Warriors

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 shoulders 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.

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.’