The weeks had not been kind to Estienne. Though he had managed well enough with many of the adjustments of living in this foreign land – the dialect, the food, the cold and constant rain – it was his duties as a squire he had found most brutal. The days went by in a blur of cleaning and oiling mail, polishing weapons and helms, scrubbing down horses and mucking out stables alongside the castle’s groom. And then there was the training.
His shoulders ached, his arms burned, his hands were rubbed raw and blistered. But he was growing, in both body and prowess. When he had first arrived at the Marshal household, a gangling boy, he had struggled to fight with anything approaching skill or even strength. Now his muscles strained against his tunic with every sure swing of the blade.
It was not just his swordplay that had improved under the relentless drilling of Earl William. He could loose an arrow, heft a lance, raise a shield. But it was the horse that gave him the most trouble. Learning to ride had not been so difficult in itself – he could sit a saddle well enough, and stay ahorse at a trot or canter. Could mount by swinging a leg up and over the cantle, even in a mail hauberk.
No, it was controlling the beast with naught but pressure from his feet and knees that was the real challenge. His thighs burned with the effort of gripping the horse’s flank, trying to guide it with subtle shifts of his body. All the while keeping his hands free to grip lance and shield. It was like trying to command the animal by thought alone, and Estienne had not yet learned to be of one mind with his troublesome destrier.
‘Again!’ William’s voice cracked across the tiltyard.
Estienne gritted his teeth, gripping the blunted lance tighter, its dull point aimed at the cloudless sky. At the other end of the yard he could see Ilbert doing the same, the older squire’s mouth twisted in a contemptuous smirk before he donned his helm.
They were both clad in thick, padded gambesons, the quilted fabric designed to cushion the impact of the lances, though not enough to prevent bruising and sore muscles. Estienne’s body was a map of purpling welts and yellowing contusions.
He could feel Earl William watching him from where he stood with Domnall, the stableboy, at his shoulder. The grizzled knight’s face unreadable beneath the crease of his brow.
Estienne dug his heels into the destrier’s flanks, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and flex between his legs. The horse stamped and snorted, sensing his rider’s unease.
‘Steady,’ he muttered, more to himself than the horse. He had to remember what William had taught him. Heels down, toes up, calves gripping the horse’s barrel.
Ilbert spurred his own mount forward, lance lowering as he gathered speed. Estienne echoed him a heartbeat later, the destrier surging into a canter, then a gallop.
They met in a splintering crash of wood on wood. Estienne felt the shuddering impact almost tear the lance from his grip. He fought to keep his seat, thighs clamping desperately around the horse’s flank, but it was no use as Ilbert’s lance struck him high on the shield, the blow perfectly timed, and Estienne was wrenched backwards out of the saddle, limbs flailing as he tumbled through empty air.
The ground rose up to meet him with a bone-jarring thud. He lay there, winded, blinking up at the sky as the destrier cantered away riderless. Every inch of him throbbed with pain, head ringing like a struck bell.
‘On your feet, lad,’ he heard William say.
Someone gripped Estienne under the arms, hauling him upright. He blinked, finding himself face-to-face with Domnall. The stableboy’s expression bore a glimmer of sympathy to it.
Ilbert’s laughter rang loud in his ears as Estienne swayed unsteadily, fighting a wave of dizziness. ‘Poor showing, Wace. You ride like a sack of wet shit. And fall much the same.’
Estienne’s hands curled into fists. He opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his tongue as Earl William strode across the churned earth towards him.
‘Ilbert has the right of it. You’re still fighting against your mount, Estienne. Riding as stiff as a plank.’
Estienne bristled at the humiliation. ‘I’m doing my best, my lord.’
‘Then your best needs to get better. Heels down, boy. Grip with your legs, move your hips to the stride of the horse.’
A fresh echo of laughter from Ilbert, quickly stifled as William shot him a stern glare. Estienne felt the shame and frustration churning in his gut. He knew he was better than this, knew he could master the horse if only given the time.
He met his lord’s gaze squarely, his jaw clenched with determination. ‘Again. Let me try again.’
For a long moment, William studied him, his expression inscrutable. Then, to Estienne’s surprise, he nodded. ‘Mount up, then. And mind my words this time, or you’ll be mucking stalls till Whitsun.’
Estienne didn’t need to be told twice. Ignoring the protestations of his bruised body, he snatched the reins of his wayward destrier from Domnall and swung himself back into the saddle.
