bodies, wounded and dead, all about me. But more were coming on. The walkway held room for only two men on each side, else I would have been dead in moments; as it was, I struck and struggled against the men who rushed forward on both sides with shining blades swinging. An axe blow sliced the top corner off my shield, something clanged off my helmet and my legs wavered, but I straightened and killed the next man on pure instinct — a hard lunge through the belly. I could feel the crenellations of the wall in the small of my back, I blocked another blow, swung and cut at thin air. Something battered against my lower leg. And then I heard a voice below me shouting: ‘Out the way, out the way, you cowardly villains,’ and a volley of shouts and curses. And from the corner of my eye I saw the top of a ladder bouncing wildly. I blocked another sword strike, and hacked at a man’s head, but I caught a blow that came out of nowhere on my right arm near the shoulder — thank God for good mail. I swung feebly at a tall man in a black surcoat, missing him by a foot or more and feeling the strength draining from my sword arm, but the blow was enough to cause him to take a cautious step back.
And then William the Marshal himself tumbled breathlessly over the wall and barged his way into the fight.
That grizzled old warhorse, armed with sword and mace, dropped two men in as many moments, engaged the tall knight in black in a brief duel and smashed him unconscious with a backhand mace blow to the side of his helmet. I had recovered somewhat and managed to force back two men-at-arms to my right with a couple of wild swinging cuts. And between us, the Marshal and I managed to create enough space for another two knights to come bundling over the wall — one of them being Sir Nicholas de Scras. And from that moment onwards the castle of Milly was ours. Sir Nicholas mowed into his opponents on the left of the walkway, chopping and shoving, grunting, slicing and snarling his way inexorably forward. More of our men joined him. Once the Marshal’s knights had broken the initial resistance on the western wall, the Locksley men swarmed up the ladders at last and poured into the castle. I took no further part in the battle, collapsing exhausted on the walkway, my ears ringing and my leg and sword arm throbbing from the blows I had taken. I was also quite breathless; while I had assumed I was fit, young as I was, I had in fact taken my fitness for granted — I was not nearly in good enough wind for prolonged sword combat. Some of the Locksley men, I noticed, could not meet my eye as they passed me and charged down into the courtyard of the castle seeking out defenders to slaughter; others seemed indifferent to their shame. They were not my men, I reminded myself, but Robin’s, and they had a lesser duty to me than they would have had to their own lord. To ask a man or a group of men to risk their lives is no small thing. But I could not help feeling a sense of sadness that, as I had been away from them for so long, the bonds between us had been so loosened. Three years ago there’d have been no fearful hesitation during an escalade, no matter how dangerous, none at all.
The Marshal also evidently believed that he had done his share of the work that day for he sat down a few yards from me, resting his behind comfortably on the unconscious body of the tall black-clad knight. When I had thanked him for his timely intervention — and given thanks for his complete disregard for Prince John’s orders — he brushed away my words and said: ‘Well, Sir Alan, I am nearly fifty years old, and so I believe I am entitled to take a little rest during a battle — what is your excuse?’
With those jesting words he shamed me into rising and following the Locksley men down into the castle of Milly.
Thomas was not dead — praise God and all the saints in Heaven. He had received a nasty sword cut to the head, but his helmet had taken the force of the blow and while he was a little dazed for a day or so, and his cut scalp had bled copiously, within a week he was his old cheerful self.
Prince John was eloquent when he praised William the Marshal’s actions that day — and not a word was said about the Earl of Striguil’s blatant disregard of his orders to leave us to assault the castle alone. Victory forgives all, it would seem. John hanged all the men-at-arms he had captured, which to me seemed unnecessarily cruel — though not, of course, the knights. These downcast warriors were chivvied into a storeroom and locked in while our men-at-arms sat outside and gleefully computed their probable ransoms in loud, mocking voices, meant to be heard.
The Locksley men had taken a dozen casualties in the assault: but only six dead, which included two Westbury men and Alfred. It crossed my mind to seek out the man who had apparently twisted his ankle in the attack and so avoided making the assault, but I did not have the stomach for it. If I found that he had been shamming, I would have had to hang him as an example to the others, and I could not face the task. That was pure weakness on my part, I admit, but I was heartsick that the men had performed so badly. And they knew it.
I sent them back to Chateau-Gaillard the next day with a wagon containing a dazed Thomas, and told them to inform Robin how the battle had taken place, and to describe truthfully their part in it. I kept the remaining ten Westbury men with me, for while we too had been dismissed by Prince John — a detachment of the Marshal’s men were to garrison Milly — and told to return to the saucy castle, I wanted to make a private pilgrimage with my own men before returning to Robin.
We took a detour on the way home from Milly, and wandered a little to the north of our original line of march. And two days after the assault, I found myself, with ten good Westbury men around me, sitting my horse in almost exactly the same spot slightly back from the tree line, that I had occupied with Thomas and Hanno three years previously. I was gazing out between the branches at the manor Clermont-sur-Andelle — the rich manor that had once been promised to me by the Lionheart. Or rather I was gazing at the place where the rich manor of Clermont had once been.
It had been totally devastated. In truth, we had been able to smell the place on the slight breeze from half a mile away. It was the familiar stink of rural destruction: sour wet smoke and rotting carcasses, with notes of dung and despair. We trotted down across the water meadow where the two black-headed knights had flown their brave falcon to the bridge over the River Andelle, and not a living thing did we see. A holocaust had engulfed the whole settlement here, and recently, at a guess, no more than a few days ago. The hall and its surrounding palisade had been burned almost to the ground — the mill had been fired and it looked as if the fine flour in the air had exploded, too, a common enough risk, and all that remained was the massive millstone squatting like a blackened round table amid the piles of ash and charred wood. Even the church had been burned down; and the broad fertile fields of green barley and wheat had been trampled by many horsemen. The destruction was complete, absolute — as if ruin was the real objective and not gathering booty, or foraging for food. It was as if a malevolent being were punishing this manor and its wretched inhabitants for some nameless crime.
The people were all gone — perhaps driven to take refuge in a local monastery, or even to swell the throngs of beggars in the stews of Paris, though I noticed a dozen fresh graves in the churchyard, and concluded that a few villagers must have lingered long enough to bury their dead before they departed. All the livestock had disappeared, too, perhaps taken by the villagers, perhaps driven off by the marauders.
The marauders: I knew who had done this. It was Mercadier’s work. I knew that they had passed through this area a few days previously. Was it a strike at me? Was Mercadier trying to punish me for being given this manor by Richard? It seemed slightly odd behaviour, even for a ruthless warlord like Mercadier, a little moon- crazed, to be honest. I had not been receiving the benefits of these lands before they had been despoiled, and I would not have any chance of garnering any profit from them now. But I had not been damaged by his actions; I would not miss revenues I had never received.
I sat in my saddle looking down at the half-burned carcass of an elderly nag that lay half in and half out of the charred remains of the stable block. What could Mercadier mean by this excess of destruction? Was he saying that I should never possess this land? Certainly, even if Philip’s borders were pushed back and I were to take on this manor, as the King intended, I would have to spend a good deal of silver to restore its fortunes; rebuilding the church alone could cost half what I received in a year from Westbury. And if the labouring people did not return, I would have to find villeins from somewhere to work the land; perhaps even parcel some of it out to freeholders. It did not seem worth the trouble. Yes, Mercadier’s actions seemed perplexing to me. What was he trying to achieve? Was he merely saying, by this destruction of a manor that might one day have been mine, that he hated me? It seemed so.
Chapter Twenty-five
I returned to Chateau-Gaillard to find Mercadier a hero, crowned with fresh laurels and riding even higher in
