by Jack Ludlow
The wings of the hawk fluttered and Geoffrey of Montbray turned to face the men lined up to fight his cousins, moving the hawk aside so that they could see he was wearing a surcoat with a clerical device. ‘Can I, sir, enquire after your name?’
‘Only after you give me your own.’
The response to that came with a slight bow. ‘Geoffrey of Montbray, Almoner of Rouen Cathedral.’
‘A priest?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can join with us, Geoffrey,’ cried Robert. ‘I recall you were good with a weapon.’
Geoffrey replied loudly, but over his shoulder. His gaze was still fixed on the fellow with the green and blue surcoat. ‘Can I not now be a man of peace, Robert?’
‘I am Count Hugo de Lesseves.’
‘Then, Count Hugo, I request that you put up your weapons.’
‘You are clearly known to these ruffians behind you. It would be best if you requested they do so first.’
‘Uncle, sheath your swords.’
‘Geoffrey—’
The voice, no longer friendly, cut off any protest. ‘That is a demand, Uncle, and one that will be enforced by Duke William’s own knights, who are too numerous even for the de Hautevilles. No weapon is to be drawn on this occasion by anyone, on pain of the most stringent punishments, and that applies to Count Hugo here as much as to you.’
The response was not immediate; it could not be in a land where men were so conscious of their honour, and as they complied, slowly sheathing their swords, Geoffrey of Montbray hoped perhaps they would see the wisdom of the instruction: with so many fighting men, and touchy creatures at that, gathered in one place, the chances of brawls and worse was too high to leave to fate. Few great magnates gathered their vassals together in one place for that very reason, outside a call to partake in war.
‘Now, Uncle, I will lead you to the castle, where you will soon be given opportunity to present yourselves to your suzerain. For accommodation, I am happy to say that I have an apartment of my own which you are invited to share, and stabling space for your horses.’
‘My word, Geoffrey,’ said Robert, with a grin that was not wholly affable, ‘you have risen in the world.’
‘I have enjoyed good fortune, Robert, that is true.’
‘And no taint associated with our name?’
Montbray rode up to Robert and looked up into his deep blue, penetrating eyes, speaking softly so that his uncle could not hear. ‘It would be fair to say, cousin, that the de Hauteville name, these days, does not register within yonder walls.’
Robert bellowed with laughter, causing the rest of his family to look at him with curiosity, but he spoke to his cousin in the same way as he himself had been addressed. ‘Never fear, Geoffrey, it will.’
There was a moment of pure pleasure for the de Hauteville clan as Geoffrey led them towards the stone bridge spanning the ditch which surrounded Moulineaux, and past the line of knights set to prevent unauthorised entry, as Count Hugo, given he seriously outranked Tancred, holder of no more than a petty barony, was politely informed to make his way to the field that ran downhill to the Seine, and find himself a spot on which to camp.
The great keep was packed with humanity: knights, grooms, sutlers and squires; the ground, even if it was dry, churned up by too many hooves and too many feet, as well as deep in dung – if it rained it would soon be a morass – and it was with much shouting and not a little barging that their almoner cousin got them to some temporary stabling which had been erected along the interior of the curtain wall. As he dismounted, a liveried servant ran forward to take from him his hawk, while others at his command led the animals to the narrow stalls already provided with nets of hay and tubs of water.
‘Leave your possessions, Uncle, my servants will fetch those.’
Nodding and impressed, the old man, trailed by his sons, fell in behind Geoffrey as he led them to one of the round towers, then through a narrow entrance that brought them to a spiral of steps leading up to the individual floors, each one crammed with people, loud in their hubbub of talk.
‘I cannot promise you luxury,’ Montbray called, ‘but I will see you have a palliasse and enough space to sleep. That and food, of course.’
‘For my old bones,’ Tancred replied, ‘anything that is not a tent on cold ground is opulence.’
