In many ways, Richard’s attack was a classic of its kind and amply demonstrated my King’s mastery of all the arts of war. After one very hard day’s travel, with all the men-at-arms and servants ordered to assist in pushing the great siege engines along the dusty road that ran for a goodly way beside the Indre directly from Tours to Loches, and knights galloping up and down the column urging on the sluggards, Richard had his entire force of more than a thousand men encamped outside the walls, a little to the north of the castle, by dusk.
The French garrison continued to defy us, of course. And the next day, in the weak pink light of early morning, when the heralds had reported to the King the castle’s bold refusal to surrender, the bombardment by the massive ‘castle-breakers’ began.
Robin and I were with the King on a slight rise about a quarter of a mile to the north of the castle. Robin had not yet forgiven me for questioning his ruthless mulcting of the merchants of Tours, and he barely spoke to me as the sun climbed into the sky to herald a glorious June day. I sat astride Shaitan, stroking his glossy black neck, and a tiny, cowardly part of me was grateful that I would not, unless something went badly wrong, be engaging in the brutal, slogging fight that the day promised. On the far side of the King, on a huge white stallion, sat William the Marshal. That well-seasoned warrior had begged leave to storm the first breach in the curtain wall, claiming that it was his right – but the King had merely thanked him for his zeal and said calmly: ‘This is work for Mercadier’s men. They know their business well and today they shall demonstrate that they are worthy of their hire.’
‘I must insist, sire, that you give me and my men the honour of making the first assault,’ the Marshal had growled, glaring at the King like a hungry mastiff that had had a juicy bone stolen from between its jaws.
‘No, William, I said no.’ Richard seemed a little irritated that his orders were being questioned. ‘It will be very hot, hard, bloody work, and I want Mercadier’s ruffians to bear the brunt of it. Once they have taken the outer wall, your men can tackle the keep. Will that satisfy you, you old gore-guzzler?’
The Marshal had merely grunted his assent.
Beyond the bellicose Earl of Striguil sat the Navarrese captain in earnest discussion with Sir Aymeric de St Maur, a Templar knight, who with another of his Order, Sir Eustace de la Falaise, commanded half a dozen black-clad Templar sergeants. Sir Aymeric was an old adversary of mine and Robin’s, with whom we were now publicly reconciled. He was a pious man and a renowned warrior, a serious, impressive fellow, and yet I could not respect him – this knight had tried to have Robin burnt as a heretic the year before, and had threatened me with dire torture. We had both evaded his malice and Robin had made an arrangement with the Templars – conceding his lucrative frankincense business to them to keep the peace. And so we were reconciled, although it could not be said that we were bosom friends. The Templars would not be taking part in any fighting during this campaign – it was contrary to their vows to fight their fellow Christians without a direct order from their Grand Master or the Pope himself. They were here as observers, to report the events back to the Master of their Order in London, and ostensibly to urge Richard to make peace with his fellow Christian monarch, Philip Augustus.
As I looked along the line of knights that flanked the King, I was struck by the noble profiles of the men as they gazed out over the castle, and I noticed a curious thing: every man had had himself shaved that morning in preparation for the battle – apart from the Templars, of course, who as was their custom sported neatly trimmed beards. I felt my own lightly stubbled chin, and silently cursed myself for not thinking of having Thomas do the same for me. I felt untidy, and so a little angry with myself. As I had been so recently dubbed, I did not want to stand out from the other knights, or to look foolish or unkempt or peasant-like in any way. But my stubble was light and fair, and I persuaded myself that nobody would notice.
Richard had divided his heavy artillery in two unequal halves: the weaker company – six big siege engines, mangonels and trebuchets, and half a dozen smaller onagers and balistes, manned by engineers and experts in this type of weapon – was on the left of our position, east of the main road and near the banks of the River Indre. Their objective was to reduce the outer wall, to knock a gap at least twenty foot wide between the main gate and the first strong tower on the east of the castle wall. The second, stronger artillery company – consisting of ten thirty-foot-tall ‘castle-breakers’ – was placed on the right of the main road, to the west, and they had the more difficult task of pitching their missiles in a long arc over the outer wall to batter at the north-western corner of the massive keep.