The Devil's Grandson: A Novel Based on the Early Life of England's Greatest Knight

By Marc Schaeffer

How did William Marshal rise from poverty to become a regent of England? How did he navigate the vicious world of the Plantagenets? What was the real cause of strife between Henry Second and Thomas Becket? And between Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry? The answers are in Marc Schaeffer's novel, which weaves factual material into a mostly true story told with all the fierce vividness of the Twelfth Century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477299944

Marc Schaeffer

Marc Schaeffer, former Midwest correspondent for U.S. News and World Report magazine, is a freelance writer living in Chicago. Mr. Schaeffer holds a M.S. degree from Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. Schaeffer has published several short stories in regional literary magazines and has taught fiction-writing in Chicago. Schaeffer received an Illinois Arts Council grant to help continue the trilogy about William Marshal.

Book preview

The Devil’s

Grandson

A Novel Based on the Early Life of

England’s Greatest Knight

Marc Schaeffer

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© 2013 by Marc Schaeffer.

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Published by AuthorHouse 01/17/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9995-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-9994-4 (e)

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He lived by a code:

Love your country, serve its king, fight as if to die.

Cover: remains of William Marshal’s castle in Pembroke, Wales

Photo by

Cole Tracey

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Foreword

Part One Witness to an Archbishop’s Murder

Part Two Hostage to a King

Part Three A Youth Who Resists Temptation

Part Four A Knight Rising Against The Wind

Part Five A Slave in the Court Of Love

Part Six Mentor to a Boy King

Afterword

Addendum

Dedication

The Devil’s Grandson is dedicated to the Johnsons, Reineckes, Salons, Schmidts, and all others who value historical fiction.

Author’s Note

The following text is a fictional re-creation of certain events in the lives of William Marshal, Thomas Becket, Henry Second, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and the so-called Young King. Events and persons in the novel are extracted from scholarly history books except where invented.

For instance, the author has used artistic license to place William Marshal as an observer of Becket’s death in December 1170. The intent in doing so was to place in context one of the seminal events in English history, the death of Becket. The intent was not to embellish the life of Marshal, which needs no embellishment.

It is not impossible that Will was highly involved in trying to prevent the death of the Archbishop. Six months before Becket’s death, Marshal had been appointed the protector, tutor in arms, and mentor of Young Henry Plantagenet. The Young King was entrusted by Henry Second with ensuring Becket’s safe return to England from exile.

The attitudes expressed toward gender, religion, and sexual activity represent the times in which William Marshal lived.

Foreword

In 1066, William, Duke of Normandy (now part of France) invaded England. After conquering the island, William made his companions the barons in the green and abundant land, rich in trees and game and men to work the fields. Four thousand Anglo-Saxon thanes in England were replaced by two hundred Norman barons. While the King held the ultimate authority over the barons, he needed their support and counsel. If too many of them disagreed with him, anarchy could easily result.

The Conqueror ruled with an iron hand the powerful kingdom of England, Normandy, and other areas. Under his rule, church tribunals tried men for transgressions against church rules, while the King’s courts decided punishments for criminal offenses. William’s taxes turned a great mass of Anglo-Saxon free men into serfs.

The kingdom was a rule-bound society. Every man and woman had a set place in a vast network of mutual relationships based on loyalty and custom. A man’s sworn loyalty formed his life. One did what one’s patron asked.

The Conqueror was succeeded by sons William Rufus and, then, Henry First. When the first Henry died, civil war broke out. It split the country into factions—some supported Stephen, grandson of William First, and others Matilda, daughter of Henry First.

Hoping to place Matilda on the throne during a civil war over succession, a minor land-holder named John FitzGilbert, the Marshal of England, besieged King Stephen’s castle at Newbury. Promising surrender, John gave a young son as hostage for a truce. That boy would become known as William Marshal, England’s greatest knight.

John FitzGilbert proceeded to break the peace. His son William would have been sacrificed had not Stephen saved him from the hangman’s noose.