The floor Geoffrey occupied was halfway up the tower, just an open space floored in wood with narrow embrasures to let in a little light and air. It was already well occupied, but space there was, as had been promised, and on the long rough-hewn table in the middle, with equally made-up benches on either side, there was food and drink for anyone who wished to consume it, the always hungry young Roger making straight for that.
‘He was a mewling child when last I saw him,’ said Montbray. ‘A babe in arms.’
‘Mark him, nephew,’ Tancred said, a glint of pride in his eye. ‘I rate him the cleverest I have sired.’
‘Come eat, Uncle, and tell what news you have of my cousins in Italy.’
The food was plentiful, and soon Roger was joined by his brothers, who used their knives to hack at the joints of meat, that eaten off fresh flats of unleavened bread, accompanied by fruit and washed down with apple wine. But it was obvious that the sons were curious, never having before been inside such an imposing castle as Moulineaux, and as soon as they had fed themselves they were off exploring, the words of their cousin – of the need to keep the peace – following them down the bare stone steps.
Montbray and his uncle were left to talk. Having grown up with the eldest of the de Hauteville brood, Geoffrey was naturally closer to them, and besides living in the same house as a youngster he had, after his ordination, taken on two duties: priestly ones at the church of Hauteville-la-Guichard, as well as the job of trying to drum a bit of lettering and counting into his uncle’s brood. He had also said the rites over the grave of Tancred’s first wife, half-sister to the late Duke Robert, worn out by bearing him so many children.
What a history this man had, for he had fought in many places with the same vigour he had brought to procreation: in Spain against the Moors, in England seeking to rethrone King Ethelred, but most importantly at the side of Richard, the then reigning duke, who had held him in such high esteem as a warrior that he had given him his illegitimate daughter’s hand in marriage. Tancred had been with Geoffrey’s father when he had been killed in battle, taking on the duty of raising his son. Looking at the man before him, whom he loved, it was not possible to ignore how much he had aged since they last met, but the voice was still strong, the memory still good.
Yet as Tancred spoke of his elder sons, all in Italy, it was clear in his now watery eyes that he knew he would never again see them, and there was hurt in that, especially with his eldest, William, who might be his heir to his demesne, but would never return now to take it up. They talked of how well he and Drogo had fared, of the money that had flowed back from their success, which had allowed the others to follow in their wake, as well as providing the funds for that which Tancred desired most in the world, if you excluded their return: a stone donjon from which he could survey his demesne.
‘The foundations are in place, for not even a duke can gainsay my right to do that.’
‘Perhaps, on the occasion of being knighted, our young duke will see fit to give you leave to build the rest.’
‘There are siren voices against me,’ Tancred growled. ‘It is not a thing my neighbours favour.’
Montbray smiled. ‘One in particular, I seem to recall.’
There was no need to say the name Evro de Montfort: both men knew it and were aware that he, far richer and better connected than Tancred, still hankered after the right to call the de Hauteville clan his vassals. The Contentin, probably the most unruly province in the ducal domains, was rife with similar disputes, over land and water rights, or who had the right to lord it over whom, all going back to the earliest settlement of the region.
Many times Tancred and his
sons had come to blows with de Montfort’s men and just as many times they had sent them scurrying away nursing their wounds: the little pouter pigeon, as Tancred called him, did not risk his own skin, for to lose would not just mean an effusion of blood, it would also entail a serious loss of face, and might, if it went far enough, terminate any claim he could make. That he kept up in writing delivered as pleas to the judgement of the ducal court.
For all that Evro de Montfort argued his right, Tancred knew that his nephew was a stalwart voice against him, and perhaps, given he could provide accommodation inside the castle and had so many servants to do his bidding, that rising star was taking him to a level where he would have much more influence.
But Geoffrey knew that what he did was not to make a case for the de Hautevilles: he was confined to denying a right to de Montfort. ‘Uncle, I will not fight your suit too hard until I am sure of success. It is best not to press for too much.’
