‘Will it hold?’ Eudo asked as we led our horses out along those pontoons, towards the largest of the islets, which stood roughly midway between the two shores. ‘All it needs is for one of those boats to start leaking, or for a few of those posts to give way, and the whole thing could sink into the marshes, and us with it.’
‘It’ll hold,’ Robert said, although he did not sound entirely convinced. Neither was I, as the timbers creaked beneath Fyrheard’s hooves. He was anxious, too, his steps tentative, but I rubbed his muzzle in reassurance and kept a firm grasp upon the reins. The last thing I wanted was for him to panic on first sight of the bridge and the water, and so it was important that he grew accustomed to them before I took to the saddle. Fortunately the causeways were wide enough for three and, in a very few places, four horsemen to ride abreast without difficulty. Even so, for now we went in single file as we approached the islet, where a stout mangonel was mounted on a square platform that also served as a watchtower, one of several that had been built along the length of the bridge. All sedge and undergrowth within twenty paces had been cut and cleared, so that the enemy couldn’t try to set fire to the structure as before. Nevertheless, even a small band armed with axes could wreak considerable damage in a short space of time, which was why companies of archers had been posted, both here on this island and on those other watchtowers, to observe the marsh by day and by night and to dissuade the rebels from coming too close.
Only when we grew a little closer did I realise that I recognised some of the faces among those archers, and one ruddy-cheeked face in particular. Hamo. He stood atop the watchtower, laughing with his friends while at the same time gnawing on a bone that looked like it had once belonged to a chicken or some other bird, but when he spotted us approaching he tossed it into the bog.
‘You owe us, Robert Malet,’ he shouted from behind the parapet. ‘Do you hear me? You still owe us for the part we played in your little expedition.’
‘You’ll have your money in time,’ Robert called back as we neared the foot of the tower. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as King Guillaume pays me.’
‘That’s no good to me or my men. Don’t forget that we risked our necks for your sake.’
‘Didn’t you hear what he said?’ I asked. ‘You’ll have your money in time.’
‘You have my oath,’ Robert said sternly. ‘In return, I ask that you have patience.’
Hamo spat across the parapet; his spittle landed a few paces in front of us.
‘Words,’ he said, sneering firstly at me and then at Robert. ‘That is all oaths are. But a man can’t live on words. I want what was promised to me. I want my share of the reward for the capture of that English runt. I know who he is, remember, and how much he’s worth, too, so don’t think for a moment about trying to cheat me. Where is he now, in any case?’
We’d left the English runt, as Hamo called him, back at camp in the care of some of Robert’s household knights, who were spending the morning in the training yard that they’d marked out, honing their skills ahead of the battle to come, practising with wicker shields, oak cudgels and spear-hafts from which the heads had been removed. As we’d left they’d been busy teaching Godric some simple stances, cuts and thrusts. From what little I’d seen he was an enthusiastic learner, if not an especially quick one. Clumsy on his feet, he often lost his balance, which resulted in him opening up his guard and ending up on his face in the dirt, much to the laughter and cheers of the others. Not that he seemed to mind; rather he took it all in good humour, each time raising himself with a sheepish grin before resuming his stance. Now that the threat of imminent death no longer hung over him, he seemed less afraid in our presence. And he showed determination too, which was important, for it took years of practice to make a warrior, if indeed that was his ambition. Whether he would ever fulfil it, I wasn’t sure. I’d seen boys three years younger more proficient at arms, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d barely picked up a blade in all the time he had spent under Morcar’s tutelage. But as I’d watched him stumble backwards, arms flailing, before finally landing on his arse in a puddle, I found myself in a strange sort of way warming to him. Ungainly he might be, but there was something in him that reminded me of myself at that young age, though I couldn’t quite work out what that was.
‘Why should it matter to you where Godric is?’ Robert asked.
‘He lives, though?’ Hamo asked in return.
‘Yes, and he is under our protection.’
The big-bellied man gave a curt laugh. ‘Your protection? Since when did we start offering shelter to the enemy?’