“Sire, Issoudun Castle is under siege by the French king. They swooped down upon us without warning and took control of the town. The castle has not fallen, though, at least not yet. My lord Guilhem bade me tell you that they refused Philippe’s demands for surrender and will try to hold out until you can come to their aid.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NOVEMBER 1195
Issoudun Castle
Richard’s father had been famed for the speed of his campaigns; the French king was once heard to grumble that it was almost as if Henry could fly, so swiftly did he travel the length and breadth of his far-flung empire. Henry would have been proud of Richard’s lightning dash to Issoudun, for each day he’d covered a distance that would normally have taken three days to do. He and his small band of handpicked knights arrived on an icy November night, the sky swathed in storm clouds, a gusting wind making it likely that the French sentries were more interested in sheltering from the cold than in keeping vigil. At least that was what Richard and his men hoped.
They’d gathered in a wooded copse overlooking the French siege camp. Dawn was still hours away and blackness shrouded the countryside, but they could make out the blurred outlines of the town walls and the towering castle keep. Philippe did not operate his siege engines in continual shifts as Richard liked to do, and he’d halted the bombardment at dark. Fires burned in the camp, but there was no sign of movement, the tents tightly staked against the wind. The scene looked deceptively peaceful, for the damage done by trebuchets and mangonels was cloaked by the night. Within the town they knew what they’d find: bodies piled like firewood until they could be buried, looted shops, houses commandeered by Philippe’s knights. Some of the citizens would have fled to the castle, others to the adjacent Benedictine abbey of Notre-Dame, but many might have stayed, for Issoudun had been under French control until Richard had captured it in July. If they did, they likely regretted it, for soldiers saw plunder as their right, and they rarely drew fine distinctions when the opportunity presented itself. Whatever its loyalties, Issoudun would have suffered the fate of any town taken by storm. But the suffering of its people was hidden behind its stone walls, not particularly redoubtable, yet still a challenge to the men discussing its defenses in this quiet forest grove.
“This will not be easy,” Richard admitted. “The castle and the abbey of Notre-Dame and several churches are separated from the town by formidable walls. Its main gate leads into the town, but it has a second gate in its south wall. We are not going to be able to get in that way, for the River Theols flows around the town to the west and the south. Moreover, even Philippe would know enough to have that gate well guarded. So our only chance to reach the castle will be by getting into the town first, and it is walled, too, although they are not as high as the castle fortifications.”
There was a silence as they considered that, for they had no siege engines, nor the numbers to confront the French army in the open. “Well,” André said, “I assume you do not mean for us to fly over the walls. So how do you intend to accomplish this feat?”
“Remember how we took Messina.” It was not a question, for most of the men with him now had also been with him when he’d forced his way into the Sicilian city through a poorly guarded postern gate. “There is a postern gate at Issoudun, too, in the south wall, and it is not protected by the river, which curves away from the town by then. I noticed it when Mercadier and I took Issoudun, although we had no need to make use of it. I’d wager that Philippe did not bother to do an inspection of the walls; what he knows about conducting war could fill an acorn shell. The town is asleep and Philippe’s guards probably are, too. If we could open that gate, we’d be in the city ere the French even knew what was happening.”
It was too dark to see their faces clearly, but he heard their murmurs of approval. Stealth was their only weapon—that and the French king’s carelessness. “We are agreed, then,” he said. “One of us will use the hemp ladder to scale the wall, then make his way to the postern gate and open it for the rest.”
“Not you, though!” This was said by André, Morgan, and Guillain in such perfect unison that it could have been rehearsed, and the other knights laughed.
“I did not say I’d be the one to do it,” Richard protested, but the corner of his mouth was twitching and after a moment, he conceded, “Well, the idea may have crossed my mind.”
That came as no surprise to any of them; these men knew Richard as well as anyone on God’s earth. “I ought to be the one,” André insisted, pointing out that he was familiar with Issoudun, for his castle at Châteauroux was less than twenty miles away. But after some bickering, they settled upon Guillain; he also knew the town well, and for a big man, he could move as quietly as any cat.
The French had taken Issoudun so quickly that they’d had no need to encircle it, and now that they had the castle garrison penned up within the town walls, they relied upon the River Theols and sentries to guard the stronghold’s second gate. Their camp was spread out to the north so they could aim their siege engines at the castle’s main gate. Richard and his knights gave it a wide detour, also making sure to avoid the suburbs outside the town walls, for an alert watchdog could easily doom their mission. They took shelter in woods that gave them a view of the postern gate, watching tensely as Guillain cautiously made his way across the open fields. Denied moonlight, he had to navigate by the sound of the river to his left and by the spire rising above the town walls, for the hospital, Hôtel-Dieu, was close by the postern gate.
He was soon swallowed up in darkness, but each man could follow him in his mind’s eye, knowing he meant to fling a hemp rope ladder fitted with grappling hooks toward the top of the wall embrasure. The wall was not so high that it could not be done, but it might take several attempts for the hooks to catch, with Guillain sweating it out as he waited to see if any curious faces would appear over the battlements, drawn by the scraping of iron on stone, a sound that would be echoing in his ears louder than thunder. No one asked what they’d do if he failed. They had no backup plan, but they were confident that Richard would come up with one if need be; he always did.
After what seemed an eternity to the waiting men, they saw the postern gate crack open, the agreed-upon signal. Richard glanced around at the others and grinned. “Those French whoresons are snug in their beds. Let’s wake them up.” And with that, they spurred their horses toward the postern gate as it was flung open wide.
As they plunged through the gate, Guillain ran toward Morgan, who was leading his stallion, and hastily swung up into the saddle. Richard and André knew their way through the maze of narrow, twisting streets, so their men let them lead the way as they galloped by the Hôtel-Dieu, using the spire of St Cyr’s church as a landmark. By now sleepy guards were appearing on the wall battlements, drawn by the clamor. The door of a nearby house opened and a man stumbled out, holding a lantern aloft. André reached down and snatched the lantern, flinging it onto a roof and setting the thatch alight. As Richard urged his stallion past St Cyr’s, a man came at him from his left and he wielded his shield like a weapon, knocking the soldier off his feet. Another man bravely but rashly tried to grab Fauvel’s reins, screaming and falling back when the destrier savaged him. Dogs had begun to bark and shutters were being thrown open. There were cries of “Fire,” one of the great dangers of town life, and they could hear muffled shouts from the siege camp as the French army was awakened by the commotion. Soldiers rudely torn from sleep were bolting from houses, half armed and confused, not sure what was happening. But most of them hastily retreated, for they were at a distinct disadvantage against men on horseback. Some of the guards on the walls had begun to fire crossbows, but it was still too dark to aim properly and a moving target was hard to hit. All around them was chaos, and Richard and his men gloried in it.
Shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House, they raced through the small cemetery. Not much blood had been spilled so far and none of Richard’s men had been hurt, bu
t that could change in a hurry if the castle garrison did not admit them. They could see sudden activity on the castle battlements, and from the cheering, it was clear that the garrison realized these new arrivals were on their side. Ahead lay the gatehouse that connected the castle to the town, and to their relief, they saw the gates were already open, the portcullis being winched up. Richard had scored his first great military triumph at twenty-one by forcing his way into Taillebourg with the retreating castle garrison, but now there were no French close enough to try the same trick, and as soon as they were safely inside, the gates were slammed shut and barred again.
The street was thronged with soldiers, monks from the abbey, and townspeople who’d taken refuge in the castle precincts. A priest from St Étienne’s ran alongside them, offering breathless blessings as they rode into the castle’s outer bailey. Once they dismounted, they were engulfed by laughing men. Guilhem and Jean de Préaux were pushing their way toward them. “I was in the neighborhood,” Richard said, “so we thought we’d stop by to see how you were doing.” That evoked more laughter, and for a time, the scene in the castle bailey was as chaotic as it had been in the streets of the town—except that this was an uproarious celebration of deliverance, so sure were the garrison that they’d been saved by the king’s arrival.