In the reign of King Stephen (1135-1141), the author of the "Peterborough Chronicle states: . . . there was nothing but strife, evil, and robbery, for quickly the great men who were traitors rose against him. When the traitors saw that Stephen was a good-humored, kindly, and easy-going man who inflicted no punishment, then they committed all manner of horrible crimes…"

It was a time when men took what they wanted by craft or by force, and repented on their death beds, if at all.

As with many historical novels, the cast of characters is large. Do not try to remember all of them. One character, Young Henry, was crowned king but has never been counted in the succession of English kings named Henry.

Part One

Witness to an Archbishop’s Murder

Canterbury, England

December 29, in the year of our Lord’s grace

eleven hundred and seventy

"F lee!" William Marshal yelled to the Archbishop. The warning met with a defiant look from the churchman.

Will was not fond of the trouble-maker Becket, but he did not want to see the man hacked to pieces.

Marshal struggled with a greasy rope that bound his wrists in front. The hard fibre cordage dug deeper into his bloody, swollen flesh. His inability to influence the outcome of this bestial event ate away at him as he frantically tried to gnaw a knot loose.

Seeing Marshal’s efforts to escape the bonds, one of the conspirators slugged him in the belly. Will doubled over, but stayed on his feet. He caught his breath, struggled harder against the rope.

Will heard Sir Reginald FitzUrse lash out at Becket with harsh words: Christ himself never pretended to be God. Yet you yourself do.

Fool, the angry Archbishop called back.

FitzUrse was the leader of the self-appointed executioners. The others were Hugh De Moreville; William De Tracy; and Richard Le Breton, known as Brito. They were indistinguishable one from another in their eagerness to prove themselves useful to Henry Second, in their lust for land, and in their state of drunkenness.

Marshal gasped as he saw the Archbishop raise a fist.

Were I not a priest, this hand would show you how I fight, the Archbishop threatened FitzUrse.

Becket might have been any angry man in any ugly brawl, Will supposed. The Archbishop was no true Christian martyr; although it was clear he intended to die like one. A true martyr died in order to defend the belief that Jesus was the son of God. Instead, Becket had died in order to try to win a political struggle over power.

FitzUrse, who had set down his axe, slowly raised his sword high, pointing it toward the ceiling. The sword was poised upward over-long, Will thought. He would realize later that the gesture had been a signal.

How odd to hear monks chanting at this hour outside Canterbury Cathedral instead of inside, thought Marshal. How remarkable it seemed that, just now, a rat scuttled around the foot of St. Benedict’s altar, and a candle spluttered out. Then, how slowly Reginald’s blade began its evil fall.

Faster than anyone could say what was happening, the Archbishop covered his face with one arm. The monk Edward Gryme dropped the huge double-armed cross he’d been steadying, blocking FitzUrse’s blow with an arm. Gryme screamed in pain.

The cutting edge of Reginald’s sword had been deflected. But the blade continued toward the Archbishop’s head, knocked off Becket’s skullcap. It sliced away a saucer of flesh from the bald spot where the churchman’s hair had been tonsured. A bright stream of blood appeared on Thomas’s forehead, ran down his nose, dripped onto his chin.

The Archbishop lowered his arm. He looked as surprised as Will to find himself still standing. He seemed doubly angry now.

Becket looked about, fixated on Gryme. The faithful monk had dropped to the floor. A spike of broken bone protruded through Edward’s skin.

Don’t defend me! the Archbishop yelled at the wounded cross-bearer. The monk got to his feet and fled, leaving the metropolitan cross on the floor.

Now William De Tracy pulled a dagger and advanced on the Archbishop. Becket stood unmoving. De Tracy thrust at Thomas’s chest. The blade glanced off a silver cross that hung from Becket’s neck.

Run! Hide! Marshal yelled to the Archbishop.

Ignoring Will, Tom Becket turned toward the altar, leaving his back open to attack. He knelt, raised up his arms, folded his hands, and bowed his head. He whispered, Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my soul.

