Chapter 10      Rochester Besieged

 

 

 

It took five long, arduous days separated by four cold, miserable nights to reach Rochester castle, but the mesnie arrived, whole and intact, headed by Lord William on a bay palfrey, and Stephen, beset by a head cold, astride a muddy legged gray.  Mounted on their destriers, the mesnie rode behind in pairs, arranged by rank and seniority, banners unfurled and surcoats bright over full hauberks.  Helms hung from saddle tangs and swung with the rhythm of the horses, as did the swords and axes.  They looked battle ready and worthy of a king's army.  Of that, none had doubt.  But they were from the midlands, where life moved slower and the younger men wondered if they somehow looked rustic, provincial, before the polished guard of such renowned fortifications as Dover, Windsor, and the ever whitewashed Tower in London, despite the edifice itself now being held by the rebel barons.

The encampment they approached was huge, fully large enough for five hundred knights and their support.  Tents, wagons, carts, sheds, and the equipment of carpenters, blacksmiths, farriers and armorsmiths lined the road.  Ahead, the high walls of Rochester loomed, but at their base, like a hill of ants, swarmed hundreds of small dots, the knights and men afoot of John's army.  Also prominent on a low hill on the south side were a number of siege engines, including five trebuchets, timber frames fitted with a heavily counterbalanced arm for slinging stones against the curtain wall.

As they approached the fortress, they could hear the dull, explosive impacts of hurlstones against the masonry, portions of which had already collapsed under the pounding, though not so much as to provide a breach for an army to ride through.  Closer still, they could see the missiles arcing through the air and shattering into a burst of dust and debris against the wall.  The debris fell away like rain, the dust drifted with the wind.

Above, the high air carried parallel lines of clouds, looking like white-capped breakers rolling onto shore.  Sunlight swam in pools across the ground, over the men, siege engines, curtain walls, and tents, over the sergeants who manned the crossbows and arbalests, over the wearied rebel knights peering briefly between the crenellations on Rochester's high walls.

The onslaught was in earnest.  In contrast to the engines within the fortification, John's trebuchets let go a fresh projectile as soon as they could be hoisted down and reloaded.  John pressed his siege vigorously.

The knights and squires spoke quietly to one another, diminished by the expanse of activity before them.  The grins of battle, thought Thomas, seemed a little shy.

The mesnie made its way up the avenue, the unmistakable shape of trees, gorse bushes, and shanties demarking the River Medway, situated just beyond the castle.  William dropped his support troops and equipment amidst the tent city with instructions to erect their facilities, and after changing to his destrier, took the knights within shouting distance of the attackers.

William's pennant bought them safe passage.  No one challenged them until they reached a clove of tents beside which the three-lioned flag of King John fluttered.

King John, himself, emerged from a large command tent, prudently positioned safely out of range of the strongest crossbow the defenders could crank.  His personage was remarkably un-regal, rather fat, dark haired, bearded.  Few suspected he was the monarch to whom they owed sworn allegiance until Lord William stepped down from his horse and knelt at the man's feet.

"I am your servant, William of Norbury," said Lord William, using the ancient courtesy for a liege lord.

"Rise, William.  You are welcome in my camp," said John, taking his forearm.  Everyone successfully straining to hear the king frowned in disappointment.  The voice was quite ordinary, and though tinted with the overtones of command, the voice itself belonged more to a fretful tailor or a merchant.  It certainly did not match the booming voice they had heard attributed to his illustrious brother, Richard, or his father, Henry II.  Beyond doubt, however, they were in royal company, and despite losing their grand view astride their destriers, the entire mesnie hastily dismounted and knelt beside their horses, soiling their assiduously cleaned surcoats and mail.

"Good knights," said John in a loud voice, more the voice they had expected, but not quite regal, even so.  "Arise and attend me.  Your loyal right arms are most welcome.  My camp will extend you every courtesy that you may recover your strength after so hard a journey."

"Our thanks, my lord," said William for the men.  "But we are desirous to be of service and would press your enemies at the moment."

"Honorable William, your loyalty warms me like a hearth fire.  I have seen too little English loyalty of late!"

John strode towards the mesnie, the energy in his words too much for a still man to utter.  "London is in the hands of traitors!" he screamed.  "Seven hundred cowardly knights, their leashes firmly in the hand of my faithless baron Robert fitzWalter, hold the Tower for Louis.  Yes, Louis the bastard of Philip whose sails we saw pass the coast of Dover in broad daylight!  The most traitorous Reginald of Cornwall handed over this very castle -- handed over, by God! -- to a rabble he pleased to call the 'Army of God!'  Gave it, hoof and reins, to William d'Albini, Lord of Belvoir!