The jubilation was not universal, though. Jean de Préaux’s squire was watching the excitement with a frown, for Alard did not understand why they were rejoicing. All the English king had done was to put himself at peril, too, and he did not see how that benefited the garrison. Most likely they were in even greater danger. He could not see Richard surrendering and if the castle was taken by storm, Philippe would have the right to hang them all. Vexed and baffled that the king was being acclaimed for joining them in the trap, he finally said querulously, “But will our king’s presence not encourage the French king to even greater efforts now?”
“Alard!” Jean said sharply, not liking the youth’s tone in the least. “Mind your mouth!”
Richard was untroubled by the question. Smiling at the discomfited youngster, he said, “That is exactly what I am counting upon, lad.”
PHILIPPE WAS A LIGHT sleeper and he’d been awakened by the noise even before one of his knights hastened into his command tent with word that a fire had broken out in the town. Ordering his squire to fetch his clothes, he dressed quickly, for if the fire got out of control, it could imperil his siege of the castle. When a soldier came running to tell him armed riders were in the town, he was angered that the garrison would dare a sortie like that and he vowed they’d pay a high price for their defiance. But his main concern was in putting out the fire, and he sent men-at-arms to fight the blaze, telling them to tear down adjoining houses to create a fire break. By now faint glimmers of light were visible along the horizon, and he broke his fast with wine and cheese. It was then that his day took an even more troubling turn, for several men entered the tent with an unlikely story, claiming that those armed riders had gotten in through a postern gate and fought their way into the castle.
Philippe was skeptical, not wanting to believe his sentries had been so lax. What followed was even more improbable. One of his household knights plunged into the tent, insisting that the invaders had been led by the English king.
“That is nonsense. Richard could not possibly have gotten to Issoudun so quickly; my spies say he is two hundred miles away in Normandy. Nor would he have forced his way into the castle. Even Richard would not be that mad. Go find out if the fire still burns and do not bring me back ridiculous rumors like this, Ivo.”
To Philippe’s surprise, Ivo held his ground. “My liege, I have seen the English king often enough to know him on sight. I tell you I saw him in the town, astride that dun stallion of his, and he is now in the castle.”
Philippe still did not believe him, but the knight had served him loyally in the past, and so he summoned up enough patience to say, “I do not doubt that you think you saw him, Ivo. But it was dark, and I am sure there was great confusion—”
“Sire!” This shout came from outside the tent. Putting aside the rest of his breakfast, Philippe buckled his scabbard and ducked under the tent flap. A crowd had gathered outside, and as soon as he emerged, they began to point toward the town. Philippe was relieved not to see flames shooting up into the sky. But then he saw what they were trying to call to his attention—the banner flying above the castle keep: three gold lions on a field of scarlet.
Philippe rarely cursed; the most he allowed himself was an occasional “By St James’s lance!” Now, though, he blurted out a shocked “Jesus wept!” Staring up at that familiar banner in disbelief, he said, “You were right, Ivo. That lunatic has trapped himself!”
His men were laughing and slapping one another on the back, unable to credit their good luck, for they felt sure their king would reward them handsomely for the capture of his greatest enemy. Philippe had yet to take his eyes from the castle. He’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday that August, but most people felt he looked older than his years, for his somber demeanor aged him, as did his premature baldness. Now, though, he was smiling, a smile so triumphant that he briefly seemed like the carefree youth he’d never been.
“I always knew Richard’s arrogance would be his undoing,” he told his soldiers. “God is indeed good, for He has delivered the English king into my hands.”