Hugh De Moreville stepped forward, approaching the Archbishop from behind. With the flat of his sword, he swung at Becket’s head. There was a dull thud.

A smirking Hugh yelled, In the King’s name! and tossed away his sword.

The blow sent the Archbishop forward. His head nicked the altar. Becket spoke his last words to God, In the name of Jesus, I submit to death.

Becket fell on one side, his body curled toward the altar, arms extended. He twitched and his folded hands fell away from each other.

Eyeing Le Breton, FitzUrse told the young man to strike Becket, just as he, De Moreville, and De Tracy had done. Le Breton hesitated.

Strike! Reginald shouted.

No! yelled Will. Brito, think of your soul. You’ll be a long time in hell.

Le Breton, grinning, raised his sword.

This blow is for the life you took from the King’s brother! he yelled at Becket.

Brito delivered a strong horizontal chop that sheared away the crown of Becket’s head.

If the Archbishop had not been dead before, now he was, Will realized. Brain matter, bathed in blood, spilled hot from Becket’s skull. The colors of the lily and the rose. Brito took a step closer. He pressed the toe of one boot into the gelatinous mass, smeared a semi-circle of Becket’s gore onto the limestone floor.

In triumph Le Breton advanced and used both hands to break his sword against the altar, then fling away the two pieces. The hideous clang marked the end of it. The strife between the King and the Archbishop had imploded to a darkened blot on Canterbury’s floor.

Coward! Marshal yelled to Brito. You killed a dead man.

Will stared at the body. A blast of rain landed drop by drop against a near-by window. Each sad, wet bead splatted against the glass and trickled downward.

Will wondered if it was his imagination, or could he actually hear the stone floor lapping up the stuff of Becket’s life. He steadied himself. The air in the Cathedral felt as though it had been replaced by a substance other than air. Had angels come to claim Becket’s soul—or maybe the devil? Marshal himself felt the heavy comfort of finality.

One of Canterbury’s clerks, armed with a kitchen knife, pushed through the conspirators. He put his foot on the neck of the Archbishop. No one moved as the clerk severed the large veins in Becket’s neck. The lacerations spurted blood, which pooled around the Archbishop’s ear. The clerk bent down, scraped Becket’s skull clean, smearing more residue of brain and blood upon the pavement.

Will averted his eyes and felt his gorge rise. Years later he would still be wondering why the murder had taken place. Centuries later, men would mark the murder as an opening blow in the battle between church and state.

The King had made it clear he’d stop harassing the Archbishop if Becket promised to give churchmen the same criminal sentences as non-clerics. Many men could see the justice of equal sentences for criminals where murderers, rapists, usurers, and thieves were concerned. Why should a pederast, for instance, go free because he wore a robe of black?

Whatever they thought of criminal sentences, a few of the younger clerics had liked the Archbishop and supported the idea that God meted out justice through Becket’s mouth. Becket always paid special attention to the young men in his fold. Others of the young, though, felt Thomas’s intransigence made him unfit for the archbishopric.

Whatever they thought of the court system, most of England’s barons and landed men thought the Archbishop had been disloyal to Henry. The bishops had turned against Becket because, as Chancellor, he had taxed them heavily. That and because the King had over-stepped custom by appointing his good friend Becket in the first place. It was a time before England had a written law—a time when custom was the law.

*     *     *

A bright zigzag cracked over Canterbury. Thunderbolts came next. Villagers said that God had washed Canterbury clean.

When a few peasants entered the Cathedral for vespers, they breathed the muddled vapors of heady incense, polished wood, dampened stone, and death.

One by one they crept forward to look. Their faces showed that they were frightened, shocked, horrified, sorrowful, anguished, and dumb-struck. A few came close to the Archbishop’s body, tore shreds of fabric from their clothing, bent to dip the hopsack into the wide circle of red dripping from Becket’s head.

Several smeared their eyes with Becket’s blood. One produced a nut shell to collect as much as he was able. Most wept. One wailed. Some just stood watching.

