‘There will be a chance for you all to speak in time if you so wish,’ he said. ‘But first listen to me. As I am sure you are all aware, we have received an offer of help from an unexpected quarter: the brothers Maredudd and Ithel, sons of the late King Gruffydd, who in return for bringing four hundred men to our cause seek the restoration of their lands—’
‘I’d sooner rot in hell than do any Welshman a favour,’ another man shouted from the back of the hall. Nor was he alone in his feelings, since several of the nobles around him added their voices in support. One, more enthusiastic or perhaps simply more drunk than the rest, raised his fist into the air, startling a passing servant-girl, who dropped the jug she was carrying. It fell with a crash to the floor, sending a spray of wine across the man’s cloak.
‘Quiet!’ Earl Hugues rose to his feet, his young face red with fury. ‘Otherwise I will have you expelled from here, and see to it that your lands are confiscated forthwith.’
Slowly the murmurs subsided. Red-faced and close to tears, the girl knelt upon the floor, trying to gather up the pieces of the broken jug from amidst the soaking rushes, and she was soon joined by some of the other servants as the lords cleared a circle around them.
‘Let me remind you that Lord Guillaume is speaking,’ the Wolf added. ‘You would do well to pay heed to what he has to say, unless you want to find yourselves at the wrong end of the enemy’s spears.’
Despite his youth, he had a certain presence about him. In fact in many ways he reminded me of Eadgar, who was around the same age: a couple of years younger in fact, for the ?theling was said to be only eighteen. Both were solidly built and so far as I could judge shared a similar character, bold of speech and unafraid of confrontation in a way that belied their cunning.
‘Thank you, Hugues,’ Fitz Osbern said, though I sensed he did not entirely appreciate the younger man’s intervention. The hall began to settle once more as the servants clearing up the remains of the wine-jug disappeared back into the kitchens.
The Wolf inclined his head politely, with a solemnity that would have befitted a grey-bearded archbishop performing the holy sacrament, not a man of twenty. On the other side of the dais I noticed Beatrice lean across and whisper something in Robert’s ear. Whatever it was she said, it caused a smile to break out across his face, though he did not say anything in reply.
‘As I was saying,’ Fitz Osbern went on, ‘the princes Maredudd and Ithel have come seeking our help, and I intend to offer it to them. Not only are they enemies of those who would destroy us and everything we have fought these past four years to gain, but they are also enemies of the usurper, for it was Harold Godwineson who slew their father.’
He waited in case there was any further dissent, but this time none was forthcoming.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘the only question left is about the best means of taking the fight to the enemy across the dyke. To that end I have deliberated in council with these men sitting here with me, and with the Welsh princes also. At our reckoning we have now between us an army three thousand strong with which to defend the March.’
I glanced uncertainly at Wace and Eudo, who had found me in the middle of the crowd, and they returned the same look. It was a significantly smaller host than we’d had at Eoferwic last year.
‘These three thousand, lord,’ said a man in a scarlet tunic, a stout figure with a thick beard. ‘Are they all fighting men?’
The question was worth asking, for not all of those who travelled with a host were warriors. As well as knights, spearmen and archers every lord brought several members of his own household: servants such as the twins Snocca and Cnebba I had brought with me, grooms and stable-hands, shield-carriers, leech-doctors, chaplains, armourers and bladesmiths to fix broken hauberks and shattered swords. While many of them could probably hold a spear and stand in the shield-wall if called to, that was not where their skills lay, and they could not be relied upon.
The hall fell silent for the first time as we waited for Fitz Osbern to answer. But he did not speak, not to begin with at any rate, instead exchanging glances with the other men on the dais.
‘Are they all fighting men, lord?’ repeated the bearded man.
If Fitz Osbern took offence at the prompt, he did not show it. ‘No, Berengar,’ he replied flatly, his gaze unflinching. ‘No, they are not.’
All at once the barons were up in arms; those who had been sitting on the benches at the sides were on their feet. The Wolf was shouting, demanding silence, while Robert stood with arms outstretched in a calming gesture. But Fitz Osbern simply sat there upon his throne, with the composure and patience of a king before his subjects, waiting for the uproar to die away once more.
At a guess that meant we had no more than fifteen hundred spearmen at our disposal, around half that many knights, and perhaps two hundred archers. I turned to Eudo and Wace, who were standing beside me. ‘How does he expect us to fight off the enemy with so few?’