All he had heard for miles was the steady thrum of the palfrey’s hoofbeats mimicking the pounding of his heart. Every sinew ached, every joint groaned in protest, but he dared not slow. His place was at Earl William’s side, and he would not rest until he had reached it.
The road ran on endlessly before him, rutted and pitted by the recent rains. To either side, naked trees clawed at the sky, and in the distance, tendrils of woodsmoke rose from unseen hearths – home fires, welcoming travellers in from the cold, but Estienne had no time for such comforts.
He passed another sign on the road, nailed to a weathered post, and it bore a single word – Malmsbury. No sooner had he left it in his wake than the landscape opened out, revealing a wide plain of rolling fields. And in the midst of one, he saw a gathering in the distance.
The field was a sea of milling horses and men, bright with banners. Knights in mail and rich cloaks, their surcoats bold with heraldry. As Estienne approached at a trot, he scanned the crowd, hardly daring to think he had found his master.
There. Sitting tall above the swell, William Marshal atop his charger with the poise of a king. His great helm was cradled in the crook of his arm, red lion on his chest. Though his hair shone silver and care scored deep lines across his brow, the Marshal was still as mighty a sight as ever.
Estienne spurred his mount forward, heart in his throat, and as he drew close he saw the reason for the gathered host. On the field’s edge, a second party waited. Amid a knot of retainers and men-at-arms, a boy shared the saddle of a grey destrier with his brooding escort. He was dressed in a smart tunic of royal blue, a fur-lined cloak draped across his narrow shoulders. Sandy hair fell to his chin, brow pinched with concern beyond his tender years.
Prince Henry. England’s king-in-waiting.
A thrill chased down Estienne’s spine. He’d known, in some distant way, what the news of John’s death meant. But to see that boy, little more than nine summers, surrounded by the pomp and peril of kingship stole the breath from his lungs. What desperate times when the fate of the realm rested upon such fragile shoulders.
Estienne dragged his gaze away, fixing once more on the solid bulk of his master. Marshal had yet to note his arrival, his gaze fixed on the royal party. Estienne guided his palfrey to the edge of Marshal’s entourage, and slid from the saddle. He took a steadying breath, then moved to greet his lord. Before he could reach him, the Marshal turned to the gathered knights.
‘Attend. We’ll greet England’s heir with every honour.’
As one the knights formed up, Marshal at their head, all arrayed to pay solemn homage.
‘Forward.’
The order was soft as snow as Marshal spurred his warhorse. Estienne tried to catch his eye as he passed, but no words of acknowledgement came, no nod or instruction. All he could do was watch as his master rode out to greet the princeling who would be king.
At the knights’ approach, young Henry shifted atop his charger, a child adrift amid a sea of hard men and grasping ambition. The man behind the prince raised his chin proudly but said nothing as Earl William, reined up, and the boy seemed to shrink within that warlord’s shadow.
‘My prince.’ Marshal’s voice rang out. ‘We come to offer our swords in your service. To pledge our lives and lands to your cause, as each of us swore to your father before you.’
Henry wet his lips, and when he spoke, his reedy child’s voice fought for steadiness. ‘I give myself over to God and to you, so that in the Lord’s name you may take charge of me.’
Estienne felt for the prince upon hearing the tremble in those words, the ill-concealed fear. What a burden to lay upon one so young. To entrust the fate of the kingdom to a child. He found himself willing the boy to be strong, and show no sign of weakness before these men whose lives he would command.
The Marshal dismounted, the thud of his feet lost to the squelch of damp earth. Then, with a stately grace belying his years, he sank to one knee, head bowed.
‘I will be yours in good faith. There is nothing I will not do to serve you while I have the strength.’
Around him, the assembled knights followed his lead and dismounted. One by one they knelt as Estienne watched, hardly daring to breathe. Then they gave their oath, each mailed fist clenched to an armoured breast to affirm that Henry, third of his name, was England’s one true king.
Earl William stood, and the prince nodded in solemn acknowledgement, the barest tremor in that boyish jaw. Then, with no further word or ceremony, the royal party turned their horses and began to ride. Marshal and the other knights mounted up, turning back to where their retainers awaited. Estienne stood obediently, waiting to attend his master. Only when he reached his side did the Marshal look down, as though seeing him for the first time.
Estienne bowed his head. ‘My lord.’
‘You took your time, lad.’
Estienne glanced up, to see one of Marshal’s eyebrows raised severely.
‘Forgive me, I—’
A mailed hand waved away his apology. ‘I trust Lord Hubert made good use of you?’
‘He… Yes, lord. Dover was…’ He trailed off, struggling to encompass the desperation of it. ‘It was a trial hard-weathered. But we held fast, Lord Hubert and his men. To the last.’
Marshal slowly nodded. ‘You did well.’
Three small words, but they seared through Estienne like a bolt loosed from the heavens. Praise from William Marshal was more precious to him than any jewel.
‘So, tell me this,’ Marshal continued. ‘After Dover, do you still yearn for a knight’s life? To pledge your sword to king and cause, come what may?’
Estienne met that weighing stare, fatigue seeming to bleed away, the aches and pains fading to inconsequence. ‘I do, my lord. More than ever, I do.’
The twist of Marshal’s mouth became an unmistakable smile, fierce as a wolf baring its fangs. ‘Good. We have a prince to crown and a rebellion to quell. I’ll have more work for you.’
He wheeled away in a spray of earth, his destrier’s hooves pounding the soft earth. Estienne scrambled into the saddle of his own lean steed, hastening to spur up behind.
As he followed Marshal’s banner, in turn following the boy they would soon crown, he felt a fierce grin pulling at his lips.
Let the trials come. He was ready.