Fitzjohn

[Axeknight]

Part four: Burning bridges

“Halt!” Fitzjohn called. The cavalrymen stopped. “The border forts.” The forts could not be seen from the path, but Fitzjohn knew where they were. If the forts were three miles away, that put the border three and half miles along the path. He would have to suppress the French forts on the other side of the border before he could march on
Toulouse. “Langland, halt the infantry a mile from the border. We shall press on and take the French forts.”
“Sir.” Langland wheeled his horse, and headed back down the path towards the infantrymen. Fitzjohn took his bodyguard forward.

They reached the first line of forts a few hours later. This was the English line, and Fitzjohn went into the nearest tower. The ground floor split off into three rooms, with a staircase on the immediate left. One would be the armoury; the other two would be sleeping quarters. Fitzjohn thought of the solitary life the border guardsmen lived. He almost envied them. He walked up the stairs, which instead of being spiralled, turned right at right angles every five steps, so as to make a square staircase. This made every corner a choke point for attackers; something he hoped the French did not do with their forts. He found the garrison commander on the roof of the fort, along with two other guards. He was a tallish man with dark brown hair rather like Fitzjohn’s, and a broken nose.
“Duke Fitzjohn, Sir. Fort garrison commander Fitzwilliam, Sir.” Said the commander,
“A pleasure. Now, what of Frenchy’s forts?” Fitzjohn was not one for niceties.
“Have not seen much from them, Sir. Oddly quiet.” Fitzwilliam shook his head.
“Hmm… I shall tread carefully. My thanks, Fitzwilliam.”

The best way to do this…Damned if I know. Rush them? Surprise won’t be on my side; their spies will have sent word by now. But what other choice do I have? If I send the infantry, they’ll suffer losses. Which I don’t need before I move on Toulouse. We’ll get there faster by horse. And the faster we get there, the fewer crossbow bolts they can kill us with. Fitzjohn hated border forts. Once, when he was his father’s squire in the Holy lands, he had seen a group of twenty knights storm one such fort, only to find it empty. The first knight had walked not three steps away from the abandoned structure when Turkic sappers detonated a mine, killing all of the unfortunate cavalrymen. He had heard the ‘crumbling staircase’ stories and listened to accounts of the ‘crossbow butler’, an ingenious method of connecting a crossbow trigger to the hinge of a door with steel wire, so that the person who first opened the door was welcomed by ‘the crossbow butler’, who took more than your coat. But at least one fort had to be taken, or the army could not pass through.

Fitzjohn remounted his horse, Copenhagen, briefly remembering the time when his father had taken him to the Danish city. The breeder there got horses all the way from Spain, and bred the toughest horses short of the steppes. Unlike most nobles, who rode different horses for battle and campaign marches, Fitzjohn rode Copenhagen everywhere. He was a tough old bay, and Fitzjohn needed the other horse for Langland, anyway. Langland was a squire, and so should have marched on foot, but Fitzjohn felt it necessary that he be mounted. Once he got his knighthood, Fitzjohn would make Langland his provincial marshal. I will need to invent the post first, though…he mused, riding towards the nearest fort.

Fitzjohn and his twenty picked cavalry bodyguards were at the bottom of the hill on which the fort was situated. They still had not been shot at, and Fitzjohn was worried. He led Copenhagen into a trot, scanning the hillside for traps and ambushes. The path began to wind, and Fitzjohn tried to look over the hedges to either side for enemy soldiers. The fort was close now, and Fitzjohn involuntarily held his breath as he began to canter. They were well within killing range for a crossbow now, yet still nothing from the imposing structure. Why? Damn them Those bolts that tore straight through chainmail, and if the defenders were good, they would fire as a volley, almost certainly cutting him down, as he was at least four feet ahead of the others. No sense in dying at a canter. Fitzjohn turned the breath he had been holding in to a roar, and began to gallop.

