our King’s favour. While I had been assaulting the insignificant castle of Milly, the mercenary had boldly attacked the mighty stronghold of Beauvais — the lair of Bishop Philip, a loyal Frenchman and sworn enemy of our King. And the grim-faced captain had even managed to capture the feisty Bishop of Beauvais, outside the walls in full armour, and bring him bound and furious to Chateau-Gaillard, where he had been promptly imprisoned in the deepest cellar. Capturing Richard’s enemy had been a stroke of good fortune; capturing him fully armed and helmeted for war meant that Richard could keep this high churchman imprisoned. And there was a satisfying symmetry to this coup, from Richard’s point of view. The Bishop had been responsible for the rumour half a dozen years before that Richard had ordered the assassination of the King of Jerusalem, a lie that had given the Holy Roman Emperor an excuse to keep the Lionheart in chains in Germany. Now it was the rumour-mongering Bishop of Beauvais who languished in chains.
King Richard gave a lavish feast in Mercadier’s honour, which I was obliged to attend, although mercifully I was not asked to perform my music. I caught my enemy’s eye as he sat at the right hand of the monarch, basking in his favour, and he grinned smugly at me. I smiled back, and politely inclined my head. And thought: I shall kill you one day — perhaps not today, perhaps not this year — but one day I shall surely give myself the pleasure of watching the spark of life being extinguished in your eyes.
In the weeks that followed, I spent a good deal of time working with my ten remaining Westbury men, training with them and taking them on mounted patrols around the neighbourhood of Chateau-Gaillard. King Philip’s men held the powerful castle of Gaillon only five miles to the south-west of Chateau-Gaillard and so the patrols had some purpose, not only in providing intelligence about enemy troop movements, but also in providing regular skirmishing practice for my men when we encountered enemy patrols. We had no orders to stay and fight and die, so we did not do battle a l’outrance, as the saying goes, when we encountered the enemy; we would try to ambush them occasionally, and they us, but if we were overmatched we exchanged a few cuts and cheerfully fled for our lives.
Two of my Westbury men particularly distinguished themselves that summer in Normandy: a tall, quick- witted lad called Christopher, whom we all called ‘Kit’ — who single-handedly killed a French knight with his lance in a melee, and Edwin, known as ‘Ox-head’ — a thick-bodied youth, immensely strong, with a large poll, as his name suggested, and a wide easy smile. Ox-head was a natural peace-maker in the troop but was a fearsome man in a fight, using his strength to batter down his opponents. But the natural leader, after me, was Thomas: it was he who forged these men over the course of the summer into a small but deadly fighting force.
We were, of course, differentiated from Robin’s men by our red surcoats, but we also kept ourselves apart from the bigger force of men in green, while maintaining cordial relations with them as best we could. Their hesitation at Milly had not been forgotten by my men, and it was much resented, although I had forbidden them to speak of it. And while Robin’s men outnumbered us ten to one, we began to feel that we were a superior force: tight-knit, hard-fighting, disciplined and well trained — for I made sure that we exercised in arms together every day, rain or shine, in the courtyard of Chateau-Gaillard. I was proud of them.
That summer the war went Richard’s way almost entirely: he captured Dangu, a small castle only four miles from Gisors — during which, it must be said, Robin’s men fought heroically under their silver-eyed lord — and we all had a sense that the frontier between Normandy and the French King’s possessions was being pushed back towards its rightful location. At one point, Richard’s furthest scouts were able to make a quick raid on the outskirts of Paris — although, in truth, like rabbits they merely robbed a few vegetable gardens and scampered away when King Philip sent a sizeable force of knights to confront them. But we were winning the war in the north, and we all knew it.
Richard was also making great strides in his diplomatic struggle, as well. He had forged a lasting peace with his old enemy in the south, Raymond, Count of Toulouse, whose father and grandfather, encouraged by the French, had plagued the House of Aquitaine in their most southerly dominions. In July, we had the honour at Chateau- Gaillard of a visit from Baldwin, Count of Flanders. He was a handsome man; tall, fair of face, with a soldier’s carriage and a straight, honest gaze. In the presence of Count Robert of Meulan, William of Caieux and Hugh of Gournay, all of whom had recently abandoned the French King and come over to Richard’s side, the Count of Flanders signed a formal treaty with our King stating that neither would make peace with Philip without the other’s consent. In exchange, the Count received a ‘gift’ from King Richard of five thousand marks.
