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to introduce him to his companions. This would be the great test. How would they react when they knew he was a commoner? Would their smiles melt away? Would they simply refuse to talk and move away from him? How would Sir Roger describe him? He held his breath, anticipating the worst, but Sir Roger presented him in an affable manner, as ‘Edwin of Conisbrough, from the household of my lord the earl.’ Then he gestured and all four sat down close to one of the campfires, Sir Roger’s small party of foot sergeants moving away to a discreet distance.
    Edwin could hardly believe that he was sitting with three knights, conversing with them on an equal level. Thank the Lord that his French was proficient enough to support him – his accent might sound a bit odd to these men, who from their names were pure-blood Normans, but they might just attribute this to his being from the north of the country, and he was able to speak fluently. Still, he decided that this was a good chance to learn something about the new world he now inhabited, so he kept his mouth shut while he listened to the others speaking of troop numbers, horses, provisions, the latest developments in armour, possible tactics … as the conversation continued he basked in the glow of the fire with a comfortably full stomach, and almost began to relax.
    It was becoming full dark when Martin suddenly hurried up to the fire, calling Edwin’s name and shattering his mood of calm. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere – my lord the earl wants to speak with you right now.’ Belatedly he stopped and nodded his head respectfully to the knights around the fire.
    Edwin scrambled to his feet, almost falling over himself as he tried to rise too quickly. Why would the earl want to see him now? What task might he have? Despite his panic he remembered his manners and took his leave of the others. They waved him away cheerfully, no doubt used to being summoned at will by their own lords and masters and recognising when orders must be obeyed instantly.
    As he followed Martin, his stiff legs struggling to keep up with the long strides, Edwin tried to question him, but Martin said no more than that the earl wished to see both him and Sir Hugh Fitzjohn – one of his most experienced knights – immediately. He upped his pace even more. Edwin hardly had time to catch his breath before they reached the earl’s tent and he was being hustled inside.
    The interior of the tent was close in the flickering light, the air thicker than outside; Edwin stole a glance round as best he could. The place was functional, and yet still much more lavish than he would have thought possible; he should have realised that peers of the realm didn’t travel without some of the trappings of their estate. The space was well lit by several torches, and had mats on the floor and hangings suspended from various wooden poles which divided the tent into several rooms. He was standing in the central space, but over to one side he could see into another compartment which contained a wooden box bed, a kist, and, ominously, the earl’s gleaming hauberk on a pole, with his shield and sword leaning up against it. It reminded Edwin of why they were all here – for war.
    The earl was in conversation with Sir Hugh Fitzjohn, a tough, grey-haired knight who had seen his fair share of campaigns; they were attended by Adam, the earl’s younger squire, who stood silently in the corner. He smiled briefly but nervously at Edwin as he entered, not yet being used to his new position in the earl’s household. Both men turned to face Edwin and the earl got down to business straight away.
    ‘Weaver, good.’
    He jumped. It was still odd being called ‘Weaver’, for that was his father’s name, not his. He would have to try and make himself worthy of it.
    The earl hadn’t noticed his slight pause and continued without stopping for breath. ‘As I’ve just been telling Sir Hugh, I’ve been summoned to