Knight and Squire - 23. Chapter 23

Knight and Squire

The Crown in the Storm

The first night of October tore across East Anglia like a curse, and the wind howled as though some fell spirit rode upon it. Kaylen stood beneath the dripping eaves of a half‑ruined barn, watching the storm scour the fields as if to strip them to the bone. Ronan and Tomas crouched beside a meager fire, striving to wrest warmth from sodden wood. They were far from the king’s host — scouts, messengers, watchers set upon the fraying edge of a kingdom come undone.

A lone rider pressed through the rain, his cloak clinging to him like a second skin. He slid from the saddle, breath ragged.

“The king is ill,” quoth he. “Ill beyond measure.”

Kaylen straightened. “How grievously?”

“Fevered. Enfeebled. Some whisper he cannot stand.”

Ronan muttered an oath. Tomas cast his gaze toward the darkling horizon. “If he falls,” he murmured, “the whole realm falleth with him.”

Kaylen held his tongue, though the truth of it lay heavy in his breast like a stone.

By the second day of October, rumor had grown claws. Another messenger came, drenched and trembling.

“The treasure is lost,” he said. “Swallowed by the Wash.”

Ronan stared. “All of it?”

“All,” the man replied.

Tomas whistled low. “The king shall not weather such a blow.”

Kaylen rounded on him. “He is not dead.”

“Not yet,” Tomas answered softly.

Kaylen turned aside, jaw set. He had served kings before. He knew well what befell when a monarch weakened: loyalties shifted like sand, oaths bent like green branches, and the very earth seemed to tilt beneath men’s feet. And Louis — Louis would be waiting.

Far to the south, in the Tower of London, Prince Louis listened as the storm smote the stone walls. A messenger knelt before him, mud‑spattered and shaking.

“The king faileth, my lord. Fevered. Some say dying.”

Louis did not smile. “Ready the men.”

Lord Ferrers stepped forth. “If John dies, the barons shall flock to your banner.”

Louis’s eyes glimmered like steel. “Then let him die.”

On the fourth day of October, Kaylen, Ronan, and Tomas found shelter in a small village near Ely. The storm yet raged. The roads ran like rivers. The air stank of wet earth and fear.

Tomas paced. “If the king dies, Louis shall march.”

Ronan nodded. “And if Louis marches, every rebel in the east shall rise.”

Kaylen stared into the fire. “We know not that the king will die.”

Ronan met his gaze. “Kaylen… he is dying.”

Kaylen’s jaw tightened. “He hath survived worse.”

Tomas sat beside him. “This is no rebellion. This is his flesh failing him.”

Kaylen could not answer.

On the seventh day, a monk arrived, robes sodden, face pale as chalk.

“The king hath taken refuge at Swineshead Abbey,” he said. “He is grievously ill.”

Kaylen stepped forward. “Grievously?”

The monk hesitated. “He may not see the week’s end.”

Ronan exhaled. “Then Louis shall claim the crown.”

“No,” Kaylen snapped. “Not whilst the king yet draws breath.”

Tomas looked upon him with pity. “Kaylen… thou holdest fast to a ghost.”

Kaylen turned away, fists clenched. “He is still our king.”

In London, another messenger came to the Tower.

“The king is dying,” he said.

Louis nodded once. “Then England is mine.”

But Lord Ferrers shook his head. “Not yet. The barons will not bow to a French prince whilst John yet lives.”

Louis’s voice was cold as winter water. “Then let him cease living.”

On the tenth day, the three men camped by a crossroads, awaiting tidings. The storm had broken at last, leaving the air sharp as a blade.

Ronan honed his dagger. “If the king dies this night, the realm shall shift by dawn.”

Tomas nodded. “Louis will march. The barons will choose their banners. All shall change.”

Kaylen stared into the dying fire. “We must be ready.”

“For what?” Ronan asked.

Kaylen lifted his gaze, eyes dark. “For the moment the king’s last breath quitteth his body.”

Tomas swallowed. “And then?”

“Then England shall choose its future.”

The morning of the eleventh dawned gray and brittle. Frost clung to the grass, and the air bore the cold, metallic scent that heralds winter’s coming. Kaylen woke to the sound of hooves upon the road. A rider approached at speed, cloak snapping like a banner in the wind.

Ronan rose first, hand to his sword. Tomas moved to Kaylen’s side.

The rider reined in sharply. “The king hath left Swineshead,” he said, breathless. “He rideth for Newark.”

