One
Fortress of Drincourt, Normandy, Summer 1167
In the dark hour before dawn, all the shutters in the great hall were closed against the evil vapours of the night. Under the heavy iron curfew, the fire was a quenched dragon’s eye. The forms of slumbering knights and retainers lined the walls and the air sighed with the sound of their breathing and resonated with the occasional glottal snore.
At the far end of the hall, occupying one of the less favoured places near the draughts and away from the residual gleam of the fire, a young man twitched in his sleep, his brow pleating as the vivid images of his dream took him from the restless darkness of a vast Norman castle to a smaller, intimate chamber in his family’s Hampshire keep at Ludgershall.
He was five years old, wearing his best blue tunic, and his mother was clutching him to her bosom as she exhorted him in a cracking voice to be a good boy. “Remember that I love you, William.” She squeezed him so tightly that he could hardly breathe. When she released him they both gasped, he for air, she fighting tears. “Kiss me and go with your father,” she said.
Setting his lips to her soft cheek, he inhaled her scent, sweet like new-mown hay. Suddenly he didn’t want to go and his chin began to wobble.
“Stop weeping, woman, you’re unsettling him.”
William felt his father’s hand come down on his shoulder, hard, firm, turning him away from the sun-flooded chamber and the gathered domestic household, which included his three older brothers, Walter, Gilbert, and John, all watching him with solemn eyes. John’s lip was quivering too.
“Are you ready, son?”
He looked up. Lead from a burning church roof had destroyed his father’s left eye and melted a raw trail from temple to jaw, leaving him with an angel’s visage one side and the gargoyle mask of a devil on the other. Never having known him without the scars, William accepted them without demur.
“Yes, sir,” he said and was rewarded by a kindling gleam of approval.
“Brave lad.”
In the courtyard the grooms were waiting with the horses. Setting his foot in the stirrup, John Marshal swung astride and leaned down to scoop William into the saddle before him. “Remember that you are the son of the King’s Marshal and the nephew of the Earl of Salisbury.” His father nudged his stallion’s flanks and he and his troop clattered out of the keep. William was intensely aware of his father’s broad, battle-scarred hands on the reins and the bright embroidery decorating the wrists of the tunic.
“Will I be gone a long time?” his dream self asked in a high treble.
“That depends on how long King Stephen wants to keep you.”
“Why does he want to keep me?”
“Because I made him a promise to do something and he wants you beside him until I have kept that promise.” His father’s voice was as harsh as a sword blade across a whetstone. “You are a hostage for my word of honour.”
“What sort of promise?”
William felt his father’s chest spasm and heard a grunt that was almost laughter. “The sort of promise that only a fool would ask of a madman.”
It was a strange answer and the child William twisted round to crane up at his father’s ruined face even as the grown William turned within the binding of his blanket, his frown deepening and his eyes moving rapidly beneath his closed lids. Through the mists of the dreamscape, his father’s voice faded, to be replaced by those of a man and woman in agitated conversation.
“The bastard’s gone back on his word, bolstered the keep, stuffed it to the rafters with men and supplies, shored up the breaches.” The man’s voice was raw with contempt. “He never intended to surrender.”
“What of his son?” the woman asked in an appalled whisper.
“The boy’s life is forfeit. The father says that he cares not—he still has the anvils and hammers to make more and better sons than the one he loses.”
“He does not mean it…”
The man spat. “He’s John Marshal and he’s a mad dog. Who knows what he would do. The King wants the boy.”
“But you’re not going to…you can’t!” The woman’s voice rose in horror.
“No, I’m not. That’s on the conscience of the King and the boy’s accursed father. The stew’s burning, woman; attend to your duties.”
William’s dream self was seized by the arm and dragged roughly across the vast sprawl of a battle-camp. He could smell the blue smoke of the fires, see the soldiers sharpening their weapons, and a team of mercenaries assembling what he now knew was a stone-throwing machine.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To the King.” The man’s face had been indistinct before but now the dream brought it sharply into focus, revealing hard, square bones thrusting against leather-brown skin. His name was Henk and he was a Flemish mercenary in the pay of King Stephen.
