Warriors (6 page)

‘This is different. Who do you think holds the fortress of Troia?’

He waited for a response but none came; he found himself looking at bowed heads, doubting if indeed they knew the answer. These were people who lived in
ignorance of what occurred in the neighbouring valley, never mind a fortress ten leagues distant.

‘They are Normans, the very same kind of men you are damning now, and they protect the people thereabouts.’

‘The Normans are brigands.’

‘Not those I command,’ Arduin replied softly. ‘They are soldiers in the pay of the catapan, as am I, as are the Normans of Troia.’

Quite a few of the faces were diverted then: Italians did not like Lombards any more than Normans. Arduin did not miss it, he merely ignored the reaction: he was not without the arrogance typical of his race and he had lived among these people too long to be bothered. Besides, they rarely had much affection for each other, never mind those they saw as interlopers.

‘Observe what they do now,’ he said.

Arduin pointed to William’s band, dismounted by the gurgling stream that ran off the high peak of Monte Vulture and through the huddle of buildings that made up the town. They had unsaddled their mounts and were busy grooming them with combs and brushes, this while the horses munched at piles of hay.

‘Do they torch your homes, do they break your watermill? No. They have not even touched your wine.’ That led to some shuffling of feet, which made Arduin feel he was getting somewhere.

‘For I must tell you, if you do not admit them they will not leave, and I will have to send to the catapan to tell him of your intransigence, which is nothing short of a revolt against his authority.’

Such an accusation set up a howl of protest: if these people were wary of Normans, they knew enough to fear an angry Byzantium even more.

‘And can I tell you what he will do? He will come and he will fire your houses and smash that watermill. He will also burn every man amongst you to a cinder, those he does not hang from the castle walls, once you have been disembowelled and seen your own entrails slither from your belly.’

That made them pale, but Arduin was not finished.

‘Then he will let those Normans, and his Greeks, loose on your women and you will hear their screams as you die. Your children will be sent east to slavery, perhaps to the brothels of Constantinople, which cater for every vice. And then he will send word around the country to say that valuable land, well irrigated and fertile, is empty and there for the taking, so other hands will work this soil and prosper, using your women as slaves and your crushed bones to help nourish their crops.’

‘We hold the castle.’

‘Can you hold it against an army? Are you fighting men?’ He waved to the Normans once more. ‘Look, they are fighting men. Can you face them even with walls to protect you?’

If they were wavering they were yet to be convinced, so Arduin changed tack.

‘Let me send to the catapan and say that the good folk of Melfi are loyal, that they are people who deserve relief from too heavy a taxation, if not monies provided to help develop what they already have. What one of you could not use some Byzantine largesse to increase your yields, to stock your pigsties and sheep pens, to increase your oxen? Would it not be wondrous to say in years to come that this was made a golden part of Apulia where men work for reward, a place where women sow and reap in plenty, that children grow up strong and to a good age so that those who bore them have ease in their later years?’

Arduin had a silver tongue, one which had served him well with his reluctant soldiers in Sicily and it was having the same effect here, for what he was holding out was a tempting prospect to people who toiled as long as it was light to get from the soil that which was needed to both maintain themselves and satisfy the demands of their overlords, nothing less than the sum of their dreams – a life free from the threat of famine.

These were not the fertile plains of two harvests a year, which lay to either side of their lands, but the mountains where the soil was shallow and supported by hard rock, the weather more fickle. There was never truly enough, for if times were good the population
grew to consume whatever the land produced. But there were also those bad years, of blighted crops and endless foul weather, times when cattle and flocks were ravaged by maladies for which they had no cure, so that people came close to, and sometimes even succumbed, to starvation.

‘And, my friends, with this garrison in place, I can ask – no, demand – the castle be well supplied, food that would be there for you, should nature fail you.’

‘We must talk,
topoterites
.’

Arduin nodded: the use of that title indicated he would get what he wanted.

William waited until the castle had been vacated, watching as the locals made their way back to their homes, few willing to exchange a glance with these mailed giants who would now live amongst them. They were stocky folk in the main, of truncated height to a Norman, but it was easy to see they had a strength brought about by endless toil; that is, those who were not too bent by the same condition of life to stand upright.