‘I trust your judgement,’ Tancred replied, though the look in his eyes did nothing to match his tone. ‘But I say this, Geoffrey, I have not long for this world, and I would dearly like to see that donjon built before I must confront my sins and my Maker.’
Roger de Hauteville arrived in a flurry of noisy footsteps, his face flushed and eager. ‘Papa, I have seen the duke.’
‘And did the sight impress you, Roger?’ asked Montbray.
Roger de Hauteville looked at his cousin for a while, a man he really did not know, the one-time priest of his local church who had left to find advancement elsewhere. His brothers had praised him as a good friend and a fellow to be seen as like a brother, so he decided to answer with the same truth he would have given his father had he posed the question.
‘Not really, he is rather short in the leg, his hair is dark, and he has a shifty look in his eye. Perhaps that comes from his being a bastard.’
‘No, it is not that,’ Montbray replied. ‘You too would have that look, Roger, if you had as many enemies intent on killing you as he.’
CHAPTER SIX
All those summoned assembled next morning for the ceremony of knighthood, which took place in an open field bordering the Seine, before a huge pavilion erected to house the King of the Franks, while on the river lay the gilded, blue-painted barge on which he had travelled from Paris and on which he rested at night; no sovereign went lightly into the castle of a powerful vassal on the very good grounds he might never get out again. Everyone there to participate had attended Mass in the grey dawn light and committed their souls to God and their sins to his justice, lords high and low down to the meanest squire.
Duke William entered from one end of the field attended by his most powerful lords, counts, viscounts and clerics, wearing a surcoat bearing the device of his house, two gold and recumbent lions on a background of scarlet, looking right and left as if unsure whether his attendance was wise; the king, in a blue cloak decorated with fleurs de lys, sat on a throne-like chair at the other end, set on a dais designed to show he was above not only the common herd, but his vassal.
Both sides of the field were lined with the cream of Normandy, the men who held the land and the lances who served them, while behind the ducal party came the familia knights, all sturdy men and doughty fighters, all dedicated to keeping alive young William the Bastard, the man they served. Should he ever engage in battle, they would ride with him and never leave him exposed, even if it meant the need to forfeit their own lives. They would man his castles, hold safe both his borderlands and battle to keep in check internal rebellion. For that they would be rewarded with many things: regular pay certainly, lands possibly, and for the most favoured or successful, a title of their own.
It was that which Tancred had wanted for his own sons, only to have it denied, to serve as familia knights, and it was that which he had raised them to expect. Never had he indicated that as blood relations to the reigning house they had any rights other than knight service, for had he not vowed to William’s grandfather, on taking his illegitimate daughter as wife, that should he be blessed with children, no one of his line should aspire to anything above his baronial station.
The whole affair, this confirmation of vassalage, he watched with a jaundiced eye: to Tancred, the ceremony and the fripperies surrounding it spoke of everything he despised about the Franks and their customs – gaudy display and over-elaborate rituals which were seeping inexorably into the court life of Normandy: too many great blasts from trumpets, the top notables overdressed in fine silks, bishops gloriously attired, all attended by fawning servants leading decorated hunting dogs and surrounded – especially King Henry and young Duke William – with what the old man called simpering dolts.
Tancred had grown to manhood when no fighting man feared to tell his liege lord that he was in error: service was a two-way thing, the lord as beholden to his vassals as they were to him. His own grandfather did not fear to restrain his cousin, Count Rollo, the first Viking to trade pillage and sea-raiding for land and a title. Now great lords surrounded themselves with those who agreed with any statement they uttered, however foolish – a point so strongly felt that, inadvertently, he said so out loud.
‘No man should surround himself with those who fear to be truthful.’
‘I shall recall that, Father,’ Robert growled, ‘when next you tell me to be quiet.’
