The settlement lay within a shallow bend of the stream, no longer the desperate collection of shelters we had thrown together after fleeing the first camp, though not yet anything a generous man could have called a village. Huts of timber and woven hazel stood beneath the trees in rough rows, their roofs patched with turf, thatch, and whatever else had survived the flight from Ashford, while paths had been worn between the cooking fires, work areas, animal pens, stores, and the larger shelter Darcy had insisted we keep clear for the sick and wounded.
She had also insisted the latrines be dug downhill and downstream.
The arguments over that had lasted two days, during which I had learned more than any sane man should ever need to know about the proper distance between drinking water and human waste, and Darcy had nearly struck Osric with a shovel after he suggested that the old ways had served us well enough.
“You are alive by accident,” she had told him.
Osric, who possessed the remarkable ability to take offense at facts, had drawn himself up.
Darcy had looked him over and added, “A deeply unfortunate accident.”
He now dug wherever she pointed.
I thought of that as I stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the Norman riders emerge between the trees beneath a pale autumn sky. Their horses were dark with sweat and mud, the weak afternoon sun catching here and there upon mail and helmet rims, and though I counted only twelve men, I had no doubt others waited beyond sight.
No commander with sense rode into a strange settlement without enough men hidden nearby to answer potential trouble.
Godwin shifted beside me, rolling one shoulder beneath his cloak.
“How many do you reckon?”
“Enough.”
He considered this. “A useful number.”
“I have always thought so.”
On my other side, Darcy made a sound that seemed to contain an entire opinion.
She wore a brown wool gown belted at the waist, its hem dark with mud despite Anya’s increasingly hopeless attempts to make her respectable, while a heavier cloak was fastened at one shoulder with a plain iron pin. Her hair had escaped its plait inseveral places and curled damply around her face, and a faint streak of ash remained along one cheek from the morning fires.
She looked tired, as she had for days. The knowledge vexed me more than it should have, because every time I told her to rest she found something else that required counting. People. Grain. Blankets. Tools. Bowls. The woman might have counted leaves had anyone suggested we were in danger of running short.
“What?” I asked.
“You two sound like old men outside a pub, pretending you can tell how many horses are coming by the sound of their hooves.”
Godwin frowned. “What is a pub?”
“A tavern.”
“Then why not say tavern?”
“Because that would be too easy.”
Godwin snorted as she turned upon him. “You can leave.”
I might have smiled, had the first Norman not chosen that moment to ride into the clearing.
He was not the largest man among them, nor the most richly dressed, though his cloak was good wool lined with fur and the sword at his hip bore silver upon the pommel. His face was narrow, his dark beard cut close, and his eyes held the calm, assessing look of a man accustomed to entering other men’s homes and deciding which parts would soon belong to him.
I disliked him immediately. That was useful. A man should know where he stands.
The man surveyed the settlement before dismounting, taking in the shelters and stores, the animals penned beneath the trees, the people gathered at a careful distance, and the armed men standing near me.
Then his gaze settled upon Darcy. Men’s gazes often did, which had begun to irritate me for reasons I preferred not to examine too closely.
“I am Raoul de Brienne,” he said in French.