The French King now faced enemies to his north and west, and it was not long before Baldwin of Flanders made good his pledges to Richard and invaded Artois, besieging the French-held castle of Arras. Philip’s vigorous response surprised almost everybody. The French King replied with massive force, first striking west, retaking Dangu, and pushing back Richard’s forces in Normandy, then surging north to relieve Arras. We had all perhaps been too confident of victory — Richard was in the south in the county of Berry with the bulk of the army when Philip struck and one hot morning in August I found myself looking east from the battlements of Chateau-Gaillard to see a huge French army below me — hundreds of knights, thousands of men; I could even see a fleur-de-lys fluttering from a knot of horsemen to the rear of the force.
However, Philip had no intention of besieging the saucy castle; he was just trying, once again, to intimidate us, to keep us penned in Chateau-Gaillard while he planned his attack against Baldwin. And he succeeded: with Richard and Mercadier in the south, we had not the man-power to engage his army, and Robin, who was Constable of the castle in the King’s absence, ordered us to stay put behind its walls. ‘You do not exchange a position of strength for one of weakness,’ he told me one night over a cup of wine in his chamber at the top of the north tower in the inner bailey. ‘Philip cannot stay outside our walls for long, and we cannot sally out and attack him without courting disaster. Besides, our orders are to hold this castle. Richard is storming through Berry and the Auvergne — I’ve had word that half a dozen castles in the south have fallen to him. And Baldwin is at Arras, in the north, which will fall to him soon enough, if it is not relieved. Philip cannot stay here.’
So we did nothing. As Robin had predicted, Philip soon departed and, in a series of swift marches, covered the hundred or so miles north-east to Arras, relieved the beleaguered garrison and pushed Baldwin’s troops back almost as far as Flanders. But in his blind fury, and driven by an ardent wish to punish Baldwin for his disloyalty, Philip fell into the Flemish trap. The French advanced, but Baldwin’s troops retreated ahead of him, burning the crops, driving livestock before them, and destroying the bridges after they had been crossed — and behind Philip’s army, too. It was no doubt a cunning manoeuvre on Baldwin’s part, but I could not but remember the destruction at Clermont-sur-Andelle and wonder what the ruined peasants of Flanders would eat this coming winter with their crops and livestock gone. Still, it was no business of mine, and Philip’s men, deprived of food and forced to forage from a barren landscape, began slowly to starve. The French king was being humiliated, and we rejoiced at the news.
Now facing disaster, Philip tried to make a separate truce with Baldwin, which would have allowed him to extricate his men from Flanders and unleash them on Normandy, but that steadfast prince of the Lowlands showed his rectitude: the noble lord remained true to his agreement with Richard and resolutely refused to parley with the French heralds.
It was a summer of war, a summer of victory, but like all good things it had to come to an end. Richard’s men had been covering themselves with glory in Berry, and Baldwin’s had fought the French to a standstill in Flanders, but when the King of England and that honest Flemish Count met in Rouen in September, it was to discuss the terms of the truce they would jointly make with Philip. The war was not over; Philip had merely been hemmed in, his borders shrunk in the north, the west and the south, but it was the time of year for all combatants to take a breath, and rest their limbs in the cold months of autumn and winter.
‘Next year,’ said Richard jovially, ‘next year, Blondel, we shall take Gisors, and once that is back in our hands, the whole of the Vexin shall be mine. Next year, God willing, I shall regain my entire patrimony from that French thief.’
I had been entertaining the King and his senior barons in the audience room at Chateau-Gaillard, and when the rest had retired the King had asked me to stay behind and play something solely for him. There was but one choice: ‘My Joy Summons Me’ — a piece that I had played under the walls of Ochsenfurt in Bavaria and, by his response to it, from a high cell in one of the towers of the city, I had located my captive King when he was in the hands of his mortal enemy Duke Leopold of Austria.
I had expected the King to join me in singing some of the verses — after all, he had written the alternate ones — but while I played my vielle and sang, he stayed mute, watching me with his eyes half-closed, a smile on his lips. When I had finished, he repeated one of the verses, the third one that I had written, quietly in his normal speaking voice:
