much broader and had the handsome but rugged face of a man who had enjoyed many a fierce skirmish. His noble prowess had brought him to the attention of Duke Richard’s mother, the redoubtable Eleanor, who had made him one of her courtiers and, it was rumoured, one of her lovers. He also caught the eye of her husband, King Henry, who took him into his service. Eleanor had entered him into endless tournaments, all of which he had won, and Henry had made him a captain in his guard and entrusted him with campaigns and the putting down of revolts. He was given lands in the north of England and in Wales. And thus, through his physical and martial prowess, he had been elevated from minor nobleman to one of England’s most powerful landowners.
Later that night, Father Alun and I were invited to dine with the Duke and his five loyal lieutenants. As I had five loyal men of my own, I decided to dub my men the ‘Little Quintet’ and Duke Richard’s men the ‘Grand Quintet’. Not usually overawed by the company of lords and knights, I should not have been anxious, but I knew that this group of men and their Duke were not only among the most remarkable in Europe, but that our future depended on them accepting Alun and me into their circle. I also knew that, one day, we would have to gain their acceptance as equals. I feared not at all for Alun, whose wisdom and intellect were a match for anyone, but I was a knight and would have to earn my right to stand with them as a soldier.
The Duke did not prepare the ground well when he introduced us.
‘My friends, let me introduce Sir Ranulf, a knight from Lancaster, which I am told is in the far north of my father’s empire. He is sent to guard me by my grandmother, the Empress Matilda, although why it has taken so long for him to arrive is a mystery – after all, she has been dead for ten years!’
There was great laughter at my expense and I faced the dilemma of whether to assert myself, or bide my time for another occasion. I looked at the Duke’s trusted companions and realized that if I had any chance of earning the respect of these men, now was the time.
‘My Lord, I think Earl Harold was waiting for you to acquire the maturity that would be necessary for you to embrace your future and, of course, in choosing me for the task, to find the right man to join your service.’
Duke Richard did not react angrily, but smiled a little.
‘You see, Sir Ranulf is quick with his answers, like his mentor, Harold of Hereford, Earl of Huntingdon – who, before you hear it from the camp gossip, gave me a lesson in manners when he brought this knight to me.’
William Marshal’s ears pricked up when he heard the name Harold of Huntingdon.
‘Well, my dear Richard, if you were given a lesson by him, I would suggest you heed it. There is no finer man in the Empire.’
The Duke looked suitably meek.
‘Indeed I will, William; it was delivered along with the back of his hand. I remember it well.’
The Duke then turned to Father Alun.
‘And this, gentlemen, is Father Alun. I am told that he is so wise, he might be Archbishop of Canterbury one day. I think he’s been sent by my grandmother to save my soul.’
Mercadier was the first to make the obvious quip.
‘Really, do you want me to tell him he’s too late?’
The ensuing laughter took the sting out of the Duke’s barbed introductions, and we enjoyed a convivial evening of good humour. We exchanged tales of chivalrous knights and their ladies and drank abundant quantities of the strong wines of Aquitaine, for which I was acquiring a particular fondness.
The arrival of Duke Richard’s senior commanders seemed to rouse his army. We broke camp the following day and marched at pace through the remote forests of Gascony. We followed the old Roman road, which cut through the forests along routes as straight as the flight of an arrow. The ground was as flat as a calm sea; we saw very little other than endless miles of evergreen trees, and made rapid progress.
The conroi of Duke Richard’s senior lords rode in strict formation, but the Brabancon infantrymen were less disciplined, while the archers and bowmen made their way in long lines, not unlike the march of ants. The most impressive group was the siege engineers and sappers. They moved in lengthy columns of wagons drawn by oxen. The wagons were packed with the impressive tools of their trade: axes, mallets and chisels; ropes, pulleys and winches; leather, iron and timber in myriad shapes and sizes.
