I think it's a far more difficult task to write historical
fiction based on real people. A few such books have
disappointed me lately, and I started the novel
with—thankfully—unwarranted trepidation. It took just a few
pages to realize I was in the hands of a master. In THE
GREATEST KNIGHT, Elizabeth Chadwick tells the story of the
life of William Marshal, a great, but little known, knight
of the Middle Ages. The trials of his life started at a
young age when his father gave him as a hostage to the king.
King Stephen threatened to hang the child if his father,
John Marshal, didn't give up Marlborough Castle, but in the
end, he couldn't do it. Instead, he taught William a lesson
on loyalty he never forgot.
As a kinsman, William lived on the charity of Guillaume de
Tancarville, where he trained as a squire and then was
promoted to a knight in his mesnie. However, with an excess
of young knights, William had to leave and moved to the
mesnie of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury. He had won money
for equipment and horses in a tourney, and ended up as the
greatest jouster of the age. Through his relationship with
Salisbury, William had the opportunity to meet the queen,
the beautiful Eleanor of Aquitaine. After saving her life,
she made him one of her household guards and then he was
taken into Prince Henry's mesnie. He formed a close bond
with the queen, one of the two relationships that had the
most impact on his life, the other being his wife, Isabelle
de Clare of Ireland. William served Prince Henry, his father
and his brother and events continually tested his loyalty.
Elizabeth Chadwick tells her story masterfully, giving the
reader insight into William's thoughts and emotions. While
the bulk of her story is based on fact, she seamlessly fills
in any gaps, but a reader would be hard-pressed to pick fact
from fiction. Chadwick introduces us to other characters who
play important roles in William's life from the queen,
princes, other knights and his future wife, Isabelle de
Clare of Ireland. She weaves romance, adventure, mystery and
court intrigue into William's life in such a way that
reading the book more resembles hopping into a time machine
and seeing his life firsthand. William is a true leader with
many friends, but he also has enemies who start rumors that
have him banished from court for a time. His brother, too,
harbors a palpable resentment for William's place, and while
the two are family, they never share a close-knit relationship.
THE GREATEST KNIGHT historical fiction at its best, a novel
that brings its subject to life. She has done meticulous
research interspersing wisdom about customs, foods, the
environment and many other details about life in the Middle
Ages. As part of her research, Chadwick participates in
re-enactments, and her dedication to understanding her
subjects and the world in which they live clearly show
through in every page. I recommend this novel to any fan of
historical fiction. You won't be disappointed.
Royal protector. Loyal servant. Forgotten hero.
A penniless young knight with few prospects, William Marshal
is plucked from obscurity when he saves the life of Henry
II's formidable queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. In gratitude,
she appoints him tutor to the heir to the throne, the
volatile and fickle Prince Henry. But being a royal favorite
brings its share of danger and jealousy as well as fame and
reward.
A writer of uncommon historical integrity and accuracy,
Elizabeth Chadwick resurrects the true story of one of
England's greatest forgotten heroes in a captivating blend
of fact and fiction. The Greatest Knight restores William
Marshal to his rightful place at the pinnacle of the Middle
Ages, reflecting through him the triumphs, scandals, and
power struggles that haven't changed in eight hundred years.
Excerpt
From Chapter 1Fortress 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 Berkshire
keep at Hamstead.
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 right 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.
“Why?”
Without answering, Henk turned sharply to the right.
Between the siege machine and an elaborate tent striped in
blue and gold, a group of men were talking amongst
themselves. A pair of guards stepped forward, spears at the
ready, then relaxed and waved Henk and William through.
Henk took two strides and knelt, pulling William down
beside him. “Sire.”
William darted an upward glance through his fringe,
uncertain which of the men Henk was addressing, for none of
them wore a crown or resembled his notion of what a king
should look like. One lord was holding a fine spear though,
with a silk banner rippling from the haft.
“So this is the boy whose only value to his father has
been the buying of time,” said the man standing beside the
spear-bearer. He had greying fair hair and lined, care-worn
features. “Rise, child. What’s your name?”
“William, sir.” His dream self stood up. “Are you the
King?”
The man blinked and looked taken aback. Then his faded
blue eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. “Indeed I am,
although your father seems not to think so.” One of his
companions leaned to mutter in his ear. The King listened
and vigorously shook his head. “No,” he said.
A breeze lifted the silk banner on the lance and it
fluttered outwards, making the embroidered red lion at its
centre appear to stretch and prowl. The sight diverted
William. “Can I hold it?” he asked eagerly.
The lord frowned at him. “You’re a trifle young to be a
standard-bearer, hmm?” he said, but there was a reluctant
twinkle in his eye and after a moment he handed the spear
to William. “Careful now.”
The haft was warm from the lord’s hand as William closed
his own small fist around it. Wafting the banner, he
watched the lion snarl in the wind and laughed with delight.
The King had drawn away from his adviser and was making
denying motions with the palm of his hand.
“Sire, if you relent, you will court naught but John
Marshal’s contempt…” the courtier insisted.
“Christ on the Cross, I will court the torture of my
soul if I hang an innocent for the crimes of his sire. Look
at him…look!” The King jabbed a forefinger in William’s
direction. “Not for all the gold in Christendom will I see
a little lad like that dance on a gibbet. His hellspawn
father, yes, but not him.”
Oblivious of the danger in which he stood, aware only of
being the centre of attention, William twirled the spear.
“Come, child.” The King beckoned to him. “You will stay
in my tent until I decide what is to be done with you.”
William was only a little disappointed when he had to
return the spear to its owner who turned out to be the Earl
of Arundel. After all, there was a magnificent striped tent
to explore and the prospect of yet more weapons to look at
and perhaps even touch if he was allowed—royal ones at
that. With such a prospect in mind, he skipped along
happily at King Stephen’s side.
Two knights in full mail guarded the tent and various
squires and attendants waited on the King’s will. The flaps
were hooked back to reveal a floor strewn with freshly
scythed meadow and the heady scent of cut grass was
intensified by the enclosing canvas. Beside a large bed
with embroidered bolsters and covers of silk and fur stood
an ornate coffer like the one in his parents’ chamber at
Hamstead. There was also room for a bench and a table
holding a silver flagon and cups. The King’s hauberk
gleamed on a stand of crossed ash poles, with the helmet
secured at the top and his shield and scabbard propped
against the foot. William eyed the equipment with longing.
The King smiled at him. “Do you want to be a knight,
William?”
William nodded vigorously, eyes glowing.
“And loyal to your king?”
Again William nodded but this time because instinct told
him it was the required response.
“I wonder.” Sighing heavily, the King directed a squire
to pour the blood-red wine from flagon to cup. “Boy,” he
said. “Boy, look at me.”
William raised his head. The intensity of the King’s
stare frightened him a little.
“I want you to remember this day,” King Stephen said
slowly and deliberately. “I want you to know that whatever
your father has done to me, I am giving you the chance to
grow up and redress the balance. Know this: a king values
loyalty above all else.” He sipped from the cup and then
pressed it into William’s small hands. “Drink and promise
you will remember.”
William obliged, although the taste stung the back of
his throat.
“Promise me,” the King repeated as he repossessed the
cup.
“I promise,” William said, and as the wine flamed in his
belly, the dream left him and he woke with a gasp to the
crowing of roosters and the first stirring of movement
amongst the occupants of Drincourt’s great hall. For a
moment he lay blinking, acclimatising himself to his
present surroundings. It was a long time since his dreams
had peeled back the years and returned him to the summer he
had spent as King Stephen’s hostage during the battle for
Newbury. He seldom recalled that part of his life with his
waking memory, but occasionally, without rhyme or reason,
his dreams would return him to that time and the young man
just turning twenty would again become a fair-haired little
boy of five years old.
His father, despite all his manoeuvring, machinations
and willingness to sacrifice his fourth-born son, had lost
Newbury, and eventually his lordship of Marlborough, but if
he had lost the battle, he had rallied on the successful
turn of the tide. Stephen’s bloodline lay in the grave and
Empress Matilda’s son, Henry, the second of that name, had
been sitting firmly on the throne for thirteen years.
“And I am a knight,” William murmured, his lips curving
with grim humour. The leap in status was recent. A few
weeks ago he had still been a squire, polishing armour,
running errands, learning his trade at the hands of Sir
Guillaume de Tancarville, Chamberlain of Normandy and
distant kin to his mother. William’s knighting announced
his arrival into manhood and advanced him a single rung
upon a very slippery ladder. His position in the
Tancarville household was precarious. There were only so
many places in Lord Guillaume’s retinue for newly belted
knights with ambitions far greater than their experience or
proven capability.
William had considered seeking house room under his
brother’s rule at Hamstead, but that was a last resort, nor
did he have sufficient funds to pay his passage home across
the Narrow Sea. Besides, with the strife between Normandy
and France at white heat, there were numerous opportunities
to gain the necessary experience. Even now, somewhere along
the border, the French army was preparing to slip into
Normandy and wreak havoc. Since Drincourt protected the
northern approaches to the city of Rouen, there was a
pressing need for armed defenders.
As the dream images faded, William slipped back into a
light doze and the tension left his body. The blond hair of
his infancy had steadily darkened through boyhood and was
now a deep hazel-brown, but fine summer weather still
streaked it with gold. Folk who had known his father said
that William was the image of John Marshal in the days
before the molten lead from the burning roof of Wherwell
Abbey had ruined his comeliness; that they had the same
eyes, the irises deep grey, with the changeable muted tones
of a winter river.
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