‘We’re flabby,’ William insisted. ‘Properly battle hard we would have seen off those two in no time.’
‘They should have beaten us.’
William scowled. ‘They didn’t because they were not good enough. Given we were not good enough either, that bodes well. Now let’s wash.’
Drogo wrinkled his nose and glanced around the walls. ‘I wonder if I can get one of these to myself. Then I won’t have to smell your armpits all the time.’
‘I hope you do, brother, because your grunting while you are belabouring some poor wench is hard to sleep through.’
Drogo grinned. ‘It’s the screams of pleasure that keep you awake.’
‘Pleasure? I always thought they were cries of pain and regret.’
Washed and in smocks that were, if not fresh, at least not more worn than a week, the pair found the paddock where their mounts had been put to graze, pleased that they seemed to be doing so peacefully, and not in any way challenging any of the other horses. Gentle calls brought them to the rail and they could see they had been well groomed too, the dust of the day brushed out of their hides. Both had words to say to them, the kind of endearments even hardened warriors make to animals they have known since they were foals. Neither brother was soft about horses; they had a purpose and they must fulfil it or be replaced, but a bond between rider and mount was an aid to the way they behaved when they were required to perform the duties for which they had been bred.
‘I think they will relish a chance to stay in one place,’ said William.
‘They and us, brother,’ was the reply, as he nuzzled his head into his horse’s neck. ‘Now I think we should go and attend our new master.’
‘We’re mercenaries now, Drogo. Rainulf is no more than our paymaster.’
The sun was well past its zenith by the time they were ready to climb the ramp in the square tower, yet it was pleasant to enter a cool chamber where the walls were covered with tapestries to make gentle what was bare stone. The place had about it an air of luxury and there was a pair of servants too, who produced bowls of water in which they could wash their hands, as well as cloths with which to dry them; which was a surprise to a pair unaccustomed to such refinements.
Rainulf, having greeted them, had gone to the head of a stout wooden table and thrown himself into a high- backed chair, from which he eyed them in silence. By the time they joined him he had emptied one goblet of wine and taken a refill, William reckoning he had just seen the source of the man’s high colouring. The table had a joint of lamb half consumed, fruit in abundance and bread that, when picked up, was floppy and fresh. Drogo was first out with his knife, hacking at the meat and, once he had carved some, filling his mouth with both that and wine, watched by an amused host. William took more care, accepted a goblet of wine and drank deeply but once. His carving was careful, and the consumption of meat was accompanied by equal amounts of fruit.
He could not help but feel that something was wrong. In his twenty years, and as the eldest son of a Norman baron, he had been a guest in many a neighbour’s home, and, just as in his own, every meal was an affair of many folk and abundant food as long as the land had been fruitful; no one feasted at all when it was not. His father had also taken his heir to the nearby castles of the regional counts where in great halls the lords of those places were wont to show their wealth by feeding a multitude, down to and including their serfs.
Yet this Rainulf, with a numerous body of men in his service, had the air of a man who commonly ate alone, and at a board that would easily accommodate twenty. It could not be from lack of provisions: the fields through which they had passed that day and the one before were in his fief and they were fertile. They had seen vines aplenty, crops in abundance both in the ground and on trees, as well as plentiful sheep, pigs and cattle.
‘More wine,’ Rainulf said, indicating to his servants to top up his guests, one having done so for him. ‘So tell me, what brought you here?’
‘Is it not enough that we have come?’ William replied.
‘I find it helps to know something of those in my pay.’
It was Drogo, through mouthfuls of food and wine, who named one of the two paramount reasons: a patrimony too small to support the number of sons their sire had fathered.
‘Neither of us hankered after the role of running a petty barony in the bocage. We have worked ploughs, we two, as well as wielded weapons.’
‘So you are not running from your neighbours.’
‘It is our neighbours who fear us,’ William replied, ‘not the other way round. But when you have carried a lance in battle, to return to husbandry is disagreeable.’
‘A good enough reason,’ Rainulf agreed. ‘There is no other?’
Both brothers allowed themselves a small shake of the head. The other reason, which had to do with the bloodline of their mother, both William and Drogo would keep to themselves.
‘The country we passed through seemed quiet,’ said Drogo, the enquiry muffled by his full mouth.
‘For the moment there is peace.’ Seeing Drogo’s face register disappointment, Rainulf laughed out loud. ‘But it never stays long like that. Eighteen summers I have been here and not one has gone by without a quarrel from which I have been able to prosper. And if it is too quiet, we have ways to ensure we do not go without.’
‘Such as?’ asked William.
The question seemed to annoy Rainulf; his face went a deeper shade of purple and the eyes, already hard to see, seemed to slip deeper into the fold of the flesh surrounding them.
‘You will discover that in time,’ he rasped, holding out his goblet for a fourth refill. ‘Now, tell me about Bessancourt.’
‘William will do that,’ Drogo insisted.
Which his brother did, for he was a good storyteller and he had, many times, told his tale coming south to willing listeners in the various pilgrims’ hospices in which they had found a place to lay their heads. Rainulf interrupted occasionally to ask a pointed question or two, mostly about how the Frankish milites had performed, never without supping from his goblet, and he forced William to be quite exact in his description of how they had first retreated, then were able to reverse that and resume the attack.
‘They must have been well led.’
‘They were beaten,’ William insisted, as the servants lit candles, mildly distracting him as he came to the end of his tale: candles cost money and he was more accustomed to smoky tallow. Whatever else Rainulf was short of — like company — it was not money.
‘The enemy horse were broken and suddenly with them in flight it was clear that we had the power of decision. Duke Robert did not rush; he ensured an organised line before calling for the advance, so that the King of the Franks could be in no doubt as to the person to whom he owed his triumph. A number of the enemy pikemen formed up to defend themselves, but for all their bravery the battle was lost. We hit their line like a great rolling rock smashing a haystack.’
‘That, brother, is too poetic.’
William smiled at Drogo. ‘Is it? Almost the whole of those who stood to defend themselves paid with their lifeblood. Behind them panic took over as each man sought to save himself, and that included the King’s rebel brother.’
‘I hope he flayed him alive,’ said Rainulf.
‘No,’ Drogo hooted, ‘he made him Duke of Burgundy. He gave the Frankish half of the Vexin to Normandy for a battle that he did not need to fight.’
‘Some men will forgive their brothers much.’
The look in Rainulf’s hooded eyes then was a curious one, which was not helped by the way his gaze was fixed on William. ‘You describe the battle well.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Let us hope you get a chance to do for me what you did for Duke Robert.’
Over the days that followed the brothers discovered how well organised Rainulf was: there was accommodation for up to four hundred knights, the great barn for communal eating and feasts, a proper stud to provide a steady supply of mounts, mendicant monks from the monastery at Aversa to see to the ailments of men and horses, a nursemaid equally versed in remedies to care for the women and children.