Kaylen frowned. “Rideth? In such a state?”

“He would not be gainsaid,” the messenger replied. “They have bound him to the saddle.”

Tomas swore. Ronan looked away, jaw clenched.

Kaylen felt something twist within him. “Then he is worse than we feared.”

“Aye,” the messenger said. “Far worse.”

He wheeled his horse and vanished down the road, leaving the three men staring after him.

Ronan broke the silence. “If he is tied to the saddle, he shall not survive the journey.”

Kaylen could not answer.

They broke camp and moved eastward, keeping to lesser roads, listening for tidings. Every village they passed seemed to hold its breath. Doors stayed barred. Hearth‑fires burned low. Folk whispered in corners, as though fearing the wind itself might betray them.

By the thirteenth, they reached a market town thick with unease. A crowd had gathered around a traveling merchant who claimed to have seen the king’s party.

“He looked half‑dead,” the man said, trembling with the thrill of being heeded. “White as bone. Barely breathing.”

Tomas pushed forward. “Where saw you this?”

“South of Sleaford,” the man replied. “They moved slow. Painfully slow.”

Kaylen exchanged a look with Ronan. “He shall not reach Newark at such a pace.”

“He may,” Ronan said softly. “But he shall not leave it.”

They lodged that night in a stable. Rain drummed upon the roof. The horses shifted uneasily. Tomas lay awake, staring at the rafters.

“Think you Louis knows?” he asked.

Ronan snorted. “Louis likely hath a man counting the king’s breaths.”

Kaylen lay silent, hands folded upon his chest, eyes open in the dark.

“He knows,” he said at last. “All men know.”

The next day brought confirmation. A rider in the king’s livery entered the square, calling for heed.

“The king hath reached Newark,” he proclaimed. “He resteth there.”

Kaylen stepped forward. “Resteth?”

The rider hesitated, helm shadowing his face. “He is… being tended,” quoth he.

Ronan muttered darkly, “Aye. And that is but a gentle way of saying he dies.”

The rider’s eyes flicked toward him, yet he offered no denial.

Kaylen felt the world tilt beneath him. Long had he known this hour would come, yet foreknowledge did naught to soften the blow.

They quitted the town and made their camp a few miles hence, close enough to catch whatever tidings might ride the road. The night bit with cold. The fire guttered low. None among them found sleep.

Upon the fifteenth day, a small band of travelers passed their lonely fire. One, an older woman bearing a basket of herbs, halted when her gaze fell upon the three men.

“You wait upon news,” she said.

Kaylen inclined his head. “Hast thou any to share?”

She studied him a long moment ere she sighed. “The king fails. The monks at Newark say he shall not see the week’s end.”

Tomas swallowed hard. “Art thou certain?”

“As certain as any mortal may be,” she answered. “Death hath a scent… and it clings to him.”

She walked on, leaving the three men in heavy silence.

Ronan sank upon a fallen log. “So. This is the hour.”

Tomas rubbed his hands together, seeking warmth. “What follows now?”

Kaylen stared into the fire, watching the embers pulse like a dying heart. “Now,” he murmured, “we wait for the moment England changes hands.”

The sixteenth dawned cold and still. No wind. No birdsong. A morning wherein the very world seemed to hold its breath.

A rider came upon the road just after sunrise. Kaylen rose as the man approached, his horse lathered with sweat.

The rider did not dismount. He had no need.

“It is near,” he said. “The king drifts in and out of sense. The priests have been summoned.”

Ronan closed his eyes. Tomas turned away.

Kaylen felt something within him tighten, then hollow. “Thou hast our thanks,” he said.

The rider gave a single nod and thundered on.

The day passed in silence. Even Tomas, ever restless, sat still. Ronan honed his dagger until the blade shone like water. Kaylen watched the road, waiting for the moment he knew must come.

It came at dusk.

A lone rider approached, slow and burdened, as though the weight of his tidings dragged at the reins. His face was pale. His eyes rimmed red.

He halted before them.

“It is done,” he said.

Kaylen’s breath caught. “The king?”

“Dead,” whispered the rider. “King John is dead.”

Ronan bowed his head. Tomas loosed a long, trembling breath.

Kaylen closed his eyes.

The rider continued, voice unsteady. “He died at Newark, just past midnight. The priests were with him. He asked for his son.”

Kaylen opened his eyes. “Henry?”

“Aye. They say he named him king with his final breath.”

The rider turned his horse and rode on, leaving the three men in the fading light.

