Thweng stood patiently as John, his arming squire, fought to relace the skewed ailettes, and another squire, William, took the saddle and clothing off Garm and put it on Goliath. Garm stood, his pained hoof up, snuffling now and then as another squire soothed him.
There was a strange, summer-singing quiet here, dusted with drifting motes and only faint squeals and screams and the clash of metal, where the murmur of the surrounding voices was no louder than bees. It was as if there was no battle at all, Thweng thought, for all that it looks as if one had already taken place.
The whole of the toasted-bread carse around them was littered with bodies, slumped or sitting in the hazing of heat and dust, some of them dangle-headed with weariness. They were not dead, but most of them wished they were, felled by a crippling march in a heat that sucked the strength away. Others gathered in knots, leaning on spears or tall shields to talk earnestly and all of them wondered what was happening.
What was happening, Thweng thought grimly, is that the foot have been marching all night and are arriving in dribbles, like wine from a drunk’s slack mouth. The folk who should be ordering them have all charged off.
This whole affair was beyond rotted now, he knew. John finished with the ailettes and stood back to review his lord; he nodded and smiled, his face sheened and eager to please. Thweng felt a sharp stab, as if someone had driven a dagger under his heart, at the thought of this one going under the dirk-wielding horrors. John de Stirchley was the least of a neighbour’s brood, not yet fifteen, not yet knighted and bursting with having been brought here by the great Sir Marmaduke while his elder brother had to stay behind.
Thweng recalled the boy’s father and his mother, a spring bride for a winter groom. A late fruit is John, Thweng thought, and favoured because of it. I promised both his parents I would not get him bruised.
‘Listen carefully,’ he said to the squire and then laid it out: saddle palfreys, gather up as many as you can of the men who came with us, take food, and make sure every man has a weapon. Leave the carts and the panoply – it is sticks and canvas, no more – and plate and furniture. Kilton can afford to lose a little carved oak and some pewter, but do not forget the Rolls, those vellum lists of who is owed what. Be ready to ride – you will know when, even if I am not here to tell you.
He saw John’s throat bob as he swallowed the dry stick in it, but the nod was firm with understanding. Thweng wanted to reassure the lad, but he was leaving him with the burden of it all, for his duty lay with the King and he was not so sure there would be an afterwards.
He was spared the awkward moment of it by a voice, thick with the south in it, talking to William as he fought with the girth of the saddle and Goliath’s attempts to be mischievous and blow out his belly.
‘How bist?’
The man was red-faced and sweltering in a padded jack, the iron helmet dangling from his belt, the spear dark with hand-sweat and old use.
Thweng saw William, flustered and damp, spare the man a sour glance and then shoulder Goliath’s big belly until the animal grunted and let out air.
‘Does tha ken what?’ the man persisted and Thweng, finally freed from his armouring, stepped forward so that the man was forced to look at him instead. The expression changed, the hand came up and knuckled his furrowed, dripping forehead.
‘Beg pardon, yer honour. Lookin’ to find what is.’
‘Who are you?’ Thweng asked and the man drew himself up a little, permitting a small shine of pride.
‘Henry, my lord. I orders ten from Wyndhome for the Sire there, good Sir John.’
‘Where is good Sir John?’ Thweng asked patiently and had back the look someone gave a dog who would not fetch.
‘Why, ee be with old Sir Maurice, baint ee?’
Berkeley, Thweng thought. They are Gloucester men, spearmen of Sir Maurice Berkeley brought by some fealtied lord called Sir John; Thweng had no idea who he was or where Wyndhome lay – but he knew where good Sir John would be.
‘He is there,’ Thweng said, shooting one metalled arm to where the dust was a thick cloud laced with shouts and clangs and screaming horses, faint as birdsong. ‘You should go.’
‘Without us havin’ ordern?’
Henry shook his head vehemently, and then turned as someone shouted his name.
‘Oi, ’Enry, lookee there. Be that not our king?’
A man pointed, squinting and shading his eyes with his entire iron-rimmed hat.
The knot of riders cantered out of the pall of dust and the sun flared off the gold on the centre rider’s fancy war hat. Behind, the coterie of armoured men rode under the streaming pennant, the Dragon and the huge royal banner that marked them for all to see. The King, Thweng thought, feeling the stone settle in his bowels.
‘It be our king. Be ee leavin’, then?’
‘No,’ Thweng lied and signalled for John to leg him up on to Goliath’s back. When the squire came close, he whispered harshly in his ear, aware of the Gloucester men turning one to the other, frowning and gabbling like chickens.