by Jack Ludlow
When William spoke, it was in a voice well broken and deep, close to being that of a man. ‘I have the right to call you “Cousin”, do I not?’
Tancred was cautious at such a friendly opening gambit: mighty princes could be devious and there was flattery in those words. ‘You have the right if you choose it, my Lord.’
‘Then I do so, Cousin, for I have been made aware of your loyalty to my house and the temptations to which you have been exposed since the death of my father.’
Such information could only have come from Geoffrey of Montbray. Did he have the actual ear of the duke; had he progressed that far?
‘Yet you have not rallied to my banner.’ That was said in a sharper tone, immediately moderated as the young duke added, ‘But it has been pointed out to me that to stand aside can be a wise policy when everything you own is at risk in such a polity as the Contentin.’
Tancred was tempted to rudeness then, and had to bite his tongue: the Contentin was a part of Normandy this young man feared to enter yet to agree it was a place full of rebellion would not be wise.
‘I have never once wavered, sire, in my oath to your grandfather.’
‘Which was?’
‘To always support his sons.’
The eyes of both man and boy were locked, but neither showed signs of anger, and if William was waiting to hear Tancred add the words ‘and his son’s bastard’, he waited in vain.
‘I did not know my grandfather.’
‘Duke Richard was a great man, and a great soldier.’
‘My father?’
‘He, too, proved to be a soldier of merit, as I am sure his brother would have been had he lived.’
That produced a thin smile: the elder son of William’s grandfather was a man rarely mentioned, but what had been said implied nothing. ‘You are better versed in discourse than I have been told, Tancred de Hauteville.’
‘I am, sire, what I have always been, a loyal servant of your house.’
‘Very well. I would speak with you in private, when time permits, and I have been told it would be to my advantage to make the acquaintance of your sons, who are reputed to be doughty on the field of battle. I have been assured, by the almoner of my Cathedral of Rouen, that I will see them this very day if I so wish.’
‘They are present now, my Lord, and await your summons.’
‘So be it. When all are sworn, bring them to this pavilion, and they may also bend the knee to the King of the Franks and make his acquaintance.’
‘I would wish to bring them all, sire, including my youngest, Roger, who is as yet too lacking in years to bear arms. Yet I have no doubt he will grow to match his brothers.’
‘Make it so, Tancred, for as you say, he will grow, and I would have him see his liege lord and remember it.’
Tancred had not been looking forward to kissing the young duke’s hand, fearing a cool reception. He did so with enthusiasm now: all the ghosts of the past, thanks to his clerical nephew, were going to be laid to rest.
* * *
‘You knew of this, did you not? I sense you did not trust me.’
Montbray acknowledged the truth of that, but with a wry smile. ‘I grew up in your house, you must recall. I have seen your temper and I know that bearding dukes is not a thing you fear. I heard of the words you exchanged with Duke Robert, may God bless his soul, the day he declined service to William and Drogo.’
Both men crossed themselves through long habit – liking or loathing meant nothing: a departed soul, noble or not, must be respected. If there was retribution for sins committed in life it was for God to judge, not mere humans.
‘And it is not just your temper that makes me cautious. I do not know our young duke so well that I can be sure of how he will act and what he will say. Already he has a reputation for cunning and manipulation.’
‘He will not live without it, or transgression – no ruler can.’
‘Let his confessor deal with his sins, I must deal with his nature.’
‘Will he take my sons into service?’
‘I have advised him it would be prudent.’ The look on Tancred’s face was not one to let Montbray leave matters there, and he was obliged to continue. ‘You know the Contentin as well as I, and you know that it would be incautious to lead a ducal host into what could become a nest of vipers.’
‘He is not loved there, it is true, many claim for his bastardy.’
Montbray replied, showing a touch of asperity as he began to pace up and down. ‘Greed is a more pressing excuse, but Normandy disunited plays into the hands of the Franks. Duke William, even fully grown to manhood, must ever depend on King Henry for support against his own barons; yet Normandy united, he has the power to ignore Paris, like every ruler before him. I have advised the duke, because I was raised there and know the region, that if the Contentin is to be tamed, he must win support there or placate it with fire and sword.’
‘That would be wise, whichever course is chosen.’
‘And that denying the de Hauteville family advancement, men who are respected there and fight for his cause, does not serve.’
There was a twinkle in Tancred’s eye as he responded. ‘Not to mention that a peaceful Contentin, wholly loyal to the duke, would finally allow for the appointment of a Bishop of Coutances.’
That stopped the clerical pacing: the Contentin had been the last place settled by the invading Norsemen. Count Rollo, still, in truth, a pagan despite his conversion to Christianity, was never happier than when despoiling monasteries, churches and cathedrals, and he had ravaged the western part of the old province known to the Romans as the Neustrian March with glee. Not only had he stripped them of their portable wealth, he had stripped them of their landholdings, handing them out to his supporters, like Tancred’s grandfather.
