In the September dusk, Rolf stood on the bridge between the courtyard and the keep at Brize-sur-Risle, and gazed out upon a small army of footsoldiers and grooms, knights and equerries, the caretakers of a herd of warhorses more than two thousand strong. The last glimmerings of sunlight flashed across glossy hides, burnishing chestnut into fire-red, gilding dun to gold, and polishing black with a rich patina of bronze. A feeling of awe joined Rolf's elation as he watched the gleaming, equine bodies which were going to bear Duke William's endeavour to victory or doom within the next few weeks.

The holding camp was in the act of being transferred from Dives-sur-Mer to St Valery-sur-Somme which was closer to the English shore and in a better position to receive winds favourable to a crossing. Most of the supplies for the invasion had travelled up the coast in William's huge war fleet, but Rolf had deemed it less stressful to bring the horses in his care overland. Soon enough the destriers would have to be led on board ship and securely tied and hobbled for the sea crossing. Their role was vital and they had to arrive in England healthy and undamaged.

Rolf had practised loading and unloading the horses in Dives, starting initially with his own docile dun and progressing through the various levels to the Duke's highly strung black Spanish stallion. Once a rhythm had been established, the task had not been too difficult. Horses that baulked were blindfolded. Others were sweetly coaxed. Rolf discovered the troublesome ones and practised with them, not only practised, but learned, building upon his expertise. The Duke's horse was given a placid old sumpter pony as a companion in his stall and immediately became more manageable. Not that Rolf had to load every single one of the two thousand. His responsibility lay with those of the most value, those of the Duke's personal stable, and those belonging to William FitzOsbern, Rolf's mentor.

The sun sank behind a banner of solid grey cloud, although the sky was still underlit with burning rose, and the river was as bright as a honed sword pointing towards the sea. The neigh of a horse floated up to him and the loud laughter of a soldier at one of the camp fires. Small midges hovered in the twilight. It occurred to Rolf that he might be looking out over the lands of Brize-sur-Risle for the last time, that a month from now his bones might be lying at the bottom of the narrow sea, or bleaching on an English headland. It was a sobering thought, but he was not depressed by it. Rather it served to add a certain piquancy to his determination. Without a little uncertainty, life was apt to become as dull as unsalted bread in Lent.

Above the fading rose colour on the skyline, the first star twinkled out, bright and tiny. He watched its winking pinpoint and savoured the strange pang of pleasure-pain in his soul.

'My lord, will you not come within?' Arlette joined him, laying her hand upon his tunic sleeve. He saw her glance wander over the huge horse herd which had become a single shape in the dusk. He knew that she was afraid he was going to spend the evening hours at the camp fires with his comrades, rather than with her. She had dressed to please him. Her gown of blue wool was moulded to her figure, accentuating her small waist and clinging across her breasts. A scent of herbs and dried rose petals rose from her garments. His hunger sharpened. He had not been home very often these past few months.

There had been women available in Duke William's camp at Dives; a whole industry had been built up around servicing the needs of the large contingent of mercenary soldiers and keeping them happy in the field. Sometimes Rolf had availed himself of their sweaty charms – there had been a particularly athletic, if pungent fisher-girl at Dives, but for the most part he had practised abstinence. While Rolf had a weakness for women, it seldom extended to the sluts and harlots in the army's tail.

He smiled and kissed her because that was what she expected, and followed her into the keep. A portion of his brain kept up a sensible conversation with Arlette while the rest busied itself itemising all the things that had to be done before the morning when the destrier herd would continue its journey to St Valery-sur-Somme.

Arlette had prepared a farewell feast. He could see her hand at work in all the little fripperies and garnishes adorning the fare. There were a lot of small, dainty morsels and very little that could be heartily attacked. Concealing his irritation, Rolf sat down in his carved chair. His chaplain blessed the food, although Rolf doubted the ritual would make the fare any more substantial, and having muttered their 'amens' everyone began to eat.

Rolf engaged himself in conversation with Tancred, his overseer, who was to have sole charge of the herds at Brize for the next two months at least. Tancred was a cheerful, able man in early middle age. He was also one of Rolf's vassals, and had a hall and lands of his own six miles away at Fauville-sur-Risle. He had risen to his status of senior overseer by dint of hard work and a natural talent with horses, which was rewarded by a ten per cent share in the price of each horse that Rolf sold. He was a widower with a ten-year-old son whom he intended to inherit this lucrative post in the fullness of time.