RICHARD PASSED THE NEXT FEW DAYS inspecting the castle defenses. He showed the Préaux brothers that by shortening the sling of their trebuchet, they’d increase the trajectory of the stone’s flight, allowing it to cover more distance and do more damage. He prowled around the storerooms, making sure they still had plentiful rations even though he did not expect to need them. He visited the wounded soldiers, joked with the men on guard duty, joined his knights in taunting the French, and took his turn shooting his crossbow from the castle walls; many of high birth scorned crossbows as weapons fit only for routiers, but Richard was hands-on in all that he did and he was almost as lethal with a crossbow as he was with a sword.
He was up on the battlements on the first Sunday of Advent, amusing himself by exchanging insults with some of the French knights below, wanting to know why the French king had not yet come calling. They responded with a bombardment of stones that rained down into the bailey but did little damage. When the besieged men mocked their aim, one of Philippe’s routiers sent a crossbow bolt streaking through the air toward the English king. It missed Richard by half a foot and he jeered, asking if that had been fired by a blind man, but his knights thought it had come too close for comfort and Morgan and Guillain lured him off the wall by saying André needed to talk to him.
Richard reluctantly left the battlements for the less interesting environs of the great hall. André was sharpening his sword on a whetstone, looking up in surprise as Richard joined him in the window-seat. “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing toward a bowl of roasted chestnuts. “When do you think the French will realize that you seem in suspiciously high spirits for a doomed man?”
“When it is too late.” Richard reached for a chestnut, peeled back the skin, and popped it into his mouth. “I’m going to hold my Christmas Court at Poitiers. You and Denise will be there, of course?”
“Denise will make me come,” André said, with a mock sigh. “We’ll bring my eldest lad. He’s five now, old enough to—”
He stopped abruptly. Richard’s head came up, too, for he’d also heard the shouting. A moment later, Morgan appeared and hurried across the hall toward them, saying that the French camp looked like a beehive that had been knocked over, with soldiers swarming in all directions.
“I daresay they’ve just found out that Mercadier is about to pay them a visit.” Richard leaned back in the window-seat and began to laugh. “Poor Philippe . . . so sure he was the cat and now it turns out that he was the mouse all along.”
THE FRENCH FOUND THEMSELVES trapped between Richard and Mercadier, outnumbered and outwitted. This time there would be no hasty retrea
t, for there was nowhere to run. They were faced with only two choices, both of them equally toxic to the French king—fight a battle they were sure to lose or ask for terms. Philippe had always been a realist and he was not about to sacrifice his life to save his pride. He asked for terms.
ON DECEMBER 5, the English and French kings met alone near the bank of the River Theols, within view of the two armies. It was the first time they’d seen each other since Philippe had abandoned the crusade four years ago, and Richard felt anger stirring as he looked upon the younger man, thinking of all Philippe had done to keep him from regaining his freedom. He curbed his temper, though, for this was neither the time nor the place to indulge it.
“As I see it,” he said coolly, “there are two roads we can take. This skirmishing can continue and I can keep on inflicting humiliating defeats on you. But as much as I enjoy doing it, I think we’d both be better served by making peace.”
Philippe’s mouth twisted. “Peace on your terms!”
“Yes. The victor gets to dictate terms to the loser.”
The taste in Philippe’s mouth was as bitter as bile. “What are the terms?” They were as onerous as he’d expected, reflecting the military reality of their respective positions, and far more favorable to Richard than the treaty they’d signed that past year. Richard would regain all he’d lost in Normandy except the Norman Vexin, which he would agree to cede to Philippe. He demanded that Philippe cede the rights to six strategic castles in Berry, including Issoudun, and formally recognize that the counts of Angoulême and Perigueux and the Viscount of Brosse owed homage to him as Duke of Aquitaine. Philippe was to renounce any claims to the counties of Eu and Aumale, Évreux, the castles of Arques and Driencourt, and all of the other conquests he’d made northeast of the River Seine. Richard in turn would quitclaim to Philippe six important border castles, and he would agree to quitclaim Auvergne to the French king.
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