THE THIRD DAY OF the siege began well for the besiegers, with the arrival of the Bishop of Durham, bearing the good news that the garrison of Tickhill had surrendered upon hearing that the king had returned. The mangonels were ready by noon and they were soon bombarding the castle, sending up clouds of dust and rubble whenever they made a direct hit. As he’d done at Acre, Richard established eight-hour shifts so the siege engines would be operating day and night, giving the besieged no surcease. Word had already spread through the camp about the Greek fire and Richard’s men were keenly disappointed when he said they would not use it just yet. They found some consolation in watching the rocks rain down upon the castle, though, and amused themselves by shouting jeers and insults at the men enduring the onslaught.
Richard was having dinner with the earls and prelates, keeping a hawk’s eye upon Geoff and Longchamp, both of whom detested the Bishop of Durham, a wolf in sheep’s garb, for his ambitions were very much of this world. He was holding forth at length about the successful conclusion of the Tickhill siege, but Richard was willing to indulge him—at least for a while. Servants had just begun to ladle out their Lenten fish stew when one of Randolph of Chester’s knights entered with word that William de Wendeval was asking for a safe conduct for two of the garrison to enter the camp and see for themselves if the king had truly returned.
It was not long afterward when two obviously nervous men were ushered into the command headquarters. “I am Sir Fouchier de Grendon,” one said hoarsely, “and this is Henry Russell. We’ve come to see the king.”
Richard rose to his feet, moving into the light. “Well? What do you think?”
There was no need for them to reply, for they were already on their knees, so stupefied that the watching men burst out laughing. Richard waved them to their feet and cut off their incoherent stammering by raising his hand. “Go back to the castle,” he said, “and tell them that time is running out. I will show mercy to those who yield now, but those who continue to hold out will suffer the fate that all traitors and rebels deserve.”
Several hours later, Richard accepted the surrender of William de Wendeval and thirteen of his knights. The rest of the garrison were not yet ready to yield, but after another night of heavy bombardment by Richard’s mangonels, they accepted an offer by the Archbishop of Canterbury to discuss terms, and upon being assured that their lives would be spared, they, too, agreed to place themselves at the king’s mercy. The three-day siege of Nottingham was over and, with it, John’s rebellion.
ANDRé FOUND THE SURRENDER of the last die-hard defenders very entertaining. “What will you do with them?” he asked. “If you hanged a few, that might cheer up all the men so let down at not seeing the castle turned into a Greek-fire inferno.”
“Actually, I’m glad that I did not have to use it, for Nottingham is a royal castle and I’d have to pay the cost of rebuilding it. We’ll demand ransoms from their leaders and impose fines on the others.”
“Well, if you insist upon being practical about it.” André unhooked a wineskin from his belt and raised it in a salute to the red-and-gold banner now flying over the castle. “Not a bad beginning, my lord king, not bad at all.”
Richard followed his gesture, his eyes lingering on that royal lion fluttering in the wind. “I agree,” he said. “It is just a beginning, though, and we cannot forget that.” Then he smiled. “But the worst is over now, and I thank God for that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MARCH 1194
Nottingham Castle, England
Richard’s lashes flickered as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was frigid, dark, and windowless, lit only by a small oil lamp. His head was throbbing and he tasted blood in his mouth. He had another merciful moment of hazy confusion, and then he remembered. This was an underground dungeon in the Louvre, the French king’s Paris stronghold.