Fifty paces. Forty. Thirty. The defenders were not firing. Twenty. Ten paces, five paces, and safety. He was underneath the arrow slits. Why didn’t they fire? Fitzjohn dismounted. His bodyguards did the same.
“Half of you stay outside. The other half, with me.” He drew his broadsword, holding it double-handed in the absence of his shield. I should start to bring it on the march. What good is it in the baggage train? Fitzjohn rode light on the march, in case of ambush. A heavy lance wasn’t much good when dismounted on a narrow, stony path. Neither was horse barding.

The door was on the other side. Fitzjohn, with a thought to the butler, kicked the door down, and pressed against the wall. Nothing. He used his sword as a mirror to look through the door. The butler wasn’t home. He walked through the doorway, first running his sword around the edge of the doorframe to check for loose stones or the like. His men fanned out behind him. The fort was similar to the English ones, three rooms and a square staircase.
“You, at the door. Three in that room” he pointed to the first room on the right, “Three in the next room, and three in the one on the left. Go” the cavalrymen checked the rooms, and Fitzjohn stood at the bottom of the staircase. One by one the men shouted that their rooms were clear. Fitzjohn called outside, “Five more men inside One man guard the horses, and the other four at the door.” The fifteen cavalrymen gathered in the hallway. Fitzjohn began to climb.

It took a long time, as Fitzjohn stamped each step before putting his weight on it. But it was already obvious the fort was abandoned. There was no one on the roof. Fitzjohn sent a cavalryman to inform Langland he could resume the march. Toulouse had been left wide open.

“Right, lads. We’re off.” The squire shouted from the head of the column. Ross and Style, who had just got comfortable, groaned.
“Come on laddy. #You heard what little Langly said.” The two spearmen took their places in the column. The drumbeats started. Ross hummed in time as the men began to march. Style turned to Ross,
“Rob?” he asked
“Yes, lad?”
“Why you in this army anyways? Ain’t Scotland got it’s own king?”
“Alexander the third, lad. But I’m ‘ere because Henry the second, Englishman though he may be, pays a quarter piece extra a week. ‘Sides, lad, you English need at least one soldier ‘can fight his way out of a wet cloth bag.” Ross grinned.

The road had been empty. Not even a peddler with a handcart had passed the marching army along the road. The town militia had surrendered their arms, and now Fitzjohn was trying to arrange rooms for himself and Langland. Most of the soldiers were in the stables.
“Two rooms. Ten pieces.” Fitzjohn spoke very slowly to the innkeeper.
“Pardon, monsieur?” the innkeeper asked with a Gallic shrug.
“Deux chambers. Dix piéces.” Fitzjohn repeated angrily in French, slamming the coins on the table for effect. The innkeeper nodded, took the coins, and handed two keys over.
“Le deuxiéme et le troisiéme chambres á gauche. Deux biéres?”
“Non, merci.” Fitzjohn had looked at the colour of the beers, and decided against them. He turned to Langland.
“I am the second room on the left, you are the third.”
“I must pay you for my room, Sir.” Langland said. Fitzjohn grinned.
“Keep your gold for your wedding, Langland. You will need it all!”

Three days later, and Fitzjohn’s army had still not seen the enemy. Each morning, the Duke would send out cavalry patrols, and each day they would come back without a sighting. It was after one such patrol had come back to Toulouse without sighting that a fast rider arrived in the main plaza looking as though he was about to collapse. Fitzjohn was sat at a small table with Langland, drawing tactics on the dusty tabletop, when he saw the man. The rider hurried over to him, touched his helm, dropped a scrawled note on the table, touched his helm again, and rode off.


# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #Bordeaux castle

Cousin,
You must come at once. The deceitful Spanish have attacked! A mere raiding force, but I am in need of your help. Please, cousin, forget our troubles for now and come to my aid.

William


“Damn him! God damn his eyes!” Fitzjohn thumped the table. “Langland, assemble my bodyguard.”

