Bellamus entered to discover Lord Northwic, as ever, long awake. He sat at the end of a heavy oak table dressed in split-leather leggings and a cotton shift, with a woollen blanket draped around his shoulders, nursing a mug of something steaming. As his eyes were no longer good enough to read, a servant standing in a corner was reading a classical history to him.
“Bellamus,” he growled in welcome, tapping a place at the table next to him. Bellamus took the seat and turned to wink at a servant behind him. The servant grinned and departed, returning almost at once to Bellamus’s fervent thanks with a chunk of hard bread and a bowl of wine, watered pink.
Lord Northwic, who clutched a mug of pine needles steeped in hot water, eyed Bellamus’s breakfast in disapproval. “For a man whose father was a pikeman you have certainly embraced a decadent lifestyle, Bellamus,” he observed.
“It’s very much about the contrast, my lord,” said Bellamus, removing the bleeding bread from the bowl and taking a bite.
“I trust you were not disappointed with your servant’s efforts this morning?”
“Rowan is a good lad,” said Bellamus, his mouth full. “You saw the pony?”
“I did,” said Northwic, snorting slightly. “Though you are too familiar with them.”
“I see no need to be a tyrant,” said Bellamus mildly. Silence fell for a moment. “It is cold. I think I shall never complain about a billet again.”
“We should never have launched a campaign so late in the season, but … His Majesty would not be dissuaded. Perhaps we should restore the roofs to the next village we come to and shelter until we are ready to leave,” said Lord Northwic, sipping his brew. “Though the Anakim buildings are scarcely more comfortable than this tent.”
“They are a hard race,” said Bellamus. “But when you live for two hundred years, perhaps you accept that no dwelling will last as long as you will and so resign yourself to rebuilding it many times?”
“It’s just a poor land,” said Northwic dismissively.
“The Hindrunn will impress you. And there are said to be larger, more solid villages further north. Perhaps if we find one we could turn it into a permanent encampment and wait out the winter north of the Abus.”
Lord Northwic nodded. “I don’t want to cede everything we have gained to the winter. Thank God His Majesty thought better of recalling us. Perhaps we shall build a fort of our own. Still, it is a lot of men to support in a barren land and we shall struggle to persuade the fyrd to stay.” The fyrd was a militia force, roused into action by promises of wealth and fear of the Anakim. They were poorly equipped and trained, but made up for it in sheer weight of numbers.
“Sometimes …” said Bellamus, then paused.
Lord Northwic grunted that he should continue.
“The Anakim do not lead like we do.”
“What of it?”
Bellamus wondered how much he could say to a man as tight-laced as Lord Northwic. “They separate their leaders and their men by distance alone. They sleep in the same way, eat the same food, carry the same burden.”
“Then the Anakim leaders will be tired when it comes to battle,” said his lordship. “And we shall have the advantage.”
“That’s possible,” conceded Bellamus. “But I believe the Anakim are inspired by example. They will gladly follow the Black Lord, because he is the best of them. He works harder than they do and takes less rest. Under his gaze, they fight more fiercely.”
Lord Northwic’s rheumy eyes glared at Bellamus, a touch suspicious at first. Then they seemed to soften. “As you say, they are a hard race. Perhaps it is not possible to command the respect of such hard folk without leadership through deeds, as well as words.”
“Interesting,” said Bellamus, arching his eyebrows. He could do business with Lord Northwic so much more easily than with Earl William. “I do not suggest following their example,” he explained. “But there is so much that they do which is different; it is well to consider it.”
“I defer to you in all things Anakim,” said his lordship, taking another sip from the steaming mug.
“When we are done here, I think I shall study the Unhieru.” The Unhieru were the third race of men that dwelled in Albion. They inhabited the hills and valleys to the west of the island and were a huge people, even compared with the Anakim. They were famed for irrepressible savagery and barbarism, and said to be ruled by the almost mythical Gogmagoc, a giant-king as old as Albion itself.
“You think you would survive long enough in their company to study them?” enquired Lord Northwic.
“It is simply a case of learning to speak their language,” said Bellamus reasonably. “But I think …”
What Bellamus thought never became clear, for he stopped suddenly.
A horn had sounded.
It moaned low and faint through the mist. It came once. Then twice. Then a third time.
“Enemy Attacking,” muttered Bellamus. Lord Northwic was on his feet at once, barking orders at his servants who now scurried out of the pavilion to fetch his armour, saddle his coursers, find out how far away and in what direction the enemy was, and half a dozen things besides.
Bellamus drained his bowl and darted out of the pavilion to discover chaos outside. Men dripping with weapons and chain mail were dissolving and reforming in the mist as they prepared themselves. Somehow a
