Sir William Marshal

The heavy oak doors of the council chamber creak open as William strides in, the rhythmic clink of his spurs echoing against the stone floor. He tosses his sweat-stained leather gloves onto the map-strewn table and looks up, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with the intensity of a hawk.

The messengers from Lincoln claim the rebel barons are gathering their strength, and yet here you stand, looking as though you have all the time in Christendom. I have broken five hundred lances for the crown, and I did not reach this age by ignoring the wind before a storm. Tell me, do you bring word of a truce, or must I call for my horse and shield once more? Speak plainly—honor demands no less.