Ronan sank to the earth. Tomas wiped his face with his sleeve.

Kaylen stood unmoving, staring toward the horizon where the last of the sun bled into cloud.

“Then it begins,” he said softly.

“What begins?” Tomas asked.

Kaylen looked upon them both, his eyes shadowed with the weight of what he knew.

Night settled around them like a heavy cloak. The fire burned low. None spoke for a long while after the rider vanished down the road. The air itself felt changed — thinner, colder, as though something vast had slipped from the world and left a hollow in its wake.

At length Ronan broke the silence. “So. John is gone.”

Tomas stared at the embers. “I thought I’d feel… something else. Relief, mayhap. Or fear. But it is only emptiness.”

Kaylen did not answer. He stood with arms folded, gazing into the dark as though he could see all the way to Newark. His jaw was set. His eyes unreadable.

Ronan watched him. “Thou served him longer than we. Thou knew him better.”

Kaylen shook his head. “None knew him. Not truly.”

Tomas lifted his gaze. “What follows now?”

Kaylen exhaled slowly. “Now the realm cracks. Every oath, every bond, every promise — all shift. Louis will move. The barons will scramble. And somewhere, a boy of nine is named king.”

Ronan blinked. “Henry?”

Kaylen nodded. “If the council crowns him swiftly, they may yet hold the kingdom. But if Louis reaches him first…”

Tomas swallowed. “We must learn where the council gathers.”

“We shall,” Kaylen said. “But not this night.”

They slept in turns, though sleep came fitfully. Every sound upon the road set their nerves on edge. Every gust of wind felt like a messenger bearing worse tidings.

By morning, the world had changed.

A column of riders passed their camp at dawn — royal livery, banners furled tight against the cold. Kaylen stepped forth to meet them. The leader, a stern-faced knight with mud spattered to his knees, reined in.

“You three,” he called. “Stand ye loyal to the crown?”

Kaylen answered without pause. “We do.”

“Then hear this: Prince Henry is proclaimed king. The council rides to Gloucester for the coronation. All loyal men are bidden to make for the Severn.”

Ronan exchanged a glance with Tomas. “Gloucester? That is days hence.”

“Then ride with haste,” the knight said. “Louis shall not tarry.”

He spurred his horse and thundered on, his men following in a spray of mud and frost.

Tomas let out a long breath. “A boy king. In the midst of war.”

Ronan shook his head. “Louis will tear him apart.”

Kaylen turned to them, eyes sharp as flint. “Not if we reach him first.”

They broke camp swiftly, saddling their horses with numb fingers. The road west lay long and rutted, yet they pressed hard, stopping only when the horses must drink. Villages buzzed with rumor — that John had died cursing the French, or begging God’s mercy, or whispering secrets to the monks at Newark.

But one thing was certain: the kingdom cracked like ice beneath their feet.

On the second night, they halted at a small inn near Stamford. The common room was crowded, voices low and tense. At a far table, men argued loudly.

“Louis shall be crowned by Christmas,” one declared. “Mark me.”

“Not if the council moves with speed,” another countered. “Henry is rightful king.”

“A child!” scoffed the first. “What is a child against a French prince with half the barons at his back?”

Kaylen stepped forward. “A child with the right men beside him may yet hold a kingdom.”

Silence fell. The men turned to him.

“And who art thou to say so?” one demanded.

“One who hath seen what becomes of a realm bereft of its king,” Kaylen said. “And one who will not see it fall to a foreign prince.”

Ronan and Tomas flanked him, silent and steadfast.

The men at the table exchanged grave glances. One inclined his head, slow as winter dusk. “Then may God have mercy upon us all.”

At first light, they took to horse once more.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Gloucester, the roads lay thick with travelers — knights spattered with road‑mud, clerics clutching their parchments as though they bore the fate of souls, messengers riding hard, merchants drawn by rumor and peril alike. The very air hummed with unease, as though the realm itself held its breath.

Tomas leaned forward in his saddle. “Mark it well. Half the realm hath gathered here.”

Ronan snorted. “Aye — and the other half rideth beneath Louis’ banner.”

Kaylen held his tongue. His gaze was fixed upon the city ahead — upon the towers rising ghostlike from the morning mist, upon the banners snapping in the cold wind, upon the sense that they rode toward the very heart of storm and destiny.

As they neared the gates, a herald’s cry rang out above the din.

“Way there! Way for the council of the new‑crowned king!”