"Army of God, be damned!  In those walls are ninety-five damned souls of knights and half that of men at arms.  Knights!  They do not deserve the title.  They are liars, cheats, traitors, and fools!  We will pull these leaches off the back of England and feed them to the rats.  We will pull them from this keep like oysters from their shells, and chew them raw.  This I vow!"

The hate and vehemence of the king's words sent shivers down the backs of everyone.  Thomas surveyed the faces around him.  All were burdened by the king's emotion, all save the banneret and a few of the elder knights, though even they appeared a bit blanched.  Thomas noticed that Lord William, more stolid and implacable than his men, frowned.

The king seemed exhausted by this outburst.  He wheezed, took a breath and strode for a bit, then began again, ever bit as noisily as before.  "You knights are the strong backbone of the lion of England.  These dogs have had their day and now we will rear up on our hind legs and smite them.  Today, my knights, we are Gabriel, and you shall watch these walls tumble!"  He shot a hate-filled glance at Rochester keep rising above the crumbling curtain walls.

"With us are Flemish, Poitevins, Gascons, Brabancons.  Friends, all, as long as our purse is heavy!  You, sons of England, are English, and this is your home.  I expect twice the rage from you as from one of our mercenaries, though good men they be.

"Before you is one third of our forces.  Our strength is such that we have sent armies to break the rebel sieges of our castles in Oxford and Northampton.  Some weeks ago, as I mounted this siege, one of the Flemings said to me, `In truth, sire, you hold your enemies of little account if you go to fight them with so small a force.'  I replied `I know them well enough.  They are not to be made much of or feared.  We could safely fight them with fewer men than we have.'  Before God, they are miserable wretches!"

John scrutinized the faces of the knights standing obediently before him.  His next words came quite evenly, but with an undercurrent of force as compelling as a tidal bore.  "I am England," he said simply.  He paused.  "These rebels collapse like fleas before the claw of a scratching dog, and we will hammer them into the earth, without letup and without mercy!"

This did not sound like any "John Softsword."  In truth, it sounded utterly decisive, possessed of cold purpose, sheathed in fire, resolute.  With his spittle speckled lips, it looked like the tradition of Plantagenet temper rode anew.  Thomas took a breath, for it seemed like he had not breathed since John began his speech.  His lungs ached.

John returned to Lord William and clasped hands again.  "Pitch your tents, array yourselves, talk to my marshals and be seen.  Have your crossbowmen fire at anyone who peeks from behind a stone on that wall.  If any of them try a breakout, mow them down.  Otherwise, partake of the town as you wish, for these people have earned my disfavor.  Above all, keep yourselves at the ready.  It is unlikely, but if Louis's forces make London and join forces with fitzWalter, they could march on us."  John smiled.  "However," he said with obvious pride, "I have destroyed every bridge across the Medway.  From the north shore, they could insult us, but little more.  Yet, we must be prepared."

"I understand, my liege.  You will find us ready."

"Good!  Now, I must bid good day."  John glanced at the command tent, where two clerics stood at the portal and more men stood around a table inside.  John shrugged and said, "There are many administrative matters to attend.  Always."  In the distance sounded the incessant thuds of hurlstones smashing to bits against the curtain wall.

As they completed their conversation, an elderly man with confident bearing emerged from the tent and stood with his arms crossed, surveying the mesnie.

The man said nothing, but his gray brown hair and general vigor, despite his obvious age, late sixties at least, announced him to the knights of William's band far more loudly than had the appearance of the king.  This could be none other than the Earl of Pembroke, William the Marshal, the most famous and respected knight of the realm.

     Hauberks clinked in the late October air as the knights stood taller under his gaze.  Thomas studied the old man with envy, and why not?  After all, he had been a younger son, knighted even as he, yet he had stood beside Henry, Richard, John, and Eleanor at Chinon, beside Philip Augustus, and Louis in Paris, had fought in Crusade, and for his loyal service, had found reward in wife, castle, and land.  William the Marshall had stood at the backs of kings and his advice had held stronger than most, evidenced by his presence here in the shadow of Rochester, apparently summoned by the king from his castle in Wales.

Such was the aspiration of all younger sons in wards across the land.  To see him in the flesh inspired, as a splinter of the holy cross might inspire a churchman.  Thomas watched the elderly knight until, with a nod to the assembly, he re-entered the tent and withdrew from view.

"'Twas William, himself," whispered Cyril at Thomas's elbow.  "Would that I find such fortune!"

"In truth," replied Thomas just as quietly, so as not to disturb the king or Lord William.

John gathered his heavy gown around his ponderous form.  "Good day," he said to William.  He repeated the civility to Stephen, then unexpectedly, said, quite humanly to the men, "Good day to you, knights of the Cotswolds.  Get some rest, then fight like devils!"

