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disdainfully.
    ‘Now, Walt, there’s no need to be offensive.’ Luke stretched and yawned. ‘I think my idea was best.’
    ‘What’s wrong with my real name?’ Ed demanded, colouring.
    ‘It’s too cheeky, for one thing. What if we call to you, and the King is nearby and thinks we are insulting him or his son? It is a most
common
name, after all. No, it
won’t do. Perhaps “Cart”? We shall be using you to carry all our belongings.’
    ‘Call him “Pony” and be done,’ was Matt’s contribution. ‘I just wish we could go to a town. This sand is getting everywhere. I swear it’s in my cods
already.’
    ‘Then it’s lucky there are no women for you to sheath your dagger of love, matey,’ Gil said with a chuckle. ‘No wench would want you near her with a rough edge like
that!’
    Matt muttered a foul rejoinder, but Luke wouldn’t let it drop. ‘The boy must have a name,’ he insisted. ‘Come, shall we have a vote for the most popular?’
    ‘Call him “Boy”!’ Gil called out.
    ‘“Mule?”’ Jack offered. ‘He has the temperament of one.’
    ‘Piss on you, Matt!’ Eliot called. He was a short man with greying hair and a ready smile. ‘The lad’s still new. Give him a week, and he’ll be standing us a round
of ales in a tavern.’
    Ed knew that they were all mocking him, but he didn’t care. He felt as though he was being accepted.
    ‘I know,’ Luke said into the general mirth. ‘He will fetch and carry, and he isn’t a Pony, while Mule is potentially offensive. Boy, from here on, you will be known as
“Donkey”.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because it suits you, but more, because it suits
me
,’ Luke said comfortably. He settled back, pulling his dirty old felt cap over his eyes. ‘You will learn, Donkey, as
you grow older (if you do) that there is more to life than a Christian name. Sometimes the name our comrades give us is much more important.’
    ‘So why are you keeping to your given name?’
    Luke opened a bright, beady eye like a blackbird’s, and peered at him. ‘I was named Martin, Donkey.’
    It was late when Berenger finally slumped to the ground near Geoff. The others had already rolled themselves in their blankets and cloaks, and there was a muted snoring from
Clip, a whiffling wheezing from an older man nearer the fire. Two members of the vintaine sat murmuring at a farther fire, one of them slowly and methodically stroking a stone over his
sword’s blade like a harvester sharpening his scythe.
    Berenger had walked the outer line of the sentries, and wandered out beyond the light from the fires. There he had stealthily crept from one tree to another, his ears alert for any sounds, but
he returned reassured. The French were nowhere about. Not yet.
    ‘That lad – Donkey.’
    Berenger didn’t have to look to know whose voice it was. The sibilance revealed that it came from Geoff. He squatted down near his old comrade and held his hands to the fire. ‘What
about him?’
    ‘The boy’s made enemies of the Welsh already. I saw him fetching water a while back, and a group of knifemen were laughing and making comments. I swear he would have pulled his knife
on one who came too close.’
    Berenger scowled. ‘He tries that again, cuff him round the head. What, did the fool think they were French or something?’
    ‘He knew they were Welsh, but he has no love for them, it seems. The boy’s weird, I know, but he’ll work out. He just needs a good thrashing every so often, like all
lads.’
    ‘That’s what Grandarse said.’
    ‘But you aren’t sure?’
    ‘I wish I was.’ Berenger picked up a twig and shoved it into the fire. The end of his twig glowed, and he withdrew it, blowing on the ember reflectively.
    ‘You never had a son, did you?’ Geoff said.
    ‘No. At least you have your wife and children,’ Berenger said. He stared at the fire. ‘That’s my greatest regret. After this war, I will find a wife. I should give up
this life.’
    ‘You think you