‘I had hoped, as you know, that you would win your own advancement. We fought today, and fought well, but who can say what the future will hold?’
It was William who underlined what his father was driving at. ‘With Duke Robert allied to the King of the Franks, there is little prospect of war service…’
‘I have no desire to arm myself with a plough,’ Drogo insisted.
There was a weariness in Tancred’s voice as he responded to that. ‘I raised you to do what I did, and that is fight. That you can do, but William has the right of it.’
‘The duke might fall out with the Franks,’ said Geoffrey de Hauteville. ‘They are not natural bedfellows.’
‘How long will that be?’ Tancred replied. ‘One year, two years, ten? The Bretons were our allies today, as well. As for the Angevins, they too are supine. For the first time in my life the borderlands are at peace.’
‘Which is why our Duke Robert can go on pilgrimage.’
That opinion came from his namesake, really too immature to be taking part. It was a measure of Tancred’s gloom that he did not remind the youngest son present of the fact. ‘Jerusalem? He will be gone a year at least, possibly two.’
‘He may well come back a monk,’ Drogo scoffed.
‘Would that be so bad?’ asked Montbray.
A period of silent reflection followed, as each son contemplated a life of peaceful husbandry, albeit such an existence would be punctuated by the kind of local conflicts endemic to the Contentin, not one of which would ever advance them in any way. They were no more farmers than their sire, and so it seemed to the eldest they must do what he had done when a young man.
‘We too should seek the solution elsewhere,’ said William.
‘A pilgrimage?’ Drogo demanded, in a voice that showed what he thought of that idea.
‘Your soul is beyond redemption, brother,’ William replied, grinning, ‘and you know that is not what I meant.’
‘The work of God is being pressed east of the Elbe, converting the Slav barbarians.’
William looked at Montbray. ‘That is your work, cousin, not ours. We need to fight for recompense, not to spread the faith.’
‘Which means Spain to fight the Moors, or Italy?’ Tancred said, without enthusiasm.
William nodded. ‘Those who have returned from Italy seem to have done well.’
‘Which is a tenth of the number whose bones are still there.’
‘Show me an alternative.’
‘I could try to speak with Duke Robert again,’ his father responded, but in a voice that held out little hope.
‘Beg!’ William exclaimed. ‘Not even to a duke would I have you do that and I cannot ever see myself bending my knee to a man who denies consideration to a blood relation in the way he has so clearly done.’
‘Let me think on it.’
William de Hauteville was quite brusque with a parent to whom he normally showed great respect. ‘It is not yours to decide, Father, it is up to each one of us who is of age to make that choice for ourselves.’
In the firelight, all of Tancred’s sons could see the disappointment in his face, looking more lined in the flickering fire than it truly was. From oldest to youngest, they all knew the hopes he had entertained for his house, hopes that through his sons the name of de Hauteville would stand high in the annals of Normandy, hopes held over many years that had been dashed in the last week.
He had said many times how they would rise in the service of their liege, had said the death of Duke Richard made no difference, his brother would inherit the title and the obligation to the sons of his sister, and that, given the way he had raised and trained them to be warriors, they could be so assured of advancement. Their half- siblings too would prosper in the same way, on the backs of their established brothers.
He had put aside their doubts when his repeated requests to the court, written for him by his nephew of Montbray, received no reply. He had kept them training, and saw them use their skills in various local quarrels. His boys were not just good: they were, as fighters, exceptional, so much so that in the part of the Contentin in which they lived few dared to dispute with the family now so many were grown to a good age. A de Montfort would because he commanded enough lances; no one of the same rank as Tancred dared.
On the journey home to the demesne, in which every avenue was discussed, what was a notion became a decision. Money constrained them, even with what they had just acquired; only two could make the journey, but they, if they were successful, could send for the others. William claimed the right to be first, which naturally meant Drogo asserted that he should be the other. Humphrey and fourth son Geoffrey would follow, while their cousin of the same name declined to even consider a move to Italy. His ambitions lay in the Church and Normandy.
No one even mentioned Serlo or Robert, which had no effect on the first and genuinely annoyed his half- brother, who saw it as a slight for his not sharing the same mother.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Jew was not one to open his door to a stranger, but in a place like Salerno, bustling but not large, everyone knew the features of the old Duke’s heir, for they had seen him paraded alongside his father at every religious festival, Roman or Orthodox, held in the city since he was a babe in arms. He recognised the boy as soon as he threw back the cowl on his head. He was also a man from a race that had learnt to be cautious: he knew that any gentile could represent danger to an Israelite, and the boy standing close to the doorway lantern more than most.
So, through a hatch in his heavily barred door, he bade the youth re-cover his head and walk off into the gathering gloom of the evening, bidding him come back in another two chimes of the cathedral bell, time in which he made sure his premises were not being observed by agents of Pandulf or his Norman hirelings and, by use of his contacts with the less salubrious orders of the city, that his cloaked visitor was not being followed.
When Guaimar returned he had no need to use the knocker: the door was opened as he lifted his hand and he was swiftly drawn inside. From his doublet, Guaimar produced a wax tablet bearing an imprint of the archbishop’s seal, which the Jew, a tall man dressed in good woollen garments, took close to a wad of flickering tallow, then held the object in even closer proximity to his nose.
‘You recognise the seal?’
‘I do, honourable one.’
‘I am scarce honourable now, sir.’
‘You are your father’s son, that is honour enough.’
There was something in the way the fellow said that which made Guaimar ask a question, his brow furrowed with doubt. ‘You knew my father?’
‘It is not an association he would have been keen to let all Salerno know about, but I was often of use to him.’
‘In what way?’
The Jew chuckled. ‘Let us say that rich men, powerful men and others sometimes need to transact business that must be kept from prying eyes.’
‘What kind of business did my father have that required your services?’
‘Secrecy was our bond. I would not tell even you, honourable one.’
‘Then how can I know to believe you?’
‘You bear the seal of the most saintly Archbishop of Salerno, but I do not ask how you came by it. Nor will I tell anyone who enquires that you came here or what it is you wish for. That will be our bond, the same secrecy as I kept for your father so that his subjects were not troubled in their respect for him.’
Those words implied something underhand, even perhaps double-dealing, transactions kept hidden from those who trusted him. Was the father he so revered not as upright as he thought?
‘I need money.’
‘Many people who come here have that need.’
‘You hold in trust certain items for the Archbishop.’
