‘Dismount,’ shouted Drengot.
Weary and sweating, William and Drogo complied, aware of two things. What their father had told them about fighting in southern climes was true, for he had fought the Moors in Spain to keep open the pilgrimage route to Compostela. Wearing a hauberk, cowl and a metal helmet made a man sweat copiously. The second was, though they were not going to openly admit it, that they were tired and near as rusty in battle practice as their mounts.
‘Let’s see your sword work,’ Drengot ordered, signalling forward a couple of big fellows with the round staves that were used for practice.
‘Should they not be mailed too?’ asked William.
The reply was more of a sneer than an answer. ‘I’m not testing them, fellow, I know they can fight.’
Wearing only padded leather jerkins the opponents would have an advantage in freedom of movement denied to the brothers, and that showed quickly as they feinted with their staves, only to draw the pair forward, and to a gale of laughter they cracked them both across the helmet, making their heads ring.
‘Step back, Drogo,’ William ordered as their opponents attempted another ploy to embarrass them, this time trying to thwack their shins.
They had fought together since they were boys, as much with each other as anyone else, and they knew one another intimately. William de Hauteville was not obeyed because he was the older brother; he was obeyed because Drogo knew he was twice the fighter in combat than he was himself. In unison they took two paces back and created enough space to draw on the men intent on making them look like fools.
‘Now!’ was the single word of command and the two mailed brothers came forward again as one, staves swinging right and left which forced their opponents to parry, before the weight of the blows then obliged them to step back. A man advancing generally has the advantage of one retreating and Drengot’s mercenaries were forced to defend themselves. They were no fools either and soon they made enough telling sweeps to hold their ground. It then became a contest of strength as the staves were swung, under, over, right and left, with occasional jabs, four pairs of eyes locked on each other seeking to detect where the next sweep was coming from.
‘Keep going, brother,’ Drogo called; he loved nothing more than fighting, if you excluded bedding women, a pair of traits that had caused them no end of trouble on their travels.
William barely heard him, he was breathing so heavily, while concentrating on his opponent, a shrewd swordsman. What told in the end was the sheer size and muscular power of the oldest of the de Hautevilles, for having manoeuvred his opponent into a position where he had to hold his weapon horizontal in defence, the downward stroke of William’s weapon had behind it so
much weight that he smashed the stave in two.
Shocked, his opponent quickly stepped back out of harm’s way. William did not desist, he turned on Drogo’s man and with cruel intent and his brother’s assistance drove the fellow to his knees. Unaware of a loss of control, Drogo had raised his stave high and was about to seek to smash the fellow’s skull, when Drengot’s barking voice brought him back to the present.
‘Enough!’
Slowly he walked towards them, they leaning now on their staves and sucking air into aching lungs.
‘So, you can fight, you Contentin ruffians, at least on foot, though I think you are dolts mounted.’
‘Our horses are rusty,’ Drogo insisted. ‘Give us a few days to train them up and you will think otherwise.’
‘Perhaps,’ Drengot replied, with the air of a man who did not want to be convinced. ‘I will tell you how it is here. We are mercenaries and when we are not fighting we are training to fight. You will be paid whatever you do and allowed to plunder as long as you don’t steal that which is mine by right. If I say kill, you do not hesitate, nor do you take the life of anyone who might provide ransom. I have the right of life and death over you. Serve me well and you will prosper, betray me and I will strip the skin off your bodies with hot pincers. Is that a bargain you accept?’
‘Yes,’ gasped William, removing his helmet and woollen cowl to reveal hair plastered with sweat.
‘If you die I will bury you with honour, and take steps to let your family know so they can say a mass for your soul. If you lose a horse or equipment through carelessness you must replace it, if you lose it in my service I will provide you with a mount from my stud or a weapon from my store.’
‘Would it be possible to have a drink?’ asked an equally sweating Drogo.
Rainulf indicated over his shoulder to some servants who had come to watch and a ladle of water was brought from a covered barrel, both brothers supping greedily.
‘Go to the armourer tomorrow and get him to punch some holes in the rear of your helmets. You cannot fight in this climate without it, or your head will fry. And always wear a bandana underneath to keep the sweat out of your eyes, otherwise you will be so misted up you will be bound to die from being blinded.’
‘Anything else?’ asked William.
‘Yes. Get out of that mail.’
‘We need to wash.’
‘There is a stream fifty paces from the back of my donjon. You might wish to cool yourself in its waters.’
‘We must look to our horses.’
‘It is good that you look to the comfort of your mounts before your own. Perhaps you are true Normans after all.’
For the first time Rainulf Drengot favoured them with a genuine smile as he shouted to the servants behind him, who had fetched the water, pointing to the now hitched but still sweat-streaked destriers. ‘Get these animals seen to, groomed, fed and watered, but have care which paddock you put them in.’
‘We too have not taken sustenance since sun up,’ Drogo said.
‘Then I bid you enter my dwelling, for there is food and wine on my table.’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ William replied.
‘I have a desire to hear of the fight at Bessancourt.’
That was as much of an acceptance as they were going to get. William nodded and put his arm round the shoulder of Drogo. ‘Journey’s end, brother.’
‘Thank God, Gill, you have no idea how sick I am of nothing but your company.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
They were shown to one of the round, earthen-floored huts, an empty one, in which two more women, with similar colouring to the one they had first seen, were busy stuffing palliasses with fresh straw, prior to putting them on two low, wooden-framed cots; apart from those the place was bare of furnishing, but someone had brought the packs off their horses. Seeing Drogo’s eyes drawn to the rear of one of the woman bending over, William spoke loudly.
‘It might be best to find if she’s already got a man, brother, before you exercise your charms. We’ve done enough fighting for one day and a dip in cool water will do you more good.’
‘Allow me to judge what I want to dip,’ Drogo replied, reaching out to stroke the woman’s posterior. The speed with which she spun and slapped him, and the weight of that slap, made Drogo wince and William laugh.
‘What makes you think she needs a man?’ Drogo complained, rubbing a cheek made even more red than that achieved by the work of the sun, this as the woman went back to stuffing straw. ‘If we’d had to fight her this day we’d be lying in the sand. So, how do you find Rainulf?’
‘A hard taskmaster, I think,’ William replied.
With some care the two women, task finished, manoeuvred their way round the walls to the exit, leaving the brothers to remove their hauberks. The place had been occupied before; there were nails hammered into the walls on which to hang possessions, and these soon had on them helmets, shields and mail, with both stripping to the waist, removing leather jerkins that had become almost as heavy as the mail, so filled were they with perspiration.
‘That was tough going.’
