that out?’
Fitz Osbern nodded, for once it seemed agreeing with the Wolf. ‘Certainly this will be no easy task, Berengar, but I think you rather overestimate the enemy. Since you will not put yourself forward, though, it is of little consequence.’ He turned his attention to me. ‘I believe that Tancred has experience enough. Indeed for the hero of Eoferwic — the man who led the charge against Eadgar?theling, who dared to fight him in single combat — I imagine that the command of a small raiding-party such as this should be a straightforward proposition.’
It seemed I would be forever branded with that feat, despite the fact that it had been borne not from courage but from stupidity, even if I were the only one who understood that. Nevertheless, I sensed a challenge in Fitz Osbern’s words; one that was difficult to back down from. It was only due to his sufferance that I’d been allowed to speak at all this evening. Now I was being presented with the chance for honour and glory greater than any I had won before. Yet if I withdrew my offer then I would be seen as a coward and would lose all the respect I had worked so hard to gain.
‘It is your choice,’ said Fitz Osbern, perhaps sensing my hesitance. ‘Should you wish to decline then I am sure I can find other men who would be only too willing to carry out this task.’
His manner suggested indifference, but I knew he meant it not as a reassurance but as an incitement. There would be no other opportunity like this for some time, if ever. A year spent out here on the Marches had not dulled my yearning for battle. Far from it: the hunger raged inside me and my sword-hand itched with the prospect of adventure.
‘You don’t have to do this, Tancred,’ Robert warned. ‘Remember, you are under no obligation to accept.’
‘Robert is right,’ said Fitz Osbern, his eyes boring into me. ‘You do not owe me anything.’
Nevertheless my mind was set. This was my chance to take the attack to the enemy, to help put an end to the ceaseless raids which had troubled Earnford and everywhere else along the borderlands; a chance, too, to see the black hawk soar proudly as it had not done in over a year, and to lead conrois beneath its wings. Knowing all that, there was only one answer I could give.
‘I will do this, lord,’ I said.
Again a flicker of a smile crossed his face, which surprised me, for Guillaume fitz Osbern was not a man generally known for his humour. Still, his was not a friendly smile but rather one of satisfaction, as if he had expected nothing less from me. As if he had somehow known that I alone of everyone in this chamber would be willing to accept this responsibility, perilous as it was.
A smile that somehow told, in a manner I could not quite understand, of quiet victory.
We made ready to march the next day as soon as first light graced the eastern skies. The last thing Fitz Osbern wanted was for the enemy to get wind of our strategy, which meant that the sooner we could strike, the better. Across the camp men were waking, fires were being lit, horses were being fed. All this I watched from the other side of the river, by the barrow mound that I had chosen as our mustering point. The morning was chill, the wind rising, and I pulled my cloak more tightly around me, folding my arms in front of my chest as I paced about with Serlo and Pons and Turold, waiting for the rest of my party to assemble.
In all I was to be given command of half a thousand fighting men: a conroi of forty from Fitz Osbern’s household, as well as countless lesser lords together with their followers, many of whom I recognised for those who had lent their voices in my support the previous night. Included in that number were half the troops brought by the exiled Welsh brothers Maredudd and Ithel. As armies went it was far from the largest I had ever ridden in, but then our purpose was not to face the enemy in open battle if we could possibly avoid it. Instead we would travel quickly, laying waste as widely as possible, with any luck distracting the enemy while Earl Hugues’s host marched upon them in force from the north.
That, at least, was the plan; we would soon see how successful it proved. Nonetheless, I had confidence in the Wolf in spite of his age. No sooner had Fitz Osbern dismissed us all from his council than the earl had come over in person to wish me luck.
‘You are a brave man,’ he told me. ‘Few would dare accept such a risky enterprise. I wanted to let it be known that you have my respect.’
To hear such words from one so young seemed strange, and were he not already one of the kingdom’s foremost barons and an accomplished leader of men, I might have laughed. Instead I fought against the urge, knowing that it would do me no favours.
