Estienne stood at the window of Newark’s keep, gazing down at the sea of banners rippling across the fields below. The armies of England had converged here at the Marshal’s behest, a tide of steel and flesh ready to crash down upon their enemy.
Never had Estienne seen a host of such size. Knights had flocked to the call, bringing their bannerets and retainers. He counted near four hundred before losing track, their numbers swelling with each new arrival. Crossbowmen added to their bristling ranks, perhaps two hundred and fifty carrying sheaves of quarrels, faces grim beneath steel helms. As for the common soldiery, the men-at-arms and sundry auxiliaries, they were beyond counting, a shabby sea of kettle hats and gambesons, armed with pikes and polearms, bills and bows.
Behind him, the highest chamber of the keep hummed with the great and the good still loyal to their fledgling king, drawn from every corner of England. Estienne saw the imperious figure of Willem Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury, his tabard bearing the six rampant lions of his coat of arms. There was Robert of Vieuxpont, the Earl of Derby, fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword with ill-concealed impatience. Ranulf, Earl of Chester, grey brows drawn in a perpetual scowl. Brian of Lisle stood beside Robert of Gaugi, both doughty veterans of a dozen campaigns. The kinsmen Philip and William d’Albini stood close, their whispered exchange heated. But it was the brutal visage of Falkes of Bréauté that drew Estienne’s eye and held it – King John’s infamous enforcer, a bull of a man whose mere presence struck fear in Estienne’s guts. He was little reassured by the presence of the clergy. Half-dozen bishops conversing like gaggling geese, their rich robes and jewelled crosses at odds with the stark brutality of their martial companions.
The Marshal stood before them all, a lion surveying his pride. When he spoke, his voice carried to every corner of the chamber.
‘We thought this war might be over. That with the crowning of our new king, and his confirmation of the Charter of Runnymede, that those barons who stood against King John and would have seated a French pretender on the throne would be satisfied. It seems we were mistaken.’ William’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the gathering, the import of his words hanging heavy above them all. ‘In case any man here needs reminding, we face a battle that will decide the fate of England. At Lincoln, rebel forces have joined with foreign usurpers to besiege the castle and wrest it from the king’s appointed castellan, Lady Nicola de la Haye.’ A rumble of anger went through the assembled nobility. Marshal raised a hand for silence. ‘Count Thomas of Perche, Saer of Quincy, Robert FitzWalter – all have brought their armies to aid the traitors Gilbert of Gant and Hugh d’Arras in their treachery.’
‘Then let us ride out and destroy the bastards.’ Falkes of Bréauté stepped forward, one meaty hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘Lure the French curs out of the city and into the open where we can cut them down.’
Mutters of agreement rippled through the lords, but Marshal silenced them with a sharp glance.
‘You’ll have your chance for slaughter, Falkes. Do not doubt, the stakes for which we play could not be higher. Lose the great city of Lincoln, and we may well lose England. The castle still stands resolute, Lady Nicola holds it for the king, but the rest of the city has fallen. It must be liberated, along with its fortress. This is the crucible, and we must emerge from it victorious, or our lands will be in ruin. But we will not lure out the French. We will enter their hive and destroy them where they nest.’
The Earl of Salisbury stirred, his weathered features set into a scowl. ‘An inspiring notion, Marshal, but words alone will not secure our victory. That will take men, steel, and a strong leader. Who is to have the honour of leading our vanguard into the fray?’
Marshal met the earl’s gaze squarely. ‘I will. The king’s enemies will feel the sting of my blade before any other.’
A hush fell and Estienne saw exchanged glances. Marshal was no longer a young man, his mailed fist not as strong or sure as it once had been, but no man dared give voice to those doubts. Not to William Marshal’s face. His will was iron, his conviction absolute. If he intended to be the first into the breach, then so it would be.
‘You all know your parts in this,’ Marshal’s voice echoed once more. ‘See to your men. Marshal your retainers. Make peace with God. We march at dawn.’
Estienne lingered as the great hall began to empty, lords and bishops departing in a clatter of spurs and low, urgent conversation. Marshal beckoned him closer, and Estienne obeyed. Up close, his master looked tired, the lines of care cut deep.
‘You have your task?’ There was a heavy weight to the words.
‘In… in truth, my lord, I don’t. What would you have me do?’
The barest hint of a smile touched Marshal’s lips, gone as swiftly as it appeared. ‘I’d have you show the courage and loyalty I know lives in your breast. It will be up to you to infiltrate Lincoln ahead of our attack. Lord Falkes of Bréauté will lead a force inside the walls unseen. You will go with him.’
Estienne tried to hide his concern. He had hoped to ride at his master’s side, to be knighted on the field by the man he revered above all others. To be entrusted with such a vital task was an honour, but still, a selfish part of him wished that it was otherwise.
The Marshal’s eyes were keen as he read Estienne’s doubt. ‘You wish to speak your mind?’
‘It’s… nothing, my lord. I am ready to serve, however you see fit.’
The Marshal reached out to clasp Estienne’s shoulder. ‘I know you hunger to prove yourself worthy of your spurs. But trust me in this, your role will be crucial. The fate of England may well rest upon it. I would wish you at my side, but I must place my men where they will do the most good. You understand?’
Estienne nodded. ‘I do, my lord. And I will not fail you. I swear it.’
A heavy tread cut through the sudden stillness. Estienne turned to see a figure ducking into the hall, a face he knew all too well. Guillaume Marshal, shame and contrition writ stark on those noble features.
William straightened, his face a blank mask as his eldest son approached. Guillaume stopped a few paces away, as though uncertain of his welcome. When he spoke, his voice was rough with apprehension.
‘Father, I… I hardly know where to begin.’
‘Then find a way, boy.’ William’s voice was winter frost.
‘I have no excuses. Only regrets. I allowed myself to be swayed by misplaced ideals. By ill-chosen loyalties. My actions… my lack of judgement… they shame me to my core.’
Father and son stood in silence, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken pains. The Marshal’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth, and Estienne half-expected him to hurl recriminations before banishing his wayward heir from his sight.
‘We’ve all made choices we regret, Guillaume,’ he said instead. ‘Done things that left scars. What matters is that you’re here now.’
‘I want to make amends, father.’ Guillaume stepped forward. ‘Let me ride with you. Fight at your side. Let me wash clean the stain of my dishonour with the blood of England’s enemies.’
For a moment, the Marshal stood unmoving. Then he closed the distance between them in a single stride and pulled Guillaume into a fierce embrace. His son returned it, hands grasping his father’s cloak, face buried against his shoulder.
‘There is nothing I could wish for more,’ William said. ‘To have you with me again. You’ve been sorely missed, son.’
Estienne looked away, feeling like an intruder in this private moment. Beneath it though, was a pang of envy, hot and sharp. To have a father who cherished you, who would welcome you with open arms despite your sins. To ride to war at his side, united in purpose and blood alike…
No. Such thoughts served no one.
He had a task before him.
An oath to uphold.
And by God, he would see it done.