At first the murderers paused, looking on Thomas Becket’s remains in silence. Then the clerk who had gone over to the side of the conspirators spoke: King’s men, this traitor won’t get up again. Let’s go.

As the murderers fled the Cathedral, Marshal saw Reginald FitzUrse slam his shield at a cook who held a meat cleaver. Reginald slashed another monk who had a shovel in his hands.

His hands still bound, Will ran after the conspirators. They had gone through the Cathedral and entered the Archbishop’s palace. The goblets, the serving ware, even the Archbishop’s robes were being stuffed into sacks as the men jostled each other in claiming the spoils. The men took Papal bulls and charters, vestments, books, silver and gold plate.

What’re you doing, Ranulf? Marshal asked De Broc, who had joined the group and stood closest to Will.

De Broc winked. You don’t understand, Marshal. We’re looking for evidence of treason.

Looting Canterbury is the Devil’s work, said Will.

Marshal, your father’s known as the Devil’s spawn, said De Broc. That makes you the Devil’s grandson. Maybe we should pay the Devil’s grandson his due.

Set Marshal free, De Broc ordered his men. He did us a favor—allowed us to put him out of action. Let him share the spoils.

De Broc hesitated, pulled a knife and flipped it to Le Breton, who caught it by the handle and used it to cut Marshal’s ropes. Le Breton slapped Will on the back and grinned, No hard feelings, Marshal.

Once outside the cathedral, Marshal shook out his hands. Christ’s Blood, free of the ropes at last! He watched as Brito went for the exit—probably headed for the Archbishop’s stables.

Will Marshal plunged into the rain, turned his back on the Cathedral, leaned against a tree. His soul had burrowed deep inside his bones. Had he not tried hard enough to stop the murderers? Why hadn’t he realized sooner that the conspirators were assassins—he’d hoped they might only arrest Becket.

What would happen next? Anarchy? Would the house of Plantagenet come to an end? If that happened, Marshal knew he’d be back where he’d begun, a man without a future.

Will wondered if he should flee to escape the chaos that might now swallow England. His father and stepbrothers had passed away. Possibly his older brother John, heir to the Marshal lands, would take him in.

He turned his thoughts toward the fleeing murderers. Their escape from Canterbury would be easy, even with their horses loaded with goods and tired. None of the monks would be brave enough to pursue.

Will tipped his head back and felt cool drops—raindrops, nature’s tears. His thoughts went from the future to the here and now.

Should he sound an alarm from Canterbury’s bells? No, monks already would have gone to the sheriff of Kent with word of the mayhem. Where was the sheriff, anyway? Had the man been bribed to stay away?

A bolt of lightning struck close, turning the air a glowing purple. Will’s heart seemed to stop. Heaven’s wrath poured into it.

No! Marshal yelled, slamming his fist against the tree trunk. Rage drove out his guilt. Rage—that red-hot monster that spews out dragon fire. The raindrops seemed to sizzle against Marshal’s skin.

Will turned back to the Cathedral, ready to do what had to be done. Inside, he approached Becket’s hollow-headed body, which still lay where it had fallen. Benches had been placed around the mangled form. Someone had laid a small silver cross beside the Archbishop’s hand.

Osbert, the Archbishop’s chamberlain, approached the body soft-footed, bearing cresset lamps. He set one on the floor beside the blood-coated pieces of skull. He carried the other to Becket’s feet. He looked blank-faced at Will.

Go, Will told the monk. Make arrangements for the burial. Even if you have to empty a coffin from the crypt.

Marshal paused. The four men who’d killed the Archbishop were no more black-hearted than most of England’s land-holders. The Devil had gotten to them. His voice is faint and sweet at first. But once you bend an ear, he stretches his tongue into your mouth and all the way to your heart. The heart turns black.

*     *     *

Will Marshal went back into the Cathedral, heard swift footsteps coming from the entrance nearest Becket’s body. At last, he thought, the Sheriff of Kent had arrived. As Will hurried up the nave to meet the newcomer, an unwelcome figure emerged from the shadows.

