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gloom they could see the mass of glistening black ants emerge to defend their hill, rushing around, looking for something to bite. Serlo threw down Robert’sopen palliasse and began to poke furiously, bringing out even more defenders, who, apart from those few who stuck to the stick, started milling around and disappearing in what was effectively a sack.
    ‘Here, you have a go,’ said Serlo, and a willing brother took the stick, not realising that it had been passed to him just as a couple of ants reached the point at which he was holding it; the first bite made him drop it quickly. He issued a muffled cry and swore at the nip, not mollified by the assurance that came from Serlo.
    ‘At least we know they do bite.’
    Picking up the stick, Serlo brushed off the ants and used it to corral those racing around on the canvas palliasse which being strange to them they had congregated in, then he grabbed the edge and closed it, trapping those inside, while a good shake dislodged those on the outside, the top being spun to ensure they stayed trapped. Back in the camp the boys crept by their slumbering companions – this jape would not be visited upon their own and, well aware of their family antipathy to Evro de Montfort, they picked the last fire glow nearest his tent, moved round to the far side, and tipped out the contents right by the sleeping soldiers.
    They were lying down when the commotion started, shouts and cries, and in the moonlight dark figures of men furiously brushing themselves. The noise wasexcuse enough to stand and get a better look, as other groups around the one they had attacked were awoken by the commotion, and that included the Lord de Montfort, who could be heard querulously demanding quiet. It took an age for things to die down, for men to be sure that the nipping ants were either all dead or gone. By that time two very contented youths were sound asleep.
        
    They were all up with the grey dawn light, the fire relit to bake breakfast oatcakes, the watering and feeding of the horses seen to while the cooking was taking place, the seniors washing in the river once their equine chores were completed, hundreds of men whose feet churned up the muddy bottom to turn the Seine downstream brown. The packhorses were reloaded in advance of the blowing trumpets, which came from the top of the hill. A messenger came from de Montfort to tell Tancred to bring up the rear of the battaile, the place of least honour, which he knew to be a response to his jibe of the previous night.
    ‘Cover the horses’ nostrils,’ he commanded, ‘and your own. We will be eating dust this day.’
    Trumpets blew again, and the de Hautevilles saw the duke, at the head of his familia knights, lead the way east, each battaile mounting to follow in the order laid down by the Constable, leaving behind them asloping field of flattened grass covered with dead fire pits, the bones of their food, piles of used straw, as well as heaps of dung that, along with the contents of the latrine, the locals would soon gather to use on their crops.
    The move was necessary: no army of any size could stay in one place for long – they ate up the countryside regardless of how well they were supplied by river. As well as the horses of knights and squires, the duke had along the contents of his stud. These were replacement animals for any losses those fighting in his cause might sustain, part of the bond a liege lord made with his vassals regardless of the terms of service. If a knight lost his fighting horse in battle or in any event on the march, the duke provided a substitute. William had estimated the size of the force at some five hundred lances, which meant at least fifteen hundred mounts as personal possessions; add the duke’s horses and that rose to over two thousand.
    It had been drummed into him since he first mounted a pony as a child that his horse was a paramount possession, as important as a mailed hauberk and gloves, a sword and