liege lord to his face that he was in error. His own father had spoken to the late Count Richard, even after he had elevated himself into a duke, as an equal, never forgetting their shared heritage as Viking warriors and the rights that went with it; there could be no vassalage that did not rest on respect.
The duke was now looking beyond Tancred at this troop of sons: he would be aware there were even more of this tribe back in the Contentin, another five boys and a trio of daughters. Truly their father had the loins of a goat, and had found both in his late half-sister and his second wife a fecundity to match his carnal exertions: the only years in which his wives had not been brought to bed with child had been those when he was away fighting.
The one standing next to Tancred, who would be the eldest, was damned impressive, taller by half a hand than his father and his other brothers, with a look in his eye and a lazy smile that was not one that could be associated with respect. If anything he looked amused, as if what was happening bordered on an absurdity that might at any moment cause him to laugh out loud.
‘Name them to me,’ he said, relenting.
Tancred named William as his heir, then brought the others forward one by one and by age, each to execute an awkward bow that would not be seen as too obsequious. ‘Drogo, Humphrey, Geoffrey, your sister’s youngest Serlo and, though not a true nephew, my first born by my second wife, whom I named after you.’
That obliged the duke to fix his namesake, and call the thirteen-year-old Robert de Hauteville forward. What he saw was as affecting to the eye as the sight of his brothers, for his namesake was big for his age, even bigger than the year-older Serlo, and that boy was no dwarf: Tancred bred sturdy sons.
‘It is a good name, Robert; wear it well, boy, in respect for me.’
The voice that responded was newly broken and slightly rasping. ‘I shall endeavour to do so, sire, upon my honour.’
‘Now that I have named my sons,’ said Tancred, ‘and they have seen the duke they are eager to serve, I would ask to speak with you in private.’
‘On the matter of?’
‘That which I have sent word to you before, the obligations of family.’
The pause was long, the silence of it oppressive, as the two men, liege lord and vassal, locked eyes, both seeking to hide a deep and mutual repugnance. To the duke, who clearly now forgot how he had enjoyed listening to those tales of heroism and fickle Norse gods, Tancred, with his nostalgic adherence to the old ways, represented a relic of a bygone age and was given to haughtiness with it. The Normans were no more Viking now than those indigenes of the Neustrian March whom they had conquered, intermingled with and married, no more Norsemen than the Angevins, Carolingian Franks or Bretons whose lands neighboured his. The older man lived in a dead past and had no gaze for a different future.
‘Your late brother was aware of such an obligation, my Lord.’
The sudden rigidity of the duke’s bearing was evidence enough of the way he took that last remark; his dead brother was a subject no one in his entourage dared to mention, and few outside that circle, even his most powerful vassals, would do so either, likely as it was to produce a towering rage. The accusation was that Robert had murdered, in fact poisoned, his elder brother Richard, to gain the dukedom, hence the other name by which he was called, albeit out of his hearing: not Robert the Magnificent, but Robert the Devil.
The men around him, courtiers all, waited for the eruption, but they waited in vain, though a sharp eye would have detected the effort involved in containing it.
‘Leave us,’ Robert commanded, standing stock-still until the pavilion had emptied of courtiers. ‘Your brood too, Tancred.’
Tancred laid a hand on William’s arm. ‘I ask that my heir be allowed to stay.’
‘He may if he undertakes to remain silent. I am not given to discoursing with boys.’
William knew those words were meant to anger and diminish him; he had in his own mind long ceased to be a boy by many years, so the amused expression he wore broke immediately into a full smile which, gratifyingly, seemed to nonplus the speaker.
‘The rest of you, leave us,’ said Tancred.
They obeyed, but the last sound Tancred heard was of Serlo de Hauteville mimicking his younger half-brother, his voice high and mocking. ‘I’ll endeavour to do so, sire, upon my honour. Shall I lick your arse, sire?’ That was followed by the sound of a scuffle, then the bellowing voice of Drogo.
‘Stop scrapping, you two, or I’ll sling you both in the river.’
‘An unruly lot, your sons,’ the duke said softly. Then he wrinkled his nose, for they had left behind them a strong odour of unwashed travel. ‘Rustic too.’
‘They are fighters, sire, as I have raised them to be and they have proved their worth many times against any who would trouble my lands. They ride well, handle both sword and lance as they should. Manners, if you think it something they lack, can be acquired.’
Duke Robert was looking at William as he replied. ‘And what is it that you want for them?’
‘If I mention your late brother, sire, I do so out of the respect I had for him.’
The response came as a hiss. ‘My relationship was more of the kind we have just overheard outside this tent.’
‘It was always understood that when my boys came of age, they would become part of his familia and serve him as knights of his body. That he died before that came to pass…’
The interruption was sharp. ‘I know from your repeated correspondence you would like me to do the same!’
‘They are your blood relatives and would serve you well.’
‘You have great faith, Tancred, in the connection wished upon us by blood.’
‘To me it is a sacred bond which surpasses all others, outside the grace of God.’
‘Not a view with which I agree. Why are we here gathered on this riverbank, if not to support one brother, the King of the Franks, against another, not to mention the King’s own mother who sees the wrong one of her sons as the ruler of Paris?’
There was bitterness in that last part: Robert’s own mother was not fond of him.
‘The Franks do not share our ways,’ protested Tancred.
The reply was almost weary. ‘Your ways, Tancred, and long gone they are. I doubt even your own sons share them.’
‘They would never fight each other!’
‘Are my ears mistaken? Did I not just hear that very thing.’
‘I mean with weapons. William here would tell you no different. Certainly they come to blows and will wrestle, what brood does not, but no son of mine will ever raise a sword against his own brother. To do so is to invite the mark of Cain.’
The duke looked as if he had been slapped, but William also detected his determination to avoid a loss of control. ‘On pain of your wrath?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will die one day, Tancred, and then maybe your wrath will be meaningless.’
‘God’s forgiveness will still be necessary.’
‘God,’ Duke Robert said, almost sighing. ‘There are ways to gain his forgiveness.’
William felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘I wish you to take them into your familia. Let them serve close to you and prove their worth. I count each one of my children as a blessing, but my patrimony is too small to support them all. Let them win both their spurs and some reward in your service, let them earn their own demesne from you.’
William de Hauteville knew that the duke was going to refuse, even though he did not speak: it was in his eyes and the ghost of a smirk that made the corners of his lips twitch.
‘Perhaps they may come into more than that,’ the older man said, which made his son suspect he had come to the same conclusion.
‘More?’
‘William, leave us,’ Tancred said. ‘What I have to say now is not for your ears.’
‘Father,’ William replied, executing a slight bow. Once he had gone Tancred spoke softly. ‘You are unwed and childless, sire…’
For the first time Robert of Normandy really raised his voice. ‘I have a son and a daughter.’
