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him. No man
likes to be at the foremost point of a King’s spear, to be the first man landed on a hostile shore, but when he is one of hundreds or thousands, his courage is rekindled.’
    ‘True enough,’ Berenger agreed.
    ‘You still think he’s no good, eh?’ Grandarse said shrewdly. ‘That boy?’
    Berenger squatted beside the fire. ‘He’s too young to stand in the line; he can’t draw a bow – he’s a wasted mouth. What will you pay him?’
    ‘Pay? I get a shilling a day, like an esquire; you get sixpence; the men get thruppence; a Welshman tuppence. He’s worth a penny, I suppose, if he can carry our stores. He can
forage, and he can fetch supplies in battle, can’t he? He’ll earn it. You saw him today. Was there any sign he would break?’
    ‘No,’ Berenger admitted. ‘He obeyed orders.’
    ‘He didn’t puke at the sight of bodies, did he?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then stop worrying! He’ll work his way until he’s a man. Same as some of us did. Like I did.’
    ‘Yes,’ Berenger nodded, staring into the fire. Grandarse rarely tired of telling how he had joined the King’s host when he was an orphan scarcely eleven, and had never looked
back.
    Grandarse hawked and spat, eyeing him keenly. ‘Well, Frip? What is it?’
    ‘I don’t know. There’s something about him that doesn’t feel right. I’ve had boys join before, you know that, and they start out nervous and fretful. But when they
have fought some battles and killed a few men, they begin to grow. Soon they’re men. But when they see their first fight, see the bodies strewn about, they have a sympathy for them. They
realise that these were only men. This lad’s different. He was pathetically worried before, but when he saw the bodies of the French, he had a sort of feral enthusiasm for them. There was no
pity or concern, only . . . excitement.’
    ‘We’ve seen enough men like that before,’ Grandarse observed slowly, prodding at the fire with a stick. He paused. ‘D’you think he’s bad luck?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Berenger said shortly.
    ‘Keep your eyes on him, then.’
    ‘I will.’

Ed felt a part of the vintaine already.
    As he sat, nursing a wooden bowl filled with meaty soup and a handful of leaves gathered from the fields, he felt as close to these men as he had to any. It was just like having a family at
last, and he relished the sense of belonging.
    A man passed by and a hand ruffled his hair, and although he snatched his head away automatically, scowling, he treasured the rough affection.
    He averted his eyes when he saw Geoff watching him. Ed felt sure the man meant him no harm, but he was another like Fripper, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. They both made him
nervous.
    The others were all kindly though: Jack, who held a senior position along with Geoff; Oliver, who had a horrible squint that made him seem to be leering the whole time; Matt, the square-faced,
black-haired man who was proud of his reputation as a womaniser; Walter, the one over at the far side of the fire, with the bright blue eyes and fair hair, who had a thin, sensitive face and
puckered lips; Gil with the gingerish hair and the perpetual scowl sitting next to Luke, the man with the round face and air of affable confusion, no matter what he did.
    Luke was addressing Ed now.
    ‘So, master, you belong to our vintaine now. The only remaining question is, what shall we call you?’
    ‘My name is Ed.’
    ‘No, master, that will not do,’ Luke sat back and belched gently. ‘I think you are more of a packhorse. You lumber as you go. Perhaps we should call you
“Sumpter”.’
    ‘Too long,’ Oliver commented. ‘ “Pack” would be better.’
    ‘Whoever heard of a man called “Pack”?’ Luke protested. ‘Every time we left a camp, the poor boy would think we were calling him as the orders flew around his head.
No, we couldn’t call him that.’
    ‘How about “Goat”? He smells like one,’ Walter said