Dagger in hand, Ranulf De Broc stood before Marshal. To get some metal to fight with, Will picked up a gilded cross from a near-by altar.

You want to fight me, Marshal? Ranulf pulled a knife from his belt, tossed it to Will. Here, use this.

Will caught it by the handle. You want to get me out of the way, De Broc? You’ll get this up your arse.

Ranulf kept his head down, circling Will. They rushed at each other. When they crashed together, the impact made each reel backwards.

Will recovered first. He asked, What’re you doing here, Ranulf? Don’t you have the sense to flee?

Claiming Becket’s body. I mean to hang it on London’s bridge. What’re you doing yourself?

I’m taking charge here.

The men ran at each other, jabbing, feigning, and falling together from time to time, then shoving away. Steel snaked back and forth. Moonlight rode the swift, sharp blades.

Marshal had advantages. He was younger, taller, and anchored in outrage. De Broc’s only advantage was that Will truly did not want to kill him.

Ranulf had a cut above his eyebrows and Will had one across a knee. It did not take long for them to stand panting, staring each other down.

What’d you think, Marshal? De Broc asked. That I’d let the church turn Becket into a holy martyr?

I think you’d sell Becket’s bones, Will replied.

You’re bleeding, Marshal. Best get some help.

Will looked down at his knee. In that instant De Broc rushed him. Marshal met the challenge. Two blades flashed so quickly no one could have seen whose steel belonged to whom.

At last Marshal knocked De Broc’s dagger out of hand. If Ranulf had stopped to pick it up, Will would have killed the man. However, De Broc said, Marshal, we’ve always been good friends.

Is that what you call us? Your humor knows no bounds.

De Broc smiled, moved a hand as though he wanted to shake Will’s. When Marshal sheathed his weapon, Ranulf turned and ran.

Will’s muscles urged pursuit. He stopped to think. This was no time to continue the killing. He was leaning against a pillar, breathing hard, when Osbert returned, holding a bowl. He came up to the Archbishop’s body, knelt beside the head, and began scraping up slippery remnants of the brain.

Bind the skull back together, Will told the monk. See to the body before De Broc returns with more of his kind.

He saw Osbert flinch at his tone. Will gentled his voice to say, Take off Becket’s cloak and vestments. Take away the garments stained with blood. Get cloth to bind the parts together. Bring a wood plank for a bier.

Marshal made the sign of the cross as the man hurried off. Bending over the slain form, Will turned the body on its back. Mary’s tears, the Archbishop’s eyes were open. Marshal would forever remember the wide pupils staring at him as he closed the lids.

Osbert, Will told the monk, say the last rites.

I’m not a priest, Osbert said.

Speak them anyway.

*     *     *

Part Two

Hostage to a King

Newbury-in-Berkshire, England

In the year of our Lord’s grace

eleven hundred and fifty-two

A top a gentle rise in Berkshire’s green and gentle hills, a digger of graves paused, fixed his gaze eastward toward Newbury Castle outside the town of Hamstead-in-Berkshire. Overhead, the sun burned a white-hot hole through a thin veil of clouds. It was early morning on a central-England day in spring, with mist just burning off the hills, rooks diving, and hens shrieking at the kitchen maids who came to gather eggs.

His face sweaty from work, the grave-digger wiped his brow with his loose-fitting shirt. He looked down into a deep rectangular pit that smelled of fresh-turned earth.

Is it long enough for a five-year-old, do you think? he called into the pit, speaking with a thick Saxon accent.

Sure as I’m five myself, came the voice of a child inside the pit.

Though it had been a hundred years since the Normans had conquered England, the Saxons still spoke in an Anglo-Norman patois rather than the Norman-French of noblemen.

The grave-digger thrust out a hand to the mud-streaked lad and helped the boy climb from a ladder onto the scraggly groundcover. The child pointed into the distance, Look, father. Is that the boy they’re going to hang?

