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There were still very few people who openly welcomed the Normans, and not even they could all be trusted.
    It was a perilous time to be a Norman in England.
    “And where does this message need to be taken?” Fitz asked.
    Odo would not look at Fitz when he spoke. “London.”
    “London?” Fitz could not believe it. “You want me to take a message that would be victory in our enemies’ hands to London?”
    “I know what I ask seems foolishness,” Odo spoke in haste, “but –”
    “Foolishness? Nay, call it what it is – madness! I am a FitzOsbern, not a servant to carry around messages. Is there not another with time to take on such a task?”
    “There is none that I would trust more to complete this favour than you.”
    Fitz stopped. He looked at the man who was attempting to prevent a country from falling apart. The weight of it was showing in his eyes, and in the way that his hands curled in his lap.
    “There is none,” he repeated, “but you. Will you take this burden from me?”
    Fitz breathed out heavily. “We are in Canterbury now. How many days’ travel is it from here to London?”
    “Three days. Two, depending on the horse. One if you decide to ride like the devil is chasing you.”
    “Which he may be.” Fitz smiled. “My lord Odo, why have you asked me to do this?”
    Odo swept an arm across himself as he spoke. “Fitz, you know why.”
    “My lord,” Fitz looked confused, “there are many men here that would be honoured to do this for you.”
    “And yet,” Odo said thoughtfully, “there are few men here that have mastered the heathen tongue.”
    “I suppose,” Fitz said slowly, “that I have. And yet Anglo-Saxon is not a difficult language to comprehend.”
    “You joke, surely!” Odo looked amazed. “The very sound of it confuses me, and I know very few that have even managed to remember a few phrases. Your skill with languages must be prodigious.”
    Fitz shrugged. “My aptitude is no surprise. It is always useful to speak one’s enemy’s language.”
    “And it is why you are so highly valued by the King, and by myself. There are few who can converse so well with the savages of this isle.”
    Fitz coloured slightly. “I am not accustomed to being so highly praised, my lord.”
    “You will need to become so – I think you have a long and prosperous career ahead of you.”
    Fitz looked at the man opposite him. “I will take this burden from you.”
    Odo visibly relaxed. “I knew that you would. Your reward will be waiting for you here when you return.”
    “Make it sunshine!” Fitz rose, and his guest followed his lead. The two men stood side by side at the entrance of the tent. The rain that had been falling slowly was now pelting into the ground, churning up the mud that had barely had time to dry.
    Odo turned to his companion. “Be safe.”
    “I always am.”
    “When do you intend to leave?”
    Fitz peered out of the tent. “If I wait for the rain to stop, I might never leave. First light tomorrow, I shall be away.”
    Odo clapped Fitz on the back. “God speed, my friend.”
    *
    Fitz knew that the journey to London the next day was not going to be pleasant. Even if he ignored the fact that he would almost certainly have to undertake the journey whilst soaking wet, the roads – if you could call them roads – were now filled with bandits, men who had barely survived the invasion and were now determined to wreak vengeance on any man who even partially resembled a Norman. They were not very discerning.
    Pulling his cloak tightly around his shoulders, Fitz left his tent. A young man, tall and with a head covered in black hair, quickly ran up to him.
    “My lord?”
    “Ah, Marmion,” Fitz nodded. The young man was of a good family, but his father had died in the invasion. He was the younger son, and had needed a man to take charge of him – and as Fitz had no squire, he had taken him on. Marmion was vicious only when he needed to be, and a gentle spirit off the