The courtyard outside the cathedral at Gloucester was a sea of undulating banners, flying the royal colours, lions raging in the sun. All eyes were focused on two figures amidst the crowd, and Estienne squinted against the glare as he watched the scene unfolding.
In the middle of the throng stood his lord, William Marshal, resplendent in his armour and surcoat. Before him knelt a small figure, fair-haired and slight – Prince Henry, clad in a tunic of rich crimson tailored for his child’s frame, a fur-lined cloak pooling on the flagstones behind him.
The flat of William’s sword touched the prince’s shoulders, left then right. Henry lifted his head, a solemn expression on his boyish face. In that moment, Estienne felt a sharp pang somewhere behind his ribs. Jealousy, hot and bitter. This child, barely past his ninth year, was being raised to the lofty ranks of knighthood, while Estienne, squired and blooded, still coveted spurs that remained elusive. The thought curdled like sour wine in his gut and he fought to dismiss it, unbecoming as it was.
‘Be thou a knight, in the name of God.’ Marshal’s voice rang out, clear and commanding. ‘Arise, Ser Henry.’
As Henry rose to his feet, the gathered crowd erupted into cheers of, ‘Long live Ser Henry.’
Estienne joined his voice to the chorus, the words bitter on his tongue. He watched as Marshal beamed, clapping a hand on the prince’s narrow shoulder. Pride and affection radiated from that noble face, and Estienne felt that spike of envy twist deeper.
As the prince was conveyed within the cathedral, Estienne did his best to dismiss those unwelcome feelings. There was no need for them. He would do his duty, and when his time came he would receive the reward he so craved.
The vaulted ceilings of Gloucester Cathedral soared above their heads. Shafts of coloured light spilled through the stained glass, painting the stone in shades of ruby, sapphire and emerald. The air was thick with incense, the beeswax stench of a hundred guttering candles.
Estienne followed the prince’s procession down the long nave, footsteps echoing on the ancient flagstones. Ahead, Henry walked alone, his small form dwarfed by the solemnity of his surroundings. The fur-lined cloak had been replaced by a long robe of cloth-of-gold, the hem whispering over the worn stones, and behind him, Marshal and the other great lords of the realm kept a stately pace.
At the altar waited Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, clad in resplendent vestments of white and gold. His watery eyes skimmed the assembly as the prince climbed the steps to kneel at his feet. Des Roches raised his arms.
‘Bless you, my child. Are you willing to take the oath?’
Henry’s reply was high and clear, his child’s voice steady. ‘I am willing.’
The bishop nodded solemnly. ‘Will you swear that you will enjoin and, as far as in your power lies as king take care, that a true peace shall be maintained for the Church of God and all Christian people at all times?’
‘I solemnly swear so to do.’
Estienne listened with half an ear as Henry pledged to uphold the laws of the land and to show justice and mercy in his dealings. The words washed over him like the droning of flies, and instead he watched the faces of the lords gathered. They watched in grim silence as this child swore to treat them justly and abandon any unfair laws and customs. It became clear that they were vows made to benefit them, rather than the king, and Estienne could only wonder if this boy would become a puppet, where his father had been a tyrant. Who would really rule this land, once the ravenous French dogs had been expelled from its shores?
At the altar, Henry recited the last of his oaths beneath a cloak of ermine and samite. The trappings of rule, already weighing heavy upon him. Estienne pitied him, even as he had envied him. So much power, and so very much to lose. Even as the bishop raised the crown, he could think of no worse fate than to be burdened by it.
The crown settled on Henry’s brow, gold glittering in the light. The great helm of state, bequeathed by kings past, to carry their memory and might into an uncertain future. Estienne held his breath as the boy-king rose, and in that moment he seemed to stand taller, chin lifted, a flicker of something like steel in his gaze.
‘Behold!’ The bishop’s voice rang to the vaulted ceiling. ‘Henry, your undoubted king.’
The cathedral erupted in cheers, a thunder of voices rising to shake the foundations beneath them. ‘Long live the king! God save King Henry!’
The rafters rang with it, a swelling tide of sound that buffeted Estienne like a physical force. He added his own voice to the clamour, as around him the great nobles jostled to be the first to bend the knee and swear their fealty to this child who was now their ruler. Marshal stood at the king’s right hand, face solemn as he beckoned the lords forward one by one to make their oaths.
As he watched every man make his pledge, Estienne couldn’t shake the sense of unease. For each magnate who knelt in faith, there were others whose smiles did not reach their eyes. Men unhappy with a boy-king, perhaps? Men who saw only discord in their future?
Once the last lord bowed his head and muttered his oath, the choir swelled in a great hymn of praise. Estienne watched the new king carried down the nave, head high beneath the weight of the crown. Marshal followed in his wake, a looming shadow at his shoulder.
Outside the sun still shone, but Estienne couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows were already lengthening, straining toward a dark and uncertain horizon. The courtyard was abuzz with activity as squires rushed back and forth, seeing to their masters’ horses and gear. Lords clustered in knots, voices lowered in urgent conversation. The air hummed with a restless energy, a sense that there was little time for celebration. Their battles were far from over.
‘Wace!’ The bellow made him start, and he turned to see Lord Hubert striding toward him, a rare smile creasing his bearded face. ‘A good day’s work, lad. The king is crowned and anointed. Let’s see that French dog Louis try and claim the throne now.’
Estienne nodded, mustering a smile of his own. ‘Aye, my lord. A good day. But I fear there are still storms ahead.’
Hubert’s smile faded. ‘Indeed. The Lion still snarls. And there are those among the barons who’d happily toss Prince Louis scraps beneath the table.’
‘But with a new king crowned, how can he hope to still stake his claim?’
Hubert grimaced, one meaty hand scrubbing over his jaw. ‘Louis won’t give up so easily. And the rebels still lurk – not all have returned to the fold and pledged their fealty to the new king. But we’ll face them. And we’ll win.’
The tramp of heavy footfalls made both men turn. William Marshal strode toward them, and Estienne bowed hastily.
‘Hubert. Estienne,’ the Marshal said.
‘Earl William,’ Hubert replied. ‘A day to rejoice, now England has crowned its rightful king.’
Marshal nodded. ‘The boy is king in name. Now we must make him one in truth.’
‘What’s our plan?’
Marshal was silent for a long moment, gaze distant. ‘We start with the Charter of Runnymede. The barons want their precious document enshrined in law? Then they shall have it. Henry will put his seal to it before the week is out.’
Hubert’s dark brow rose. ‘You think that will satisfy FitzWalter and his ilk?’
‘It will cut the ground from under their feet,’ Marshal said grimly. ‘Take away their reason for rebellion. We will give them just what they asked for. If they still defy their king after that, they declare themselves traitors for all to see.’
‘And what of Louis?’ Hubert ventured. ‘What if he still covets the crown, and persuades his supporters he is a better option than the boy we just placed upon the throne?’
‘The French will be dealt with. One way or another. But first, we secure Henry’s crown. Offer the barons what they want, send them letters offering pardons and restitution of lands if they return to the royal fold. And you, my friend, I will need back at Dover. Who knows how Louis may react to this. We must shore up our defences and prepare for the worst.’
Hubert nodded. ‘Aye, then I’d best get back. It was good to see you, Wace.’
Estienne bowed his head curtly. ‘And you, my lord.’
As Hubert hurried away, Estienne could sense Earl William’s unease. He had made his plans, and thought of all contingencies, but still there were no guarantees. Now they would have to see if they had done enough to bring the barons back onside, or if they would still hearken to the roar of the French Lion.