‘Thank you, lord.’
He clasped my hand. ‘God willing, one day we will ride together. You can tell me the stories of your exploits then. With luck there will be many more to tell once this is over.’
I managed a smile. ‘I look forward to it,’ I said, though at the same time I wasn’t sure if I quite meant it. There was something that unnerved me about him, though exactly what was difficult to say. Was it his brashness, his self-assurance? Perhaps, but then those were traits shared by many men who lived by the sword. Was it that he reminded me of what I had been like at the same age?
That was the previous night. Now the sun would soon be rising, and when it did I wanted to be ready to march. Not far from where I was standing our Welsh allies were busy striking camp, though I had sent word that they should leave behind whatever they did not need, which in most cases meant everything except for their clothes, a few provisions, their armour and their weapons. I wanted us to travel as light as possible, for then we could cover more ground, and for the same reason I had ordered that there were to be no camp-followers who might slow us down.
The Welsh brothers had spotted me by then, and now they strode over to greet me. Both of them spoke French — enough at least that they could make themselves understood — which was just as well, since I knew barely any Welsh and I was of no mind to start learning now.
‘You’re the man we have heard so much about, then,’ Maredudd said after we had made our introductions. He was the taller of the two and, I guessed, the older, although in truth it was hard to tell. His cheeks were freckled and, unlike most Welshmen I had met, his top lip was unadorned with any trace of a moustache. ‘The Breton.’
‘That’s right.’ It was so long since I had been back to the land of my birth that most of the time I regarded myself as French, so it was always strange to hear someone call me that. On the other hand I knew that the Bretons as a people were said to be kinsfolk to the Welsh, and perhaps that slight link counted for something with them. Certainly I had heard it mentioned that our two tongues were closely related, and I had come across more than one Breton merchant who claimed to be able to converse freely with people of the various ports they frequented in Wales. Perhaps they possessed a better ear for language than I did, however, for while I could sometimes pick out a word or two that sounded familiar, and others the meaning of which I might be able to guess, the Welsh had a strange way of pronouncing everything that seemed harsh to my ear and which I still found largely impenetrable, despite having often crossed paths with their kind in the past year.
‘Fitz Osbern has told us a great deal about you,’ said Ithel. He was slightly rounder, with a ruddy complexion and ears that stuck out from the side of his head.
‘Only good things, I trust,’ I replied, managing a smile. In all the time I’d spent in these parts I hadn’t known anyone from across the dyke who was not my enemy, and I couldn’t help but be suspicious of them, even though outwardly they seemed honest enough.
Roughly speaking both were of an age with myself, I reckoned, though at first glance one would have been forgiven for thinking that they were some years older, for their stony expressions and cold gazes seemed to me those of men who had trodden the sword-path for several years. Their faces were lined with the scars of battle: scars that spoke to me of faded glories, of victories long-forgotten, of kingdoms stolen and birthrights denied.
Even if I hadn’t known beforehand, I would have guessed that they were brothers. As well as being similarly featured, both were dark-haired and possessed the broad shoulders and thick arms of a blacksmith. They wore their hair short, as did most of their men, who came in all sizes and ages, from long-limbed youths to large-bellied men of forty, armed with all kinds of weapons from simple knives, hunting bows and short-handled wood-axes to long spears and swords. A diverse band if ever I saw one, though what mattered most of all was their temperament in the heat of the melee, and that I could not know. Still, they looked like men who could acquit themselves in a fight, which was more than I had been expecting.
Before we left Lord Robert came to wish me luck. He was equipped for war, ready to ride out under the Wolf’s banner: dressed in hauberk and chausses, the chain links newly polished and gleaming in the light of the morning. For all that, though, he did not look entirely comfortable. Whilst he was proficient enough at arms, he was not a warrior by nature. He lacked the battle-hunger of a man whose living was made by the sword as mine was,