Kaylen felt his pulse quicken.

The boy was here. The council was here. The future of England stood within those walls.

And Louis — Louis would not tarry long.

The gates of Gloucester were choked with folk — knights in travel‑stained cloaks, clerics hugging scrolls to their breasts, merchants straining to overhear whispers, and villagers drawn by naught but the tremor of change. Kaylen, Ronan, and Tomas pressed through the throng, their horses tossing their heads at the crush of bodies.

Within the walls, the tension lay thick as fog. Every face bore the same unspoken plea: What now?

They dismounted near the abbey where the council gathered. A young squire dashed past, near bowling Tomas over.

“Mind thy feet,” Tomas growled.

“Forgive me!” the boy gasped. “They summon all within. The new king approacheth!”

Ronan raised a brow. “So soon?”

Kaylen did not wait for further word. He strode toward the abbey doors, his companions close behind.

Inside, incense clouded the air, mingling with the murmur of urgent voices. Lords and clerics huddled in tight knots, whispering fiercely, gesturing as though to shape the realm with their hands. At the far end of the hall stood a slight figure ringed by guards and priests.

Prince Henry. Nine winters old. Pale, thin, his eyes wide with fear and bewilderment.

Something twisted in Kaylen’s chest. This was the boy King John had named with his dying breath. This child upon whom the kingdom now hung by a fraying thread.

A bishop stepped forth, his voice rising above the murmurs. “Make way for England’s rightful heir!”

The crowd parted, though grudgingly. Henry looked as though he wished the stones would swallow him whole.

Tomas whispered, “God’s wounds… he is but a child.”

Ronan nodded. “And yet he must stand against Louis.”

Kaylen said nothing. He watched the boy — the trembling hands, the desperate grip upon the priest’s sleeve, the brave but wavering lift of his chin.

Then a man in fine robes approached — William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke. Silver‑haired, time‑worn, yet his presence steadied the hall like a hand upon a restless horse.

He knelt before Henry.

“My liege,” he said softly, “thy father is gone. Yet England endureth. And England hath need of her king.”

Henry swallowed. “I… I know not if I am equal to it.”

Marshal’s smile was gentle, tinged with sorrow. “Thou art. For thou must be. And we shall stand beside thee.”

Ronan murmured, “Marshal. If any man can bind this realm together, it is he.”

Tomas nodded. “Louis will rage at this.”

Kaylen’s gaze did not leave Henry. “Louis hath no voice here.”

The bishop lifted his hands. “Prepare for the coronation!”

A ripple of shock swept the hall.

“Now?” someone breathed.

“Already?” another hissed.

Marshal rose. “We dare not delay. Louis will strike the moment he learns of John’s passing. The boy must be crowned ere the French prince lays claim to England.”

Kaylen felt the urgency settle into his bones. This was the hinge upon which the realm would turn.

The hall burst into motion. Clerics fetched vestments. Knights formed a living wall around Henry. The choir began a low, trembling chant.

Tomas leaned close. “Think you he grasps what is upon him?”

Kaylen watched the boy being led toward the altar. “Nay. But he shall.”

Ronan folded his arms. “Louis will hear of this within days.”

“Within hours,” Kaylen said. “And he will be wroth.”

The coronation was stark — no golden crown, no jeweled scepter, no royal regalia. Those lay lost in the Wash. Instead, a plain circlet from the abbey treasury, a borrowed sword, a cloak sewn in haste.

Yet when the circlet touched Henry’s brow, the hall fell silent.

A child stood before them. Yet he was king.

Kaylen bowed. Ronan followed. Tomas hesitated, then knelt.

When they rose, Marshal was already issuing commands.

“Send riders to every loyal lord. Secure the roads. Ready the defenses. Louis cometh.”

Kaylen stepped forward. “My lord Marshal.”

Marshal turned, his gaze sharp as a drawn blade. “You three — you are not of Gloucester.”

“No,” Kaylen said. “We served the king. We serve his son now.”

Marshal nodded once. “Good. I have need of men who ride swift and think clear. Louis will strike at the heart. We must be forewarned.”

Ronan exchanged a look with Tomas. “What would you have of us?”

Marshal’s eyes hardened. “Ride east. Learn where Louis gathers his host. Bring word ere he falls upon us.”

Kaylen felt the weight settle upon him. “We ride at once.”

Marshal rested a hand upon Henry’s shoulder. The boy looked at them with fear and fragile hope.

