‘I hope your information is sound,’ Wace said. ‘For your sake, not ours.’
I hoped so too. Only now, as we were about to embark upon this strategy, did I realise what a fragile thing it was, and how much we were relying on matters beyond our control: on the trustworthiness of the information given us; on the water-carriers coming to the spring at the right time; on Haakon doing exactly what we expected of him.
‘Remember,’ I said, ‘don’t commit yourselves to battle unless it’s clear that the numbers are in your favour. I don’t want any more Norman blood spilt than is necessary. Enough good men have wasted their lives because of me in the past couple of years.’
‘So tell us again,’ said a confused-looking Eudo. ‘If we’re not going to fight Haakon’s forces, then what? Are we simply to lie in wait off the shore?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Wait until you see the flames licking above Jarnborg’s palisade. In the confusion that follows, with any luck our enemy will be distracted. That’s the moment when you strike.’
‘Luck is the right word,’ Wace said bitterly. ‘We’ll need some, if this plan of yours is to bear any fruit.’
Was that not true, though, of every struggle that had ever been fought? No strategy could account for every possible course of events, nor make order out of the turmoil of the mêlée, nor allow for the courage of the few or the timid hearts of the many. So much in battle was a question of luck, and every warrior needed good fortune, no matter whether he was a fresh-faced youth standing in the shield-wall for the first time, or a knight who had spent more than half his life travelling the sword-path. The poets who write the songs that pass into legend would have it differently, of course, but every man who lives his life by the sword knows it well.
Yet I still believed that the best warriors were those who made the most of their luck, who grasped in both hands the opportunities given them, who saw their enemies’ weaknesses and how they might be turned to their advantage. That was why I refused to believe that our cause was as desperate as it might seem.
‘What about the Englishman?’ Eudo asked, nodding his head towards Magnus, who was embracing his huscarls down by the water’s edge. Wyvern and Nihtegesa were already afloat, bobbing in the swell as they lay at anchor. The sea-mist had cleared to reveal skies heavy with the promise of rain to come, and I only hoped that another storm was not on its way. ‘Do you really trust him?’
‘Only about as far as I could throw him,’ I answered. ‘But he wants the same thing as we do. Until we achieve it, there’s no reason why we can’t depend on him.’
Wace didn’t look convinced. ‘What did Haakon mean yesterday when he called Magnus the son of Harold?’
‘Did he say that?’ I said, doing my best to feign surprise, although the looks they gave me suggested I hadn’t succeeded.
‘Don’t play games with us,’ Wace said in a warning tone. ‘You know something. He didn’t mean the Harold, surely?’
I met his stare, but realised it was pointless to try to keep the truth from them any longer.
‘Is he, or is he not, the son of the usurper?’ Wace asked.
‘So he claims.’
‘You knew?’ asked Eudo, while Wace simply turned away, cursing under his breath. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Why do you think? If you’d found out he was Harold’s son, would you have come this far, or would you have taken Wyvern back to England?’
He didn’t answer, but they knew as well as I did what they would have done.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Wace said. ‘It’s one thing to be fighting shoulder to shoulder with Englishmen, but I never thought I’d find myself sharing bread and ale with the usurper’s own blood.’
‘Quiet,’ I hissed, aware that Magnus and his huscarls were not far off. ‘Don’t forget that we outnumber them by three swords to every two of theirs. If anyone has any reason to be worried about being murdered in his sleep, it’s him, but he obviously trusts us, or else he wouldn’t be here, would he?’
‘He has the oath-breaker’s blood running in his veins,’ Eudo said. ‘What’s to say he won’t turn on us, just as his father turned on King Guillaume?’
‘He hasn’t yet.’ It was a poor answer, and one that even I was not convinced by, but it was the only one that came to mind. ‘If he’d wanted to kill us, he’d have found a way to do so before now.’
‘And on that reasoning you’re prepared to stake your life?’