The king was conferring in his tent in the meads in the late afternoon, withGilbert Prestcote, his chief aide and sheriff-designate of Salop, and WillemTen Heyt, the captain of his Flemish mercenaries. It was about the time thatBrother Cadfael and the boy Godric were washing their hands and tidying theirclothing to go to Vespers. The failure of the local gentry to bring in theirown Levies to his support had caused Stephen to lean heavily upon his Flemings,who in consequence were very well hated, both as aliens and as imperviousprofessionals, who would as soon burn down a village as get drunk, and were notat all averse to doing both together. Ten Heyt was a huge, well-favoured manwith reddish-fair hair and long moustaches, barely thirty years old but aveteran in warfare. Prestcote was a quiet, laconic knight past fifty,experienced and formidable in battle, cautious in counsel, not a man to go toextremes, but even he was arguing for severity.
“Your Grace has tried generosity, and it has been shamelesslyexploited to your loss. It’s time to strike terror.”
“First,” said Stephen drily, “to take castle andtown.”
“That your Grace may consider as done. What we have mounted for themorning will get you into Shrewsbury. Then, if they survive the assault, yourGrace may do what you will with FitzAlan, and Adeney, and Hesdin, and thecommons of the garrison are no great matter, but even there you may be welladvised to consider an example.”