‘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.
‘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.