'Where's young Mauger tonight?' Rolf looked around for Tancred's sturdy, blond-haired shadow. His overseer took the boy everywhere with him, showing him how things were done, teaching and explaining relentlessly.

'He's gone with one of the grooms to see the horse herd and look at the camp fires. I'm joining them later, but I knew you'd want to see me first.' Tancred smiled. 'The lad was that excited when you all arrived. It's not something he'll see twice in a lifetime.'

'No,' Rolf agreed with a slightly more rueful smile of his own, and settled down to discuss the mundane but necessary details which would ensure the smooth running of the stud during the coming months. Arlette might have preferred more delicate conversation on this last night than covering mares and selling yearlings, but Rolf was bound by the limits of diminishing time, not by his sensibilities, or more to the point, by hers.

In the private chamber above the hall, Rolf eased his sword from its scabbard and held it up to the candlelight. Fingers wrapped around the leather grip, he swung the weapon and felt the power leave his arm and enter the steel. What would it be like to strike out at an enemy in battle? To know it was kill or be killed? He had been involved in minor skirmishes when called upon by the Duke to perform his obligatory forty days of military service, but he had never gone further than perfunctory blows and vigorous spear waving. During the month at Dives-sur-Mer there had been plenty of opportunity to train and he had taken full advantage, setting out to learn as much as he could about the Danish war axes he would be facing across the narrow sea. He had even bought one from a mercenary who claimed to have killed its former owner. The curving blade, mounted upon a haft of ash wood five feet long, gleamed viciously at him from a corner of the room.

Rolf sheathed his sword, propped it against his long kite shield and hefted the axe instead. It was much heavier than the sword, far less easy to control and more tiring to wield, but once a rhythm was established, the increasing speed of the whirling axe, up and round and down, meant certain death for anyone who stood in its path. Mail was no protection. The only defence was agility and a fast spear. Spreading his legs, Rolf swung the axe and imagined himself on a battlefield.

Arlette entered the chamber and screamed. Abruptly she stifled the sound against the back of her hand, but it was too late, and their baby daughter awoke in her cradle and started to howl as if giving vent to her own battle cry.

Feeling guilty and irritated, Rolf lowered the axe, and then set it down with his other weapons.

'Can't you keep those things in the armoury?' Arlette demanded as she stooped over the cradle and lifted Gisele out.

'Everything has to be checked. I have to make sure that nothing is weak or damaged.'

Arlette sniffed. 'Let a servant do it.' She rocked the baby in her arms. 'It's all right, poupelet, Mama's here, Mama's here.'

'Would you trust a servant with my life?'

She said nothing, but he saw the pain grow in her large, grey eyes.

'I always check my weapons myself, you know that.'

'Yes, Rolf, I'm sorry. I just don't like to see them in our chamber on the eve before you go to war.'

'I've finished now anyway.' He took his winter cloak from its peg on the wall and threw it over the weaponry. He wished that she had not seen him with the axe.

'Thank you,' she said with a shaky sigh of relief.

He shrugged and came to look over her shoulder while she tucked the baby back in her cradle. The child was already Arlette's replica in both looks and mannerisms: the same martyr's grey eyes, the same silver-brown hair. Of himself he could detect nothing. The infant's eyelids drooped. 'Mama,' she said softly as her eyelids closed.

Rolf stared at his wife. She returned his bold look with a darting glance, and blushed. His scrutiny descended to the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts beneath the blue robe. He cupped one in his hand, seeking the tender peak of her nipple, and lowered his lips to the rapid pulse in her soft, white throat. His other hand caught her by the haunches and pulled her against the urgent warmth of his crotch.

Arlette gasped and pushed at him. 'Rolf, not here, Gisele might wake up again!'

'Damn Gisele!' he muttered through his teeth. Arlette went rigid in his arms. For a single moment Rolf contemplated throwing her on the floor beside the cradle and taking her whether she willed it or not. Not once in their seven-year marriage had he succeeded in winning a spontaneous response from his wife. Her mother had told her that men were beasts in their lust for copulation, and Arlette had embraced that belief so early in her life that now it was an irrevocable facet of her character. The occasions that she did respond to his lovemaking were always marked by a visit to the confessional on the following day.