The Iron Castle (Outlaw Chronicles) (14 page)

‘Ah, my dear Geoffrey, and Hugh, you are both quite well, I trust?’ said the King as though greeting favoured relatives, rather than the captive heads of a treacherous enemy family. The surprised Lusignans admitted to being in reasonable health considering the circumstances and enquired civilly after the King’s wellbeing.

‘I have glad news for the House of Lusignan,’ said the King. ‘I have magnanimously decided to restore you to my good graces. You shall swear an oath of allegiance to me, and there are some minor legal matters that we must agree upon – my clerks will sort that out – but you shall be restored to your lands within the month. What do you say to that?’

I noticed that Arthur, who was standing beside me, was smiling with joy. The King ignored both of us, and congratulated the Lusignans fulsomely on their soon-to-be-achieved liberty. Duke Arthur took a step forward: ‘My lord, might I make so bold as to enquire if, in your gracious magnanimity—’

‘You, traitor, shall be silent!’ In an instant the King lost all his oily bonhomie. His face was a livid mask of rage, his voice a harsh snarl. It was an extraordinary transformation – from sunshine to storm in the blink of an eye.

‘And you, Locksley’s lackey, Dane, Dale, whatever your name is, you dare to bring this vile wretch before me? Get him to the dungeon. Get gone, this instant!’

I saw Robin pushing through the crowd, with Vim at his back and a couple of Wolves. Two mercenaries took Arthur’s skinny arms and led him to the stairs. He looked back at me, despair in his eyes, and all I could do was shrug helplessly. Robin put an arm around my shoulder and led me from the King towards the side of the room. Behind me I could hear John commiserating with the Lusignans about the poor quality of their attire and promising to make them a gift of velvets and silks and the finest gold thread.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked Robin. ‘Why are the Lusignans being treated like prodigal sons, while Arthur is slung back in the dungeon?’

‘Carrot and stick. He’s trying to buy peace in the south,’ said Robin tersely.

‘What?’

‘He’s releasing the Lusignans – the carrot – to show he can be merciful, if he chooses. He’s treating Arthur harshly – the stick – to show he is not weak.’

‘That is idiotic. By releasing the Lusignans he will just make the southern rebels stronger.’

‘I know, Alan, I know. I have tried to reason with him time and again but he won’t listen on this matter. Someone got to him – I don’t know who, some agent of King Philip or a Lusignan-paid spy most probably – and whispered into his ear that freeing the Lusignans would show the world what a noble fellow he is, a generous lord, a magnanimous king, all that. He swallowed the idea whole. He wants to be loved, did you know that? Underneath all his cruelty, his disloyalty, his treachery and suspicion, our royal mountebank wants his barons to adore him for the kindly man he thinks he is.’

‘And do they?’

‘Of course not. They don’t trust him. Half are already in secret talks with Philip and the other half are thinking about it. It’s a snake pit here, Alan. A nest of damn vipers. Almost every week, Philip takes another castle on the eastern march, often surrendered without even a token fight. John’s holding on to Normandy by the skin of his teeth.’

I digested that for a few moments.

‘And what am I doing here?’ I asked.

Robin looked into my eyes. ‘I want someone beside me I can trust. With Little John on his death … in his sick bed, I need you. I can’t do it all on my own any more. The more his barons edge towards Philip, the more responsibility the King gives to me and the other mercenary captains. Truly, we are the ones holding Normandy for him. We’re the only ones he trusts.’

‘And my duties are?’

‘You are going to be training up a new batch of recruits for the Wolves.’

I said nothing.

‘Don’t look so glum, Alan. In a way, the worse it gets for the King, the better it is for us. More responsibility means more power. And more money. Anyway, let’s get something to eat at home with Marie-Anne and the boys and I’ll tell you all about it.’

I set to my new duties with as much determination as I could muster. I handed over my own little band of Wolves to Vim, saying farewell to Claes, Christophe and Little Niels and the others with some regret, for we had grown close in our time together, and in return I was given a company of two hundred new recruits.