Before he could set heels, the clatter of hoofbeats echoed off the castle walls, drawing everyone’s attention to the gate. A lone rider galloped through the archway, his horse’s flanks lathered with sweat, its sides heaving. Estienne squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out the newcomer’s features. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a shock of dark hair and a bearded face, clad in a travel-stained cloak, a sword at his hip.
‘Richard!’ The glad cry came from Earl William, who was already striding across the yard, his face split by a rare grin.
The rider swung down from his mount. ‘Father.’
The two men embraced, pounding each other on the back. Their laughter rang out, warm and boisterous.
Estienne felt a pang of envy. He had never known his own father, had never felt that unshakeable certainty of blood and belonging, other than his aunt and uncle. Watching William and his son, he was sharply reminded of his own rootless state, adrift in a world where he was now the outsider.
‘Is that the earl’s son?’ he asked, after dismounting the charger, the afternoon’s tutelage clearly at an end.
Beside him, Ilbert snorted. ‘Are you blind as well as thick? Of course it is.’
‘But if the king has let him go it must mean he’s not displeased with William any more. That’s good, isn’t it?’
The older squire shrugged. ‘Who can say? The king’s moods are as changeable as the tides. One day he’s your friend, the next he’s branding you a traitor.’
‘Who’s this, then?’ Richard had broken his embrace with his father and was eyeing Estienne with curiosity.
William beckoned him forward. ‘This is Estienne Wace. A new addition to our ranks. He shows promise.’
‘Does he, now?’ Richard looked him up and down.
Estienne had the uncanny feeling he was being evaluated for flaws and merits like a horse at market. ‘It is good to meet you, my lord. Welcome home.’
‘And good to meet you, Estienne Wace.’ There was warmth in Richard’s voice. A note of approval perhaps, gone all too quickly as his attention shifted past Estienne, focusing on Ilbert. The warmth bled from his face. ‘Ilbert. I see you’re still afflicting my father with your presence.’
‘My lord.’ Ilbert offered a bow, but the curl of his lip belied the respect in the gesture. ‘A delight as ever.’
William grasped his son’s shoulder. ‘What news of Guillaume? Has he been released as well?’
Richard nodded. ‘Aye, he is back in friendly hands. John of Earley has taken him into his household. He’ll want for nothing there.’
‘That is good news.’ William blew out a breath. ‘I feared the king might seek to keep one of you, even as he freed the other.’
‘The winds are changing, Father. It seems John has need of you once again. There’s trouble brewing in Flanders. Philip of France is eyeing English territories there, and with the Pope’s blessing…’
‘So while John is still excommunicate, King Philip seizes upon his chance.’
Richard nodded his head. ‘But John must stand strong, now more than ever. He cannot show weakness, not with the French wolves circling.’
‘And he needs his loyal Marshal at his side,’ William finished grimly. ‘Aye, I see it clear enough.’
Estienne felt a shiver run through him. War was coming, if Richard’s words were true. This was what he had dreamed of, all those long days and nights of gruelling training. A chance to prove himself, to win glory on the field of battle.
Earl William turned abruptly toward Ilbert. ‘Bring my messenger. I would have him send word to the barons of Hibernia. We will pledge our loyalty to King John once again.’
As Ilbert scurried to obey, Estienne stepped eagerly toward the Marshal.
‘I stand ready to serve, my lord,’ he said, his voice clear and unwavering. ‘In whatever capacity I am needed.’
William studied him for a long moment, a faint smile playing about his lips. ‘Be careful what you wish for, lad.’
Before Estienne could offer any further pledge, he saw Countess Isabel appear at the door to the keep.
‘Richard! Oh, my boy!’
Her cry rang out across the courtyard, high and clear as a bell. She ran from the keep, her skirts hiked up around her ankles, all dignity forgotten in her haste.
William shot his son a warning look. ‘Not a word of this to your mother. She has enough to worry her without borrowing tomorrow’s troubles.’
Richard nodded, his smile a touch strained as he turned to greet Isabel. ‘Mother. It’s good to see you.’
‘Oh, Richard.’ Isabel flung her arms around her son, heedless of the grime of travel. Tears glistened on her cheeks as she held him close. ‘I feared I would never set eyes on you again.’
‘I’m here, Mother.’ Richard’s voice was rough with emotion as he returned her embrace. ‘I’m home.’
Estienne watched the reunion, feeling the love between them, bright and fierce as a flame, but it only brought him sadness. War loomed over them all, a shadow that could not be ignored. Soon, the Marshal family might be sundered once more.