“Go,” Marshal said. “England’s fate hangeth upon it.”

They strode into the cold wind beyond the abbey doors.

Tomas drew his cloak tight. “East again, then.”

Ronan mounted. “Into the jaws of the French.”

Kaylen swung into his saddle, gaze fixed upon the horizon. “Into the shaping of the kingdom.”

They thundered from Gloucester, the boy‑king behind them, the shadow of Louis before.

They had scarcely cleared the outskirts when Kaylen raised a hand. The others reined in, breath steaming in the chill.

“We cannot ride east blind,” Kaylen said. “Louis will move with haste, and we must gather every man whose heart yet beats loyal to the crown.”

Ronan nodded. “Aye. But whom do we seek first?”

Kaylen looked south, toward the low hills where a stone keep rose stark against the winter sky — the hold of Baron Aldwyn, famed for two things: unbending loyalty, and an unmatched company of archers.

“We have need of Aldwyn,” Kaylen said. “If Louis maketh his march upon Gloucester, ’tis arrows that shall weigh heavier than swords.”

Tomas gave a faint grin. “Aldwyn’s bowmen can cleave a coin at fifty paces.”

“And we shall require every last one of them,” Kaylen replied.

He turned in the saddle, casting his gaze down the road behind. A few riders came and went from the city gates, but one youth — scarce more than a boy — rode alone, his horse fresh, his bearing straight as a spear‑shaft.

Kaylen raised his voice. “Ho there! Rider!”

The boy reined in sharply, eyes wide. “Aye, my lord?”

Kaylen guided his horse nearer. “What be thy name?”

“Edrin, my lord. I serve in the abbey stables.”

“Good,” Kaylen said. “Art thou swift?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then thou art about to be swifter still.”

Ronan leaned close. “Kaylen, the lad is but young.”

“All the better,” Kaylen answered. “Youth draws little notice.”

Tomas nodded. “And no man shall halt him, thinking him a soldier.”

Kaylen drew forth a strip of parchment from his cloak. He wrote with quick, sharp strokes, folded the message, and sealed it with a smear of warm wax from the candle stub he carried.

He placed it in Edrin’s hands.

“This must reach Baron Aldwyn with all haste. Ride to his keep and place it in his hand — none other’s.”

Edrin swallowed. “What saith it, my lord?”

Kaylen met the boy’s gaze. “It commandeth him to bring every archer under his banner to Gloucester. Every man who can bend a bow, and every arrow they may bear.”

Edrin’s eyes widened. “All of them?”

“All,” Kaylen said. “Tell him the realm itself hangeth upon it.”

The boy straightened, clutching the message as though it were a relic. “I shall not fail thee.”

Kaylen set a hand upon his shoulder. “Ride hard. Let naught hinder thee.”

Edrin nodded once, then struck his heels to his horse and sped down the road toward Aldwyn’s distant keep.

Ronan watched him vanish into the dusk. “Think he’ll reach it?”

“He shall,” Kaylen said. “Aldwyn trains his men well. He will ken the weight of this summons.”

Tomas tightened the strap of his saddle. “And what weight is that?”

Kaylen looked eastward, where the sky darkened like a gathering omen.

“It meaneth Louis is coming,” he said. “And Gloucester must stand ready.”

Ronan exhaled. “Then we ride.”

Their horses leapt forward, hooves striking sparks from the stones as they vanished into the deepening dusk — three men bearing the burden of a kingdom, and one young messenger racing ahead with the first cry to arms.

Far to the east, Kaylen, Ronan, and Tomas pressed along the muddy road toward Cambridge, where rumor whispered of French scouts abroad. The wind cut through their cloaks; the trees groaned overhead; the land itself seemed to listen.

Ronan broke the silence. “Think Aldwyn will answer?”

“He shall,” Kaylen said. “He is stubborn, aye — but loyal.”

Tomas smirked. “Stubborn and loyal. Puts me in mind of someone.”

Kaylen ignored him, eyes fixed upon the horizon.

They passed through a small village where wary folk watched from doorways. A woman stepped forth, clutching her child.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is the king dead?”

Kaylen reined in. “Aye.”

She bowed her head. “And the French prince?”

“He moveth,” Kaylen said. “But so do we.”

Fear lingered in her eyes as they rode on.

By late afternoon they reached a crossroads. Travelers huddled round a fire, and one rose as the three approached.

“Ye ride east?” the man asked.

Kaylen nodded. “We do.”

