Estienne slumped in his saddle, swaying with the motion of his palfrey’s plodding gait. Beside him, Richard rode with bowed shoulders, his face drawn and pale beneath the shadow of his hood. Concern gnawed at him as Estienne studied his friend. Richard had been flagging for days now, a wracking cough rattling his lungs, his brow slick with fevered sweat. But there was no respite to be had, no time to tend to sickness. Not with the French hounds baying at their heels.
If only Earl William was here, or even Guillaume, but both had been tasked by King John to defend the Marches from the troublesome Welsh. Estienne could only hope his lord fared better against King Llywelyn than John did against the French.
Their campaign had begun with such promise. A congregation of dukes and barons flocking to the king’s cause. They had landed at La Rochelle in February, spirits high, flush with visions of glorious conquest. Allies had joined them as they marched inland – Hugh of Lusignan, Herve of Nevers, bringing armies of their own, swelling their ranks and lending steel to their cause. The road to Anjou had lain open before them, ripe for the taking.
If only it had been that simple.
Months of hard campaigning had stripped the gilt from Estienne’s dreams of chivalrous combat, leaving only the brutal truth beneath. What he had seen would forever be seared into his mind. Villages put to the torch, peasants raped and butchered, babes impaled on the points of lances. War in all its savage horror, unmatched by tales or tourneys.
The wounded haunted him most. Men with shattered bones jutting through skin, limbs hewn away, entrails spilling into the mud. Each night their howls raked the air, the rotting stink of them thick in his nostrils. This was the grim reality the troubadours never sang of. The part of warfare that was drenched in piss, shit and bile-inducing agony.
Estienne knew he would carry those images to his grave. There was no honour here, no matter how his betters tried to paint it. Only an endless mire of misery and death.
It had become a deadly dance between their army and Philip’s. Lunging and feinting, seeking an opening to strike a mortal blow. When King John moved to besiege La Roche-aux-Moine, Estienne had thought it would be their chance to dig in, to make a stalwart stand. But King Philip’s whelp, Prince Louis, had other ideas. Marching to relieve the garrison, his forces fell upon John’s army like a hammer on an anvil.
And now they ran, tails tucked like whipped curs, while the French bayed for their blood. Estienne could almost feel their breath on his neck, hot and hungry, ready to tear out his throat. Overhead, carrion crows wheeled against a dull sky, drawn by the prospect of new flesh.
No, this was not the glorious crusade Richard had promised. It was a scrambling flight, a slaughter waiting to happen. And the wolves were at their heels, gaining ground with every passing day.
Ahead, Ilbert rode with squared shoulders beneath his surcoat, the red wyvern of his house emblazoned upon his pennon as it billowed in the wind. Marshal’s favour had seen him knighted before they set out, though Estienne thought it an honour ill-deserved. Knowing Ilbert, he likely revelled in the brutality around them and the licence to vent his cruel urges without consequence. He had the bearing of a knight now, to be sure. The trappings and airs, puffed up like a preening cockerel. But stripped of pageantry, Estienne suspected his heart was that of a carrion-eater – black and bloated, glutted on the suffering of the fallen.
A wet, rattling cough drew his eye to Richard. Estienne’s heart sank at the sight of him, wan and glassy-eyed atop his destrier. How long had that fever ravaged him? Days? A week? In the chaos of their flight, Estienne had lost track. And still Richard pushed on, never slowing, never complaining. If only they could rest and tend to him properly, but such luxury was denied them. All Estienne could do was watch his friend wither as they continued their flight from the French.
Beside him, Richard suddenly wavered like a puppet with cut strings. His head lolled forward, chin nudging his chest.
‘Richard?’ Estienne urged his palfrey closer. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine. I’m… fine.’ Richard sounded anything but, and the lie rang hollow even as it left his lips.
Estienne opened his mouth to argue, but Ilbert beat him to it.
‘For God’s sake, Wace, stop clucking over him like an old maid.’
‘His welfare is my charge, FitzDane. So I’ll cluck as I see fit.’
Richard lifted his head. ‘Enough… the both of you…’
The rest was lost as he convulsed, retching bile over his saddle. His face went slack, eyes rolling back to white, as he slid from his mount and hit the ground, sprawling like a broken doll.
Estienne flung himself from the saddle and scrambled to Richard’s side. There he fell to hands and knees.
‘Richard, look at me. Look at me.’
He loosened the cloak about Richard’s neck, then placed a hand to his cheek. Beneath his palm, Richard’s skin blazed like a forge and was sheened with sweat.
‘Help me.’ Estienne cast about wildly. ‘I need a surgeon.’
Eventually a figure stumbled through the milling soldiers, satchel bumping at his hip. He dropped to his knees at Richard’s side, reaching to pry back an eyelid and press practised fingers to his sodden brow.
‘His fever’s peaked,’ the surgeon muttered. ‘He cannot ride like this.’
‘We can’t just leave him.’
Ilbert’s face was marred by worry, most likely for himself. ‘We have to. The French are too close. If we linger…’ He let the implication hang.
Estienne clenched his fists. Ilbert would leave his own sworn brother to die. Abandon him like so much baggage to save his own misbegotten hide.
‘No. We will not leave him here.’ He surged to his feet, rounding on Ilbert with bared teeth. ‘Get a cart. Now.’
‘Watch your tone, squire. You don’t command me.’
Estienne stepped closer, forcing Ilbert to look right at him. ‘How do you think Earl William would greet the news that you left his son to the French? That you fled like a craven while Richard lay helpless?’
For a long moment, Ilbert looked as if he might argue, but he soon saw the futility in it. With a last venomous glare, he marched away, barking orders to the milling men-at-arms.
Estienne sank to his knees at Richard’s side, reaching to clasp his limp hand. Regret choked him, thick and cloying as marsh-fog.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Richard. I failed. I should have seen how ill you were. I should have…’
He trailed off as Richard’s eyes fluttered open. They were glassy and fever-bright, but there was recognition there.
‘No.’ The word was a thin rasp, barely audible. ‘No, Estienne. I’m the one who’s sorry. I brought you here… to this hell. Not what I promised. You deserve… better…’
‘Hush.’ Estienne tightened his grip on Richard’s hand. ‘Save your strength. I’ll get you home, you hear me? I’ll get you back safe. I swear it.’
A clatter of wheels made him look up. Ilbert had returned, pulling a rough-hewn cart trundling in his wake. He halted it by Richard’s prone form.
‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘Are you going to help me get him in, or not?’
Estienne bit back his retort as he stood. They heaved Richard into the cart as carefully as they could, as he lolled like a rag doll. Once they’d hitched Estienne’s horse to the yoke, he clambered up to kneel at Richard’s side, one hand braced on his chest, feeling its stuttering rise and fall.
‘Just rest now. I’ll take care of everything. I swear it.’
The words rang hollow, but he had to believe them. Had to cling to that slender thread of hope, even as the French hounds bayed at their back. One way or another, he would see Richard safe.