew of Greek fire, of course. The stories told of this eastern incendiary weapon had become the stuff of legend in the west. It was said that it could be extinguished only by sand or urine, that it burned on water, that its use was accompanied by thunder and black smoke. But aside from André and Will Marshal, none of the men had been to the Holy Land, so they’d never seen it for themselves. They bombarded Richard with questions, wanting to know what it was composed of, how long it would burn, how it was delivered, if it had ever been used in Christendom ere this.

  Richard abandoned his feigned nonchalance and smiled, pleased by their excited reaction. “The Greeks have always kept its elements secret, but the Saracens use a variation that works just as well. They make it from pine resin, naphtha, and sulphur. Once we have the mangonels built, we’ll mix it up and pour it into jars. We can also wrap caltrops in tow and soak them in it. And yes, we’ll be the first to use it in England, although I was told my grandfather used it during one of his sieges in Anjou.”

  The Greek fire dominated the conversation after that. When André described it as looking like a fiery whirlwind, they were even more eager to see it in action. Richard’s uncle Hamelin suggested they stop wasting time and find carpenters in the town so they could start building the mangonels straightaway, and they were impressed when Richard said that was not necessary, for he’d brought carpenters with him.

  “There is something else I want them to build,” Richard said once they fell silent. “A gallows.” They exchanged glances and nodded approving
ly, for that would be a useful lesson for the castle defenders, reminding them what befell the garrison when a castle refused to surrender and was taken by storm.

  A GALLOWS WAS ERECTED on the hill north of the castle, and several of the sergeants taken prisoner the day before were hanged, as the garrison watched their death throes from the battlements. It had the desired result, and the trapped men began to argue among themselves, many of them losing heart for continued resistance.

  ELEANOR HAD BEEN EXPOSED to more bloodshed and violence than most women of her rank. She had accompanied her first husband on his disastrous crusade, had seen men die of cold and hunger, had heard the anguished moans of soldiers with wounds only God could heal. Her own life had been put at risk in wild storms at sea and she’d almost fallen into the hands of pirates in the pay of the Greek emperor. While wed to Henry, she’d been ambushed by their rebellious de Lusignan vassals, saved from capture only by the heroic sacrifice of the Earl of Salisbury and his young nephew Will Marshal, whose career of royal service had begun on that spring afternoon more than twenty-five years ago. But none of her past experience made it any easier for her as she awaited word from the siege of Nottingham.

  The priory at Lenton was so close to the castle that its walls were visible in the distance. As the fighting raged, she’d stalked the confines of the guest chamber, unable to think of anything but that ongoing assault. She considered having Prior Alexander escort her into the town so she could watch the attack from the bell tower at St Mary’s Church, but soon realized that would be madness. She made do by sending her household knights back and forth to the siege camp for news, not drawing an easy breath until they told her that her son now held the outer bailey and the assault had ended when darkness fell.

  She was very pleased the next evening when Richard and André stopped by for a brief visit. Not surprisingly, they made light of the castle attack, spent more time grumbling about the squabble between the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York, Richard’s half brother Geoff. Hubert Walter had arrived that afternoon, having his archiepiscopal cross carried before him, and Geoff had taken offense at that, for Nottingham was in the province of York. When he protested, Hubert had replied that Canterbury had primacy over York and Geoff’s always volatile temper had erupted like the Greek fire they hoped to use against the rebel garrison.

  “I had to command Geoff to let it be,” Richard said, shaking his head in remembered frustration. “How could my father not see how ill-suited Geoff was for a vocation in the Church? God’s legs, even I would make a better archbishop than Geoff!”

  “He is not one to turn the other cheek,” Eleanor agreed wryly. “But then, neither was Thomas Becket.”

  André grinned. “I doubt that even a martyr’s death could secure a sainthood for Geoff.”

  “If he keeps acting like such an overweening arse, he might well get a martyr’s death,” Richard prophesied gloomily. “We are going to have to allot an entire day of the council to hear complaints against him. His monks loathe him almost as much as the monks of Coventry loathe that bastard Hugh de Nonant.”

  Richard had told Eleanor that he meant to hold a great council once he’d taken Nottingham Castle, and this gave her the opening she needed. “Richard, we are going to have to decide what to do with John.”

  “How about a stint as a galley slave?”

  “He deserves no mercy,” she conceded, earning herself a sardonic half smile.

  “But you want me to extend it to him nonetheless.”

  She nodded and he said noncommittally, “I’ll think about it, Maman.”

  If it had been up to André, John would have suffered the same fate as the sergeants dangling from the Nottingham gallows. But he realized now that John might well escape the punishment he so richly deserved, and that did not sit well with him. On the short ride back to the siege camp, he asked Richard if he would truly consider pardoning John, and when he got a shrug in response, he could not help exclaiming, “Christ Almighty, why?”

  Richard was silent for a time, keeping his eyes on the road. “If my mother asks it of me, it would be hard to say no.”

  “Why would she want John’s betrayal to be forgotten?”

