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coat and helmet, but carried no shield. ‘The levers,’ he shouted, ‘the levers!’ He had hoped this would not happen, but the French were ready for it, and a group of men equipped with stout oak poles ran to the trapped side of the tower where they placed anvil-like blocks of timber that would be used as fulcrums so that the levers could lift the left-hand side of the tower and allow it to be shoved on. Other men brought buckets of stones to fill the hole so that the
rearward wheel could roll over it.
    The crossbow bolts poured down from the walls. Two, three men were down, then Geoffrey bellowed at the nearest pavise holders to bring their shields to protect the men hauling on the levers, and it all took time, and the defenders, emboldened by the stalled tower, rained down more bolts. Some Navarrese defenders were hit by the French crossbow bolts, but only a few, as the garrison ducked behind their stone merlons to rewind their bows. Geoffrey de Charny seemed to have a charmed life because he was not protected by any shield and though the bolts seared close to him none struck as he organised the men who would thrust down on the great oak levers to free the tower. ‘Now!’ he called, and men tried to lift the monstrous tower with the long oak poles.
    And the first fire arrow streaked from the castle.
    It was a crossbow bolt, wrapped with kindling that was protected by a leather skirt, and the kindling was soaked in pitch that left a black wavering trail of smoke as the bolt streaked from the rampart and thumped into the lower part of the tower. The flame flickered briefly, then went out, but a dozen more fire arrows followed.
    ‘Water! Water!’ Roland de Verrec called. There were already some leather pails of water on the top platform, and the lurching tower had spilt much of it, but Roland’s men tipped what was left over the top of the drawbridge so that it cascaded down the tower’s front face to soak the already wet hides. More and more fire arrows were thumping home so that the front of the tower smoked in a score of places, but the smoke came only from burning arrows. So far the dampened hides were protecting the tower.
    ‘Heave!’ Geoffrey de Charny shouted, and the men on the levers hauled down, and the levers bent, and the tower creaked, then one of the levers snapped, sending a half-dozen men sprawling. ‘Bring another pole!’
    It took five minutes for another pole to be fetched, then the men hauled down again and the peasants were told to shove forward at the same time, and some men-at-arms ran to help the peasants. Crossbow bolts came thick. More fire arrows were shot, this time at the right-hand side of the tower, and one struck under the edge of a hide and lodged in the oak sheathing. No one saw it. It burned there, the flames creeping up into the space between the hides and the planks, hidden by the leather, and though smoke seeped from beneath the stiff leather sheets, there was so much other smoke that it went undetected.
    Then the Navarrese crossbowmen changed their tactics. Some kept shooting the fire arrows, and some, from the slits in the walls, aimed at the men clustered by the left side of the tower, while the rest aimed their crossbows high in the air so that the bolts screamed into the sky, hung there an instant, then plummeted down onto the tower’s open platform. Most of the bolts missed. Some struck the men waiting to heave on the poles, but a few crashed down onto the platform, and Roland, fearing that his men would be killed, ordered them to hold up their shields, but then they could not pour the water that had started to arrive in leather pails. The tower was jerking now as some men levered at the side and others shoved at the back. There was a smell of burning.
    ‘Pull it back!’ the Lord of Douglas advised Geoffrey de Charny. A crossbow bolt slammed down to bury itself in the turf at the Scotsman’s feet and he kicked it irritably. The drums were beating still, the trumpets were tangling their notes, the defenders were shouting at the French, who heaved again at the levers and shoved again at the tower that would not move, and it was now that the Navarrese defenders unveiled their last weapon.
    It was a springald, an oversized crossbow, which had been mounted on the wall and was drawn back by four men cranking on metal handles. It shot a quarrel fully three feet long and as thick about as a man’s wrist, and the garrison had chosen to keep it hidden until the