Ilbert rode south through the streets of Lincoln, the hooves of his destrier echoing along the abandoned thoroughfare. At his side, Thomas of Perche sat tall in the saddle, his youthful features set in a mask of grim determination. Ilbert studied the young knight from the corner of his eye, marking the effortless way he held himself, the casual arrogance of a man secure in his authority. Thomas was close to Prince Louis, high in the Lion’s favour, and that alone was enough to command Ilbert’s respect.
As if sensing his regard, Thomas turned to face him. ‘I’m glad you chose to stay true to our cause, FitzDane. It demonstrates wisdom, siding against the boy-king and his simpering lords.’
Ilbert inclined his head, allowing himself a smile. ‘Aye, well, there’s no sense in flocking to a doomed banner. Louis will make a strong king. A true one.’
‘That he will,’ Thomas agreed. ‘And those who stood with him from the first will be well-rewarded when he takes the crown.’
A screech of tortured wood and the dull boom shattered the moment. Ilbert glanced up to see a boulder arc over the rooftops, before slamming into the upper reaches of the central keep. A shower of shattered stone sprayed outward, pelting the roofs below.
‘How many days has Gant assaulted those walls, and still they hold?’ Ilbert asked.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Too many. But let them hide behind their stone. It only delays the inevitable.’
They rode on, passing beneath the shadow of the keep, its once-proud walls pocked and scarred, the surrounding buildings reduced to rubble. But still it stood defiant, a sullen fist of stone jutting against the pallid sky.
‘Lady Nicola is a stubborn bitch, I’ll grant her that,’ Ilbert murmured.
‘She’ll bend.’ Thomas’s voice held a certainty to it that inspired confidence. ‘Or she’ll break.’
They left the keep behind, passing the siege engines that squatted in its lee. Hugh d’Arras and Gilbert of Gant stalked among them, shouting orders, faces ruddy with exertion and rage. Ilbert thought them fools, wasting effort on such fruitless endeavour, but he held his tongue. The city was theirs, whether the central keep fell today or a month hence.
The streets of Lincoln stretched out before them, empty as a fresh-dug grave. What little populace remained were hidden in their hovels, huddled like rats while their city crumbled around them. Ilbert felt a stab of satisfaction at their misery. Let them cower. Let them tremble, while their betters decided their fate.
‘We’re close now, FitzDane,’ Thomas said. ‘The crown is within our grasp. All that remains is to close our fist around it.’
Ilbert grinned at the thought. ‘And squeeze until the life bleeds out of the old order.’
‘How very poetic,’ Thomas laughed. ‘I knew I liked you for a reason.’
They rode on in companionable silence through the shell of Lincoln. A clatter of hooves on cobbles drew their attention, and Ilbert turned to see two figures riding hard toward them, the FitzWalter and Quincy coats-of-arms bright atop dull mail.
Thomas reined up as Robert FitzWalter and Saer of Quincy drew alongside, their destriers stamping and snorting.
‘My lords.’ Thomas inclined his head. ‘You have news?’
FitzWalter urged his horse forward. ‘The king’s company approaches from the south. The Marshal rides at their head.’
Ilbert felt a twist of unease at the mention of his former master.
‘How many?’ Thomas asked.
‘Enough.’ Saer of Quincy spat. ‘We outnumber them, but not convincingly.’
‘Still, it would be better if we took the fight to them, beyond the narrow streets of Lincoln.’ FitzWalter said. ‘Crush them in open battle before they can threaten the city.’
Thomas held up a hand. ‘We hold the walls. That’s no small advantage. Ride out to meet them, and we throw it away.’
FitzWalter shook his head. ‘Our knights will be penned in within the boundary of the city. We cannot manoeuvre, as we would on an open field, to take advantage of our numbers.’
‘This city’s defences have vexed the likes of Gant and d’Arras for weeks now,’ Thomas retorted. ‘Use your head. The loyalists want us to leave the protection of the city. That’s their best chance and they know it.’
FitzWalter looked set to argue further, but Quincy laid a hand on his arm. ‘Peace, Robert. The boy talks sense. Let him ride out and get the measure of them.’ He looked to Thomas. ‘That’s your intent, is it not?’
Thomas gave a curt nod. ‘Aye. And then I’ll decide on our course.’
Grudgingly, FitzWalter sat back in his saddle. ‘As you will.’
Thomas gathered his reins, the discussion clearly at an end. ‘Get the men ready. Spread the word our enemy approaches. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.’
He set heels to his destrier’s flanks. Ilbert spurred his own mount and he cantered after Thomas. He caught up to him at the city gates, the narrow passage yawning open to the south. Beyond, the land swept away, as Ilbert drew alongside Thomas.
‘Idiots,’ Thomas growled. ‘Riding out to face the Marshal in the open would be purest folly.’
‘FitzWalter hungers for a swift end to this,’ Ilbert replied. ‘As do we all.’
Thomas shot him a scathing look. ‘A swift end is all well and good, but only if we are victorious. Charging to meet the enemy as though we were on the tourney field is naught but madness. This is war.’
With that, he spurred his horse forward. The road stretched out, rutted and well-used. Ilbert kept his destrier close on the tail of Thomas’s mount as they crested the first swell of high ground, and he scoured the horizon, dreading what he might eventually see.
‘Do you think the king rides with them?’ Ilbert asked as they continued along the quiet road. ‘Henry, I mean. Not that the boy is fit to command, but as a figurehead?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The Marshal may be many things, but he’s no fool. He wouldn’t risk the boy in open battle.’
‘Would that Prince Louis were here. To fight alongside us. To be at hand when his final victory is sealed.’
‘When he is crowned he’ll remember who stood for him.’ Thomas’s voice rang with conviction. ‘Lordships, land, coin… all will flow to those who bled for his cause.’
Before they could talk further they crested the final rise, and the words died on Ilbert’s lips.
An army stretched before them, a forest of steel beneath an ocean of writhing banners. Rank upon rank of knights and men-at-arms, their helms glinting in the sunlight. And more distant still, black specks massing on the horizon, resolving into purposeful lines of infantry and horse.
Ilbert swallowed against the sudden constriction of his throat, as the full extent of the threat sank in. The loyalist host was vast, far larger than any rebel force he had seen mustered. So many pennons it defied their counting. How could they hope to stand against such a tide?
Thomas drew up short, his face drained of colour. ‘Mother of God. There’s so many.’ He turned to Ilbert. ‘Get back to the city. Tell FitzWalter to shore up the defences. Man the walls, muster the knights. Now, FitzDane.’
Ilbert nodded, wheeling his destrier around. As he pounded back along the track, the thunder of hooves loud in his ears, he couldn’t quell the dread uncoiling in his stomach. But even as the fear rose to choke him, a darker thought reared its head… would Guillaume be among the host, avid for rebel blood?
He knew he should dread such a reunion. Should fear to meet the man he had called brother across a killing field. But some part of him thrilled at the prospect. Yearned to see Guillaume’s face grow pallid as Ilbert’s sword carved a path through his innards. To repay betrayal with retribution.
The gates of Lincoln loomed, and Ilbert thundered beneath the portcullis, already shouting for FitzWalter. Preparations would need to be made, and with all haste. War had come to Lincoln.