In one voice, the men shouted, "Aye!"

Accepting this simple promise, the king turned, taking no more notice of the mesnie, and headed into his tent.  At the portal, he confided something to one of the clerics who cast a glance at the mesnie before following his king.  The tent flaps closed behind them.

"Stephen," said Lord William after a moment, "What say we retire in ranks, loose the men for the afternoon, and tour this siege so we can find where best to array ourselves?"

"I agree.  There is a lot to see."

Stephen mounted his horse and bid the rest of the mesnie follow suit.  Heavy sounds of mail and leather accompanied the remounting.  Coming in unison, under the shadow of Rochester and before the tent of a king, the sounds of mounting warriors played like proud music.  Lord William paused, scanning the castle of Rochester, then he, too, mounted.  They rode back the way they had come.

Upon arriving at the hastily constructed camp of their contingent, William and Stephen gathered the men into assembly and explained the situation.  At the decision to release all knights and men-at-arms from afternoon duty, a joyous cry arose.  Smiling, Lord William waved them into quiet.

"Tomorrow, we will be at siege.  Chances are, we will move the camp to provide best support, but in the meantime, I would admonish any man who did not stroll about these works and satisfy curiosity."

Another cry of joy.

"Those without armor, get no nearer the wall than other men without armor.  Bowmen on those crenelations would welcome the opportunity to nick one of you.  Take a care, and stay out of the way.

"All of you, be wary around these men of King John's.  They are mercenaries and some are quite warlike toward friend or foe.  I want no man of this mesnie involved in private brawls or jousts.  Do not test my patience in this."  He emphasized the last remark with a long, sweeping look, then said, "Now, be off!"

The camp scurried into motion.  The knights, retaining their armor and weapons and climbed atop their destriers.  The banneret's men stayed under their own flag, but the other knights broke up into groups of two to half a dozen, and began riding out toward the activities that most interested them.  Most headed toward the massive siege engines, devices told of in troubadour stories, but never before available for inspection.  Thomas, Cyril, and a young knight of Stephen's household named Robert Stoll grouped together and rode at a walk toward them.

Trebuchet.  The name suggested dozens of tales from the reign of Richard, the soldier king.  He had driven the art of siege to new heights of tenacity, ingenuity, and ruthlessness.  They remembered tales of Richard's siege of Acre and the engine nicknamed "the Good Neighbor."  They approached the nearest engine, keeping a watchful and curious eye on the men defending the curtain wall.  The trebuchet seemed to grow as they approached.  Several squads of men attended it, directed by a surcoated man-at-arms, called, they knew, the captain or engine master.

The machine itself was massive, far larger than any wagon, larger than six wagons together.  It consisted of two strongly braced uprights at least twenty feet high.  Across the uprights lay a massive axle, iron clamped and pegged firmly into place.  Crossways to the axle was what looked like a ship's mast, the thick end extending fifteen feet ahead of the axle, toward the castle, the long end, which tapered, extending away from the castle.  A massive chest filled with stones and strapped by iron bands hung from the short end, while a rope and leather sling hung from the other.  Midways out the long end, a strange shaped hook looped into a block and tackle.  The chest floated in air, swaying slightly.  At the tapered whip end, a squared building stone nestled in the hammock of the sling.

Thomas sought to understand the mechanism.  The chest acted as a counterweight to the sling.  When the rope holding the whip end down was released, the whip would swing upward with great force, propelled by the heavy counterweight.  At the finish of the whip end's arc, the sling would release the stone missile into flight against the curtain wall.

The sounds were deafening.  Team masters, directed by the captain, screamed orders to their crews, who cranked winches, set belaying pins, and performed multitudes of tasks in preparation for bombardment.  A steady line of ox carts brought stone blocks to the sling.  Most of the blocks were square, no doubt mined from nearby chimneys, foundations, and walls.  This pandemonium was multiplied by five, as the engines were situated near one another.  The knights sat astride their war horses, mesmerized by the tableau.

"Stand away!" yelled the engine master.  "Stand away, you knights.  Yes, you!  Dismount and hold your horses.  When this arm throws, your horses will bolt, and that is God's promise!"

Without thinking of the engine master's audacity, the knights hastily dismounted and held the bridles of their destriers.  With a satisfied glance at the knights, the engine master signaled the tripman to release his load.  The tripman gave the rope he held a single hard yank.  The effort pulled an iron tang from a ring attached to the block and tackle.  For a short moment, it appeared as if nothing would happen, then the arm creaked and bent like a bow being drawn.  With a rush, the entire arm moved upward with accelerating speed.  The sling drew tight, momentarily revealing the shape of the stone through the ox hide support, then all detail was lost in motion.  The horses shied violently.  There was a heavy thud, trembling the earth beneath their feet, as the counterweight hit the ground.  At about the same time, the sling opened and the knights watched the stone it contained burst into flight, a dark mote against the clouds.  The hurl stone arced gently, effortlessly spanning the distance between the engine and the wall, and crashed into the stonework.  A plume of powdered stone and mortar erupted from the masonry.  A moment after the flower of dust, a rending concussion reached their ears.

