Some of those faces I recognised from previous campaigns or else from times when our paths had crossed at the king’s court, even if I did not know them by name. But there were many more I hadn’t seen before, and that was no wonder, since by then it seemed that almost the entire March was in Scrobbesburh. Certainly all its foremost men were in that hall: young and old, seasoned warriors and richly dressed nobles, sword-brothers and rivals alike. A low murmur filled the air, lifting to the rafters along which mice scuttled, flickers of grey in the gloom, disturbed by the rain and by the presence of so many men. Though not much larger than my own hall at Earnford, in decoration it was far grander, with tapestries and hangings upon the wall in stripes of white and pear green: the colours of the castellan.
I looked for Robert, but perhaps he had been called upon to confer privately with Fitz Osbern and Earl Hugues, for I could not see him. Servants hustled through the throng, bringing hot food out on wooden platters from the kitchens and laying it down on the long tables in front of the hearth, to a chorus of cheers from the men who were standing nearby.
‘I can’t remember the last time I saw so many barons in one place,’ I said.
‘Neither can I,’ said Eudo, who had managed to find a pitcher from somewhere. He took a swig and then passed it to me. I lifted it to my lips, letting the smell of barley fill my nose before drinking deeply. It was better ale than I had enjoyed in a while, and stronger stuff too than the kind that we usually had in Earnford.
‘Leave some for the rest of us,’ said Wace.
I swallowed. ‘Here,’ I said, holding the jug out to him. ‘Take it.’
No sooner had he done so than I spotted a hint of movement towards the front of the hall. Anxious for a clearer view, I edged my way through the crowd. On the far side behind the dais hung long embroidered drapes, all but concealing a doorway to an antechamber, and from between those drapes several figures now stepped. The hall fell quiet as first came Fitz Osbern, in an expensive-looking tunic of blue cloth trimmed with golden thread, with his wife on his arm, a lady of considerable size with a turned-up, piggish nose and a fierce look in her eyes. Behind them followed the fair-haired and broad-chested Hugues d’Avranches, striding in with a self-confidence that I often saw in young warriors. Next was the castellan Roger de Montgommeri, a small man with a fidgety manner and narrow eyes, and last of all came Lord Robert, dressed in black as he always was, with Beatrice at his side.
I hadn’t seen her in a week. Of all places this was the last in which I had expected to find her – this council of barons – but there she was, wearing a dark green gown in the English style, loose-fitting with bunched sleeves, and a necklace and bracelets of silver. Fitz Osbern motioned for both ladies, for Robert and the other nobles to be seated on the chairs set out on the dais, and she smiled politely. Her eyes passed over the crowd, and it seemed that they lingered on me, if only for a heartbeat. Her expression was serene, her manner relaxed.
Fitz Osbern himself sat in the middle of the dais, on what one could only describe as a throne: high-backed with wide armrests, with intricate animal-like designs carved into its dark wood, polished so that the surfaces gleamed in the soft glow of the hearth-fire and the rushlights in their iron stands.
‘Welcome,’ he said. There was little warmth in his voice, which carried the tones of one well used to authority. ‘I thank you all for coming to Scrobbesburh, though naturally I wish that the circumstances were happier. As you know, I have called you here because of the threat we face from the Welsh and the English across the dyke. A threat that grows greater by the day as Bleddyn and Rhiwallon muster their forces; one that as far as the kingdom is concerned could not have come at a worse time.’
He paused, making sure that he had the full attention of everyone, allowing them a moment to dwell upon the significance of his words. ‘By now I am sure many of you will have heard tell of King Sweyn’s movements across the sea in Denmark. Fewer, perhaps, will know what is taking place in the north, where the followers of the ?theling are once again rising and this time sending messengers across the kingdom to stir up rebellion.’
‘What about Eadgar himself?’ someone called out, though I could not spot who and it was not a voice I recognised. ‘Has he dared show himself yet, or is he still cowering behind the shield of the Scots’ king?’
At that there was laughter. Following his last defeat, it was said that he had slunk into the bleak wildlands beyond Northumbria that were known as Alba, whose king was his brother-by-marriage and no friend of ours. Indeed he had lent the ?theling many men and ships to support his endeavours before, and would probably do so again.
‘Of his movements we know nothing for certain,’ Fitz Osbern answered mildly, fixing a cold stare upon the man who had interrupted him. ‘From what we gather, however, there have been envoys sent across the German Sea between him and the Danish king. We suspect, although we remain unsure, that the two may be in alliance.’
A murmur of disquiet went up around the hall and Fitz Osbern raised a hand to still it.