The dock at Sandwich was packed with men but Estienne could still hear the creak of ships’ timbers, the flap of banners whipped taut by the stiff breeze. He stood amid the hushed throng, surveying the mighty fleet assembled before him. Eighteen large galleys and twenty smaller craft bobbed at anchor, straining against their mooring lines like eager hounds. Their decks swarmed with sailors hauling on rigging, men-at-arms checking their weapons, archers flexing bows. The air hummed with barely leashed tension, the knowledge that soon, they would sail to meet the enemy. To decide the fate of England upon the sea that surrounded her.
Estienne’s gaze fell on the great lords who would lead this armada into battle. There was Philip d’Albini, his gambeson rich with thread-of-gold embroidery, four fusils proudly emblazoned on the breast. Beside him, Richard of Chilham stood grim-faced, wind tossing his sable locks. And at the head of the noble gathering, Hubert of Burgh himself, the grizzled justiciar looking as though he were hewn of granite.
A flash of crimson caught Estienne’s eye, and he turned to see a small figure standing apart from the warlike throng. Young King Henry, barely ten summers old, surrounded by a ring of men-at-arms. Above the boy, the royal standard snapped in the breeze, the three lions passant guardant snarling protectively.
Estienne drew in a deep breath, tasting brine on the back of his tongue. Somewhere nearby, the solemn intonations of bishops rose above the clamour, the lilt of Latin carrying on the wind. They moved like crows among the gathered warriors, touching brows, anointing blades, murmuring blessings. Last rites for those about to hazard their souls to defend their king and country.
‘I absolve those who are about to die for the liberation of England,’ one intoned as he passed, his withered hand sketching the sign of the cross.
Estienne suppressed a shiver, fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword. The phantom taste of blood rose at the back of his throat, memories of battles already fought, and he swallowed them down like bile. It would not do to linger. All he could do was look ahead, and face what was coming with as much grit as he had in the past.
The babble of voices fell to a reverent hush as William Marshal spurred his destrier through the ranks. The warhorse’s hooves clopped against the salt-stained wood of the quay, each step a bold challenge. At the head of the assembled host, Earl William drew rein, his mail glinting beneath his surcoat.
‘Men of England,’ he growled, voice carrying on the wind. ‘Hear me now, before you embark on this final venture. God granted you the first victory over the French on land. Through faith and courage, we drove them from Lincoln, showed them the folly of setting their sights on England’s great cities.’
A rumble of fierce approval ran through the gathered warriors, and Estienne felt the words shiver down his spine, the hairs at his nape prickling in response, as William raised a hand for silence.
‘Yet still they come. The Lion of France is not so easily cowed. He believes God’s favour has deserted us. That the land we bled for is his to claim. I say to you, our task is not done. Our work is yet unfinished. We cannot rest until the last French cur is scoured from England’s shores.’
‘God’s will!’ someone shouted from the ranks. ‘God’s will!’
The cry was taken up by a thousand others, rising to a thunderous crescendo. Estienne found his own voice joining them, the words torn from his throat.
‘You have the might of heaven at your backs,’ Marshal roared above the din. ‘Today, we sail to meet the enemy in England’s name. Your true king commands you. Obey him, and let the Almighty’s grace steer your swords. Great reward awaits the faithful, untold glories in this life and the next. To your ships, men of England. Claim the victory that is your birthright. Send the French to the bottom of the sea, for God, for England!’
Marshal raised his sword high, the blade a bolt of lightning against the iron sky. The roar that answered him rose to a fever pitch, the stamp of feet and clash of steel drowning the seabirds’ shrieking cries.
The host surged forward as one, striding to their vessels on feet winged by faith and fervour. Estienne was swept along in their midst, a fierce smile on his face as he made to follow the tide of men pouring onto the ships, but a voice broke through the noise, stopping him in his tracks.
‘Estienne!’
He turned to see his lord still ahorse, watching him. Estienne picked his way to the Marshal’s side.
‘My lord?’ The words came out louder than he’d intended, his throat choked by a sudden dread. Was Marshal about to forbid him from sailing? Deny him this chance for glory after all he’d done?
William looked down, eyes searching Estienne’s face. ‘You’ve served me true, lad. As loyally and bravely as any squire could. You’ve spilled your blood for me, risked your life for England time and again. By God, you’ve earned this a dozen times over.’
He swung down from the saddle, struggling more than he ever had in previous months and years. When he faced Estienne, there was something perilously close to pride in the set of that stern face.
‘Kneel.’
Estienne obeyed, the worn wood of the quay hard against his knee. He bowed his head as Marshal’s shadow fell over him. Then his master’s blade touched Estienne’s shoulder.
‘I name thee Ser Estienne Wace. For valour, for fealty, for service to crown and kingdom. Bear this burden well. Rise as a knight and be counted among our brotherhood.’
Estienne stood and the world seemed suddenly unsteady.
‘My lord…’ His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. He couldn’t find the words to express his gratitude or the fierce, singing pride that swelled his breast near to bursting.
Marshal took something from the saddle of his destrier, and Estienne recognised it immediately. The last time he had seen it, the weapon had been hanging from the belt of his mentor. Earl William pressed it into Estienne’s palm.
‘A hammer for the new-forged knight,’ he said simply. ‘Straight from Goffrey’s hand. Let it serve you as well, as I know your sword arm will serve England.’
Estienne hefted the hammer, testing its weight, feeling as though a fragment of the old Templar’s strength was now passed into his keeping.
‘I’ll wield it in your name, my lord. In England’s name. The French will rue the day they thought to challenge us.’
‘Aye, that they will. Their reckoning is at hand.’ William jerked his chin toward the waiting ships. ‘Go now. Whatever glory there is to be had this day, you’ve damn well earned your share. God be with you.’
Estienne offered a final bow, and without another word he was turning to stride toward the ships. Jogging up the gangplank onto Hubert of Burgh’s vessel, he saw the crew swarming across the deck, coiling ropes, trimming sailcloth, each man absorbed in his own small but vital task.
‘Ser Estienne.’ Hubert stood at the prow, a grin on his bullish face.
‘Lord Hubert.’ Estienne moved alongside him. ‘I almost feared I’d missed the tide.’
‘Aye, it would have been a shame if you’d missed this.’ He eyed Estienne shrewdly. ‘Knighted at last, eh? And not a moment too soon.’
‘Earl William said it was long overdue.’
‘And he’s not wrong. Let’s just hope you live long enough to accept your spurs.’
Estienne grinned. ‘I’ll do my best not to disappoint, my lord.’
‘See that you don’t.’ Hubert grinned back, but there was a new respect behind it now, as though they were closer to equals. His gaze cut away abruptly, voice rising above the waves slapping the hull. ‘All right, you dogs, haul in those hawsers. Let’s get this galley moving.’
Estienne glanced up to see the great sail unfurling, dropping open with a thunderous snap of wind-starched canvas. The ship shuddered, an eager hound straining against the leash, then began to surge forward, gathering speed.
All around them, the fleet was underway, banners straining above wind-filled sails. The cries of gulls and shouts of men faded to a distant drone as the ship broke from the shallows, cleaving out into open water. To the east, he could just make out the tiny sails of the French fleet crawling up from the horizon, and his heart hammered in time to the slap of the sail.
In that instant, none of his old victories seemed to matter. Only now would he find out what kind of knight he was. Only now would he learn if he was worthy of the rank he fought so long and hard to win.