The digger turned to face the east. In the distance came a short procession of men marching from Newbury Castle towards a hill. They were spear-armed and grim-faced, heading from thick oak trees toward a cleared patch atop the hill. In the center of the field were two gallows, one of them full-sized and well-used, the second new and built especially to fit a child.

Is that King Stephen? the grave digger’s boy asked his father.

Aye. Stephen of Blois. Another bloody Norman come to rule this land.

Are we Normans?

We’re Saxons, son. Have you forgot? At the head of the distant line of men-at-arms walked a tall figure nearing his sixth decade. He wore a simple grey cloak over wheat-colored linen. A thin circlet of gold disturbed his hair—a simple crown with a sprig of lavender wrapped around it. His clothes were plain, but the rigidity of his stance and the deep bows of men-at-arms along his path marked him as Stephen, King of England.

The man had stolen the kingship from his cousin Matilda. Before he died, Henry First had made the barons promise to crown his daughter Matilda. No one liked the woman, insufferable in her haughtiness. Civil war had taken over and Stephen of Blois had fought his way to the throne.

A dark-haired, five-year-old boy loped along at Stephen’s side. In imitation of the King, the lad wore a crown. The boy’s circlet was green and made of woven plantains, the long, broad-leafed groundcover in which the children played. The boy had been flicking up and down a plantain stalk held between his teeth. He tossed the stalk aside and adopted a swaggering walk to match King Stephen’s.

FitzGilbert’s son will fry in Hell, said the grave-digger, kicking a stone.

Why? asked his son.

He won’t be buried in holy ground.

Why’s the King hanging a boy?

Don’t be asking. He’s got reason enough.

But why?

The grave-digger sighed, sat down on the grass, and unfolded a well-used piece of hopsack, laying out dark bread and cheese his wife had packed for their repast.

The man ran the hunk of cheese across the sharp end of his shovel, shaving off a wide white slice, then brushing off bits of dirt and giving the cheese to his lad.

You’ve heard of John FitzGilbert? the grave-digger asked his son.

Aye. He owns Newbury castle.

FitzGilbert doesn’t own Newbury. England belongs to the King. He loans it to his friends, who reap the profits. FitzGilbert stole Newbury by force. Stephen’s laid it siege to get it back.

Why did he steal it from the King?

He wants Stephen’s cousin Matilda to have it.

Will the King kill John FitzGilbert?

He’s got in a fight with FitzGilbert already. They made a truce. Stephen took John’s son as hostage to make sure the peace was kept. But FitzGilbert—that bloody mad dog—broke it. Know what John said?

No.

Said he didn’t care a twig about the child. Said he could make another son, maybe better’n this one.

How do you make a son?

Same way a dog makes a pup.

That’s what I thought.

They ate facing Newbury castle, the grave-digger and his lad, caught up in a civil war—the elder so used to war that he no longer questioned it.

*     *     *

King Stephen and five-year-old Will Marshal had passed through a copse of oak, almost stepped onto an open field atop the hill where the grave-digger was at work. The hatchet-faced, squinty-eyed William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, came forward from a group of men in maille. The men were armed for battle should John FitzGilbert’s followers attack from within the besieged castle. The procession halted.

Lord Arundel, King Stephen said.

The Earl stood proud and haughty in his glistening shirt of maille. He tipped his head toward the King and said, Ready, Majesty.

Will Marshal came to attention in front of Arundel, staring up at the Earl’s spear, which glinted in a shaft of light between the oaks. Someday Will would own a spear, too, he knew. He dreamed of it when the moon was high and the guard snored.

Will called out suddenly to the Earl, Sir, give me that spear!

The Earl smirked. Give you my spear?

Give it over. Then, remembering his manners, Will added, Please. I want to play with it.

You might use it to slay the King.

Will kicked out impulsively at the toe of the Earl’s boot. Fool! The King’s my good friend.

Will grabbed the King’s hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. When the hand was dropped, the King spoke low, Would he were a son of my own.

