Warriors (8 page)

‘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.’ 

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.

‘We have that right with those who will oppose us, not with the people who will rally to our standard. Now let us eat our Lombard friend’s food and drink his wine, and show him all respect, for without him to secure for us a force of
milities
we will have little.’

Both Arduin and William de Hauteville departed the next day, the Lombard to spread the word of revolt, while William rode out, without helmet, hauberk or lance, to examine the whole area around Melfi with an experienced military eye, aware that, for all he had ridden through these parts, he did not know the terrain well enough.

Formidable castles had fallen before, and to his mind, given equal force, the Norman advantage lay outside stout walls, not within them. Already a piquet had been sent to climb the heavily wooded slopes of Monte Vulture, to man the round stone redoubt on its barren peak, thankfully now clear of snow, which had within it a warning beacon that would tell the Melfi garrison of the approach of any substantial force from the Apulian heartlands, giving them the choice of what action to take to thwart it.

He rode first to the east, which dropped away from the high hills that surrounded Melfi to the fertile lands and rolling landscape which led to the lush plains
of Apulia, looking for those places where an army could properly and advantageously deploy, examining each valley to see how it could be used by cavalry to outflank an enemy, with the obvious corollary that it could also be used by them to the same purpose. He also needed to seek out those places where an attacking force could rest: open land, well watered, for no army could exist without that precious resource.

William de Hauteville sought to put himself in the mind of an enemy commander, and a competent one, to see the terrain from their point of view. How would he come to Melfi, how would he sustain a siege? It was obvious that one of the strengths of the place was the lack of ability to do the latter in any true proximity to the fortress, to keep enough force outside the walls, to feed and supply them over broken country that was just too far from that endless fertile plain.

Also, in each well-pastured and crop-sown valley he studied, William calculated what it would take to turn it into a desert, which is what would be required to frustrate his opponents should they seek to invest the Normans: to destroy yields in both field and store room and so deny them to the enemy, forcing them to forage far and wide. The peasants who had toiled to reap and sow the land he examined would suffer, but that was their lot: God must care for them, for he could not.

He was sure any threat would come from the
south or east but that did not obviate the need to look elsewhere, and to that purpose he rode slowly north into less bountiful country, looking for anything approaching the same ground conditions. There were few of those in a landscape mostly consisting of rock-strewn hills interspersed with thick woods. Where it was cultivated there was little in the way of flat ground, instead steep and rolling fields, small in size and with the same high hedgerows he knew from home, separated by an occasional clump of trees, which hid the narrow streams and watercourses that fed them.

Any dwellings tended to be of the sod hut type, part sunk into the ground and buttressed with stones, the roofs of some made of thatch, the poorer ones of turf, all placed on hillsides close to rivulets of running water and surrounded by dry stone walls which acted as animal pens; the locals went out to their fields at dawn and retired to the safety of their hut at night, when bears and big cats, not to mention wolves, were out hunting.

They were in those fields now and as he passed by he could see them toiling, at this time of year working to keep at bay the pests that would, if left to prosper, ruin their crops, and it was with some gratitude he thanked his Maker that he had been born and raised to be a warrior. He might respect those who worked the land for their devotion to
their drudgery, but he had no notion or desire to join them.

To the north, still within sight of Monte Vulture, the landscape was even more broken, bordering as it did on the mountains, and while some slopes were heavily wooded, at a certain height that gave way to heath where scrub proliferated and no crops could be grown, a place where only goats and sheep could graze, while above that the slopes were barren screed that would be snow-covered in winter. Though he saw no one, he surmised there would be shepherds and the like who could observe him, and if they could they would also see his sword, as well as his blue and white shield of that teardrop shape peculiar to Normans, and mark him as a man to avoid.

The chance of any substantial force coming from this direction was remote. It was too infertile, but William was determined to examine every possible avenue, and that was best done from high ground and, with a wearying mount, on foot. The walk up a narrow track, no doubt cut by herded animals, which led from one valley to a high peak, then down to the next, was steep, even more so on the bare hill to one side.