But Mother Church had never ceased to reclaim them, as well as the right to parcel it out to its own vassals and had, now, a receptive ear at a court more pious and Christian than that of old Count Rollo, more inclined to side with the church against laymen. The answer to the dispute lay within the boundaries of the Bishopric of Coutances: nothing could be decided without the incumbent overseeing proceedings and judging claims. To ensure none could be settled, suspecting it would not be in their favour, the local barons had ensured for decades that no appointed bishop ever took control of his see. Some elevated clerics had tried, only to be chased out of the Contentin at the point of a sword.
Montbray was shaking his head now, but not in irritation. ‘I told our young duke that the de Hautevilles had two valuable assets, their ability in battle and their guile. The see is vacant, and there is no great desire in my fellow clerics to take possession of it. If I can have it, I will.’
‘I trust any claims made against my demesne would get a fair hearing, should you do so?’
There was no question what Tancred meant: to him a fair hearing could only mean one that came down on his side. ‘I think you would be satisfied with my judgements, Uncle. As for others…’
‘What care do I have for others, my boy?’ Tancred scoffed. ‘Let them look to their own.’
It was under torchlight that the sons of Tancred met their duke, the only one he could truly look in the eye until they were on bended knee being Roger. Close to, the ten-year-old was more impressed than hitherto, as much by the surroundings full of luxury as the majesty of those present, including King Henry. The interview was short, but the words used were important: William of Falaise was sure he had need of men, such as these brothers, to serve him close and much would be gained from a Contentin at peace. So that it was with high step they left the pavilion, to be met by an exuberant father, who knew what those words truly meant. Rebellious barons would be defeated and dispossessed: what lands they owned would go to the duke’s loyal servants and his boys would be amongst them.
To celebrate was natural, and that they did, the effect of the apple wine on each very different. Tancred, before he fell asleep, became maudlin and wept for his absent
sons; naturally light-headed, young Roger took to staggering about before collapsing in a heap, followed by two of his brothers until only Robert and Serlo were left, though both had wrung a different mood from their imbibing. Robert by nature was a happy drunk, Serlo a morose one, all the resentments of which he was full surfacing the more he drank.
To be taller than most was not enough when you have several gigantic brothers; to be proficient with weapons never satisfied when those same brothers could best you every time. As the youngest of the elder branch, a year older than Robert, he had been a newborn babe when Tancred took a new wife, and had consequently missed the tenderness of his own mother more than his older siblings and he had also grown up seeing the likes of Robert favoured over him.
He could be surly even when sober, and while all the family had mischief built into their being, Serlo had a quality that tended to the devious and slightly cruel. He was also naturally light-fingered, and could be relied upon to lift anything not family-owned if left unattended. The pity was, that night, and in his mood, he took to wandering, with a cheerful half-brother at his heels; a tragedy that they met Count Hugo de Lesseves, he having accepted the hospitality of a noble cousin, and swapped his damp tent for a straw palliasse in the castle; a misfortune that he, too, had partaken of too much wine and had stepped out of his chamber to use the relieving pot.
Bleary-eyed Serlo recognised him, as much by the colours of his surcoat as the contours of his face. Besides that, there was the count’s haughty manner, and his words, on being reminded of the previous day’s encounter, came out as a near repeat of the insults he had issued then. When called upon by Serlo to withdraw them while still pissing, he turned, laughed, and aimed the jet of yellow fluid at Serlo’s feet.
‘Leave it be, brother,’ Robert slurred, giving Serlo one of his back thumps that were always too hard, making the recipient stagger forward and shoulder the count.
‘Get off, you rank-smelling oaf.’
Neither Robert nor the count saw the knife come out, and certainly the victim only knew of it when it entered under his rib cage and upwards, hitting him hard enough to make him double forward until his head was on Serlo’s shoulder. The hand that held the blade was moved without a thought, in the way Serlo had been taught since childhood to use it in battle, raking up and across to make sure the stab became fatal.
Robert’s vision was blurred enough for him to be unsure what it was gurgling out of the count’s open mouth, but it was only moments before he knew it to be blood, and it was only then he realised what Serlo had done. He grabbed him by the top of his surcoat and dragged him backwards, an act which brought out the knife from the count’s ruptured guts, sending a fount of blood pumping from the damaged heart. The man was dead before his body crashed onto the stone floor, at which point one of his servants, a young boy, came out and, seeing him bleeding on the floor, let out a high-pitched scream which would not have disgraced a girl.
Still holding Serlo’s collar, a rapidly sobering Robert dragged his brother away. Suddenly aware of what he had done, his horrified gaze fixed on the body, Serlo dropped the knife at the same time as his belligerence, and he started to gasp to God for forgiveness, a sound which had turned into a maudlin wail by the time his brother got him far enough away to even begin to think. There was no choice but to wake Tancred, and he, once his head had cleared enough to comprehend the enormity of what had happened, knew he must wake his clerical nephew.
‘We must get Serlo away. He will face the gallows if we do not.’
Montbray looked at his cousin, now sat with his head in his hands, clearly regretting what he had done in his moment of madness, while Robert stood at the entrance to the chamber ready to do battle should anyone come for him. For Montbray the dilemma was obvious: if there was not a hue and cry already, there soon would be. De Lesseves’ knights, once someone had found their encampment and told them, would either come for Serlo with their swords out or, if they had more sense, make sure their duke knew of this foul murder.