“Then heed this — French riders were seen near Ely. They scout the roads.”

Ronan’s grip tightened on his reins. “Louis hastens his pace.”

Tomas looked to Kaylen. “What say you?”

Kaylen studied the two roads, cloak tugged by the wind.

“We press on,” he said. “We must learn where Louis gathereth his strength — and learn it ere he strikes at Gloucester.”

Ronan nodded. “Then we ride.”

They spurred forward, hooves drumming the frozen earth.

Behind them, Aldwyn’s archers were already mustering, bows slung, quivers heavy. Before them, the French threat swelled like a storm.

And between those forces rode three men — bearing the fragile hope of a realm on the brink of war.

The wind shifted, carrying the harsh scent of green wood burning. Kaylen slowed.

“Dost thou smell it?” he asked.

Ronan nodded. “French.”

Tomas frowned. “How know you?”

“Englishmen burn no green wood,” Ronan said. “French scouts heed not what their smoke betrayeth.”

Kaylen raised a hand, bidding them dismount. They led their horses into a stand of bare trees, branches rattling like bones.

They crept to a small rise overlooking a clearing.

Below, six French riders warmed themselves by a fire, their horses tethered nearby.

Scouts.

Tomas whispered, “If they be this far west, Louis is nearer than we reckoned.”

Kaylen nodded. “We must learn whence they came.”

Ronan smirked. “Then let us ask.”

Kaylen shot him a look. “Alive, Ronan.”

“Mostly alive,” Ronan amended.

Kaylen sighed. “Mostly.”

They circled the clearing like shadows. When they were close enough to hear the men’s voices, Kaylen raised three fingers.

Three men. Three targets.

He dropped his hand.

Ronan strode from the trees with a swagger. “Evening, lads.”

The French scrambled for their blades, but Tomas was already behind one, steel at his throat. Kaylen stepped into the firelight, bow drawn.

“Cast down thy weapons,” Kaylen said.

The scouts hesitated — then obeyed.

Ronan kicked their swords aside. “Good. Now we speak.”

Kaylen pointed to the eldest of them. “Where doth Louis muster his host?”

The man spat upon the hard-frozen earth. “I’ll tell thee naught.”

Ronan cracked his knuckles like stones grinding. “Art thou certain of that?”

The man swallowed. “He marches out of London. He means to take Gloucester ere winter’s chill.”

Kaylen’s gut tightened. “How many swords rides he with?”

“More than ye can hope to stay.”

Tomas pressed his blade nearer the man’s throat. “Think again, and speak true.”

The scout’s voice shook. “Three thousand… mayhap more. And more levies coming in from the coast.”

Kaylen traded a grim look with Ronan. “He moves swifter than our reckonings.”

Ronan nodded once. “We must away.”

Kaylen stepped closer, shadow falling over the bound man. “One last question. Where lies his vanguard?”

The man hesitated, then lifted a trembling hand toward the east. “Near Ely. They bide his word.”

Kaylen inclined his head. “Thou hast done well.”

Ronan raised a brow. “Shall we loose them?”

Kaylen weighed it a heartbeat. “Bind them fast. Some patrol will find them ere long.”

Ronan sighed with theatrical misery. “Soft as butter, this one.”

Tomas grinned. “Aye. Ever has he been so.”

Kaylen ignored their jests. “Mount up. Marshal must hear of this.”

They swung into their saddles and thundered westward, hooves drumming the frozen ground like war-beats.

Miles away, Baron Aldwyn’s archers were already upon the march.

The column stretched long along the king’s road—two hundred bowmen, yew-staves slung across their backs, quivers heavy with fletched death. Their boots and horses’ hooves rang through the winter hills.

Aldwyn rode at the fore, his cloak snapping like a banner in the wind. Edrin kept pace beside him, cheeks flushed with mingled pride and dread.

“Think ye we shall reach Gloucester in time?” Edrin asked.

Aldwyn’s jaw hardened. “We shall stand within its walls ere Louis breathes upon its gate. Else we perish upon the road in the trying.”

Behind them, the archers marched with grim resolve. They knew the storm that gathered. They had heard the whispers. They had seen the smoke curling on the horizon.

One man muttered, “If Louis takes Gloucester, the boy-king shan’t last the week.”

Another answered, “Not whilst Aldwyn draws breath.”

Aldwyn heard their words and allowed himself the faintest smile.

“Press on,” he called. “The realm shall not mend itself.”

The archers lengthened their stride.