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Prologue
Bishop’s Lynn, Norfolk, England
October 9, 1216
The first flurries of snow fell from the gray sky, the temperature plummeting as twilight deepened. William the Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, reined his spirited stallion to a stop, the three knights behind him following suit. Around them, the forest turned into a menacing maze of rustling shadows, the path no longer clear.
When William failed to see the horsemen they’d broken away from earlier that evening, he wondered for a moment if they had taken a wrong turn. But no. There was the twisted oak on the left, as he remembered. He and the three knights with him had ridden ahead to scout the path for the others who would be following the next day, guarding the king’s treasure. And though William had argued against the move, hoping to wait for more reinforcements, the king’s advisers insisted that it was important to secure the treasure’s safety—especially now that Prince Louis of France had taken London and was proclaiming himself King of England. With half of King John’s barons siding with Louis against him, he wanted the royal treasure out of the usurper’s reach.
Robert de Braose rode up beside him and William looked over. “My men should have been here by now.”
“Perhaps the colder weather has delayed them.”
William held up his hand, demanding silence. The faintest of sounds caught his attention, and he strained to hear. “Listen . . .”
“I hear nothing.”
There it was again. A rustling that differed from the wind in the trees.
Beside him, a whisper of metal as Robert drew his sword from its leather scabbard. Then a cry as several horsemen emerged from the forest, their swords drawn. William’s horse reared at the unexpected charge. He fought to stay seated. He heard the air swoosh as Robert’s sword arced toward him.
Instinctively, he lifted his shield. Too late. The sharp edge of Robert’s blade struck his rib cage. The tight chain mail of his body tunic absorbed most of the blow, though pain shot through him.
Had Robert mistaken him for the enemy?
Impossible, he thought as he drew his sword. He whirled about, then took out the horseman closest to him. The man’s body landed near that of William’s youngest knight, Arthur de Clare.
Anger surged through him as he turned to Robert. “Have you gone mad?” he asked, almost too stunned to believe he’d been ambushed by one of the king’s handpicked men.
“On the contrary,” Robert said. He urged his mount forward, swung again, but he no longer held the element of surprise. Their blades collided, metal ringing. “I have finally come to my senses.”
“By attacking me, you commit treason against the king. To what end?”
“Not my king, yours. I swear fealty to Louis of France.”
The betrayal struck deep. “You were my friend.”
Robert kicked at his horse’s flanks, sword lunging as he leaned forward, then pulled back at the last second.
William anticipated the feint, waited, then swung his shield, knocking Robert from his horse. The stallion ran off. Behind them, Hugh Fitz Hubert, also unhorsed, took down one rebel knight, then turned to find another riding off, leading the remaining horses away. Two-upon-two, and William the only remaining horseman. He liked these odds much better and he circled around, facing Robert. “I trained you. I know your weaknesses.”
“And I, yours.” The clouds parted, and a shaft of moonlight glinted off Robert’s weapon of choice. A one-edged blade combined the power and weight of an axe with the versatility of a sword. The end curved slightly into a deadly point—one which William had seen penetrate tightly woven chain mail.
The heavier weight of the weapon gave
Robert an advantage over the lighter two-edged longsword that William used. But Robert would tire easier, especially now that he’d been knocked from his mount. And no sooner had that thought crossed William’s mind than Robert charged him, swinging his blade like a battle-axe, aiming for the horse’s legs.
William retreated, realizing the greater threat. Take out their horses and, even if they did survive, they could never get back in time to warn the king.
A hard thing to do—giving up the advantage—but William knew it was his only chance. He dismounted, slapping his horse on its flank, sending it off. Fitz Hubert and the rebel knight squared off, swords clashing.
He faced Robert. The two men sidestepped, round and round. William examined Robert’s metal tunic, hoping there might be some flaw in the mail. “Why?” he asked between blows. He needed answers. He intended to survive.
Robert eyed him, shifting the weight of his sword in his hand. “There is enough gold in the king’s camp to fund an entire army—take back what was lost by your inept king’s actions.”
“His actions are his to make”—metal sparked against metal—“whether or not you find them to your liking.”
“My family has lost everything,” Robert said, circling William, searching for an opening, waiting for the right moment. “The king has lined his coffers with our gold—with our blood. Imprisoned my half brothers.” He struck again and again. “That treasure belongs to us, and where it goes, we go.”
William’s muscles burned, he was tiring fast. Robert was a formidable enemy. Younger and stronger. The two men faced each other, their breath coming hard and fast. He lost track of Fitz Hubert and the other rebel knight but heard them somewhere in the dark. “You will fail,” William said.
“Nay. The king is already dying.”
Fear coursed through William. And, with it, the strength to lift his sword one last time. His blade arced. Robert parried—as William knew he would. William’s sword glanced upward, and he used the force to bring it farther, thrusting into the chain mail beneath Robert’s arm. With both hands, he drove Robert to the ground.
William stood over Robert, noting the mixture of fear and loathing on his face as he stomped on Robert’s sword arm. He pressed the point of his blade against Robert’s throat. “What say you now?”
