He sat mounted on a grey horse at the head of the host, marshalling men, surrounded by other lords, and I knew them for such because their scabbards were inlaid with precious stones, their helmets rimmed with gold. Probably many of them had never faced a proper battle before, or at least if they had, then they had stayed some way back from the real fighting. Otherwise they ought to have known that such things only marked them out to the enemy and so made them easier to kill. Whatever wealth they had, it counted for nothing on the field of slaughter.
I tried to force my way through the crowd, towards Fitz Osbern himself, hoping he might recognise either myself or Wace or Eudo, though the last time we had met with him we had been in the company of Earl Robert, and I was not sure whether he would recall our faces.
‘Lord,’ I called. Men on foot were in the way, but I kept riding forward and they soon moved aside, albeit not before cursing me.
He turned in his saddle, and his gaze fell upon me. ‘What is it?’
‘We are the men Robert Malet has sent,’ I said.
He glanced at each of us in turn. ‘You are the ones who will be opening the gates?’
‘That’s right.’
I gave him our names, though he did not appear to be interested. ‘Six of you,’ he said. ‘I was given to believe that it would not be as many.’ He sighed. ‘It matters not. There is a boat waiting by the river for your use. It is a small craft, but it ought to be enough for your purposes—’
He turned suddenly as a call came from behind him and another man rode up, flanked by two knights on either side. Fitz Osbern headed towards them as if he had already forgotten us, leaping down from the saddle just as the other man did the same. The two embraced, and it was then that I saw the banner – the lion of Normandy – carried by one of the knights, and realised that the other man was no less than the king himself.
He was then about forty or so in years, tall and set like an ox, with a thick neck and a powerful sword-arm that I knew had sent many foes to their deaths. His eyes were shadows beneath stern eyebrows and his face was drawn, but he bore himself with confidence, as a king should. It was the first time I had seen him at close hand, and though I had stood before many nobles over the years, I could not help but feel awed by him. For this was the man who by his will and his vision had brought us here, to England, and won us this kingdom. The man who had gone against the usurper in battle, though the numbers had not favoured him, and who had defeated him.
Hurriedly I signalled to the others to dismount, for it was not right to remain mounted when the king himself was standing. The two broke off their embrace and strode towards us.
‘My lord king, these are the men who will be opening the gates for you,’ Fitz Osbern said.
I had enough presence of mind to kneel. King Guillaume towered over me, all six feet of him, and I met his eyes, glimpsing the fire contained within. Quickly I bowed my head. It was often said that the king was prone to anger, and I had no wish to see if that were true.
He walked around the six of us. ‘You,’ he said, his voice stern. I looked up, wondering if he meant me, but in fact he was speaking to Wace. ‘What is your name?’
‘Wace de Douvres, my king.’ He, at least, did not appear perturbed.
‘You have served your lord long?’
‘I serve his father, the vicomte Guillaume Malet,’ he replied, his crippled eye twitching slightly, which I took as a sign of nerves. ‘Though before then I was sworn to the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Commines.’
‘Earl Robert,’ the king said, more quietly. ‘I knew him well. He was a good man, and a good friend too. How long did you serve him?’
‘Since I was a boy, lord. Fourteen years.’
The king nodded, as if in thought. ‘Then no doubt you knew him far better than I,’ he said at last. ‘He met his end too soon, but I promise that you will have your vengeance upon the English who murdered him. We will fill the streets of Eoferwic with their blood.’
‘I hope so, lord.’
The king placed a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I know it.’ Then he turned, marching back to his own knights and his banner, where he mounted up.
‘Guillaume,’ he called to Fitz Osbern. ‘Show the enemy no mercy.’ And then he and his men were gone, heading back towards the main part of the camp, their horses’ hooves drumming against the earth as they disappeared into the night.
For a moment I stayed there, still kneeling, scarce daring to believe that I had come so close to the king himself. As I got to my feet I glanced at Wace; he seemed to be almost in shock.
‘You did well,’ I told him, but he merely nodded, and did not speak.
Fitz Osbern came over to us. He was mounted again, and had his helmet on and his lance in his hand, while a brown cloak covered his mail.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Ride with me. We’re ready to leave.’