The angry rejoinder to that was cut off by the voice of a very excited and eager Roger, pointing at the advancing assembly. ‘There’s our cousin of Montbray, Papa, in the third rank behind the duke.’
‘Look to him, all of you,’ Tancred said, ‘for if there is to be any advancement for you at this court it will come through Geoffrey.’
‘You think he has the ear of the bastard?’ asked Robert.
‘He has the ear of men who counsel him. You, of all people, must talk with him and seek his good offices.’
Robert de Hauteville nodded slowly; that was why he was here, why Tancred had brought all his sons to Moulineaux. The ducal court was the fount of all advancement and perhaps the rancour of the past could be set aside. For Robert and Serlo, there might be a chance of being taken into ducal service after all; for the rest, like young Roger, if his elder brothers could prosper, then he could do likewise in their wake.
‘He doesn’t look like much of a fighter, our duke.’
‘He’s not yet a man, Serlo,’ Tancred responded, ‘give him time.’
‘There are many who will not, Father.’
There was truth in that: for every two men called to this assembly who had obeyed the summons, there was another who had declined, those unprepared to accept the bastard son of Duke Robert as his lawful successor. For some, not many, their objection was genuine, based on an inability to accept that illegitimacy; for most it was based on opportunity. Not close to the court and the munificence it could disburse, they saw no profit in support, more in rebellion, of which there had been many these last eight years. The King of the Franks had come this day for a ceremony; his previous incursions into Normandy had been to help put down the fractious subjects who opposed William, a boy come into his inheritance aged seven.
Many powerful men had tried to ensnare Tancred into rebellion, holding before him the tempting prospect that his sons, those now fighting in Italy, had a claim on the ducal title at least as valid as the child who held it. To them all he had given his refusal: first there was his own oath, but he also suspected their promises to be false. Ambitious magnates would use the de Hauteville name and connection for their own ends, not something they would adhere to if they managed to unseat William. They sought power for themselves.
Another flurry of trumpets interrupted that train of thought. Reaching the dais, William climbed the steps to kneel before King Henry, who rose from his carved chair to tower over the youth. With a flourish he took out his sword, a weapon of great beauty, decorated with gold and jewels and with a glittering unmarked blade which had never been tested against other metal, the tip of that touching each of young William’s s
houlders as the king intoned the Latin words of investiture, everyone present aware of the true meaning of what was being said as they heard the responses.
William of Falaise was swearing before all that he held his lands and titles only from his rightful king; that should he fail in his duty to his sovereign those could be forfeit. It was an oath no ruler of Normandy had made since the days of the first Count Rollo over two hundred years before, who had been given Normandy as the price of a lasting peace in place of the constant alarm caused by Viking raids. No Norman ruler since had ever seen the need to publicly bow the knee to Paris, and it was an indication of young William’s weakness that it was taking place now.
If Tancred had been disgusted before, he was doubly so now: he had fought the Franks too often, and beaten them every time, to welcome the loss of ascendancy thus implied.
William of Falaise thus anointed, it was the turn of each landholder present to swear allegiance, and given the act of fealty to the Duke of Normandy was made in the presence of the King of the Franks, that too was significant, for each man was also pledging an ultimate allegiance to Paris. First to swear was Count Alain of Brittany, who had acted as William’s guardian, keeping him safe from those who desired him dead, and in a strict order of precedence, laid down by the chamberlain of the court, each lord, in turn, shuffled forward to bow the knee, say the words, which were witnessed by the hierarchy of Norman bishops and recorded in a great ledger by a monkish clerk.
Way down the list, it was a long time before Tancred, clad in a brand new surcoat of blue and white, found himself face to face with his suzerain, a boy he had not seen since the day his father first named him as his heir. Close to, the eyes were not shifty, nor were they in any way apprehensive; they were sharp and penetrating, and Tancred wondered if the impression given earlier was the fear of a sudden knife from a youngster unsure if all who had obeyed the summons to Moulineaux were loyal.