Despite sharp commands from angry parents the children could not contain their curiosity, and were much taken by the horses, for in this part of the world, where oxen did the burdensome work, the possession of such a beast was only for lords and masters. Nor could the younger females stop themselves from throwing
what they thought were discreet glances at such tall and striking men. For that they got parental blows, not hard words.

Watching them, and the contrast with their nervous elders, William thought back to his father’s demesne in the Contentin, to the serfs and tenanted villeins who supported the de Hauteville family, people whom his father saw as his responsibility. The indigenes who had occupied the land before the Norsemen came were not dissimilar, hardy folk inured to endless toil and the need to eke a living from the soil. Yet his forbears had intermingled with them, married their womenfolk and bred children by them, and they had also protected them in an uncertain world. Could he, and the men he led, not do the same here?

‘Mount up,’ he called when the last of the townsfolk had passed.

Riding up the wide, winding causeway that led up to the great gates of the Castle of Melfi, itself with a defensible wall, William found himself increasingly impressed by an edifice he had only previously observed from afar. Imposing from a distance, with its great square keep and hexagonal corner towers, it became more formidable still at close quarters, where he could see how soundly it was constructed, from the stone bridge that spanned the moat to the twin curtain walls that contained a killing zone between them.

An attacker must cross that narrow, high-arched
causeway to even attempt to take the outer wall, then get through a gate to be faced by yet another ditch with a raised drawbridge. Caught between the two they would be at the mercy of anyone on the inner wall and they would need a great effusion of blood to overcome the defence. Those walls and towers were made from the hard stone of the mountains in which the castle was sat – rock so hard the walls could not be undermined – and they were well buttressed to withstand assault by ballista, while being tall enough to make firing anything over the top near impossible, the whole edifice high on a hill that dominated the town below, as well as the valleys that led to the east and west.

Overlooked by the even higher peak of Monte Vulture, that too was part of its defence: no substantial force could hope to approach from any direction without being seen a whole day’s march distant. Inside, the fortress was spacious, with well-constructed buildings that could house hundreds of knights, sufficient stabling for their mounts, and vaults below and lofts above that could store enough supplies to sustain them for an eternity, while the keep was large enough in which to train to fight so that no warrior could become rusty by confinement.

Built by the Byzantines on the site of an old Roman watchtower, it had a water supply that could not be stopped, several deep wells that sat inside the very
rock on which the castle stood, and on three sides lay steep escarpments which reduced the options for any attacker to a frontal assault up the causeway to the crossing, at the end of which stood huge oak gates, studded with metal. On either side of the outer castle entrance stood a pair of towers, barbicans that made the area before the drawbridge a deadly place for any man at the mercy of besieged crossbowmen.

Arduin was already inside, back in the place he had come to occupy when first appointed, and he was on the steps that led to the great hall when his first Normans entered through the castle gate. In his mind he could see what was to come, himself at the head of a formidable army, taking from Byzantium towns, cities and especially the great ports which sustained them with their fabulous revenues.

There was another vision: he might need a figurehead to give him the legitimacy needed to persuade others to revolt, but he would be no more than that. Men had risen before from seemingly humble origins to a noble estate, why not he? His arrangement with Prince Guaimar was for an equal division of the spoils, but that might be something he could circumvent with success. In part, the happy face with which he grasped the arm of William de Hauteville and the first contingent of knights was fed by such thoughts.

‘A messenger, William, to bring in the rest.’

‘Already sent, Arduin,’ the Norman leader replied. ‘I would also ask a message be sent north to the Normans of Troia, suggesting they desert Byzantium and join us.’

‘Do you think they will be tempted?’

‘No, they have prospered too much from serving the Eastern Empire, but not to ask might make them more of an enemy than we now need and I would want them neutral. It never does to wound Norman pride.’

Arduin flashed a look at William de Hauteville then, wondering at the level of his pride, indeed the pride of the whole clan; all twelve of them.

