The Iron Castle (Outlaw Chronicles) by Angus Donald

the duchy. It was an almost impregnable stronghold – as I knew well, for I had been Château Gaillard’s castellan for a few months some years previously. King Richard had lavished much labour and many riches upon it and, as well as choosing the perfect position high on a crag overlooking the Seine valley, he had designed layer upon layer of defences that would keep even the most determined aggressor at bay. He and Philip had traded words and worse over its construction. The King of France boasted that he could take it, if he so wished, even if its walls were made of iron; King Richard retorted that he could defend it, even if its walls were made of butter. And, it was true, Philip’s army might capture a lonely fort or two along the borderlands, but they did not dare to attack Château Gaillard – the Iron Castle.
    I had not realised how far my spirits had been pressed down by the monotony of life in the Falaise garrison until one day in the middle of July. I was waiting in the great hall to report to Lord de Burgh about a routine patrol out to the Brittany border. I had been served a cup of wine and was waiting for the attention of the castellan, who was busy with his bailiff, when there was a flurry of activity as Sir Benedict Malet clattered up the stairs calling shrilly, ‘My lord, my lord!’ He burst into the hall, followed by two burly sergeants hauling on the arms of a terrified fellow in tattered leather armour, who was clearly their prisoner.
    ‘I have come to report a severe case of insubordination, my lord,’ said Benedict.
    ‘Yes?’ Lord de Burgh looked up from the parchment he had been poring over.
    ‘This fellow has been grossly insolent. He insulted me!’
    ‘How so?’ De Burgh seemed irritated by the interruption.
    ‘He … he…’ I saw that Benedict was blushing and reluctant to speak.
    ‘Speak up, Benedict. Don’t waste my time.’
    ‘He made mock of me in front of his fellow men-at-arms.’
    ‘What exactly did he say? Come on, spit it out, man.’
    ‘He called me … he called me “Sir Eats-a-lot” and made noises like a … like a giant pig feeding. I happened to be passing by the barracks when he and his fellows were drinking ale and heard this disgraceful insolence with my own ears. I want him punished, my lord, severely punished. I won’t have my own men laughing at me.’
    I was trying not to laugh myself. I took a deep swig of my wine.
    ‘Well, he is under your command, you have the right to punish him, if you truly think his crime merits it.’
    At that moment a loud snort of laughter escaped me that, most unfortunately, might have been interpreted as the noise a hog makes at the trough. Sir Eats-a-lot looked over at me, his eyes murderous, his face flushed a purplish red.
    ‘You have something to say, sell-sword?’ Benedict stared at me like a madman.
    ‘Oh no, Sir Benedict, it is just that
this wine
went down the wrong pipe.’
    ‘The swine? You mock me too!’ He took a step towards me, hand on hilt.
    ‘Peace, Benedict, peace,’ said de Burgh. ‘Sir Alan meant no insult. Did you?’
    ‘No, indeed, my lord,’ I said, my face a mask of solemnity.
    ‘Very well,’ said de Burgh. ‘Benedict, I suggest you give your funny-man his punishment and allow me to return to my labours.’
    Benedict was still glaring at me. He half-turned away towards the prisoner.
    ‘I will teach you to laugh at your betters,’ he said, and I was not entirely sure if he was speaking to me or his wretched man-at-arms. Then he said, curtly, ‘Day after tomorrow. At dawn. Nose slit, tongue cut off, ears cropped, and after his just punishment, he is to be expelled from the garrison without pay. Take him to the cells to think about his insolence – and the reward it has brought him.’
    The prisoner gave a moan of absolute horror, before the guards dragged him from the hall, and I heard his desperate shouts echoing up the stairwell long after he and his two captors had