agreement, and the plan was toasted with plentiful goblets of wine.
The Duke looked at Father Alun.
‘Will you pray for our success, Father?’
‘No, my Lord, I can’t pray for our success in battle. But I will pray that we are all delivered from it in one piece.’
I could see Mercadier bristle at Father Alun’s answer. After taking a breath, he spoke his mind.
‘What’s the point of having a priest with us if he won’t pray for our victories?’
Father Alun stood his ground and calmly, without rancour and without flinching, he looked Mercadier in the eye.
‘My Lord, priests who pray for victories in war are both hypocritical and immoral. I am here to counsel the Duke, not to provide him, or you, with a shield on the battlefield.’
Mercadier started to rise to the provocative answer, but the Duke gestured to him to hold his tongue.
‘Let us drink well tonight; tomorrow we will be sober.’
From early the next morning, Richard moved the majority of his army from its base camp nearby and pitched tents right under the walls of Taillebourg. We numbered 1,200 men, with another 600 in reserve. The siege engines were moved up a little closer and, late in the day, the cooks began to roast meat in the open. The girls appeared, minstrels started to sing, and the drink – or, at least, its poor relative – began to flow. Duke Richard and his Grand Quintet made sure they were prominent amidst the revelry, enjoying the feast as much as the next man.
My men and I waited in our tents, passing the time playing dice, cleaning our armour and sharpening our weapons. All the while, our activities were scrutinized with incredulity from Taillebourg’s walls. At close to midnight, a message came from the Duke to say that frantic activity had been heard behind the castle gates and to expect an attack at first light.
I organized a watch for the night and issued an order for everyone to be awake an hour before dawn. The trap was ready.
Geoffrey de Rancon took the bait at full light the next morning. The huge gates to the city, so big that they had to be opened with a capstan, inched their way back and a wave of cavalry spilled out from inside in a crescendo of noise. Horses reared, men screamed and hooves thundered down the cobbled approach to the gates.
Our attackers assumed they were falling upon an army of heavy-eyed men, the worse for wear after a night of debauchery. For a few moments, that is how it appeared. But the trap was sprung immediately. I led my men from our tents and we immediately began to unhorse our attackers with our pikes and lances. Duke Richard’s men soon followed us. They had gathered their weapons and armour and now ran from their tents in large numbers. Men who had been sleeping in the open had been lying on their swords and hauberks and were soon ready for the melee.
De Rancon’s men were still pouring through the gates in numbers. But when they saw that they were riding into a snare of men that significantly outnumbered them, some tried to turn back, causing mayhem in the barbican. Duke Richard saw the confusion and called on William Marshal and his other lieutenants to join him in a charge into the open gateway. I bellowed at Godric and my Little Quintet, and we joined the Lionheart in a sprint to the gates before they could be closed against us. We pulled down horses by their reins as we went and scattered men in droves as we forced a way through. Such was the awesome sight of Duke Richard and his senior knights, all of whom towered over their opponents, few stood and fought. Those who did were quickly despatched with efficient and deadly intent.
By the time we were in the interior of the barbican, we could hear the winches at work as the defenders tried to close the gates against us.
The Lionheart shouted his order.
‘Sir Ranulf to the right, Lord Mercadier to the left. To the capstans!’
The order was clear. As we turned to the right, we could see four large men with muscle-bound arms straining to turn the capstan as quickly as they could. They were defended by a posse of de Rancon’s garrison, who knew that if they were unable to close the gates, their day would be done. The space behind the massive gates was small and dark, too small for the effective use of swords, so Godric and the men wielded their English battleaxes, just like their Saxon ancestors. A look of fear immediately spread across the faces of our opponents. Penda and Leax formed a vanguard, with Modig and Rodor on the flanks, while Godric and I formed a second rank. We locked our shields like housecarls and advanced like a shield wall of old.
Our foes found it hard to swing their swords, and the brutal blows from our axes soon took their toll. We had to step over bloodied bodies to make progress, but we were soon within striking distance of the capstan. There was no need to assault the capstan men, as one blow from Penda’s axe was enough to sever the rope to the gate, thus rendering the mechanism redundant. Realizing that their muscular arms were of little value to them without a sword to wield, the burly winchmen soon held them aloft in surrender.
I called to the Sergeant of our army, which was now streaming through the gates of Taillebourg, to take the defenders of the barbican in hand so that we could rejoin the Duke, who was now fighting his way across the castle’s bailey against stubborn resistance. Geoffrey de Rancon’s portly frame was at the back of the melee, trying to form his men into a redoubt in front of the keep.
The fighting was at close quarters and vicious. Conscious of my primary responsibility to protect the Duke, I formed my men around him to make sure that his drive forward could not be outflanked. Marshal and Thornham led from the left, and Mercadier and Bethune from the right. As usual, Blondel took up his preferred position directly behind the Lionheart. Our advance was impressive; amidst a din of clashing blades and the cries of stricken men, we moved ever closer to the ground floor of the keep. The beaten-earth ground of the bailey was awash with blood, some it forming into pools before running away along the drainage gulleys in a crimson torrent.
I kept a wary eye on the Lionheart, but I need not have been concerned; he led the assault from the front, fighting in the best traditions of man-to-man combat. He swung his blade in powerful but measured arcs and used his shield perfectly to parry blows. His great height and powerful frame gave him a distinct advantage, but it was his training and technique that were most telling. It was an impressive sight, the stories of which would soon resonate across Europe.
Here was a lion rampant; I watched in awe, relieved that I was supporting his onslaught, not trying to defend against it.
De Rancon had managed to form a semi-circular redoubt. But as soon as it was set, he had banged on the small door of the tall keep and disappeared inside. There were immediate howls from his men, and the fight soon went out of them. Like ripples on a pond the raised hands of surrender spread across the entire redoubt within moments, leaving de Rancon trapped in his keep.
Although he undoubtedly had food and water within the keep, and perhaps a few loyal bodyguards, his capitulation was only a matter of time. The Duke, covered in blood from head to toe, steam rising from him like a stallion after a gallop, his chest heaving to suck in great gulps of air, raised his sword in triumph. Our men hollered and cheered and began to chant his name, ‘
Even though he was just twenty-two years old, it was the moment that established the Duke in legend. All who witnessed it would never forget the image: with his sword proclaiming victory, the tall blood-stained hero had removed his helmet to reveal his golden-red mane. He was Achilles in front of the Gates of Troy, Alexander on the Plain of Gaugamela, Caesar at the Siege of Alesia. I shivered with emotion as I fully realized the power of the man to whom I had committed my future.
The Duke instructed that de Rancon’s men be disarmed and that order be restored to the castle and its occupants. Then he asked that tables be erected in the bailey and that a real feast, with full-strength beer and potent Teneraze, be prepared to celebrate the fall of the ‘impregnable’ Castle of Taillebourg.
An hour or so later, with his family skulking behind him and half a dozen knights in attendance, de Rancon emerged from his keep. He walked up to the Duke sheepishly and offered him his sword.
‘My Lord Duke, I throw myself upon your mercy. Please spare my family, I beg you.’
‘Your family has done me no harm; they have nothing to fear. In fact, they may join us for our feast tonight.