The great castle of Moulineaux stood stark and pale grey, high on the hillside, set against the deep-green and corn-gold fields of the Normandy landscape, dappled by sunlight and high white clouds, with a rolling slope, part cultivated fields, part woodland, reaching down to the silver ribbon of the winding River Seine, the whole now dotted with tented encampments. Beyond the fluttering pennants of the great lords who occupied these pavilions there were boats and barges plying their way upriver, some to Rouen, others which would continue on to Paris and perhaps all the navigable way to fertile Burgundy, for the Seine was a major artery of trade with the interior, a source of great wealth to whosoever controlled the river as it exited to the sea.

To the elderly man who emerged from the deep woods on the high ridgeline, the sight before him spoke of different things: it reminded him of his heritage and the tales he had heard at his grandfather’s knee. Once that same river had been the means by which his Viking forbears had terrorised this part of the world, as they had done so many others, sailing their longboats up to and beyond the island on which Paris stood, and besieging the city until paid enough treasure to depart.

The land around this part of the Frankish Kingdom, from the coast to the core, had been rich, fruitful, full of churches, monasteries, castles and walled towns the men from the north had plundered at will; it was rich now, but it was also the land settled by those same raiders for two centuries and thus not for despoliation. There was a part of Tancred de Hauteville that had always hankered after the notion of living in older times, even if the age he lived in now was troubled enough for any man.

The rest of his party, all members of his family, fanned out alongside him. Tancred and his sons were not only on higher ground, but being mounted as well, they were at near eye level with the round, crenellated towers of mighty Moulineaux, which stood at each corner of the curtain walls that connected them. They were close enough to see the separation between the mortar and the stone blocks, as well as
the dark slash of the deep ditch before the ramparts, though not enough to see into the great square keep they protected.

Within ballista range the forest had been cleared to deny cover to any approaching enemy intent on battering the walls, but Tancred, who, despite his advanced years still prided himself on his skill, as well as his experience as a fighting man, was adamant the castle was not built in the right place.

‘Mind it, some clever clogs will build a contraption that can fire a stone ball further than we now know, and they will gain distance from this high ground. Those walls could be breached and even the keep could be open to a shower of deadly rocks big enough to kill. Duke Robert should have put it up where we are sitting now so it could not be overlooked, and I told the young fool that when he was building the place.’

‘Which is no doubt why he sought your advice in all matters since that day.’

‘Mind your cheek, boy!’

Robert de Hauteville, named as a child after the very duke just mentioned, showed no reaction to this stricture from his father, nor did he even deign to look as though he noticed the glare which accompanied it. The rest of the family did not react: that was just Robert and his papa, forever in disagreement as they had been on the whole journey and for years prior
to that. If anything, they were slightly embarrassed, given that riding to attend a ceremony of great importance – one to which every loyal subject of the Duke of Normandy was ordered to be present – their party was in company with many others travelling on the same errand.

One such group, a dozen knights, rode slightly ahead of them on the narrow highway that ran along the ridge top, with yet more close behind, all summoned to attend upon their liege lord. King Henry of the Franks, was coming downriver from Paris in all his majesty, his purpose to confer knighthood on his vassal, William, the adolescent Duke of Normandy, this on the occasion of his fifteenth birthday.

‘Roger,’ Tancred barked to his youngest and favourite child. ‘Do me the honour of not growing up to be like this one, who, by his manner, is bound to be a changeling.’

Such a statement was nonsense, of course: you only had to see Robert and Tancred together to know that the old fellow, for all his hair was white, his frame somewhat shrunk, with a face lined and craggy, was the sire of this sturdy, tetchy giant. Indeed that was where the constant rubbing up against each other came from: they were too alike.

From a mere ten-year-old, the response was loud and firm. ‘I will match his height and valour, Father, if not his conduct.’

‘Don’t be too keen on the loftiness, lad. There comes a point where it clearly affects the brain.’

‘Then I must have more sense than anyone else in the family,’ insisted Serlo, who, though a year older than Robert and no dwarf, was nowhere near the size of his half-brother; few men were.

‘Are you going to block the path, or move your fat arses on their way?’

