The camp sprawled across the trampled field, a sea of mud-spattered tents shivering in the bitter wind. Estienne picked his way between them, careful not to trip over guy ropes or slumbering bodies. The stench of blood and sweat hung thick, underlaid by the sour reek of infection.
Men-at-arms huddled around winnowing fires. Their helms and shields were dented, gambesons crusted with filth. Squires scurried here and there, bearing steaming kettles and bloodstained bandages. The moans of the injured haunted the air, piteous and unrelenting.
King Llywelyn the Great had attacked with vigour, his Welsh spearmen swarming down from the hills like wolves upon the fold. Earl William had rallied his men, marshalling charge after desperate charge. Estienne had been at his side through it all, witnessing the grim consequences of this war. Now the campaign languished, both sides bled to a stalemate. They were dug in, licking their wounds, circling like wary dogs.
Estienne skirted a gaggle of men dicing over an upturned shield. Their movements were listless as they waited for the next mad charge, the next battle that might end it all. He turned his back on their hopeless faces, striding on towards the command tent, Marshal’s banner hanging limp above the entrance. Estienne ducked inside, squinting in the gloom. Candles guttered on the table, casting shifting shadows across the maps and markers strewn there. And bent over it all, William Marshal stood unmoving, a missive crumpled in one fist.
He looked old and weary, bowed beneath the weight of his years. The stalemated campaign had taken its toll on them all, but none more so than the earl. His mouth was drawn into a grim line as he stared down at the parchment as though it offended him.
Estienne stepped forward, reaching for the jug of wine on the table’s edge. He poured a generous cup, the rich scent temporarily drowning the pervasive stink of the camp.
‘My lord,’ he said softly, pressing the cup into William’s hand.
The earl blinked, seeming to come back to himself. He took the cup with a grunt that might have been thanks, and drained half of it in one long swallow.
‘The news from the rest of the country,’ Estienne ventured. ‘Is it good?’
‘Good?’ William whispered. ‘The opposite, boy. The king has ravaged the north. Plundered his own people’s lands like a common brigand. Those foreign mercenaries of his… they’ve left a trail of corpses from York to Carlisle.’
Estienne had heard the rumours, of course. The whispers of horror carried from one camp to another. But to hear those atrocities confirmed tasted bitter indeed.
‘And in the south, Falkes of Bréauté has done his share of murder,’ William continued, each word dripping bitterness. ‘Sacked Ely without pity, put half the town to the torch. They say the screams could be heard for leagues, the gutters running red with blood.’
‘Is nowhere safe, then? Does the whole country burn?’
William drained his cup, thumping it back to the table. ‘It may soon come to that. Cruelty begets only cruelty. I fear we’ve sown a bitter crop, and the reaping will be long and red. But that is not all. I’ve had word of a planned attack on Worcester Castle. Ranulph of Blondeville seeks to claim it for the king once more.’
Estienne frowned. ‘I do not understand why—’
‘My son is there. Guillaume. If the castle is besieged, he’ll be caught up in it. Trapped. And I cannot warn him with this damned incursion blighting the Marches.’
The anguish in those last words cut Estienne deep. William was stuck here while his son was in peril. The earl lived and breathed loyalty, to crown and kin alike, and to be unable to ride to Guillaume’s aid would be a torment beyond bearing.
‘Send me.’ The words left Estienne’s lips before he’d fully formed the thought. ‘I can warn him. Get him free of the castle before the siege closes in.’
William looked up. ‘You? Alone? It would be dangerous. The roads are thick with rebels and cutthroats.’
‘There is danger everywhere,’ Estienne countered. ‘What’s a little more? I ask for this honour, my lord. Let me serve as your hand in this.’
For a long moment, William stared at him. Estienne half-expected a curt dismissal, a reminder of his place. But then the earl sighed, his face softening into something almost like pride.
‘You’ve grown bold, lad.’ A ghost of a smile touched his lips. ‘Very well. You will carry my message to Worcester. See Guillaume safe but heed me well – I’ll have your hide for a saddle blanket if you get yourself killed. Understood?’
Estienne bowed his head. ‘Understood, my lord.’
He paused at the threshold of the tent, looking back at William’s bowed head. In that moment, he seemed diminished, as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, crushing him inch by inch.
Estienne would not fail in this. For his lord’s sake, and for Guillaume’s, he would see it done. No matter the cost.