Fat flakes drifted down, blanketing the land in snow. Estienne hunched deeper into his cloak, breath steaming in the frigid air as he rode at the Marshal’s side. Their destriers stamped and snorted, hooves crunching through the fresh powder. Ahead, the monastery at Saint Albans rose from the frozen earth like a great stone sentinel. Its high walls and square towers stood stark against the colourless sky, a looming promise of shelter from the bitter cold. But as they drew closer, Estienne felt a chill that had little to do with the winter wind. Somewhere within those walls, King John waited, and it was doubtful he would be in a sunny mood.
William reined in before the heavy oak gates, a score of men-at-arms at his back. Their surcoats were crusted with snow, the red lion of Marshal rendered in frost. At a word from William, the gates creaked open and they rode into the monastery’s yard, the sudden absence of wind almost jarring.
Estienne dismounted, handing his reins to a nearby groom. He stamped feeling back into his feet, taking in the soaring arches and intricate stone carvings with a sense of awe. He had never seen such grandeur, even in Earl William’s keeps, but there was little time to marvel. With a curt gesture to a waiting monk, William strode towards a small door set into the wall. Estienne hurried to follow, unease settling in his gut. Whatever awaited them beyond that door, he knew it would not be pleasant.
The cloister was huge, the air thick with the stench of tallow and goose fat. In the centre of the vast chamber, King John sprawled in a high-backed chair, attended by a pair of nervous-looking monks who were rubbing unguent into his bare feet, their hands glistening with grease.
At John’s right hand stood a brutal slab of a man, his arms crossed over a barrel chest. He wore a red surcoat, a white griffin embroidered upon the breast, marking him as Falkes of Bréauté. The king’s most feared enforcer, and a man with a reputation for slaughter.
Beside him, Hubert of Burgh cut a statelier figure, though his features were no less hard. And there, resplendent in a blue surcoat blazoned with six rearing lions, stood Willem Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury. But it was the last man who held Estienne’s attention. Tall and lean, with a face like a blade, he wore a surcoat of red, a lion rampant picked out in thread of gold. Savari of Mauléon, one of the king’s most lethal servants, brutal and cunning in equal measure.
William bowed to the king, a gesture Estienne hastened to mirror. ‘Your Grace. We came as soon as we received your summons.’
John waved a hand, a garnet flashing on one beringed finger. ‘So you did, Marshal. So you did. And not a moment too soon.’ He smiled, a sharp, unpleasant thing. ‘But we’ve had some sport of late, haven’t we, my lords? Rochester has proven most diverting. Who knew swine could serve so well as sappers?’
The king laughed at that as though it were the funniest thing he had ever heard. Estienne already knew of the victory at Rochester. How they had dug under one of the castle’s towers and burned pigs by the score beneath. The heat from their fat had caused the foundations to crumble and offered the king’s besieging forces a way inside.
William’s face remained impassive. ‘A cunning stratagem, Your Grace. The capture of Rochester has struck a great blow against our foes.’
John waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, yes, very good. But one defeat will hardly cow these traitors. They’re like rats, Marshal. Scurrying to hide in their hovels when the cat comes calling. But never fear. We’ll burn them out, every last one.’
William inclined his head. ‘A worthy aim, sire. But if I may, we must also look to the wider threat. The army gathering beyond our shores.’
‘Ah, yes. The French cur. I wonder when he will come?’
‘I think he’s already on his way, Your Grace. Prince Louis has made no secret of his ambitions. With the rebel barons offering him a foothold, he’ll seize this chance to claim England’s crown with all haste.’
John surged to his feet, wincing as his inflamed joints complained. ‘Then we’ll have to disabuse him of that ambition, won’t we?’ The king began to pace, his bare feet slapping against the rushes. ‘Falkes, Willem and Savari will take command in the south. Muster what men you can and fortify the ports. If the French make landfall, I want them greeted.’ He flashed a savage grin. ‘Given a proper English welcome.’
Falkes bared his teeth in an answering smile. ‘It will be our pleasure, sire.’
‘Good man.’ John turned to the rest of his knights. ‘As for me, we ride north. I will raze every rebel stronghold, put their lands to the torch. Starve them out, grind them down until they’ve naught left to offer their French master.’
William’s already troubled brow furrowed yet deeper. ‘And the common folk, sire? The peasants who work those lands?’
John shrugged irritably. ‘What of them? Let them burn with the rest. I’ll not have traitors in my kingdom, high or low.’ He grinned, teeth flashing like fangs. ‘Besides, I’ve a host of mercenaries champing at the bit. Godless brutes, but they know their work. They’ll put the fear of God into those northern rats. By the time that French pup sets foot on our shores, he’ll find only ashes and bones.’
William stepped forward, his jaw tight. ‘Your Grace, I must counsel caution. The use of mercenaries on English soil, men who fight not for loyalty or honour, but only for coin, it’s a dangerous path.’
‘Dangerous? No, Marshal, what’s dangerous is allowing rebellion to fester unchecked. Those sell-swords are a means to an end. A tool, nothing more.’
‘A tool with no master,’ William countered. ‘Mercenaries have no loyalty, no code. They’ll rape and pillage at will, and it’s the innocents who will suffer.’
‘Then let them suffer,’ John snarled. ‘If it brings these rebels to heel, I call it a fair price.’
‘The smallfolk are not our enemy, sire. They’re not soldiers or rebels, only people trying to eke out a living.’
John’s face twisted, his fists clenching at his sides. ‘You seem very concerned with the plight of these mud-grubbing peasants, William. One might question where your true loyalties lie.’
Estienne felt the hairs on his nape prickle at the king’s tone, the undercurrent of menace there.
William stood very still, his voice carefully measured. ‘My loyalties have always been to the crown, Your Grace. You know this.’
‘Do I?’ John’s smile never reached his eyes. ‘What of your son, Marshal? That cur Guillaume who’s thrown in his lot with the barons? I don’t see you dragging him before me in chains.’
‘Guillaume has made his choices. They’re not mine.’
‘No?’ John stepped closer. ‘A pity, then. A loyal father should have better control of his brood. Perhaps, if he can’t bring his own blood to heel, he has no place leading armies in his king’s name…’
William drew himself up, towering over the king. In that moment, Estienne saw not an ageing knight, but a pillar of iron, unbent and unbreaking.
‘I am the king’s man,’ William said, each word ringing with conviction. ‘I have always served with honour and will continue to do so. But my fealty does not make me blind. Nor does it rob me of my reason, or the right to speak it.’
John offered no reply. For a long, taut moment, Estienne feared his master had gone too far. The king was not a man to suffer defiance, even couched in courtesy.
But then John exhaled a sharp hiss through his clenched teeth. ‘You’ll do as I command, Marshal. As is your sworn duty. It seems King Llywelyn has been emboldened by the actions of the barons. He smells blood. So you’ll secure the Welsh borders and leave the rebels to me. Are we clear?’
‘We are, Your Grace.’ William’s voice was cold as ice. ‘I will do as my king commands. But the fate of this realm is the concern of every man who calls it home. And I’ll not stay silent while it burns.’
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode from the chamber. Estienne stood frozen for a heartbeat, transfixed by the look of naked fury on John’s face. Then he hastened after his lord, his chest tight with dread.
Outside he was greeted by the cold once again. Climbing upon his horse beside Earl William, he considered it much preferable to the warmth they might share with King John.