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  So that was what the trouble had been about earlier. Edwin supposed that if he was going to serve the earl properly, he’d better keep himself informed about this kind of thing, although he didn’t really know how to go about it. He must keep his eyes and ears open.

  Sir Roger fell silent and Edwin wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to continue the conversation or whether he should take the lack of speech as some sort of dismissal, but fortunately he was saved from having to make the decision by the arrival of two more men whom he didn’t know, but who were obviously knights and friends of Sir Roger’s. He stood awkwardly while the three men greeted each other, unsure whether he should just slip away, but with calm civility Sir Roger invited him to step forward and be introduced.

  ‘Edwin, these are two friends of mine. Sir Reginald le Croc – ’ he gestured towards the man on the left, a tall fellow, perhaps slightly older than himself, with long dark hair and merry eyes. Sir Reginald automatically held out his right hand to Edwin, but then winced as he took it, and Edwin realised too late that the hand was bandaged. He started to offer an apology but the knight waved it away, smiling.

  Sir Roger continued: ‘– and Sir Gilbert de l’Aigle.’ The other man was older, perhaps thirty years of age or more, and he had a seasoned and weather-beaten look about him. However, he was pleasant and welcoming, greeting Edwin courteously.

  Sir Roger now had his hand on Edwin’s shoulder, preparing to introduce him to his companions. This would be the great test. How would they react when they knew he was a commoner? Would their smiles melt away? Would they simply refuse to talk and move away from him? How would Sir Roger describe him? He held his breath, anticipating the worst, but Sir Roger presented him in an affable manner, as ‘Edwin of Conisbrough, from the household of my lord the earl.’ Then he gestured and all four sat down close to one of the campfires, Sir Roger’s small party of foot sergeants moving away to a discreet distance.

  Edwin could hardly believe that he was sitting with three knights, conversing with them on an equal level. Thank the Lord that his French was proficient enough to support him – his accent might sound a bit odd to these men, who from their names were pure-blood Normans, but they might just attribute this to his being from the north of the country, and he was able to speak fluently. Still, he decided that this was a good chance to learn something about the new world he now inhabited, so he kept his mouth shut while he listened to the others speaking of troop numbers, horses, provisions, the latest developments in armour, possible tactics … as the conversation continued he basked in the glow of the fire with a comfortably full stomach, and almost began to relax.

  It was becoming full dark when Martin suddenly hurried up to the fire, calling Edwin’s name and shattering his mood of calm. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere – my lord the earl wants to speak with you right now.’ Belatedly he stopped and nodded his head respectfully to the knights around the fire.

  Edwin scrambled to his feet, almost falling over himself as he tried to rise too quickly. Why would the earl want to see him now? What task might he have? Despite his panic he remembered his manners and took his leave of the others. They waved him away cheerfully, no doubt used to being summoned at will by their own lords and masters and recognising when orders must be obeyed instantly.

  As he followed Martin, his stiff legs struggling to keep up with the long strides, Edwin tried to question him, but Martin said no more than that the earl wished to see both him and Sir Hugh Fitzjohn – one of his most experienced knights – immediately. He upped his pace even more. Edwin hardly had time to catch his breath before they reached the earl’s tent and he was being hustled inside.

  The interior of the tent was close in the flickering light, the air thicker than outside; Edwin stole a glance round as best he could. The place was functional, and yet still much more lavish than he would have thought possible; he should have realised that peers of the realm didn’t travel without some of the trappings of their estate. The space was well lit by several torches, and had mats on the floor and hangings suspended from various wooden poles which divided the tent into several rooms. He was standing in the central space, but over to one side he could see into another compartment which contained a wooden box bed, a kist, and, ominously, the earl’s gleaming hauberk on a pole, with his shield and sword leaning up against it. It reminded Edwin of why they were all here – for war.

  The earl was in conversation with Sir Hugh Fitzjohn, a tough, grey-haired knight who had seen his fair share of campaigns; they were attended by Adam, the earl’s younger squire, who stood silently in the corner. He smiled briefly but nervously at Edwin as he entered, not yet being used to his new position in the earl’s household. Both men turned to face Edwin and the earl got down to business straight away.

  ‘Weaver, good.’

  He jumped. It was still odd being called ‘Weaver’, for that was his father’s name, not his. He would have to try and make himself worthy of it.

  The earl hadn’t noticed his slight pause and continued without stopping for breath. ‘As I’ve just been telling Sir Hugh, I’ve been summoned to the regent’s command tent to discuss tactics with him and the other senior men in the host. As my most experienced knight, Hugh will accompany me, but I want you to come as well. You will stand with Hugh and listen carefully. Some of the other nobles don’t trust me, and there will be doubt and suspicion there. Your quick wits may pick up on something which the rest of us miss, so you will take note of everything which is said and report to me afterwards. Clear?’

  Edwin nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Before he had time to frame any questions, he was dismissed peremptorily with a wave of the hand.

  Edwin left the tent, his head buzzing so hard that he tripped on one of the ropes outside the door. The regent? The nobles of the kingdom? He was to stand in the same place as these exalted men and listen to their counsel? What if he couldn’t discern anything in the way the earl wanted? What if …?

