Estienne slumped low over his palfrey’s lathered neck. Four days’ hard riding had left them both spent, man and beast pushed beyond the brink of endurance. The road unreeled before him, rutted and treacherous in the guttering light of dusk, trees framed beneath a darkening sky, their branches creaking in the rising wind. The promise of rain hung heavy, another hardship heaped upon the rest.
He gritted his teeth, swaying a little in the saddle, but he dared not stop. Not when he was so close he could almost smell the salt tang in the air. He would deliver Marshal’s warning, even if he had to crawl the last leagues on his belly. Too much depended on it.
Estienne dug his heels into the palfrey’s heaving flanks and the beast lurched into a shambling trot, head hanging low. They crested a rise, and for a moment Estienne glimpsed the distant glimmer of the sea, obscured by a snarl of naked branches.
‘Nearly there,’ he whispered into the palfrey’s twitching ear. ‘Nearly there, boy. Hold on a little longer.’
The palfrey snorted its reply. How far had they come, since Marshal pressed that parchment into his hand? A hundred leagues? Two? Distance lost all meaning, with exhaustion plaguing his every stride. All he knew was the need to keep moving, to outrace the urgency dogging his heels.
Brine-tainted wind bit at his cheeks as Estienne emerged from the trees. In the gathering darkness, he had only the palfrey’s heaving stride to guide him, the road little more than a scant trail snaking through the gloom. Somewhere ahead lay Dover. His joints ached at the thought, his emptied belly cramping. So close now. So close to journey’s end…
‘Halt! Who goes there?’
The challenge rang out, harsh and sudden. Estienne wrenched on the reins, hauling the palfrey to a stop. He blinked into the darkness, trying to make out the source of that voice.
Shadows detached from the gloom. Three of them, closing in with a wary tread. Moonlight gleamed dully from helms and hauberks, and glinted along bared steel. Not the king’s men. Their speech carried the unmistakable lilt of Gallic tongues.
French mercenaries.
He had come too late.
‘State your business.’ The lead man held up a hand, his companions fanning out to flank Estienne.
His mind raced. The first instinct was to spur the palfrey on, to outdistance them with speed and surprise, but the horse was near-broken, and these men looked uncommonly keen.
‘I… I am a traveller,’ he managed, hating the tremor in his voice. ‘Headed for Canterbury, to pray at the shrine of Saint Thomas.’
‘Canterbury?’ The mercenary’s mouth curled in disbelief. ‘You’re a long way off course for Canterbury, boy.’
Estienne licked at his dry lips. ‘I was set upon by bandits some miles back. Driven off the road. I must have gotten lost in the dark.’
‘A likely story.’ One of the other men whispered in the leader’s ear, and he nodded slowly. ‘My friend thinks you’re not being entirely honest with us. He thinks you might be one of the English king’s spies, sent to sniff around our camp.’
‘No, I swear it.’ Estienne spread his hands, all too aware of the letter concealed inside his jerkin. ‘As I said, I’m a simple pilgrim—’
‘Shut your lying mouth.’ The mercenary stepped forward, one hand falling to the hilt of his sword. ‘Dismount. Now.’
Estienne darted a glance at the other two men, saw their hands tighten on their own weapons. No way out. No clever words to sway them.
Estienne sucked in a tattered breath…
Then dug his heels into the palfrey’s sides. The horse leapt forward with a startled squeal, more life in its battered frame than Estienne could have hoped. He crouched low over its neck as they plunged past the startled mercenaries. Shouts bellowed in his wake, confused and furious.
A crossbow bolt whipped past Estienne’s cheek, so close he felt its kiss of displaced air. He hunched lower, heart slamming against his ribs as the palfrey’s hooves thundered on the muddy ground. More shouts behind him, the crash of foliage as his pursuers gave chase. He didn’t dare look back, every ounce of will focused on keeping his seat, urging more speed from his flagging mount.
A camp sprawled up ahead. Shouts of alarm dogged Estienne’s heels as he clung to the reins with numb fingers and the beast ploughed a path through milling mercenaries and guttering fires.
‘Stop! Stop the spy!’
Cries rose in a meaningless babble, French and English mingled. Estienne rode through it, all thought consumed by the need to escape. Tents loomed out of the darkness, and he wrenched the palfrey’s head around, veering into the narrow aisles between the fluttering canvas walls.
Another bolt whipped past his cheek. Estienne snarled, the reins cutting into his hands as he fought to control the palfrey’s panicked swerve. His thighs burned with the strain of keeping his saddle, the horse near-maddened with terror.
‘Don’t let him reach the castle!’
Castle. The word penetrated the darkness, bright as a beacon. Estienne lifted his head, searching. There. Pale walls up ahead, proud banners whipping in the wind that carried the salt stink of the sea.
Dover.
His heart leapt, even as another quarrel screamed past his ear. He fixed his attention on those walls, the promise of sanctuary. If he could just reach them. Just a little further…
‘Take him down! Cut the bastard off at the—’
The twang of an arbalest, all too close. Estienne braced for the punch of steel in his spine, but it was the palfrey that screamed. The horse plunged forward, front legs buckling, and it crashed to the ground in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
Estienne hit the earth hard, the air blasted from his lungs. He rolled desperately, trying to pull free of the dying horse as it kicked and flailed. A hoof caught him a glancing blow, bright pain blooming in his temple. He staggered, ears ringing, the taste of blood thick on his tongue.
Shouts. The pounding of feet on hard-packed earth.
They were coming for him.
