Warlord(12)

An old stable block against the eastern wall had been converted into an infirmary and I could see through its open doors that the straw-strewn floor was covered with wounded men. A priest was kneeling beside one and giving him the last rites. My eye lingered on the priest for a moment, then I continued to survey the interior of the castle. Over on the western side was an old chapel and in the graveyard outside it I could see row upon row of newly dug graves. The sour scent of charred wood, fear-sweat and human and animal waste hung in the air, overlaid with a strong whiff of pus and rotting flesh – it was a particular combination of foul odours that I had smelled before.

It was the smell of defeat.

I had been expecting a garrison of a hundred men, or maybe more but I could see only a score of local men-at-arms on their feet who were not wearing one of the dark green cloaks that marked out Robin’s fellows. As it turned out, the full, unwounded strength of Verneuil, including our newly arrived troops, now numbered little more than a hundred and twenty men in total. Given the vast numerical superiority of the French, any determined attack might overwhelm us. I looked around at the courtyard, my heart in my boots, and asked Sir Aubrey what he planned to do if Philip’s men got over the walls. He gave a grimace but no reply, merely inclining his head towards the biggest structure in the courtyard.

In the centre of the castle was a square stone tower – the keep, the dungeon, the final redoubt. It stood on a slight rise, though not much of one, and climbed about thirty feet into the air. I had very little confidence in the tower as a refuge of last resort. It was not high enough, for a start, and it had already been considerably battered by Philip’s artillery. Chunks of elderly, crumbling masonry seemed to have been ripped out of the north-eastern corner leaving semicircular indentations in the line of the walls – as if a stone-eating giant had taken a couple of large bites out of the corner of the building. Even the untouched walls looked shaky, the big square stones loose in powdery mortar. I could easily imagine that a good kick from a horse, or a single wrench from a crowbar would tumble them out of their settings. And I wondered if the tower could survive even one more full trebuchet strike without collapsing in on itself.

We had no alternative: we would have to hold the outer walls against the foe; if they fell, we were doomed. It was as simple as that. Had I been Duke of Normandy, I’d have seen to it that a much higher round stone tower was built as the core of this castle – the rounded walls allowing the missiles of an enemy to slide off more easily like water from a duck’s back. I’d have built a keep, a stronghold that would stand for a thousand years.

Nonetheless, as Sir Aubrey and I climbed the rickety wooden stairs inside the building that led to the flat roof of the tower, I realized that, for all its obvious shortcomings, in the flat country around Verneuil it did give a commander an excellent vantage point from which to watch the enemy. As we stood there enjoying the cool breath of a spring breeze, I saw that my squire Thomas had caused Robin’s wolf’s head standard to be raised next to King Richard’s golden lions. I smiled at the sight and then frowned as I looked out over the enemy dispositions. Our bloody charge through the French camp had stirred up a storm of activity among our foes; servants were bustling, knights were riding to and fro along the edges of the camp with a purposeful air. The centre of this tempest was the big white gilded royal tent, where the fleur-de-lys fluttered proudly. Men in armour dashed in and out of the tent, leaping on horses as they emerged and galloping off to deliver orders. I could see that companies of men-at-arms were being formed up and horsemen and their grooms were preparing their mounts for battle. The area around the trebuchets was like a hive of bees in high summer. My heart was sinking as I turned my eyes heavenwards: the sun shone merrily down on us mortal men from the very top of the sky.

‘They are going to come at us this afternoon with everything they can readily muster,’ I said quietly to my companion.

‘I know it. Can we hold them off?’ Sir Aubrey looked at me, and I noticed how tired the man was; he had been defending this position, against impossible odds, for more than a week now. I doubted he had shut his eyes once in that entire time.

I smiled confidently and clapped him on the shoulder: ‘I believe we can, Sir Aubrey, I believe we can – and if God wills otherwise, we shall make such a good bloody fight of it that our courage and defiance shall live for ever in the memories of brave men.’


I divided the bowmen into two groups of about twenty men under a vintenar, an experienced archer who would act as their commander, and posted them at the towers in the north-eastern and north-western corners of the castle on either side of the gate-house. Mercifully, the packhorses had made it through the French lines without mishap, and we had plenty of spare arrows. From the archer’s enfilade positions they could rain lethal shafts down on anyone approaching the front gate, and also each group could defend against attack on the side walls to the east and west.