Like my Falaise Wolves, they were from Flanders, Brabant and Hainault, the flat lands to the north-east, peasants mostly, some of whom had never held a sword before. And after some months of relative inactivity, I found I was as busy as I had ever been in my life. I had to feed, clothe and arm the men, and I lodged them in hastily built barracks to the west of the city walls on the banks of the Seine. I divided the company into ten squads of twenty men, each under a vintenar – usually a man who had some little experience of warfare, sometimes a seasoned campaigner, although there were few of those. King John was prepared to spend lavishly on their armament and so each man received a new sword, a dagger, a spear and a kite-shaped shield, as well as a short-sleeved hauberk of iron mail that covered them from elbow to knees, and a round steel cap with a nose guard. As the saying goes, blacksmiths never go hungry in time of war, and we had the smiths and armourers of Rouen working night and day to outfit this new host. Each man also received: two linen chemises, two pairs of braies to cover their loins, two pairs of green woollen hose, a green woollen tunic, a sleeveless padded gambeson to wear under mail, or instead of it, and a new green woollen cloak. The drapers, dyers and tailors of Rouen were busy, too, that spring.

We trained each morning, beginning at dawn, and I was alarmed to see on the first morning just how inept the men were with arms. After choosing the vintenars, and setting them at their heads of their squads, I began at the very beginning with the basic sword and shield manoeuvres: one, block and two, cut, and three, step forward, and four, lunge, and so on – and I had each squad of men-at-arms repeating these moves and chanting the numbers out loud. It was how I first learned to fight, long ago, in a remote manor deep in Sherwood. I thought it ridiculous then, but now I knew the benefit of learning by rote. The parries and strikes of the sword become second nature to a man after repeating them many thousands of times, and in the chaos of battle, his life could be saved by instinct. When the men had mastered the basic moves, we moved on to the six lateral strikes of the sword – neck, waist and knee, from left and from right, and the six blocks that countered them. I taught them several easy set manoeuvres, sword and dagger combinations that would become instinct after many hours of practice. For example, a forehand slash with the sword in the right hand to distract the opponent, step in and thrust with the dagger in the left, aiming to catch the enemy under the ribs, then step back out of range. A simple killing manoeuvre, but it needs to be done very swiftly, and with perfect timing. One-two, three-four. Sword-slash, step in, dagger-thrust, step back. Feint and step in, strike and step back.

When they were reasonably comfortable with several individual combat patterns, we moved on to simple infantry formations such as the hedgehog – a ring of men several ranks deep with a bristling hedge of spears pointing outwards, an effective defence for infantry against cavalry – and the boar’s snout, that running wedge designed to punch through a shield wall, and so on.

We laboured from dawn until noon, the dinner hour, when I would return to the castle to eat the main meal of the day, sometimes with the other knights and nobles with King John in the great hall, and at others just with Robin and Marie-Anne in his narrow three-storey house near the cathedral. After dinner, we resumed our training until the bells of Vespers rang out the end of the day, and I would retire to Robin’s house for a light supper, a little music and singing on occasion, and my bed.

Kit was particularly helpful in these days. He acted as my aide, relaying orders and instructions to the vintenars. He seemed to have a natural rapport with the recruits. Without my noticing, during his time in Falaise the lad had picked up a decent command of the rough tongue these men spoke. While I had no grasp of their language, save a few filthy curses, Kit seemed quite comfortable chattering away in Flemish and explaining to them the incomprehensible orders of their new knight-commander.

We held competitions between squads, games, trials of speed and strength, and mock duels between individuals and, after only a month, I realised we had the beginnings of an
esprit de corps
. I noticed the men began to attach scraps of wolf fur to their clothing and armament; God knows where they got the material, as we hunted no wolves. And, as a special mark of our company within the Wolves, some acquired boar tusks and affixed them to their helmets or hung them around their necks – a homage to my own device of a strutting black wild boar on a red background. I was truly flattered by these little gestures and began to feel a regard for the men, green as they were, and the beginnings of a mutual respect.