The whole caravan was controlled by a fascinating mix of men. Some had the brawn to fell the trees, hew the timber and manoeuvre the huge siege engines of various kinds; others had the brains to calculate trajectories and distance; a few could do both. Nothing seemed beyond their dexterity or powers of invention. They could build simple battering rams, scaling ladders or towers, or construct complex trebuchets and catapults large enough to hurl rocks as heavy as two men over 200 feet in distance. They could dig tunnels under castle walls, using men with no fear of confined spaces, or use pitch, oil and animal fats to make incendiary weapons to set fire to gates or undermine stone walls with intense heat. When mixed with sulphur or quicklime, the incendiaries could be hurled over castle walls to the great distress of anyone inside.
Their final skill was to ‘scorch the earth’. If the Duke anticipated a long siege, he would order that the entire countryside around the offending fortification be stripped of anything that could be consumed or be of use to anyone inside the walls. Wells were poisoned, crops burned, livestock killed or driven off, and barns and homes razed to the ground. It was a ruthless measure, but a very effective one, which would render the local lord’s domain worthless – quite apart from the devastating impact on the local peasants, who bore the brunt of it.
The Duke commanded an impressive military machine which, when unleashed, could destroy vast swathes of territory like a plague of locusts. As I watched it drive through the forests of Aquitaine, I made myself a promise that whilst in the service of the Duke, I would learn as much as I could from these artillery engineers and their weapons of vast destruction.
The Duke had assigned Alun, myself and our men to William Marshal, a decision about which I was relieved. He was clearly the first among the equals in the Grand Quintet and the one with whom I had the best chance of developing a rapport.
Impressive as the Duke’s siege army was, it was not a battle army, nor was it big enough to fight wars on a grand scale. I was certain that William Marshal understood these shortcomings and I felt confident that, with his support, this was the area where I could make a significant contribution to the Duke’s future.
By the middle of January we were deep in Gascony, outside the walls of the ancient settlement of Dax. The Duke chose ground for his main camp to the west of the town, about a mile away across the River Adour. It was familiar ground to him, next to the beautiful chapel of St Paul. The chapel had been built by his mother, Eleanor, on a site famed for its thermal springs, which had been used since Roman times.
He had chosen his camping ground for recreational reasons as well as for military ones. Not only did he intend to warm himself in the balmy waters, he also planned to immerse as many of the local girls as he could and frolic with them to his heart’s content. He was young and virile and had an immense appetite for the fairer sex. Of course, the rest of us were not averse to cavorting with the local women – especially William Marshal – but none of us could compete with the phenomenal tally of the young Duke. Father Alun’s passions were entirely cerebral – at least, as far as I could discern – and he was the only one not to indulge himself by using the warm pools for purposes other than bathing.
Few armies marauded in the depths of winter, but Richard was driven by a passion for war not unlike his ardour for nubile girls. His five lieutenants were also driven by the lure of combat, while his Brabancons had an equal fervour for geld. It was a powerful combination and one to which the stubborn lords of Gascony would soon succumb.
When Duke Richard’s main camp was complete, he sent a messenger to Dax, demanding the surrender of Pierre, Viscount of Dax, and his ally, Centulle III, Count of Bigorre, who had brought his garrison from his own fortification in Tarbes. The Duke’s terms were harsh: an oath of loyalty to King Henry, a repudiation of all previous oaths and the payment of one hundred pounds of silver to the King’s exchequer. Failure to comply would result in the storming of the walls of the city, the emptying of its treasury and the total destruction of the Viscount’s palace. Not only that, both men would be sent to Caen in chains to throw themselves on the King’s mercy.
Despite the ominous presence of the Duke’s army – a force of at least 700 Brabancons, and almost 150 elite cavalry commanded by the Duke’s Grand Quintet of senior lords – the two Gascon lords were defiant. Our estimates, based on knowledge derived from locals hoping to win favour with the Duke, suggested that no more than 200 men manned Dax’s Roman walls. Nevertheless, the message from inside, bellowed in Euskara, the strange local tongue of the Pyrenees, was blunt: ‘Take your horde back where it belongs. We will have no truck
