battle. All his sons stopped moving when Tancred bellowed for them to desist.
‘What are you, barbarians? Would you have us branded louts before we even see our duke?’
‘By your manner, sir, I mark you as that very thing.’
‘Stand, Robert, I command you!’
That was an instruction given just in time: if Tancred had one son who would not stand even a hint of an insult to the family name, it was Robert. Jovial most of the time, with a huge laugh, a mischievous wit and a tendency to backslap painfully, he was also touchy in the extreme, that made more dangerous by a fighting ability formidable even in a family of high martial achievement. Now it was Tancred’s turn to bring around the head of his horse and move to confront the complainant, a large fellow in a green and blue surcoat, his head adorned with a plumed bonnet. His voice, when he spoke, was icy cold.
‘I was about to beg your indulgence for delaying your passage, to desire you to show a little patience, but that I now regret. You will withdraw the words just used, or what you can see of the castle of Moulineaux will be your last as a man on two legs. You will, I promise, be carried to meet your liege lord and so will the men who accompany you.’
‘I request only that you spur your mounts and clear a passage. Should you fail to do so I will be obliged to compel you.’
‘We await the attempt,’ growled Robert.
Tancred matched that growl, but he was still an old soldier, who knew that to contest with this fellow and those he led in such a confined space, on the very edge of a forest, would not be wise: much better to be out in the open where he trusted the ability of his sons, as well as his own, to redress any imbalance in numbers.
‘We shall ride out onto yonder field, sir, but we will still be in your path. Without an expression of contrition we will stay there.’
‘To be swept aside, I do assure you.’
‘Roger, stay out of this,’ Tancred insisted, which produced, as it would in any proud boy of his age, a glum look. ‘Look to the pack animals.’
Chagrined as he was, he obeyed a father he loved and respected, taking from his brothers the required reins and riding out onto the open ground, but away from the direct route that led to the gates of Moulineaux, which lay on the Rouen side of the castle.
The others required no instruction: having grown to manhood at a time of much turmoil in Normandy, such encounters were, if not commonplace, frequent enough to ensure they had no fear or ignorance of what was about to occur. Had this fellow known the nature of whom he was up against, he might have shown more tolerance, for the name of de Hauteville, in the part of the world in which they lived, was one of which men who knew it were cautious. It had been that way for many years now, with each of Tancred’s twelve sons showing, as they came to manhood, remarkable prowess in battle.
‘Perhaps you should stand aside as well, Father,’ sneered Robert. ‘Given your years.’
‘I’ll give you the back of my hand, boy.’
That made Robert smile as, like all of his party, he put on his conical metal helmet; nothing pleased him more than getting under old Tancred’s skin.
The other party had not been idle: they emerged from the forest ready to fight, the fellow in the surcoat now similarly helmeted, and concentrating on what was about to happen, neither party paid much attention to the approaching rider, a fellow with a hawk on his right hand, that is till he rode between them, addressing Tancred first and loudly, as he removed his own floppy cap.
‘I bid you good day, Uncle, and I observe that years have not dimmed your quick-tempered nature.’
‘Montbray!’ Tancred exclaimed, what could be seen of that craggy face on either side of his nose guard breaking into a huge grin.
‘The same…and how, my cousins, do I find you?’
‘Too occupied at the moment for pleasantries,’ Serlo replied, ‘though happy to see you, Geoffrey.’
The wings of the hawk fluttered and Geoffrey of Montbray turned to face the men lined up to fight his cousins, moving the hawk aside so that they could see he was wearing a surcoat with a clerical device. ‘Can I, sir, enquire after your name?’
‘Only after you give me your own.’
The response to that came with a slight bow. ‘Geoffrey of Montbray, Almoner of Rouen Cathedral.’
‘A priest?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can join with us, Geoffrey,’ cried Robert. ‘I recall you were good with a weapon.’
Geoffrey replied loudly, but over his shoulder. His gaze was still fixed on the fellow with the green and blue surcoat. ‘Can I not now be a man of peace, Robert?’
‘I am Count Hugo de Lesseves.’
‘Then, Count Hugo, I request that you put up your weapons.’
‘You are clearly known to these ruffians behind you. It would be best if you requested they do so first.’
‘Uncle, sheath your swords.’
‘Geoffrey-’
The voice, no longer friendly, cut off any protest. ‘That is a demand, Uncle, and one that will be enforced by Duke William’s own knights, who are too numerous even for the de Hautevilles. No weapon is to be drawn on this occasion by anyone, on pain of the most stringent punishments, and that applies to Count Hugo here as much as to you.’
The response was not immediate; it could not be in a land where men were so conscious of their honour, and as they complied, slowly sheathing their swords, Geoffrey of Montbray hoped perhaps they would see the wisdom of the instruction: with so many fighting men, and touchy creatures at that, gathered in one place, the chances of brawls and worse was too high to leave to fate. Few great magnates gathered their vassals together in one place for that very reason, outside a call to partake in war.
‘Now, Uncle, I will lead you to the castle, where you will soon be given opportunity to present yourselves to your suzerain. For accommodation, I am happy to say that I have an apartment of my own which you are invited to share, and stabling space for your horses.’
‘My word, Geoffrey,’ said Robert, with a grin that was not wholly affable, ‘you have risen in the world.’
‘I have enjoyed good fortune, Robert, that is true.’
‘And no taint associated with our name?’
Montbray rode up to Robert and looked up into his deep blue, penetrating eyes, speaking softly so that his uncle could not hear. ‘It would be fair to say, cousin, that the de Hauteville name, these days, does not register within yonder walls.’
Robert bellowed with laughter, causing the rest of his family to look at him with curiosity, but he spoke to his cousin in the same way as he himself had been addressed. ‘Never fear, Geoffrey, it will.’
There was a moment of pure pleasure for the de Hauteville clan as Geoffrey led them towards the stone bridge spanning the ditch which surrounded Moulineaux, and past the line of knights set to prevent unauthorised entry, as Count Hugo, given he seriously outranked Tancred, holder of no more than a petty barony, was politely informed to make his way to the field that ran downhill to the Seine, and find himself a spot on which to camp.
The great keep was packed with humanity: knights, grooms, sutlers and squires; the ground, even if it was dry, churned up by too many hooves and too many feet, as well as deep in dung — if it rained it would soon be a morass — and it was with much shouting and not a little barging that their almoner cousin got them to some temporary stabling which had been erected along the interior of the curtain wall. As he dismounted, a liveried servant ran forward to take from him his hawk, while others at his command led the animals to the narrow stalls already provided with nets of hay and tubs of water.
‘Leave your possessions, Uncle, my servants will fetch those.’
Nodding and impressed, the old man, trailed by his sons, fell in behind Geoffrey as he led them to one of the round towers, then through a narrow entrance that brought them to a spiral of steps leading up to the individual floors, each one crammed with people, loud in their hubbub of talk.
‘I cannot promise you luxury,’ Montbray called, ‘but I will see you have a palliasse and enough space to sleep. That and food, of course.’
‘For my old bones,’ Tancred replied, ‘anything that is not a tent on cold ground is opulence.’
