causing as much devastation as they could. We had heard endless stories of atrocities – all, no doubt, part of his brothers’ plan to lure Duke Richard into their lair.
But the Lionheart was too shrewd for that. We tracked Raymond le Brun’s force of Bretons to the small settlement of Ruffec, in the Charente. They were enjoying a respite from their marauding amidst the peaceful surroundings of the vineyards and farmhouses of the area, and we caught them unawares. The locals had departed in a hurry, leaving their meagre chattels at the mercy of the rebels.
What followed was not for the faint of heart. There was no local populace to be concerned about, and no question of these men being forced to pay homage to the King; they were the dogs of war and had been unleashed by his brothers, so they would be treated like the beasts they were.
We approached le Brun’s camp just before dawn. They numbered perhaps 300 men, but we were more than 2,000. The Duke deployed the contingents of the Grand Quintet to his left and right, in his usual formation. As the sun crested the hills beyond the River Tarn, he ordered the attack with a simple command.
‘No quarter!’
The slaughter was short-lived but savage. Few of le Brun’s men were able to get to their horses, and most were cut down trying to flee. They were unable to don their armour or wield their weapons; some were still barefoot, not having had time to find their footwear. Few survived the cull, but le Brun was one of them. When the Lionheart saw him, he leapt from his horse in a single, agile bound and set about him. Le Brun was a bear of a man with thick black hair and a beard to match. He was scarred across the forehead and left cheek and had lost most of his teeth. He had managed to find his sword and shield and, for a while, was able to parry the Duke’s blows. But their power and ferocity were too much for him, and he soon fell to his knees and begged for mercy.
‘Lord Richard, spare—’
But before his foe could finish his plea, the Lionheart plunged his sword through his Adam’s apple and deep into his chest. For a moment the stricken man stared upwards in horror, until his life ebbed away. The Duke, without hesitation or remorse, simply placed his foot on le Brun’s chest and pulled out his bloodied blade. He then turned to Mercadier.
‘Execute any prisoners. Tie their hands and throw them into the Tarn like abandoned whelps.’
I watched the orders being carried out with regret, preferring that even these men should meet a quicker death. But the Duke’s blood was up, and nothing would have inclined him to leniency. Father Alun tried to reason with him, citing Abbess Hildegard frequently, but the look of anger on the Lionheart’s face soon made him realize that he was beyond reason.
After the bloodletting, Duke Richard announced a typically audacious plan. He sent the Grand Quintet and the major part of his own army in different directions to crush whatever opposition they could find and ordered me to select an elite force of four conrois to accompany him to Limoges. He intended to ride straight into his brothers’ lair and confront them face-to-face.
We took spare mounts and rode for two days and two nights, only stopping to rest and feed the horses. When we reached Gorre, a dozen miles to the west of Limoges, it was the middle of our third morning in the saddle. The men were exhausted and few were in a fit state to fight. Not so the Lionheart – especially after he saw with his own eyes the crimes that were being committed.
Aimar, Viscount of Limoges, sat to one side on his black destrier as William Arnald’s mercenaries defiled the small settlement. The local priest had been hanged, his naked body swinging from the cross at the top of his church, and the ground was littered with the mutilated corpses of the local men and children. The women were nowhere to be seen, but the anguished screams coming from inside the small thatched church were testament to their fate.
The Lionheart did not issue any orders, nor pause in any way. He rode straight into the middle of the carnage and began to waylay the perpetrators. He was like a whirlwind, scattering men before him like ninepins. Godric and I, with our men in close support, tried to cover his back, but he did not need us. The routiers started to run when they saw the ferocity of the Lionheart’s assault. It soon became a rout, as men fell over one another to get away. As they fled, many could be heard calling out the Duke’s name in an awed tone.
William Arnald, one of the most feared men in the Empire, was one of the few not to be intimidated. The Duke summoned his cavalry to pursue the fleeing mercenaries, again issuing the command, ‘No quarter!’ and then he confronted Arnald. A heavy-built Burgundian who had spent his life as a cut-throat for hire, he would have put the fear of God into all but a handful of men. But Duke Richard was such a man. He did not hesitate. Not even when Arnald shouted his blood-curdling threats.
‘You are but the runt of a litter of cubs of that fat father of yours. If he is your father, of course. I hear that your mother will bed anything, man or beast. Let me send you home to them cut and diced, ready for the pot!’
I gestured to Godric to have the men stay close as the two warriors’ swords clashed. The Duke had been in a fury since news of his brothers’ treachery reached him, but the insult to his mother inflamed him even more. He swung at Arnald like a man possessed – so much so that I feared that, against a man of such experience, his ferocity might be ill judged. At first, the contest was even; Arnald smiled as he parried blow after blow, hoping that the Lionheart’s strength would wane. He goaded him, in an attempt to provoke even more bursts of tiring aggression.
‘Is that the best you can do, boy? My junior knights offer a greater threat than that.’
I glanced at Godric and saw that he had the same concerns: before long, we might have to step in and protect the Duke from the retaliation that would surely soon come. Then the inevitable happened; one of the Duke’s swings lacked conviction, and Arnald sensed the fatigue. He launched his own furious attack. The Duke started to go backwards and stumbled to the ground, giving the Burgundian brigand the chance he needed. He thrust the tip of his sword at the Lionheart’s midriff; for a moment, it looked like the younger man was done for, but he managed to deflect the blow towards his left arm. Even so, the point of the sword sliced into the maille of his hauberk just above the elbow and blood immediately gushed from the wound.
Most men would have begged for mercy at that point, but Duke Richard rolled away and regained his feet. It was as if he had been jolted by a butt of water; instead of being cowed by the blow, he fought back with even greater savagery than before. Despite the blood that was running down his arm, he managed to gird his shield and hurl himself into another attack.
Arnald suddenly appeared to look anxious. He had not expected the Duke to get up from such a severe and painful blow. Perhaps he now began to accept the truth of the Lionheart’s almost mythical reputation. It was his turn to retreat. As he did so, the Lionheart’s blows became stronger and Arnald’s defensive posture slumped lower and lower. Eventually, the older man could parry no more and Duke Richard ran him through just below his right collarbone.
Arnald fell to his knees; his arm went limp, and his sword fell to the ground with a dull thud. The only thing keeping him upright was his shield, which anchored him to the ground as he leaned on it. As all those who looked on waited for words of contrition or an act of submission from the wounded mercenary, the Lionheart stole the moment. With an almighty swipe of his sword, which began with his forearm resting under his chin, he all but decapitated Arnald with one blow. Blood spurted into the air and washed over the Duke like water splashed from a puddle in a road. The Burgundian, his head attached to his body by only a small remnant of his neck and tilted at an inhuman angle, fell forward in a heap. A crimson pool seeped beneath him as his lifeless eyes, now turned almost in the opposite direction to the one God intended, stared upwards towards Heaven. It was a vain hope; there would be no place for him there.
Now sated, the Duke also fell to the ground, the loss of blood from his own wound taking its toll. On my signal Modig and Rodor helped the Duke to his feet, and Father Alun rushed forward to tend to his wound. He wanted the Duke to rest and take off his hauberk to have the deep gash bandaged properly. But the Lionheart refused, insisting that he only need roll up the sleeve of his maille so that a temporary binding could be applied.
‘I’ll rest when we’ve put down all my brothers’ hounds.’
The executions of the survivors did not take long. The Duke did not want to admonish them or gloat; he just wanted them dead. Some were drowned, a few were decapitated; none were spared, despite their pleas for mercy.
