‘Here, you have a go,’ said Serlo, and a willing brother took the stick, not realising that it had been passed to him just as a couple of ants reached the point at which he was holding it; the first bite made him drop it quickly. He issued a muffled cry and swore at the nip, not mollified by the assurance that came from Serlo.
‘At least we know they do bite.’
Picking up the stick, Serlo brushed off the ants and used it to corral those racing around on the canvas palliasse which being strange to them they had congregated in, then he grabbed the edge and closed it, trapping those inside, while a good shake dislodged those on the outside, the top being spun to ensure they stayed trapped. Back in the camp the boys crept by their slumbering companions — this jape would not be visited upon their own and, well aware of their family antipathy to Evro de Montfort, they picked the last fire glow nearest his tent, moved round to the far side, and tipped out the contents right by the sleeping soldiers.
They were lying down when the commotion started, shouts and cries, and in the moonlight dark figures of men furiously brushing themselves. The noise was excuse enough to stand and get a better look, as other groups around the one they had attacked were awoken by the commotion, and that included the Lord de Montfort, who could be heard querulously demanding quiet. It took an age for things to die down, for men to be sure that the nipping ants were either all dead or gone. By that time two very contented youths were sound asleep.
They were all up with the grey dawn light, the fire relit to bake breakfast oatcakes, the watering and feeding of the horses seen to while the cooking was taking place, the seniors washing in the river once their equine chores were completed, hundreds of men whose feet churned up the muddy bottom to turn the Seine downstream brown. The packhorses were reloaded in advance of the blowing trumpets, which came from the top of the hill. A messenger came from de Montfort to tell Tancred to bring up the rear of the battaile, the place of least honour, which he knew to be a response to his jibe of the previous night.
‘Cover the horses’ nostrils,’ he commanded, ‘and your own. We will be eating dust this day.’
Trumpets blew again, and the de Hautevilles saw the duke, at the head of his familia knights, lead the way east, each battaile mounting to follow in the order laid down by the Constable, leaving behind them a sloping field of flattened grass covered with dead fire pits, the bones of their food, piles of used straw, as well as heaps of dung that, along with the contents of the latrine, the locals would soon gather to use on their crops.
The move was necessary: no army of any size could stay in one place for long — they ate up the countryside regardless of how well they were supplied by river. As well as the horses of knights and squires, the duke had along the contents of his stud. These were replacement animals for any losses those fighting in his cause might sustain, part of the bond a liege lord made with his vassals regardless of the terms of service. If a knight lost his fighting horse in battle or in any event on the march, the duke provided a substitute. William had estimated the size of the force at some five hundred lances, which meant at least fifteen hundred mounts as personal possessions; add the duke’s horses and that rose to over two thousand.
It had been drummed into him since he first mounted a pony as a child that his horse was a paramount possession, as important as a mailed hauberk and gloves, a sword and shield, as well as the helmet that protected his head. A Norman might fight on foot and often did so, but he would still need a trio of horses to transport him to the battle: a destrier to fight on if it was a mounted assault, a lighter cavalry horse as the means of getting from one place to another — also essential for foraging and reconnaissance — and at least one sturdy packhorse to carry his equipment.
All needed to be fed, watered and rested for part of the day; drive them too hard and they became useless. Given his guess at the numbers, he was trying to work out the quantity of supply and as usual, when faced with a difficult calculation, he turned to his cousin Geoffrey, his tutor in all things, for an answer.
‘William, I have taught you this, I am sure.’
‘I have a figure in my mind for hay,’ William lied, ‘but I wish to see if I have counted right.’
‘How can you be wrong, it is so simple? If there are two thousand horses and each requires thirteen librae of hay per day, you need some four hundred bushels, always assuming that there will be a certain amount of pasturage and that oats are provided by the Master Marshall on the route of march.’
‘Libra? You use the Roman measure?’
‘What else would I use?’
‘I was thinking of Charlemagne’s livres.’
‘So what is it in Charlemagne livres?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Different,’ William replied, hastily, ‘very different. Take care as we cross the river.’
Fording the Epte for those towards the rear of the column was more taxing than for the men who had gone earlier: not the entry, but most certainly the churned up exit, as the faggots laid on the bank originally had long come apart, leaving a widening sea of earth turned to sludge by hundreds of hooves, mixed with liberal quantities of dung from horses nervous on the slippery ground.
The de Hautevilles were forced to dismount and lead their animals up the slimy bank, becoming covered from head to foot in what they were wading through as they dragged reluctant mounts though the muddy ground, not least from what was kicked up by hooves. Tancred’s mood was not improved when his two younger boys decided the destroyed riverbank provided an excellent mud slide, albeit one which washed them clean when they ended up in the dirty brown water, that parental ire made worse when he tried to kick them for a second attempt and ended up in an undignified heap.
‘Welcome, Father,’ called William, ‘to the land of the Franks.’
Picking himself up, a figure now a uniform brown from head to toe, and slithering to where William stood, he nodded and patted his son on the back. ‘It’s enough to make a man curse his neighbour, which is expressly forbidden in Scripture.’
A swiftly swinging foot took William’s legs and, landing on the muddy ground, he could not avoid slithering down into the river to where Robert and Serlo were now engaged in a bout of water-fighting, his journey accompanied by the bellow of his mollified father, as well as the laughter of his brothers.
‘Or to put in his place a disrespectful son, which is not. Now get up here the three of you and let us be on our way.’
Given the water that had dripped off those ahead, it was a good distance till the footing under their animals was dry, by which time they had dismounted again to walk, giving their horses some necessary relief and, once the mud had dried, for it was a warm summer day, trying to brush themselves clean. The army halted at noon and, after taking on food and drink, men who had travelled in their own lands in leather jerkins now donned their hauberks and helmets; they were no longer in Normandy, with no precise knowledge of where their enemy lay — it was time to be ready to fight.
Their route was still dictated by the River Seine, running between bluff white cliffs topped by dense forests on one bank, and rolling open country to the south, their aim to reach the great fortress of La Roche-Guyon, which for two hundred years had defended the Frankish border. The castle was invisible from the approach, being, as it was, built into the chalk cliffs, a bastion any invading army bypassed at its peril, given that the strong garrison of mounted knights would emerge from unseen openings at the bottom of the cliff face to fall upon the rear and engage in bloody execution, before disappearing back into their impregnable warren.
La Roche-Guyon also guarded a spot at which the Seine could be crossed and there were few of those between Rouen and Paris, which rendered the fortress doubly valuable. By now the whole host knew that the Duke of Normandy had pledged his men to the Frankish King on condition that the castle, as well as the rest of the French part of the Vexin, be surrendered to his control. It was a measure of how desperate the Capetian monarch was that he was prepared to give up such an asset, one that protected his capital from a potential enemy who would now be only three days’ forced march away.
Henry Capet, King of the Franks, had set up, beneath the hidden fortress, a great round pavilion of his own, there to await his ally. His army was encamped elsewhere, for there was precious little open ground between the cliffs and the river. By the time the host passed the pavilion the duke and his senior commanders were inside to hear the whereabouts of the King’s rebellious brother and to agree how he was to be met and where.
The Normans did not join with the levies of the King for three days, two of which were spent setting up and breaking camp, travelling short distances to new pastures and integrating themselves into a truly disciplined force. The de Hautevilles had much to occupy them apart from that: they needed to get to know the men alongside whom they would fight, riding with them in conjoined lines under the direction of the Sire de Montfort, ensuring that they had clear knowledge of the commands he would issue.
