Richard maimed the first man to challenge him, the downward sweep of his blade taking his foe’s arm off at the elbow. Since regaining his freedom, he’d occasionally worried that his skills might have become rusty from all that time in captivity, but he found now that his body and brain still functioned in lethal harmony, his instincts and reflexes as sharp as ever. Feeling like an exile who’d finally come home, he wielded his sword with such ferocity that he left a trail of bodies in his wake and his men were hard-pressed to stay at his side.
Hand-to-hand fighting was always bloody and it was particularly vicious as Richard and his men cut and slashed and pounded their way toward the barbican, his soldiers inspired by his example and the rebels showing the desperate courage of the cornered. Their crossbowmen could no longer shoot down into the mêlée, unable to distinguish the enemy from their own, and that freed Richard’s arbalesters to launch their own offensive. Whenever a man dared to pop up in an embrasure to aim at the attackers, he was targeted with such deadly accuracy that they soon cleared the walls. Those watching from the windows of the tower keep realized with horror that the castle’s fate hung in the balance.
What saved them was the coming of dark. The tide of battle had turned in the favor of the attackers, and the defenders were being inexorably forced back toward the barbican. Some men bravely held their ground to allow the others to retreat into the middle bailey, but that meant the fleeing soldiers could not raise the barbican drawbridge without trapping their comrades, and the fiercest combat of the day happened in the constricted space of the barbican. By the time the king’s men had secured it, the sun had set and dusk was chasing away the last of the light.
The bailey was strewn with the wounded and the dead. Once they’d tended to the injured, retrieved the bodies, and put their prisoners under guard, it was full dark. They were exhausted, bloodied, and jubilant, theirs the intoxicating survivor’s joy of men who’d triumphed over their enemies and over Death. They knew the worst still lay ahead, for even though they now controlled the outer bailey, the rebels were ensconced on high ground behind sturdy stone walls. But for tonight, they wanted only to savor the day’s victory, none more than Richard.
THE NEXT MORNING, Richard held a council of war and told them that he wanted to build mangonels and petraries, saying they’d not launch any more attacks upon the castle until the siege engines were completed and positioned. That was met with unanimous agreement, for none of them were eager to assault those formidable stone walls, and the Earl of Chester volunteered to send men out to a local quarry to search for suitable stones.
“Good. We’ll be throwing more than stones, though. How would you all like to see a demonstration of Greek fire?”
That simple sentence created a sensation. All of them knew of Greek fire, of course. The stories told of this eastern incendiary weapon had become the stuff of legend in the west. It was said that it could be extinguished only by sand or urine, that it burned on water, that its use was accompanied by thunder and black smoke. But aside from André and Will Marshal, none of the men had been to the Holy Land, so they’d never seen it for themselves. They bombarded Richard with questions, wanting to know what it was composed of, how long it would burn, how it was delivered, if it had ever been used in Christendom ere this.
Richard abandoned his feigned nonchalance and smiled, pleased by their excited reaction. “The Greeks have always kept its elements secret, but the Saracens use a variation that works just as well. They make it from pine resin, naphtha, and sulphur. Once we have the mangonels built, we’ll mix it up and pour it into jars. We can also wrap caltrops in tow and soak them in it. And yes, we’ll be the first to use it in England, although I was told my grandfather used it during one of his sieges in Anjou.”
The Greek fire dominated the conversation after that. When André described it as looking like a fiery whirlwind, they were even more eager to see it in action. Richard’s uncle Hamelin suggested they stop wasting time and find carpenters in the town so they could start building the mangonels straightaway, and they were impressed when Richard said that was not necessary, for he’d brought carpenters with him.
“There is something else I want them to build,” Richard said once they fell silent. “A gallows.” They exchanged glances and nodded approvingly, for that would be a useful lesson for the castle defenders, reminding them what befell the garrison when a castle refused to surrender and was taken by storm.
A GALLOWS WAS ERECTED on the hill north of the castle, and several of the sergeants taken prisoner the day before were hanged, as the garrison watched their death throes from the battlements. It had the desired result, and the trapped men began to argue among themselves, many of them losing heart for continued resistance.