‘So long as God is willing,’ I replied, likewise grinning. All my life I had known nothing like the taste of a successful day’s fighting for putting men in good humour, and so it was then. They slapped one another on the back and embraced as if drunk, whooping with delight as they congratulated their comrades on all the foemen they had slain. Others set about looting the corpses of those who had fallen on both sides, many of them fighting amongst themselves for the most valuable things as they claimed coin-purses, corselets of leather, helmets, knife-sheaths, brooches and even shoes, until some of those bodies lay all but naked.
I ought to have intervened, since by right a large part of that loot belonged to myself as the leader of the expedition. But in truth my attention was elsewhere. Close by the road I had spotted Berengar. He was still in the saddle, which was how I was able to spot him, though for whatever reason he was some way off from where most of the fighting had taken place, surrounded by some twenty or so of his comrades and retainers. Their pennons, decorated in his colours of scarlet and blue, hung damp and still from their lances. Even though I could not make out what they were doing there, something about the way they were gathered aroused my suspicions.
‘Come with me,’ I said, gesturing to Pons, Turold and Serlo.
They glanced at each other with confused expressions but they did not question me, instead leaving their animals to the care of the rest of our conroi and following me as I strode across the heath. Men raised their fists and their swords when they caught sight of me, clamouring my name, and I acknowledged them with a wave as we passed, though as I knew well it took more than one man to win a battle: this was more their victory than mine, and it was they who deserved the cheers, not I.
Berengar had dismounted by the time we approached, and his friends had formed a ring around him, jeering loudly and calling out insults, although through the press of men and horses I couldn’t see at whom they were directed. As I got closer I heard what sounded like a woman’s voice, though her words were not ones I could understand, closely followed by the wail of an infant.
‘What’s going on here?’ I asked. So intent were Berengar’s companions on whatever was happening that they did not hear me. Shouting for them to make way, I forced myself through their midst, ignoring their curses.
‘Hey,’ one protested as I tried to push past. ‘You’re not the only one who wants to see, friend.’
I stared back into his close-set eyes, though he stood more than half a head taller than me. ‘You’d do well to show some respect,’ I said, jabbing a finger into his chest. ‘Especially when you clearly don’t know to whom you’re speaking.’
‘Listen to what he says,’ Serlo added, loudly enough so that everyone else could hear too. ‘Or don’t you recognise Lord Tancred?’
That, at least, provoked a murmur, and as the word passed around the circle, one by one their gazes turned towards us.
The one who had challenged me bowed his head, saying: ‘I’m sorry, lord, I didn’t mean—’
I wasn’t about to wait for the rest of his apology. ‘Out of my way,’ I said, barging past.
The rest were more obliging and quickly made way. Berengar stood in the middle of the circle, a knife in one hand and a bundle of frayed cloth in the crook of his other arm. At his feet, prevented from rising by two stout knights who held her shoulders, knelt one of the Welshwomen. Slight of build and fair of complexion, she could have been no more than about sixteen or seventeen in years. Her dress and hood were muddied, her sleeves torn, her auburn hair in disarray. From her lips came a stream of words I could not understand, though there was no mistaking her tone, which was one of desperation. Tears flooded her eyes, streaming down her face, and her hands were clasped together as if she were pleading with him.
Again I heard those infant’s wails, and this time I saw where they were coming from. For almost buried within the cloth held by Berengar was the fragile form of a child: one so small that it could barely have been born.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked Berengar, who had not moved. His naked blade was poised; for what purpose I could not quite make out – or rather I had some inkling, but the thought horrified me and I did not want to believe it.
‘What do you think?’ he retorted. ‘Making sure her son doesn’t live to hold a spear in the enemy’s shield-wall.’
I stared at him in disbelief. For all his foul temper, I had not imagined him the kind of man given to such cruelty.
‘We don’t slaughter children,’ I said.
‘What do you care?’
‘For the love of Christ, Berengar, he’s no more than a baby.’
‘For now, yes. But what happens when he grows up, when in years to come he decides to take up arms against us? How many Frenchmen would you let him kill?’
I didn’t deign to answer, for that would only dignify his question. ‘Give him to me,’ I said instead.
‘Why? So you can let him and his whore of a mother go free?’
I stepped towards him, aware of more than twenty pairs of eyes watching us, and aware too of the silence that had fallen around us. He backed away, bringing the edge of his knife closer to the infant’s chest. The girl screamed, struggling against the grip of the two who held her.