It was from that direction the thundering, rolling noise came, a large near-round stone, loosing smaller rocks as it raced with increasing pace towards him. His mount, spooked by the noise and with no rider to exert control, reared up and spun to face back down
the path with enough force to nearly pull the reins from his hand, and that left William on the horns of a dilemma: if he fought to control his horse they might both perish, so he grabbed his shield, which he had looped round the saddle horn, let the reins go and smacked the animal hard to add to its desire to escape. Then he turned to face the increasing avalanche of rocks.

The boulder which had set off the rush, being the largest, was the most dangerous, for if lesser rocks might maim him, that would kill. Even concentrating on that for no more than a couple of seconds, he saw something behind it, a movement which registered the outline of what looked like a human head at the very top of the slope. Such an observation did not allow for delay: given what was coming his way, there was only one method of survival – shelter – and he began to bound downhill ahead of the inundation, towards the treeline, looking for something large enough behind which to hide.

Only one outcrop, though it looked too small, appeared to give him even half a chance, but there was no time to seek out anything else or make the treeline so he dived behind it, cowering under his shield, trying to claw his way into the unyielding moss which covered the ground to increase his chances. The smaller rocks began to bounce off the shield immediately, each with a resounding thud, and it was
only good fortune that those big enough to immolate him either missed his shelter or, on hitting the slab of near-flat rock behind which he lay, bounced enough to clear his shield. In seconds the roar of the avalanche had faded to be replaced by the sound of tearing wood as trees were smashed to splinters. Then there was silence, and with some trepidation William stood upright and, taking out his sword, even if he knew it to be useless, looked up the hill, wondering who it was who had tried to kill him.

He saw not one head, but two, silhouetted against the skyline for no more than another second, which made him turn away quickly to give the impression he had seen nothing. Sword and shield still in his hand, he began to jog down the slope into the trees, then turned to follow downhill, as closely as he could, the line of the path, knowing that somewhere below he would find his horse.

The animal, once clear of the perceived danger, had stopped at the first open patch of decent grass and was now grazing contently, though in the way horses do, it had a wary eye on him as he approached, as if trying to sense his mood. It shied away only once, as if to denote independence, but a sharp word from a man who had owned and ridden the beast for years made it stand still and put back its ears in disquiet, as though it was aware of having let him down.

If it expected to be chastised, no harsh words came:
if William could not have stood still in the face of that rush of stone, why should a more fragile horse? Trained for combat it might be, but it was no destrier, endlessly exposed to noise and threat so that it became fearless. This was a lighter mount bred for movement, fleet of foot but still a prey animal that saw danger everywhere and was blessed – or was it cursed as all equines were? – with near all-round vision. So it was patted and spoken to with gentleness, until those flattened ears were once more up and pricked. Back in the saddle, William made no attempt to retrace his route: instead he headed away from that rising path, along the valley floor in the cover of as many trees as he could find, at an easy trot.

Once he was round the base of the hill he spurred his mount into a faster pace, and emerging from the trees he looked for a way to get to the obverse side of the hill by a longer route, and one that would allow him to do so at speed. Somewhere out there were the people who had set that boulder in motion and there was a very good chance they were on foot. Being on a patch of cultivated land, cleared of obstacles, allowed him to set his mount to a steady canter, and in a short time he could see the entrance to the next valley.

That was when he gave his mount its head, aware that the sound of his hooves on what was soft polder would carry, which might just flush out his quarry on what he could see was an equally wooded lower
slope. Even if there was no one to yet chase, there was exhilaration in the mere act of galloping; being a responsible military commander did not allow many opportunities to indulge in such as this: a pleasure he had enjoyed many times as man and boy, bent over the straining neck, the wind whistling in his ears, knowing that each thudding hoof on this forgiving ground would send up a clod of mud to rise in the air behind him, aware also that his horse, like all its fellows, loved to run flat out.