Thomas was amazed to see a deep cavity in the wall where the stone had struck.  Then he noticed an entire section of wall pocked by similar cavities, as if the wall were being stitched.  The men on the wall also noticed the pattern.  Not a single man stood on the section of wall defined by the hurlstone marks, and thus removed, rebel bowmen could not strike the engine crews with any accuracy.  The trebuchet crews no longer needed their tall oak barricades which still fronted the engine, though each man still prudently wore his hauberk.

"That wall will not stand the day out," shouted the engine master proudly.  He was a heavy set man in his forties, bright eyed, and judging from his manner of movement, possessed of copious reserves of energy.  He enjoyed his work.  He crossed over to the knights and said, "I have sent word to the king of such.  Stand you well and you will see a fall of stone not seen since Jericho!  If luck with ye, ye be in the swell of knights to rush the breach!  Those men-a-wall will have a mighty run to the keep ere you fellows fell them with axe!"  The master's eyes shone brightly.  Clearly, he envied the knights their chance to cleave a rebel.

Thomas grinned.  He felt his blood stir.  His axe hung in it is loop, heavy and waiting.

"Yes," said the captain, as if answering a question, "the king had every smith in Canterbury working on these engines.  Day and night.  I daresay no one but the deaf slept in that old town for a fortnight!  Now, this wall is a good one, but we have sapped it readily enough, what say five engines dawn to dusk and some at night for nigh on two days now.  The wall is all show now.  A breeze can blow it down.  Listen!  The engines have stopped.  We wait the pleasure of John to loose the breach!"

Thomas and Cyril nodded in unison, their eyes on the wall.  There was activity on the parapet.  A hasty decision was being made by the defenders.  Stay and defend the outer ward or flee to the keep?  The decision would be made for them once the trebuchets began hurling again, and better strategy abets a choice rather than a rout.  Behind heavy shields, one man leaned out beyond the crenellations to survey the damage.  Crossbow bolts nicked into the stone around him, but only one struck the shield.  Abruptly, he pulled himself behind the protective stonework.  At this moment, he probably ran to report the condition of the wall.  No doubt he was frightened.

The trebuchet captain continued without pause, happy to discuss siege strategy with interested knights.  "Once we open the gates, into the ward go these machines.  That old tower inside is thick walled, though.  It will not go down by trebuchet alone, of that you can be sure.  The sappers are ready to mine the south tower.  You can see their camp over there."  He pointed to several rough lean-tos covered with canvas.  Digging tools were conspicuous among the men milling around inside.  "Now, mining cannot match these big engines for beauty, but it works quick enough if done right.  You watch and see!"

Thomas nodded to the trebuchet captain and remounted his horse.  Some of the other engines were still loading stones, but the horses had become used to the motion and noise.  Clearly, activity around the trebuchets was diminishing.

"I would like to see the mercenary camp," said Cyril.  "Before the fight begins."

Thomas made a quizzical face.

Robert Stoll, the amiable knight from Stephen's mesnie, simply stood into his stirrup and swung his leg over the back of his horse.  The other two looked at him.  He answered them with an expression of acquiescence.  He announced he was game for anything and that what they did concerned him little.

Cyril continued his argument for visiting the foreigners.  "I have always heard of these men from the continent.  Their fighting skill is great, though I have heard they behave like barbarians.  Are you not curious?  You heard the king.  They are here from all over.  Where else could you go to see so many foreign fighting men except on Crusade?"

Smiling, Thomas said, "Well, that is some recommendation for getting into trouble.  Let us hope these foreign fellows are peaceable.  Though I would like to fight one to test his skill, I would not relish explaining my efforts to the lord."

"No," said Cyril, mounting his horse.  "We are simple travelers, not jousters!"

Thomas nudged his horse with his heels, and tossed a salute to the trebuchet captain.  The three knights reined their destriers toward the western side of the camp, where strange banners fluttered.  Though always the one in front, Thomas, like all good leaders, simply translated the wishes of his followers into motion and direction.  He felt conscious of the position, warmed by the comradeship, comfortable.  One day, he would, perhaps, become a banneret, unless fortune should present better accommodations.  Before leaving the thought entirely, he reflected that James Beaumont had the same aspirations, but that his leadership was flawed by an inability to gauge the wishes of those around him.  Or perhaps, the problem consisted of simple lack of concern.