The irate voice came from the party immediately behind them, half a dozen mounted men still in amongst the trees, and the reaction was telling. Tancred half-turned to request patience, his face showing no rancour, but in the time he had done that Robert had his sword out from its scabbard, and was hauling on his reins to turn his horse, bellowing as he pushed it through his brothers, as well as the packhorses on which rested the family possessions, back into the woods, demanding to know who dared speak so.

Being family, and with Robert urging his mount to the rear, Serlo did likewise and the remaining two de Hautevilles old enough to bear arms, Aubrey and Humbert, had their weapons out too; even Roger was quick to brandish his knife. The men behind were sharp to the defence, so that in seconds the two groups were ready to do battle. All his sons stopped moving when Tancred bellowed for them to desist.

‘What are you, barbarians? Would you have us
branded louts before we even see our duke?’

‘By your manner, sir, I mark you as that very thing.’

‘Stand, Robert, I command you!’

That was an instruction given just in time: if Tancred had one son who would not stand even a hint of an insult to the family name, it was Robert. Jovial most of the time, with a huge laugh, a mischievous wit and a tendency to backslap painfully, he was also touchy in the extreme, that made more dangerous by a fighting ability formidable even in a family of high martial achievement. Now it was Tancred’s turn to bring around the head of his horse and move to confront the complainant, a large fellow in a green and blue surcoat, his head adorned with a plumed bonnet. His voice, when he spoke, was icy cold.

‘I was about to beg your indulgence for delaying your passage, to desire you to show a little patience, but that I now regret. You will withdraw the words just used, or what you can see of the castle of Moulineaux will be your last as a man on two legs. You will, I promise, be carried to meet your liege lord and so will the men who accompany you.’

‘I request only that you spur your mounts and clear a passage. Should you fail to do so I will be obliged to compel you.’

‘We await the attempt,’ growled Robert.

Tancred matched that growl, but he was still an old
soldier, who knew that to contest with this fellow and those he led in such a confined space, on the very edge of a forest, would not be wise: much better to be out in the open where he trusted the ability of his sons, as well as his own, to redress any imbalance in numbers.

‘We shall ride out onto yonder field, sir, but we will still be in your path. Without an expression of contrition we will stay there.’

‘To be swept aside, I do assure you.’

‘Roger, stay out of this,’ Tancred insisted, which produced, as it would in any proud boy of his age, a glum look. ‘Look to the pack animals.’

Chagrined as he was, he obeyed a father he loved and respected, taking from his brothers the required reins and riding out onto the open ground, but away from the direct route that led to the gates of Moulineaux, which lay on the Rouen side of the castle.

The others required no instruction: having grown to manhood at a time of much turmoil in Normandy, such encounters were, if not commonplace, frequent enough to ensure they had no fear or ignorance of what was about to occur. Had this fellow known the nature of whom he was up against, he might have shown more tolerance, for the name of de Hauteville, in the part of the world in which they lived, was one of which men who knew it were cautious. It had been that way for many years now, with each of Tancred’s twelve
sons showing, as they came to manhood, remarkable prowess in battle.

‘Perhaps you should stand aside as well, Father,’ sneered Robert. ‘Given your years.’

‘I’ll give you the back of my hand, boy.’

That made Robert smile as, like all of his party, he put on his conical metal helmet; nothing pleased him more than getting under old Tancred’s skin.

The other party had not been idle: they emerged from the forest ready to fight, the fellow in the surcoat now similarly helmeted, and concentrating on what was about to happen, neither party paid much attention to the approaching rider, a fellow with a hawk on his right hand, that is till he rode between them, addressing Tancred first and loudly, as he removed his own floppy cap.

‘I bid you good day, Uncle, and I observe that years have not dimmed your quick-tempered nature.’

‘Montbray!’ Tancred exclaimed, what could be seen of that craggy face on either side of his nose guard breaking into a huge grin.

‘The same…and how, my cousins, do I find you?’

‘Too occupied at the moment for pleasantries,’ Serlo replied, ‘though happy to see you, Geoffrey.’

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.