had come out to fight formed the bulk of those pressed against the stout oak. William was yelling again, in French, his throat feeling as though it was full of sand, so painful was his breathing, as he sought to coordinate the heaves of his fellow Normans. Now everything was being thrust through the gap: swords, pikes, lances, knives, flaming torches that took men in the face and reduced them to screaming wrecks as they were blinded. But it was to no avail, and in another act of collective despair, realising their efforts were fruitless, the defenders inside the gates suddenly gave way and they swung wide open.
Few of those who did not run fought, many dropped their weapons and their bodies and pleaded to be spared while the rest raced to find some place where they might be safe. There was no time for quarter, and Odo had, in any case, withdrawn it when they spurned his offer of terms. William and the men he led into the castle were outnumbered, they had to be, so mercy was in short supply as those who had given up died lest they recover the will to fight. Some did that, individually, on steps and in doorways, but it was the action of the doomed.
They died not to defend the Lord of Montesarchio, but themselves. William found him in what passed for the great hall of the castle, flanked by six of those men who would have made up his personal retainers, his body knights, lined up in front of their liege lord, swords unsheathed, ready to sell their lives. This was their sworn duty and a thing, had there been time to do so, to be admired.
Before them, once William had been joined by his confreres, stood a line of mercenaries, not one of whom was without a wound. William knew that blood was dripping from the back of his sword hand, not a great deal, but enough, just as he knew that he was not alone, the men alongside him now being in the same state as he. Their chests were heaving from the exertions they had made just to get to this point. They wore no mail and every sword they bore had the deep indents on it of having encountered other unforgiving metal.
These men they faced, these familia knights, were not only wearing mail, they were fresh and untried. Hardly able to get out the words, so breathless was he, William knew that if they fought them, perhaps he, certainly some of his companions, would die or be maimed, and for what? The final result was a foregone conclusion, and only an attachment to their sense of honour was at stake.
So he looked between them at the dark-skinned man, whose flesh was so smooth, his being so unblemished and his clothes so fine, he had to be their master. He held himself well; if he was afraid of death, there was nothing in his demeanour to say so.
‘You are the Lord of Montesarchio,’ he gasped.
There was a long pause, as if the man he addressed was unsure of his own identity.
‘I am.’
His body knights did not move, did not show any sign of preparing to engage, and that was good. ‘We come from Prince Pandulf of Capua, who demands you both acknowledge him as your true suzerain and wait upon his person.’
‘I have refused to surrender my person once.’
William knew what he meant by that; the laws of how a siege was conducted were well established and this man knew them only too well: no quarter should be given, he should be cut down and his knights with him. With his breath easing, if no less painful in his throat, William replied.
‘Then I make you the same offer now.’ He was aware that he was subject to much scrutiny from his fellow mercenaries — it was not his place to say such words — but not one of them protested or intervened. They had gifted him the power of control. ‘If you will do so, and the men who now guard you put up their weapons, you and they will be spared.’
‘Who makes this offer?’
‘William de Hauteville.’
‘You do not command the force that demanded my submission. He named himself as Odo de Jumiege.’
‘Odo is our captain,’ William replied, without being certain of the grounds he had for his confidence, ‘but in this hall I have all the authority I need.’
‘And how can I be sure that Odo de Jumiege will accede? And behind him stands Prince Pandulf.’
‘It makes little difference. You can die now, or take a chance of life. I offer you only what I can.’
The man was looking into William’s eyes over a distance of ten paces. Was he seeking reassurance or looking for a trace of reserve in his adversary, a reluctance to fight? It was because of the steadiness of his own look that William saw him accept the offer before he spoke, and he felt a deep sense of relief.
‘Put up your weapons.’
William felt the tension drain from his body, as he had them disarmed, then he addressed their master. ‘You must prepare yourself to accompany us to Capua.’
Odo had been taken back down to the house he occupied and was in a bad way, his wound too grave for him to be moved. William, since no one else in the band seemed keen to take the responsibility, had the locals send for a mendicant monk to look to his needs, and once that Benedictine had examined the invalid and pronounced it safe to move him, he was taken up to the castle to occupy the quarters of the late owner. Only then could the monk look to the needs of the other Normans, William included. Following on from that came more burials, a common pit for those who had defended the castle, individual graves with crosses for the half-dozen dead mercenaries.
Then he called the Normans together and asked them about electing a temporary leader. That led to much shuffling and mumbling, but not to anyone putting themselves forward. For the first time in many months William felt like the elder brother he had been in Normandy. There he had faced the same desire that he should make any decisions that were not the lot of his father. Because of that, he felt no scruple in assuming command; if anything it came naturally to him.
The priest was obliged to say a mass for all the souls of the dead in the local church and two days were spent ensuring that all was secure, and counting up the value of everything the castle held, from the contents of the coffers, what arms and mail had been captured, horses, fodder, food and wine, down to the last vessel of lamp oil; Rainulf, the man to whom William would report, would want to know, so that he could claim his due reward from Pandulf.
William de Hauteville also used part of that time to find out which citizens were respected in the town and to question them, his aim being to find out what they thought of their captured lord. The opinion was not high; though they feared the Normans and what they might bring in the way of tyranny, it was obvious that the man being taken away was not revered. What he said to them was a mixture of reassurance and threat.
Odo would have to remain, and since he was too comatose to make decisions, William made them for him, leaving ten of the remaining Normans to garrison the castle, safe in the knowledge that there were no forces left in the Montesarchio fief to attack the place, and in any case it was still well stocked for a siege.
‘But,’ he admonished them before he departed, ‘you are small in number. Do not treat the local townsfolk badly, for you will depend on them for much. The lord we have taken prisoner had a heavy hand, and he was not loved. Perhaps if he had been the men we fought would have defended his person better. Do not make the same mistake as he.’
That done, he rode off out with the remaining seven of the men who had come to this place, to take the prisoner to meet his fate.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The party had been observed from the top of Rainulf’s tower — seven Norman knights, a prisoner, and a string of several dozen packhorses, so by the time they rode into the encampment the whole of the remaining force of mercenaries were gathered to greet them. That Odo de Jumiege was missing, and William de Hauteville was riding at their head, set up a buzz of speculation, but most eyes were drawn to the downcast figure of the Lord of Montesarchio, who had been obliged to ride on a donkey so small that his feet touched the ground. William had done this so that when departing his domains, which they passed through on the old Roman road, those who owed him service, from the meanest peasant to richest artisan, should see how low he had fallen.
Rainulf was at the doorway of his tower again, the height of that ramp enabling him to see everything over the heads of others, like Drogo greeting his brother warmly, the questions obviously pouring from his lips as to why he seemed to be in command, and just as ardently being answered. Annoyed, his voice came out as a roar that