Estienne lurched to his feet, reeling. The walls of Dover loomed ahead, so close. Sucking air into battered lungs, he began to run, shambling, graceless, vision swimming. But still he ran. Weaving like a drunkard, each stride an agony through muscles that screamed for respite, Estienne focused on the dark bulk of the castle and drove himself onwards.
Jeers and curses dogged him, the sing of crossbow bolts ripping the air, but he was a moving target, insubstantial in the guttering light. He could hear them at his back, closer now, the heavy thud of their feet, the rasp of their breath.
A wooden palisade reared up ahead, weathered and pitted by the teeth of wind and sea. Estienne flung himself against the timbers, the rough grain biting into his palms as he scrabbled for purchase. The French voices rose behind him, a pack baying for blood.
‘Help me!’ The words were raw and desperate. ‘For the love of Christ, let me in!’
Faces appeared atop the barbican, pale in the gloom. Hard faces, deep lined and wary. Estienne saw the glint of arrowheads trained on him and he waved his hands wildly.
‘Please! I’m not one of them. I’m here on behalf of Earl William Marshal. I must see Hubert of Burgh.’
More shouts from behind, horribly close now. Estienne stared up at those grim faces, at the sharp points that could spell his salvation or his doom.
One of the defenders leaned out over the barbican, a heavyset man with an unkempt beard. ‘And why should we believe you, boy? For all we know, you’re just some French whoreson looking to worm your way inside, slit our throats while we sleep.’
With trembling hands Estienne reached into his jerkin and withdrew the letter, Marshal’s seal dark and damning in the torchlight. ‘Here.’ He thrust the parchment toward the man. ‘I carry this from the Marshal himself. Please, you must let me deliver it to Lord Hubert. I swear on my life, I am no spy.’
The grizzled man squinted at the proffered letter, suspicion writ on his craggy face. Estienne held his breath, ears straining for the whisper of a loosed bowstring, the thunk of steel in flesh. A heartbeat. Two.
Then a crossbow bolt slammed into the timber a hairsbreadth from his cheek. He flinched, a cry knotting behind his teeth as wooden shards peppered his face like stinging nettles.
Estienne whirled, pressing his spine against the palisade. Dark shapes charged toward him, moonlight rippling along bared steel. He looked upward, hardly daring to hope. The bearded defender glared down at him, his expression unreadable.
A groaning of hinges and clatter of chains. The gates of the barbican juddered open, a sliver of darkness yawning between the timbers. Estienne hurled himself at that gap, as another crossbow bolt buried itself in the palisade a foot from his head. Shouts of fury and frustration rose behind him, but he paid them no heed as he stumbled across the threshold, legs threatening to fold beneath him as he blinked into the sudden flare of torchlight. Hands seized him, hauling him deeper within as the gates slammed shut at his back with a crash.
Safe. He was safe. Estienne sagged in the grip of his rescuers, hardly registering their rough handling as they hustled him away from the gate.
‘Move, you sluggard.’
A hard shove between the shoulder blades sent Estienne staggering. His vision swam, exhaustion pressing like a lead weight.
‘I must…’ His voice emerged as a croak, his tongue a dry, swollen thing behind his teeth. ‘I must see Hubert of Burgh. The message—’
‘Shut yer trap.’ A hard-faced man in a sweat-stained gambeson cut him off. ‘His lordship will hear your piece when he’s good and ready.’
Estienne looked about him, meeting nothing but cold stares boring into him from all sides. The air rang with the noise of men arguing, but in his exhausted state he could discern no words.
‘What is this? Were we expecting visitors?’
The voice cracked through the clamour like a lash. Estienne turned with the rest to see a bear of a man striding across the bailey, his powerful form clad in a gambeson that strained across a barrel chest. His face was broad and grim, a salt and pepper beard bracketing a mouth set in a humourless line.
Estienne hardly dared to breathe as he recognised the castellan of Dover, King John’s war wolf.
Hubert of Burgh.
‘My lord.’ One of the men-at-arms stepped forward. ‘We’ve caught an intruder. Claims to have a message from the Marshal.’
Hubert’s keen gaze focused on Estienne, who met that stare squarely, though his knees threatened to buckle.
Slowly, comprehension dawned on Hubert’s face. ‘I know you. You’re Marshal’s clumsy squire.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ he replied, though the assessment seemed a little harsh. ‘Estienne Wace. I bring grave tidings from Earl William.’ He thrust his letter toward Hubert, the parchment trembling between his fingers.
Hubert squinted at the missive, then waved it away. ‘Save the reading for daylight, eh lad?’
Estienne blinked, thrown by the sudden dismissal. ‘As you wish, my lord. But I must tell you—’
‘Let me guess.’ Hubert cocked a brow. ‘The French are coming? Aye, we’d worked that bit out for ourselves.’
Estienne felt his face flush. ‘Forgive me, my lord.’
‘Ah, don’t look so crestfallen, lad.’ Hubert reached out to clap him on the shoulder, the blow damn near staggering him. ‘You’ve ridden hard and taken great risk to bring your lord’s word, and that’s no small thing. Your loyalty does you credit. And welcome to Dover. Best make yourself comfortable… you might be here a while.’
He offered Estienne a parting blow on the arm. Then he was striding away, barking orders as he went.
Estienne stood rooted amidst the bustle, Marshal’s letter clutched in his fist. He felt a bone-deep weariness he thought that no amount of rest might ease. But rest he would, for he would need his strength in the coming days…
Prince Louis had come to claim his first victory.