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could, and bade them good day.

     
    Edwin still wasn’t quite sure this was really happening, but he found himself pacing in the dusk behind the earl and Sir Hugh towards the middle of the camp. He was dressed in one of Martin’s old tunics – the squire had taken pity on him and opened his own pack, finding a garment which Edwin could wear and saying he could keep it as it was too small for him anyway. Too small it might have been for the huge Martin, but it was still on the large side for Edwin, and he felt awkward. Still, one advantage of it being the ex-tunic of a squire was that it had the small checked blue and gold badge stitched on to it, which identified him as a member of the earl’s personal household, so at least that was something: he felt more as though he belonged, at least on the outside.
    Any confidence he might have felt evaporated as soon as he reached the huge tent in the middle of the camp, surrounded by guards and by spitting, flaring torches which warded off the darkness. Two awe-inspiring standards flapped heavily above it, visible in the smoky gloom: the red lion of the regent on its green and gold background, and the royal arms, three golden lions on a red field. Edwin swallowed, intimidated by the sort of company he was about to encounter, but there was no time to think as he followed the others through the open mouth of the tent.
    Inside there were more torches, and a large press of men. It was hot and airless, with the sharp tang of sweat and smoke, and Edwin felt moisture beginning to form on his brow almost immediately. The earl moved towards the middle of the tent, and Edwin followed Sir Hugh to stand at one side. As they found a position which offered a view of the nobles, Edwin was able to see the most powerful man in the kingdom.
    He stood next to a table in the very centre of the tent, surrounded by other lesser men, as a huge oak might be by mere saplings. He was certainly the oldest man Edwin had ever seen – well over seventy years of age, if the tales were to be believed – and the experiences of a long and eventful life were carved into the lines of his face. William Marshal. Edwin could hardly believe he was looking at the legendary figure. Here was a man who had started out as the fourth son of a minor noble, but who had fought his way round Europe, been on a crusade to the Holy Land, become the servant and confidant of kings and queens, and was now the ruler of the whole country, the guardian of the ten-year-old king. Looking at the white-haired figure was enough to make anyone tremble with awe, and Edwin suddenly felt that he could barely stand. The absolute authority which Marshal held was etched into his every line and was easily discernible from the way the other nobles – earls and lords all – deferred to him with great respect. There was no question who was in charge. The regent held all their lives in the hollow of his hand, and every man knew it.
    As they stood watching the nobles, Sir Hugh began to murmur to Edwin behind his hand. ‘Stand quietly by me and I will try to explain to you what is going on and who is who. Over there are some of the most powerful men in the land. The regent, obviously, and next to him his son, William Marshal the younger. Our Lord William de Warenne. Then William Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury; William Ferrars, the Earl of Derby; William the Earl of Albemarle; the Lords William d’Aubigny, William de Cantelou and his son William.’ Edwin wondered briefly if some law had been passed on the naming of nobles of which he had previously been unaware, but he had no time to go on with the thought as Sir Hugh was continuing. ‘And on the other side of the table, Falkes de Breauté; Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester; John Marshal, the regent’s nephew and Ranulf de Blundeville, the Earl of Chester.’
    Edwin looked with particular interest at the last two whom the knight had named. The Earl of Chester, the second most powerful man