He had a duty to his lord and a duty to God, but overriding that was family. Tancred had raised his sister’s orphaned boy as he raised his own sons, never showing them favour over him. He could not stand by to see one of his cousins hang, regardless of the consequences for him. He would have to aid Serlo first and face the wrath of the Duke of Normandy later.
‘Serlo,’ he barked, ‘gather your belongings. Robert, you too.’
‘Why me?’ Robert protested.
‘You might have to fight your way out of here.’
‘Horses?’ Tancred said.
‘Will have to be stolen. I will have enough to do to get you through the gate on foot.’
It took a hard slap around the head from Tancred to get Serlo moving, his words as harsh as the blow. ‘Get back to Hauteville-la-Guichard if you can and gather enough to fund a journey.’
‘Where am I to go?’
‘Not south,’ Tancred insisted. ‘That will take you through lands controlled by Duke William, and if word gets ahead of you from Count Hugo’s relatives you will be taken and roasted over a spit. Go to the coast and seek a boat. If you can get to England you will be safe.’
‘Duke William can find me there.’
‘You snivelling wretch, do you think yourself important enough to interest a duke? Perhaps, if you had kept your knife sheathed and risen in his service he might have noticed you, but now, you are nothing, not to him, nor to me.’
‘And where am I to go, Father?’ asked Robert. ‘For I shall not flee to England.’
It was Montbray who answered. ‘The only place is Italy, Robert.’
‘So I must take the risks you will not permit my brother.’
‘The case is different. No man can be condemned for aiding his brother. If any of Count Hugo’s relations took revenge on you, they would face the gallows themselves.’
‘I would rather stay here and face the consequences.’
‘If you do,’ Montbray replied, ‘you will most certainly face the oubliette, and I know that there are men in these castle dungeons who have languished there for years. Come, you must go and go now, there is no time to delay.’
It took all of Montbray’s authority to get the two brothers out of the great castle gates, and they had only just crossed the stone bridge when they saw a procession of torches heading their way, an angry crowd of men in green and blue surcoats, which caused them to run to where they could not be seen. For once it was Robert, not Serlo, who came up with the notion of thievery; they could hardly walk to Hauteville-la-Guichard.
‘At least we know where there are horses, now unattended.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Arduin of Fassano had a love of making speeches, and no sooner had the entire force made good their entry into Melfi, passing in the process glum-faced peasantry and townsfolk who made no secret of the fact that they knew they had been cheated, than he had them assemble to hear his words. But first Mass had to be said, a prayer made to God to bless this enterprise, and as the priest intoned the ceremony in Greek – Mass being said in the Eastern rite, for there were no Roman clerics in Apulia – it made William think that he would have liked the Mass said in Latin, and by a divine from his homeland.
Norman priests, like his cousin Geoffrey, knew how to fight alongside the men they blessed and confessed. Montbray had wielded his sword and lance alongside his cousins in battle, under the banner of Duke Robert of Normandy, his only concession to his vows the determination to pray for the souls of those slain over their recumbent bodies, while their blood was still warm. Those thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Arduin, who, now that the priest had done with his rite, began his speech.
‘It is time to cease to exist like mice in the skirting,’ he boomed, to an audience who were not at all taken with the reference. ‘How long have you been in this part of the world as nothing but paid swords at the beck and call of others? Yet here before us is a province and wealth under the grip of an empire too distant to rule
with wisdom. It is time to reach out with a strong hand and in this I will be your guide. Follow me and I will lead you against men who are as women, who lord it over and exploit this rich and spacious land.’
‘Windbag,’ said Drogo softly, for he was near the front of the throng.
‘Too fond of the sound of his own voice,’ opined Humphrey, managing, in his usual fashion, aided by his sour expression, to lard his words with an extra degree of disdain.
‘Let him speak away,’ William replied, ‘as long as he leads us well.’
‘It is you we will follow, Gill,’ Drogo insisted.
‘No!’ William insisted. ‘There can only be one man in command. Let Arduin be that, and only if he fails—’
‘And now,’ Arduin cried, loud enough to prevent that sentence from being concluded; he had finished his peroration, a mellifluous one in which every one of those present had been promised the Earth, the moon and the stars, ‘let us repair to the great hall, and a feast fit for the men who will humble Byzantium.’
That got him a loud cheer; if there was anything these Norman mercenaries loved it was abundant food and drink.
Prior to sitting down to the feast, William gathered his brothers: he too had something to say, albeit in a quiet way.
‘Make it known, all of you, that we are here to stay.’
That produced looks of surprise on every face but that of Drogo; he was nodding as if some long-held thought now made sense.
‘I want no act by any man to endanger our position with the inhabitants of Melfi. They are to be treated with respect. Anything taken must be paid for and nothing is to be stolen. Their women are to be honoured, even if they are bought as concubines, for their fathers and brothers will form part of the force Arduin must put in the field. That is to be the same for any place that surrenders to our arms. We are in a territory that is not our own, and who knows what our needs will be? We dare not make enemies in our own backyard.’
‘Surely we have the right to plunder?’ demanded Mauger.