Lord Arundel lunged forward, as though to grab Marshal away from the King. Will wrapped his arms around Stephen’s legs, holding on tight. The King scowled at Arundel and the Earl stepped back a pace.

Sire, death is the boy’s fate, Arundel said.

Uh oh! Will didn’t like the sound of Arundel’s voice. Letting go of Stephen’s leg, he turned his eyes to meet the King’s.

Stephen had a dimpled chin and curly greying hair cropped even with his mouth. Like an old cat, two tracks led from nose to mouth, where his skin was slack. His cheeks were puffy like a chipmunk’s.

Is it true, Will asked the King. Is death my fate?

All men’s fate is death, the King said.

Will felt shaky inside. Dead! His father had a horse hit by lightning. Dead. An urge took over Will’s legs, and he scampered away from Stephen.

*     *     *

At the top of a hill, Will Marshal had come face-to-face with a boy about his age standing beside a hole in the ground.

Who’re you? asked Will. He had come face-to-face with a boy standing beside a hole in the ground. Will approached.

Who’re you yourself? the grave-digger’s son wanted to know.

I asked you first, said Will, looking the other boy up and down.

Simon.

Simon, Will thought. His father had a stable boy named Simon. A pity there weren’t more names in England. So many people had to share the same ones. His stomach rumbled. Hungry. He was hungry all the time.

Will reached into his tunic and pulled out a red pouch tied around his neck with a leather cord. Want one? he asked, digging his fingers into the neck of the pouch and shaking some brown lumps into the other boy’s hand.

What’s them? asked the grave-digger’s son.

Honeyed almonds.

Biggest nuts I ever saw.

From the Holy Land. King Stephen gave me them. I can get more.

John FitzGilbert’s boy began walking around the perimeter of the hole. He had seen dirty-faced men dig graves before. But this grave was so small.

Who’s this grave for? Will asked, pointing downward. He looked at the grave-digger’s boy. The older man clapped a hand over his son’s mouth.

A horse, said the grave-digger, releasing his son with a look that meant don’t say a word.

Isn’t big enough for a horse, said Will.

Maybe I’ll have to dig it bigger.

Will looked at the grave-digger, shaking his head. Full-grown men did curious things.

He turned to see King Stephen come up the hillock, face screwed in concern. The King walked firm-stepped and square-shouldered. Will would walk this way! He would! He saw himself tall and walking like a King.

Come on, little friend, Stephen said. We’d best get back.

The two of them returned the way they had come, passing by Lord Arundel once again.

If the boy’s like his father, he’s Lucifer’s spawn, said Arundel. We’d be doing England a favor by killing him.

Stephen stepped between Will and the Earl.

Arundel, the King said. Make use of yourself. Check that the catapult’s been repaired.

Will looked into the King’s eyes. How kind they were. The skin around the eyes was thin; it crinkled when Stephen smiled. Stephen ruffled the lad’s hair, which was long and growing ragged and smelled like the grassy weeds of Berkshire.

When the King and Will played together, Stephen always let the boy pretend he was a knight. Stephen even let Will hold a fine crown of gold—a wide band as the base, topped by four fleur-de-lis connected by gold arches.

Let’s go play inside—just us two, Will said, his voice pleading.

As though he guessed the lad’s growing fear, Stephen wrapped his hand around Will’s.

Your Majesty, Arundel said, scorn in his tone.

The King addressed Arundel directly, his voice a whisper, One would need a heart of iron to see this child perish. I’m not such a one, Arundel.

Stephen knelt down, one knee bent. Will stepped onto the knee and from there hoisted himself up, swinging a leg into place so that he could ride piggy-back. The King smelled like flowers, whereas Will’s father smelled like horses.

Come, I’ve a pup to give you, Stephen said.

A pup?

Lord Arundel’s Irish collie gave birth two weeks ago. He won’t mind if I give one of the pups away.

Don’t count on it. said Will. He’s not very friendly.

