The great hall thrummed with chatter as servants bustled to and fro. Estienne shifted on the rough wooden bench, acutely aware of his position at the far end, well away from the high table where Earl William and his family sat.
At the head of that table William himself presided, his weathered face stern. He made polite conversation with his guests, most of whom simply called him ‘the Marshal’ out of respect for his rank and reputation. Beside him was the Countess Isabel, her delicate features composed into a mask of regal serenity. To William’s left, his daughters were arranged in a line, the eldest three – Isabeau, Sybil and Joan – sitting with perfect poise, hands folded on their laps. But it was the youngest, Eva, who drew Estienne’s gaze. While her sisters were the very picture of courtly decorum, Eva fidgeted restlessly, picking at a loose thread on her kirtle, heedless of her mother’s occasional sharp looks. As if sensing his scrutiny, her eyes flicked up to meet his, gleaming with barely suppressed mischief.
Estienne looked away. Bad enough to be relegated to the end of the table, without being caught staring by Earl William’s troublesome daughter.
Further down the table sat Ilbert, studiously ignoring him. The older squire hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction since their fight in the training yard, his haughty features set in a permanent sneer of disdain. At least Goffrey was here, seated at Earl William’s right hand. He caught Estienne’s eye and offered an encouraging wink. A gesture of welcome, reminding Estienne that he was not entirely alone, but as the servers began to file in bearing the first course, he couldn’t shake the sense that he was very much a cuckoo within the Marshal’s nest.
The scent of saffron and cloves wafted through the hall as Mabil emerged from the kitchens, leading a procession of undercooks bearing the meal. They set down platters of gleaming silver, each one piled high with delicacies.
‘Pynnonade, my lord,’ Mabil announced, as a server placed a dish of spiced nuts before Earl William. ‘Followed by stewed pigeons in saffron and sour wine, and chrysanne – tench cooked in vinegar with figs.’
William inclined his head. ‘My thanks, Mabil. Your skill never fails to impress.’
The cook flushed with pleasure at the praise, bobbing a curtsey before retreating back to the kitchens. As the servers laid trenchers of dense, crusty bread before each diner, William raised a hand.
‘Let us give thanks,’ he announced, his voice carrying through the hall. ‘Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the assembled courtiers murmured, and Estienne echoed the word, a beat behind.
As the meal began in earnest, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer abundance of it all. At home, a feast meant a bit of extra salt pork in the pottage, or perhaps a scrawny capon if times were good. But this… this was opulence beyond his wildest imagining.
He glanced along the table, watching as Isabeau, Sybil and Joan delicately speared morsels of pigeon on the points of their knives, conveying them to their mouths with effortless grace. Eva, by contrast, poked at her chrysanne with a sullen expression, mashing the tender fish into an unappetising pulp.
Further down the table, an array of unfamiliar faces chattered and laughed – men and women Estienne could only assume were local barons or wealthy landowners, invited to dine at the Marshal’s expense. They paid him no mind, their attention focused solely on the delicacies before them.
Estienne focused on his own trencher, scooping up a portion of the savoury pigeon and trying not to wolf it down too quickly. It wouldn’t do to betray his constant hunger, or his lowly origins, with poor table manners, but it was hard to maintain decorum when faced with food fit for a king.
‘So, Estienne,’ Goffrey said, his voice cutting through the chatter. ‘How fares our newest squire? Are you settling in well?’
Estienne swallowed his mouthful of pigeon. ‘I… I am, thank you. Earl William has been most generous.’
The Marshal leaned forward. ‘The lad is raw as unworked iron, but he has potential. With time and tempering, he may yet make a passable knight.’
Down the table, Ilbert snorted. ‘If he lives that long.’
The words were muttered under his breath, but Estienne heard them all the same. Heat rushed to his face, part anger, part shame, but he forced himself to stay silent. It would not do to rise to Ilbert’s bait, not here in the hall under William’s eye. Instead, he focused on his food, savouring the delicate flesh of the chrysanne, the sweet-sharp burst of vinegar and figs on his tongue. He had never tasted anything so fine, and he was determined to enjoy it, even if he had to force it down past the resentment lodged in his throat.
As the meal wore on, Estienne couldn’t help but notice the subdued atmosphere at the high table. William ate with his brow furrowed as though his thoughts were far away. Isabel offered him concerned glances, but he seemed not to notice.
As the last crumbs were sopped up with hunks of bread, Goffrey pushed back his chair and stood.
‘By your leave, my lord, my lady,’ he said, bowing to the high table. ‘I’ll see the trenchers distributed to the poor outside the gates.’
William waved a hand in assent, still lost in thought. Estienne saw his chance and rose to his feet.
‘I’ll help,’ he said, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the hall.
Isabel’s eyes were on him, sharp as a hawk’s. For a moment, Estienne feared she would refuse, deeming such a task beneath a squire of her house, but then she looked to Eva, still slouched sullenly over her trencher.
‘Eva will go with you,’ she said.
Eva’s head snapped up. ‘But Mother, I—’
‘You will go,’ Isabel repeated, steel beneath the silk of her voice. ‘It is past time you learned some duty and charity.’
