A King's Ransom (69 page)

T
HE 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 approvingly, 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.

E
LEANOR 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.

T
HE 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.

A
NDRÉ 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.”