However, young Marshal quickly decided that if he were given a pup, its name would be George, for Will had been born on St. George’s day.

*     *     *

The grave-digger and his son watched as a cadre of armed guards bowed all along the pathway King Stephen took returning to his tent, Will Marshal riding high on Stephen’s shoulders.

Some men believed the King to be a generous man whose weakness had caused his cousin Matilda to challenge his rule. Others felt the King to be a needed kindly soul to put England back together after civil war had torn it apart.

The grave-digger’s son asked, That boy with King Stephen—what’s that boy’s name again?

William Marshal, said the grave-digger.

Why don’t I have two names? Why am I just Simon?

In the vicious grappling to determine who would hold the pregnant fields of England over time, a man might need a second name as well as a first—a name to indicate his ancestry or his status or the place where he’d been born. It was a time when a man could have neither too much land nor too many names.

John FitzGilbert, father of young Will, was known as John the son of Gilbert or, simply, John FitzGilbert, meaning son of Gilbert. He might have been known as John of Hamstead, referring to the town to which he’d brought his family. He could also have been known by his nickname, the devil’s spawn. However, he referred to himself by the French name for the high office he had inherited under the first King Henry. He and his English ancestors were keepers of the horses, the the marechals.

Don’t guess we got around to picking you a second name, the grave-digger told his son.

What’s your own second name? the boy asked.

Don’t got one either. Don’t need one.

I’ll choose one. Our second name will be Marshal.

Don’t be putting on airs, the grave-digger chided. We’re no relation to the Marshal of England. Mind the place God gave you.

The grave-digger bent down, picked up a stone, and sent it flying.

His lad asked, Is Will Marshal spared?

I ‘spect he’s safe for now, but he’s born to make war. He’s not likely to live long.

If his luck is good he will. Like King Arthur. When Arthur was very old, he sailed to Avalon to die.

Don’t count on FitzGilbert’s boy turning into a great warrior like Arthur. The tides of luck and war turn against a man right quick.

Am I born to make war?

No, lad. Your fate is to bury such men as make war.

*     *     *

Hamstead-in-Berkshire, England

The yeasty smell of baking bread hung in the air. A red-haired lad followed it to the home of Hamstead’s baker. The pudgy baker looked up from a wooden barrel filled with heads of wheat"

Baker, will you help me? asked the boy.

Ain’t seen you in a while, young Bran. You’ve got yourself a few more freckles.

Mother says a fairy comes at night and paints them on.

More likely a witch.

The baker dug his hands through the grains of wheat, pulled out a mouse, and flung it across the hut. When the creature landed, it paused as if dazed before scuttling off. The baker wiped his dusty hands upon his tunic.

Saw that critter climb into my barrel, said the baker.

Forget the rat. Will you help me? asked Bran d’Hesdun, whose mother’s family held the manor of Ulvriton in Newbury. Why help someone who’s a friend of John FitzGilbert, a bloody traitor?

I’m not John FitzGilbert’s friend. My friend is the Marshal’s son.

The baker looked unmoved.

It’s a favor for a good woman, Bran insisted.

Who?

John FitzGilbert’s wife.

The baker spat into the meal. I like having a head to spit from.

Bran’s red locks were set off by skin as white as a newborn’s. He held out a piece of silver coin given him by Sybil of Salisbury. The baker took the piece of coin into his great dusty hands and held it to the light. He tried to bend the silver disc, reassuring himself that it was made of King Stephen’s die-struck silver. Indeed, he may not have held this type before. Coins were scarce throughout the realm.

Straightening, the baker regarded the boy closely for a moment.

You won’t be in danger if you help, said Bran.

I have to do… what?

When you deliver bread to the King, let me walk alongside. FitzGilbert’s’ wife is paying me to see if Will Marshal’s still alive.

Will Marshal? He’s alive. I see him when I take the bread.

Not good enough. I was paid to see with my own blinkers.

*     *     *

Newbury-in-Berkshire, England

Fresh stalks of