The river Garonne stretches from the Pyrenees to the Bay of Biscay, and Fitzjohn followed it downstream for two days before he got near to the bridge. The path briefly strayed from the river before getting to the bridge, and the Duke and his men were within half a mile from the bridge before they saw what had happened.
“Good God. It’s on fire, Sir.” One of the cavalrymen said in disbelief. The bridge was burning, the wood supports consumed by the fire until they broke and were swallowed by the Garonne. As they watched, one of the four main supports broke and a section of the bridge fell into the river. Fitzjohn hurried them forward towards the rapidly sinking bridge, broadsword drawn. As they got closer, Fitzjohn saw the hay bales piled onto the bridge and around the supports. A voice came from behind a hedge.
“Ironic, wouldn’t you say, dear cousin?” William said, leaping over the hedge.
“Cousin William, what is this?”
“Would you say it was witty, Hugh? Would you say it was ironic, Hugh? Would you say it was funny, Hugh?” William looked pleased with himself.
“What was funny? Where are the Spanish? Answer me, damn your jesting!” Fitzjohn did not understand.
“There are no Spanish raiders. I think it is very funny, actually.”
“What is? Damn your eyes, cousin!”
“The bridge burning. I have stopped you by burning the bridge. And by stopping you here, I am in fact burning a bridge, albeit a metaphorical one.”
“I still do not understand, William!” At that moment, the hedgerow seemed to jump as fifty crossbowmen dressed in French livery leapt up from behind, their crossbows loaded and aimed at Fitzjohn’s men. “Traitor!” Fitzjohn spat. William began to laugh.
“You see! Burning a bridge to burn a bridge! Ha, ha ha!” William laughed, before adding, “Your men may go. My quarrel is with you, cousin Hugh.”
“Go. Go now, warn Langland!” Fitzjohn shouted. His men wavered. They did not wish to leave the Duke here. “Go Warn the army!” repeated the Duke, and his men turned and left.

Count William took Fitzjohn further downstream, to a small jetty where there was a raft. They crossed, leaving the crossbowmen on the other side. The soldiers could still shoot Fitzjohn, he knew, even from the other side. His cousin had let him keep his sword and horse. Once they were no longer within earshot (though still within bowshot) of the soldiers, William spoke.
“Firstly, Cousin, this has nothing to do with our discussion in Bordeaux. This is not a petty personal agenda, this is not revenge. This is mere, how should I say,” he searched for the word, “tactics. A tactical advantage for my new King’s soldiers.” Fitzjohn spat at the mention of his cousin’s changed loyalties.
“You disgrace the name of Fitzjohn, cousin.”
“I disgrace the name of a man dead for one hundred years, whose name is taken by each line of his descendants so that they can bask in his reflected glory? Every time a direct descendant is born, your family name him Fitzjohn. Son of the great John de Saint Jean de Luz. Ha! It is pathetic.”
“Do not insult his name!” Fitzjohn drew the first inch of his sword.
“Not a wise course, my cousin.” William gestured across the river to where all fifty crossbowmen had their weapons aimed at Fitzjohn. The Duke took his hand off the sword.
“A tactical advantage, traitor?”
“Ha! The name traitor means nothing to me. The French King was very generous. Two hundred gold pieces! #And I can rejoin the armies of King Henry when I am done. Two hundred pieces just for this!”
“For what?”
“For taking you away from your army while the French ambush it.” Fitzjohn stared at William with a look of disbelief.
“Ambush? My God, you villain! God damn your treacherous eyes, William! God damn you to hell!” He resisted the urge to lunge at his traitorous cousin.
“And afterwards, I can go back to the army, with nothing to prove I was ever away from your castle.”
“Except my word.”
“Except the word of a defeated general, desperately seeking to blame someone for his shame. If you survive the ambush, that is. No, there is nothing to prove any of this happened. So I am letting you go. Take the raft across, ride back to your army. You cannot reach them in time to stop the attack, but you can die with your men at least. Go, cousin Go to your death and my fortune" Ha, ha ha!” And with that William Fitzjohn rode away, back to his cousin’s castle, a very rich man. But not for long, vowed Fitzjohn, not for long.