The castellan had done the best he could, but his men were already spooked by Henry’s abrupt, unnerving appearance in their midst, already convinced they could catch a whiff of sulphur in the air. All knew the House of Anjou could trace its descent to the Prince of Darkness himself. They knew, too, about the formidable strongholds that had fallen to Henry in the past, able to recite the names like a litany of doom. Chinon, taken from his own brother. Thouars, said to be invincible, captured in just three days. Chaumont-sur-Loire, Castillon-sur-Agen, even the great fortress at Fougeres. How could Morlaix hope to hold out against one of the Devil’s own?
Henry’s army wasted no time in storming the castle itself, seizing the momentum as he had the town. An iron-tipped bore was soon positioned at a sharp angle of the bailey wall, the men shielded behind a wooden penthouse as they turned the handles and began to drill into the masonry. A huge battering ram was wheeled forward to smash into the portcullis guarding the gatehouse entrance, and mangonels were loaded with rocks, which were then catapulted into the castle bailey. But Henry meant to take full advantage of the chaos and confusion before the garrison could recover their equilibrium, and he ordered an all-out assault. Setting fire to sacks and brush, the attackers raced for the walls through a billowing smoke screen, braced scaling ladders, and started to scramble up onto the battlements.
Had Morlaix been expecting an assault, there would have been cauldrons ready with boiling oil and water and heated pitch to throw down upon the enemy. The castellan urgently ordered fires to be kindled, but he knew time was not neutral, that it, too, served Henry Fitz Empress now.
The castellan’s pessimistic premonition was not long in proving true. The portcullis was absorbing too much punishment to hold, giving way with a shriek of tearing metal, and the ram began thrusting against the next barrier, a heavy oaken door. The bore continued to grind away at the wall, sending up clouds of dust and debris. And more and more of Henry’s men had managed to heave themselves onto the ramparts, where hand-to-hand fighting had begun. But the castle’s fate was not yet determined, not until flaming arrows streaked across the sky above the bailey and a fearful cry went up: “Greek fire!”
Few soldiers had actually seen this legendary incendiary in action, for its use was far more prevalent in the Holy Land. But all had heard of it, and all knew it was said to be well nigh impossible to extinguish, defying both water and sand, so combustible that it burned hotter than the fires of Hell itself. And it was known, too, that Henry’s father, Geoffrey of Anjou, was the one who’d introduced it to Christian combat during the siege of Montreuil-Bellay. The castellan’s hoarse, shouted denials went unheeded in the turmoil. The line of resistance wavered, then gave way. By the time the ram broke through into the bailey, Morlaix’s garrison was already in retreat.
They ran for the safety of the keep, with Henry’s soldiers in eager pursuit. Recognizing that he was fighting a battle already lost, the castellan gave the command to withdraw. He and the last of his soldiers barely made it, for someone panicked and fired the wooden stairs while they were still climbing. They had no choice but to plunge through the smoke and shooting flames, stumbling inside mere seconds before the door was slammed and bolted shut.
Morlaix’s Castellan was sitting on the steps of the dais, morosely surveying the great hall. So many rushlights and candles burned that smoke hovered overhead like a low-lying haze. Outside in the bailey, the sun still glowed in a brilliant blue September sky, but within the keep, the tightly shuttered windows had brought on an early dusk. Already the air seemed close and stale, and the siege had only lasted half a day. Henry had stopped his men from assaulting the keep, and the castellan understood perfectly why he’d done so: to give those trapped inside time to ponder their plight.
The castellan was doing just that. He lacked neither courage nor experience, had been caught in sieges before this. He knew what misery lay ahead-rationing their dwindling supply of food, praying that the keep’s well would not go dry, never knowing when the next assault might occur, hoping in vain for rescue by their liege lord, the Viscount of Leon. Some of their men might be daft enough to believe Lord Guiomar would do battle with King Henry on their behalf. The castellan was not one of them. Guiomar had a reputation for “fearing neither God nor man” but he was as self-seeking as he was ruthless. In backing his father-by-marriage, Eudo de Porhoet, he’d assumed that he had little to fear for his western, windswept domains, confident that remote Leon would be spared the brunt of Angevin wrath. Now that the Devil was on his very doorstep, he would be rapidly reassessing his options, seeking to cut his losses whilst he still could. The castellan thought it only fair that he should do likewise.
Rising to his feet, he called out for silence. “I mean to surrender the castle.” He was poised to justify his decision to the knights, if not the men-at-arms, ready to point out that Lord Guiomar had not the men to break the siege, and a garrison that held out till the bitter end forfeited any claims to mercy. But there was no need. Not a voice was raised in protest and the prevalent expression on the faces upturned to his was one of weary and profound relief.
Henry’s half-brother Hamelin was jubilant. “Morlaix was said to be the strongest of that hellspawn Guiomar’s castles. Wait till he hears how you took it with such ease, slicing through the walls as if they were made of butter!”
Henry was sorting through a sheaf of Guiomar’s captured correspondence and merely nodded absently, intent upon unrolling another sheet. He was only half-listening to Hamelin, for he shared little of his kinsman’s elation. Military victories were writ in water, as fleeting as memories, and while one might give him satisfaction or relief, it was never joy. In this case, he was pleased that Morlaix’s castellan was a sensible sort and not one of those glory-drunk fools who saw combat as the ultimate test of manhood. But he was under no illusions that Morlaix’s loss would come as any great revelation to Guiomar, another St Paul on the road to Damascus. Men of Guiomar’s ilk shed their loyalties like a snake sheds its skin. He surprised himself then by thinking suddenly of Thomas Becket.
The great hall was a scene of bustling activity. The garrison had been confined until terms could be struck for their release, and nearby the castellan waited patiently for Henry to find the time to resume his interrogation. But there were still wounded to be tended and dead to be buried, on both sides, and the village elders to be reassured that the worst was over. Henry decided to order extra rations of drink tonight for his men, recompense for his not having turned the town over to them for their sport. The villagers could thank the castellan’s common sense for their reprieve. War was a punishment for the guilty, but also a lesson for those who’d not yet strayed. A castle or town taken by storm was fair game; one that surrendered could expect kinder treatment. It was as simple as that.
Hamelin was still chattering on about the day’s events, but Henry no longer even made the pretense of listening, for he’d just discovered a letter to Guiomar from his father-in-law, Eudo de Porhoet, a letter that spoke with rash candor of a possible alliance with the de Lusignans, the most disgruntled of Eleanor’s Poitevin barons. Both Eudo and Guiomar would regret his careless failure to burn it, Henry thought grimly, setting the evidence aside for future use. Damn the de Lusignans! They were little better than bandits, using Lusignan Castle as a base for preying upon their neighbors and travelers. He would have to deal with their treachery next. He’d known about their plotting with the Count of Angouleme and other Poitevin rebels, but not that they’d been conniving with the Bretons, too.
His spurt of anger was short-lived. What he felt mainly was a bone-weary discontent, salted with a sprinkling of mocking self-pity. This expedition into Brittany had already cost him more than he was willing to pay. He’d hoped to be able to spend all of September in Normandy, wanting to bid his daughter Tilda farewell when she set off on her bridal journey with the German ambassadors. That would have been a good time, too, to make his peace with Eleanor. And then there was Rosamund, surely the most neglected royal concubine in Christendom. It would be winter ere he could find time for her, too late then to have her brave a Channel crossing.