The progress of the recruits was noted with approval by Vim. Indeed, the captain of Robin’s mercenaries stole a dozen of my more promising men-at-arms in early April. He needed them, he told me, to add to the veterans he already had because he had been ordered to take a hundred men to Château Gaillard to reinforce the garrison there, and he was short-handed. A score of experienced Norman knights and their mounted sergeants were going too, but mercenaries were needed to make up the numbers. King Philip still did not dare attack Château Gaillard’s powerful fortifications, yet some of the surrounding fortresses, part of the Iron Castle’s broad network of lesser defences, had been overrun, and King John understandably wished to strengthen the rock securing his eastern flank. I was angry at first that he should seek to break up my company so soon after its formation, and just when we were beginning to set like a jelly into a coherent fighting unit, but Robin soothed me and pointed out that Vim had sore need of the men and I was a victim of my own success. It was a compliment to my training methods, he said; then he reminded me that the men were not mine to dispose of but, indeed, his. So Vim took my dozen best recruits and I bit my tongue.

I dined with the King a few days afterwards. It was a depleted gathering, a score of knights, Robin and myself – and Humphrey and Hugo. I had seen this ugly pair around Rouen often, in the castle and in the streets of the town, but decided it was prudent to avoid them. The King was drinking hard, as was usual at that time, and seemed angry at everything and everyone. One of the squires serving the meal spilled a drop of gravy from a brimming platter of venison on to the white tablecloth. King John flew into a rage and knocked the hot serving plate from the boy’s hands, then he slapped the boy down with a round-house across the face and began kicking at him as he lay curled on the floor. After a dozen blows, the King was gently restrained by his household knights, and the bruised squire was allowed to scuttle away.

‘That boy is some Norman baron’s child,’ I said quietly to Robin. ‘Do you think his noble father will love the King more or less when he discovers how his son and heir has been treated?’

Robin merely shrugged. I felt the glow of irritation at my lord. He seemed utterly indifferent to decency.

The drinking had begun in earnest, with Hugo and Humphrey and King John sinking goblet after goblet of good red wine, and calling out toasts. Most commonly: ‘Death to all traitors!’

Some of the knights began to make their excuses – it was late afternoon by then – and slip away from the long table, pleading other pressing duties. The King seemed content to let them go and called for more wine for those man enough to take it. After a while, Robin rose to his feet. This time the King objected, calling out loudly, ‘You are not leaving us, Locksley, surely. Come, sit by me, drink a cup. It will do you good. Get your singing-boy, whatshisname, to play us some of his famous music.’

I froze in my chair. My head blossomed with red fury. I could feel my eyes starting from my head. I had not been called singing-boy for many a year. I wanted to knock the King’s teeth down his throat; I could see the action clearly in my head; and feel the sharp, cutting impact across my knuckles as the royal incisors snapped under my blow. Then I felt Robin’s heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘Just do as he says, Alan. Go and get your vielle, calm down, and play a tune or two for his highness. He’ll soon be too drunk to hear you, anyway.’

I left the hall, shaking with rage. In the little alcove just outside I splashed my face with cold water from an earthenware bowl set in an iron stand. The beaten squire, seated on a stool beside it, was snivelling to himself. I could hear the drunken shouts clearly from the hall as I dried my face on the linen towel he offered me.

‘Death to all traitors!’ bellowed Humphrey.

‘May they all learn to fear my wrath,’ shouted the King.

‘May the Devil take them all back to Hell!’ Humphrey again.

‘Yet, at this moment, we have one dirty traitor residing in this very castle!’ Hugo, this time.

Then a burst of drunken laughter and mumbled conversation.

‘Teach him a lesson. Make an example of the bastard!’

I heard Robin speaking low and urgently, but I did not catch the words. ‘Stay then, Locksley, if you have no stomach for our sport,’ the King’s harsh voice cut through Robin’s murmurings. Then the scraping of tables and benches, the sound of a heavy man falling over, curses, laughter and the snap of boot leather on stone. King John strode past the alcove without seeing me, and on his heels came Humphrey and Hugo, red-faced, sweaty and grinning like demons. Heading down the spiral staircase to the dungeons.

I stood there considering all that I had heard, trying to explain away their visit to the lower reaches of the keep. I could not, and I knew that I could not stand idly by. I had to act. I saw Robin at the head of the stairs looking hard at me.

‘Alan, it’s not our affair. This can only end badly. Let it go.’