  He was interrupted by Martin, who had followed him out.

  ‘Edwin, you’re a lucky man. What I would give to be able to accompany my lord into the regent’s own tent!’ Edwin felt momentarily guilty, but Martin was continuing. ‘Still, much better for my lord to have you than me – you’re bound to discover something which I wouldn’t realise.’

  Edwin wished Martin wouldn’t do that all the time, but before he could say anything he was struck by another thought. ‘Do I look well enough to appear in such company? I’m not a knight, have no surcoat …’

  Martin looked him up and down critically. ‘The knights have disarmed now they’re in camp: they won’t be wearing their mail or anything, they’ll be dressed normally. Still … hmm …’ he put out a hand and span Edwin round as he considered, ‘… you don’t want to look too untidy; you might want to go and put on your best tunic.’ He turned and disappeared back inside the tent.

  Edwin gulped. He was already wearing his best tunic.

  Alys had already checked the gate at the bottom of the yard, but she did so again, unable to help herself. Of course it hadn’t come unfastened since the last time she looked at it, but she was driven to go over and over everything she could possibly do to protect her family – what was left of her family.

  Eventually satisfied that it was still shut, she turned her attention to the rest of the yard. The four houses were all close together, but they were of a fair size, so the communal space was quite large by Lincoln standards – all the better, as they needed it for the weaving sheds, as well as the latrine and the vegetable patches. Her own vegetables and herbs, outside the kitchen door, were the worse for wear, but she would have to eke out what remained as best she could. Those of her neighbours weren’t in much better state, and the one at the end of the block was overgrown with weeds, had been since the Appyltons fled the city some weeks back. They had all tried hard to cover up the fact that the place was empty, for if it became common knowledge it would cause trouble with pilfer
ers or housebreakers. Fortunately the rest of them had stayed, with Mistress Guildersleeve on the one side acting almost as a mother to them all. And although Mistress Pinel, on the other side, hadn’t left her house for weeks, her husband had been so helpful, especially since …

  Tears came to her eyes and she fought hard to stop them. Crying wouldn’t help. She tried to think about something else. She needed to go out and buy something to eat – that would take her mind off everything else for a while, for buying food was something of an effort these days and would require all her concentration.

  She fetched her basket from the kitchen, checked twice that she had shut the door properly, and walked through the alley that led from the backyard into the street, fastening the gate behind her. In the open space she was immediately wary. Where were the French? Who might be stalking the streets today? She looked about her as she made her way up the Drapery, past the stalls where desperate vendors tried to sell their fabric, aware that hardly anybody had money for anything except food these days. She herself hadn’t opened the shop for nearly a week now, as it just wasn’t worth it: nobody came in, and it meant leaving the front door open onto the street all the time.

  She started as a hand touched her lightly on the arm, stifling a scream. But it was just Ralf.

  ‘Miss Alys – I thought that was you. Are you all right?’ His face was kind, and she felt a pang of guilt that he’d had to be laid off once it became clear that there wasn’t enough weaving to be done until more supplies of wool could be brought into the city. He looked gaunt, but his concern was all for her as he peered at her in that slightly squinting way he had, which came from too many years spent looking at fine patterns.

  She mustered a smile. ‘Yes, Ralf, I’m fine, thank you. I’m just off to …’ she tailed off, aware that it might be tactless to say she was going to buy food, when he’d been deprived of the means of purchasing any. She stood with her mouth open, feeling foolish, waiting until she could think of something to say, but she was saved by the sight of the elderly mayor waving to her from the other side of the street. ‘Oh look, Ralf – over there.’

  Ralf blinked and peered across the street, but his face didn’t register any recognition until Master William was almost upon them.

  The mayor nodded at them both benignly. ‘Alys, how nice to see you. And it is good to see your father’s workers taking care of you in these dangerous times.’ He beamed at Ralf before continuing. ‘And how is your father?’

  This time Alys couldn’t stop the tears, and she felt the sting as they poured from her eyes and down her face. She couldn’t speak, shaking her head silently in misery. William nodded and gripped her hand. ‘And your brothers?’ She shook her head again, trying to take control of the weeping before she embarrassed herself in front of the whole street.

  All at once a beautiful scent enveloped her, and a soft hand touched her arm. A gentle voice spoke, shushing and comforting her, and admonishing William gently for being so thoughtless. Through her tears Alys looked into a small, delicate face, topped by a widow’s cap with a few blonde hairs peeking out from underneath it. She stared in bemusement, immediately aware of how her own face must look blotched and swollen. She had seen the woman about town a few times – thinking how young she was to be a widow and wondering what tragedy might have befallen her – but they had never spoken, so why should she care? She looked to William, who hastened to introduce them. ‘My dear, perhaps you don’t know Mistress Gunnilda? She lives up in the northern part of the town.’

  Alys recollected herself enough to give a small curtsey, trying to brush the tears from her face as she did so. The widow Gunnilda put up one delicate hand to help smooth them away, and brushed back Alys’s hair. ‘There. It must be a very difficult time for you, even without being reminded of it in the street. I heard what happened to your father and I’m truly sorry for it.’ Her voice was soft and comforting. ‘Now, could someone not take you back home?’