Eva’s jaw clenched as if biting back a retort, but a stern look from her mother quelled any defiance, and she rose from the table with ill grace, stomping over to join Estienne and Goffrey.
As they gathered up stacks of gravy-sodden trenchers, Estienne caught the flash of a smirk on Ilbert’s face. Of course the wretch would be amused by this, seeing Estienne reduced to little more than a servant. But Estienne knew there was no shame in helping those less fortunate, no matter what his fellow squire thought.
As they made their way down through the keep, trenchers stacked high in their arms, Estienne couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.
‘Goffrey,’ he said, keeping his voice low so Eva wouldn’t overhear. ‘What happened to Earl William’s eldest sons? I have only heard them spoken of in whispers.’
Goffrey’s genial face darkened. ‘They were taken hostage by King John, after Earl William defied him.’
‘Defied him? How?’
‘It’s a long tale,’ Goffrey sighed. ‘Suffice it to say, William offered sanctuary to one of the king’s enemies. A grave offence in John’s book. As punishment, he demanded Guillaume and Richard be sent to his court to safeguard their father’s loyalty.’
A chill ran down Estienne’s spine. To be torn from one’s family, held captive by a capricious king… he could scarcely imagine a worse fate.
‘Are they safe?’
Goffrey’s smile was grim. ‘As safe as any man held at King John’s whim. As long as Earl William does not defy him again, they will live. But if he were to provoke the king once more…’ He trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy in the air.
Estienne felt his heart ache for the Marshal and his family. To live under such a shadow, always fearing for the lives of those you loved… it was a burden he could scarcely fathom.
The portcullis was raised as they approached the castle gates. Beyond, a small crowd was huddled in the shadow of the barbican, their ragged clothing fluttering in the chill breeze. At the sight of Goffrey and his trencher-laden entourage, a ripple of excitement ran through the gathered poor. Hands were thrust out, eyes bright with desperate hope in gaunt, pinched faces.
Eva wrinkled her nose as they drew closer, as if affronted by the sour stench of unwashed bodies. Without ceremony, she upended her stack of trenchers into the reaching hands, scattering them like chicken feed. The peasants fell upon them, snatching up the hunks of bread, stuffing them into their mouths as if they feared they might be snatched back at any moment.
Estienne approached more slowly, meeting the eyes of each man, woman and child as he carefully placed a trencher in their outstretched palms. He wished he had more to give them than just stale bread and cold gravy. He wished…
His thoughts were shattered by a wet slap, as one of Eva’s few remaining trenchers smacked against the back of his head. Something slick and slimy ran down his neck, as Eva’s mocking laughter rang out behind him.
‘There you go, Ser Squire,’ she called, dancing backwards as he wheeled to face her. ‘Do you like your new hat?’
And with that, she turned tail and bolted, her giggles trailing behind her. Estienne stood frozen, gravy dripping from his hair, his face burning with humiliation. Slowly he dragged the sopping trencher from his head and handed it to another needy hand.
As they trudged back to the keep, Goffrey offered a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t think too much on that, lad. Little girls will be little girls. It probably means she likes you.’
‘Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing.’
‘No matter. You’ll have more important things to think on soon enough. Your training has only just begun. And if you’re to be a knight, there’s a code to follow.’
‘A what?’
‘The many tenets of knighthood. But the core of it, the heart of what it means to be a knight is about honour, lad. Honour and duty.’ He ticked the points off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘To be pious in all things, and serve God before all else. To be loyal to your liege lord, and defend his cause with valour and faith. To protect the weak and helpless, and fight for the welfare of all. To speak the truth, always, even when it pains you. To persevere in the face of adversity, and see every task through to its end. To respect the honour of women, as you would your own. And to never refuse a challenge from an equal, or turn your back on a foe.’
Estienne listened intently, trying to commit each precept to memory. They were daunting, these rules that would govern his life as a knight. A far cry from the rough-and-tumble code of the countryside, where might usually made right.
‘It sounds almost impossible. How can anyone truly live by so many rules?’
‘Many would say you can’t, lad. Others would claim that the code is the cornerstone of knighthood, the sacred bond that separates the noble from the base.’ He patted the flank of the warhammer hanging at his side, the head worn smooth by years of use. ‘But those same men tend to be the first to forget their vows when the blood is up and the enemy is at the gates. Out there, on the field of battle, there’s precious little room for honour when you’re fighting for your life.’
Estienne frowned, trying to reconcile the harsh reality of Goffrey’s words with the shining ideal of the code. ‘So, it’s all a lie, then? Just warm words?’
‘Not a lie, no,’ Goffrey said, shaking his head. ‘An aspiration. Something to strive for, even if we know we’ll never quite reach it.’
‘So how do I know what’s right? How do I know what to do if I have to break this code to stay alive?’
‘That, lad, is something you’ll have to discover for yourself. But if you ask me?’ He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘When steel meets steel and the blood starts flowing, that’s when you find out what kind of knight you truly are. And sometimes, the answer isn’t pretty.’
He slapped Estienne on the back, his hand heavy as a boulder, before leading the way back to the keep. As Estienne followed, he had a feeling those words might come back to haunt him in the days and years to come. That they were a warning, of the bitter choices he would one day have to make.