  “Forgiven,” Richard corrected, “not forgotten. He is still her son, André, and the same blood runs in his veins and mine. However little I may like it, it cannot be ignored.”

  André tactfully let the matter drop. He still did not agree, but then he did not have to think dynastically, and for that, he was grateful. Upon their return to Nottingham, he looked toward the gallows and the bodies twisting slowly in the wind, a sight not even moonlight could soften, and it occurred to him that John had a history of letting other men pay his debts.

  THE THIRD DAY OF the siege began well for the besiegers, with the arrival of the Bishop of Durham, bearing the good news that the garrison of Tickhill had surrendered upon hearing that the king had returned. The mangonels were ready by noon and they were soon bombarding the castle, sending up clouds of dust and rubble whenever they made a direct hit. As he’d done at Acre, Richard established eight-hour shifts so the siege engines would be operating day and night, giving the besieged no surcease. Word had already spread through the camp about the Greek fire and Richard’s men were keenly disappointed when he said they would not use it just yet. They found some consolation in watching the rocks rain down upon the castle, though, and amused themselves by shouting jeers and insults at the men enduring the onslaught.

  Richard was having dinner with the earls and prelates, keeping a hawk’s eye upon Geoff and Longchamp, both of whom detested the Bishop of Durham, a wolf in sheep’s garb, for his ambitions were very much of this world. He was holding forth at length about the successful conclusion of the Tickhill siege, but Richard was willing to indulge him—at least for a while. Servants had just begun to ladle out their Lenten fish stew when one of Randolph of Chester’s knights entered with word that William de Wendeval was asking for a safe conduct for two of the garrison to enter the camp and see for themselves if the king had truly returned.

  It was not long afterward when two obviously nervous men were ushered into the command headquarters. “I am Sir Fouchier de Grendon,” one said hoarsely, “and this is Henry Russell. We’ve come to see the king.”

  Richard rose to his feet, moving into the light. “Well? What do you think?”

  There was no need for them to reply, for they were already on their knees, so stupefied that the watching men burst out laughing. Richard waved them to their feet and cut off their incoherent stammering by raising his hand. “Go back to the castle,” he said, “and tell them that time is running out. I will show mercy to those who yield now, but those who continue to hold out will suffer the fate that all traitors and rebels deserve.”

  Several hours later, Richard accepted the surrender of William de Wendeval and thirteen of his knights. The rest of the garrison were not yet ready to yield, but after another night of heavy bombardment by Richard’s mangonels, they accepted an offer by the Archbishop of Canterbury to discuss terms, and upon being assured that their lives would be spared, they, too, agreed to place themselves at the king’s mercy. The three-day siege of Nottingham was over and, with it, John’s rebellion.

  ANDRÉ FOUND THE SURRENDER of the last die-hard defenders very entertaining. “What will you do with them?” he asked. “If you hanged a few, that might cheer up all the men so let down at not seeing the castle turned into a Greek-fire inferno.”

  “Actually, I’m glad that I did not have to use it, for Nottingham is a royal castle and I’d have to pay the cost of rebuilding it. We’ll demand ransoms from their leaders and impose fines on the others.”

  “Well, if you insist upon being practical about it.” André unhooked a wineskin from his belt and raised it in a salute to the red-and-gold banner now flying over the castle. “Not a bad beginning, my lord king, not bad at all.”

  Richard followed his gesture, his eyes lingering on that royal lion flutt
ering in the wind. “I agree,” he said. “It is just a beginning, though, and we cannot forget that.” Then he smiled. “But the worst is over now, and I thank God for that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MARCH 1194

  Nottingham Castle, England

  Richard’s lashes flickered as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was frigid, dark, and windowless, lit only by a small oil lamp. His head was throbbing and he tasted blood in his mouth. He had another merciful moment of hazy confusion, and then he remembered. This was an underground dungeon in the Louvre, the French king’s Paris stronghold.

  He’d fought them, to no avail, for he was greatly outnumbered. Pinning him down, they had fastened heavy shackles on his ankles and manacled his wrists, tethering the chains to a wall hook. Even then, he’d continued to resist until his head had slammed into the rough concrete floor. As the memories of that chaotic, frantic struggle came flooding back, he attempted to sit up, but his head was spinning again. He was finding it difficult to get enough air into his lungs and he was sickened by the stench. God alone knew how many prisoners had been entombed here, the confined space stinking of urine, feces, sweat, and fear. As the full horror of his new reality sank in, he tried to stave off panic, but he felt as if the walls were closing in on him.

  It was then that he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, and the darkness was pierced by a dazzling blaze of torchlight. Just as it had happened at Trifels, the Bishop of Beauvais was standing there, laughing down at him. But this time there was no hope of reprieve, no ransom to be paid.

  “I wanted to reassure you that Philippe will not be putting you to death, Richard. Oh, he thought about it. But I convinced him this way was better. Whenever he has a bad day, he need only remind himself that you’re having a far worse one.” The bishop grinned. “I think he liked that idea. Whenever I’m in Paris, I certainly intend to stop by to see how you’re doing.”