  Alys glanced round at Ralf, but for some reason he looked tremendously awkward, and was backing away while he struggled to get any words out. He stuttered once or twice, turned red, and eventually span on his heel and fled, without having said a word.

  There was a surprised silence for a moment before William gallantly stepped into the breach, proposing to escort her home, and Alys wanted nothing more than to take him up on the offer and return to the familiar haven. But she just couldn’t. She had responsibilities, two little brothers and a sister to feed, and must keep going no matter what the circumstances. She drew herself up, mustered as much dignity as she could, and bade them good day.

  Edwin still wasn’t quite sure this was really happening, but he found himself pacing in the dusk behind the earl and Sir Hugh towards the middle of the camp. He was dressed in one of Martin’s old tunics – the squire had taken pity on him and opened his own pack, finding a garment which Edwin could wear and saying he could keep it as it was too small for him anyway. Too small it might have been for the huge Martin, but it was still on the large side for Edwin, and he felt awkward. Still, one advantage of it being the ex-tunic of a squire was that it had the small checked blue and gold badge stitched on to it, which identified him as a member of the earl’s personal household, so at least that was something: he felt more as though he belonged, at least on the outside.

  Any confidence he might have felt evaporated as soon as he reached the huge tent in the middle of the camp, surrounded by guards and by spitting, flaring torches which warded off the darkness. Two awe-inspiring standards flapped heavily above it, visible in the smoky gloom: the red lion of the regent on its green and gold background, and the royal arms, three golden lions on a red field. Edwin swallowed, intimidated by the sort of company he was about to encounter, but there was no time to think as he followed the others through the open mouth of the tent.

  Inside there were more torches, and a large press of men. It was hot and airless, with the sharp tang of sweat and smoke, and Edwin felt moisture beginning to form on his brow almost immediately. The earl moved towards the middle of the tent, and Edwin followed Sir Hugh to stand at one side. As they found a position which offered a view of the nobles, Edwin was able to see the most powerful man in the kingdom.

  He stood next to a table in the very centre of the tent, surrounded by other lesser men, as a huge oak might be by mere saplings. He was certainly the oldest man Edwin had ever seen – well over seventy years of age, if the tales were to be believed – and the experiences of a long and eventful life were carved into the lines of his face. William Marshal. Edwin could hardly believe he was looking at the legendary figure. Here was a man who had started out as the fourth son of a minor noble, but who had fought his way round Europe, been on a crusade to the Holy Land, become the servant and confidant of kings and queens, and was now the ruler of the whole country, the guardian of the ten-year-old king. Looking at the white-haired figure was enough to make anyone tremble with awe, and Edwin suddenly felt that he could barely stand. The absolute authority which Marshal held was etched into his every line and was easily discernible from the way the other nobles – earls and lords all – deferred to him with great respect. There was no question who was in charge. The regent held all their lives in the hollow of his hand, and every man knew it.

  As they stood watching the nobles, Sir Hugh began to murmur to Edwin behind his hand. ‘Stand quietly by me and I will try to explain to you what is going on and who is who. Over there are some of the most powerful men in the land. The regent, obviously, and next to him his son, William Marshal the younger. Our Lord William de Warenne. Then William Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury; William Ferrars, the Earl of Derby; William the Earl of Albemarle; the Lords William d’Aubigny, William de Cantelou and his son William.’ Edwin wondered briefly if some law had been passed on the naming of nobles of which he had previously been unaware, but he had no time to go on with the thought as Sir Hugh was continuing. ‘And on the other side of the table, Falkes de Breauté; Peter des Roches, the B
ishop of Winchester; John Marshal, the regent’s nephew and Ranulf de Blundeville, the Earl of Chester.’

  Edwin looked with particular interest at the last two whom the knight had named. The Earl of Chester, the second most powerful man in the kingdom, stood slightly apart from the others, listening to their conversation with an ill-disguised temper. He was shorter than most of the other men there, but had hugely broad shoulders and a look of immense physical power. How men must quail at the thought of facing him across a battlefield! The earl’s gaze turned from the nobles to sweep the rest of the tent, and Edwin looked away hastily lest he be caught staring. He looked instead at the lord Sir Hugh had named as the regent’s nephew. He had never heard the name John Marshal before, but he recognised the man as being the one who had come out to meet their party earlier when they had arrived; the one who had finally let them join the encampment. He was neither the oldest nor the youngest of the men around the table, being perhaps of an age with Edwin’s own lord, maybe a bit younger, his dark hair just starting to be flecked with grey. Now that he wasn’t wearing his mail, Edwin could see how slight he was, not tall, and easily the lithest of the men around the regent. He was listening to the conversation around the table with interest, his eyes darting back and forth from one lord to the next, his movements quick and restless as he was seemingly unable to keep still. He kept looking as though he wanted to interrupt, but he didn’t speak.

  Sir Hugh murmured again, encouraging Edwin to watch and to listen to what was happening, and then he fell silent as they turned their attention to the talk of the men around the regent.