The floor Geoffrey occupied was halfway up the tower, just an open space floored in wood with narrow embrasures to let in a little light and air. It was already well occupied, but space there was, as had been promised, and on the long rough-hewn table in the middle, with equally made-up benches on either side, there was food and drink for anyone who wished to consume it, the always hungry young Roger making straight for that.
‘He was a mewling child when last I saw him,’ said Montbray. ‘A babe in arms.’
‘Mark him, nephew,’ Tancred said, a glint of pride in his eye. ‘I rate him the cleverest I have sired.’
‘Come eat, Uncle, and tell what news you have of my cousins in Italy.’
The food was plentiful, and soon Roger was joined by his brothers, who used their knives to hack at the joints of meat, that eaten off fresh flats of unleavened bread, accompanied by fruit and washed down with apple wine. But it was obvious that the sons were curious, never having before been inside such an imposing castle as Moulineaux, and as soon as they had fed themselves they were off exploring, the words of their cousin — of the need to keep the peace — following them down the bare stone steps.
Montbray and his uncle were left to talk. Having grown up with the eldest of the de Hauteville brood, Geoffrey was naturally closer to them, and besides living in the same house as a youngster he had, after his ordination, taken on two duties: priestly ones at the church of Hauteville-la-Guichard, as well as the job of trying to drum a bit of lettering and counting into his uncle’s brood. He had also said the rites over the grave of Tancred’s first wife, half-sister to the late Duke Robert, worn out by bearing him so many children.
What a history this man had, for he had fought in many places with the same vigour he had brought to procreation: in Spain against the Moors, in England seeking to rethrone King Ethelred, but most importantly at the side of Richard, the then reigning duke, who had held him in such high esteem as a warrior that he had given him his illegitimate daughter’s hand in marriage. Tancred had been with Geoffrey’s father when he had been killed in battle, taking on the duty of raising his son. Looking at the man before him, whom he loved, it was not possible to ignore how much he had aged since they last met, but the voice was still strong, the memory still good.
Yet as Tancred spoke of his elder sons, all in Italy, it was clear in his now watery eyes that he knew he would never again see them, and there was hurt in that, especially with his eldest, William, who might be his heir to his demesne, but would never return now to take it up. They talked of how well he and Drogo had fared, of the money that had flowed back from their success, which had allowed the others to follow in their wake, as well as providing the funds for that which Tancred desired most in the world, if you excluded their return: a stone donjon from which he could survey his demesne.
‘The foundations are in place, for not even a duke can gainsay my right to do that.’
‘Perhaps, on the occasion of being knighted, our young duke will see fit to give you leave to build the rest.’
‘There are siren voices against me,’ Tancred growled. ‘It is not a thing my neighbours favour.’
Montbray smiled. ‘One in particular, I seem to recall.’
There was no need to say the name Evro de Montfort: both men knew it and were aware that he, far richer and better connected than Tancred, still hankered after the right to call the de Hauteville clan his vassals. The Contentin, probably the most unruly province in the ducal domains, was rife with similar disputes, over land and water rights, or who had the right to lord it over whom, all going back to the earliest settlement of the region.
Many times Tancred and his sons had come to blows with de Montfort’s men and just as many times they had sent them scurrying away nursing their wounds: the little pouter pigeon, as Tancred called him, did not risk his own skin, for to lose would not just mean an effusion of blood, it would also entail a serious loss of face, and might, if it went far enough, terminate any claim he could make. That he kept up in writing delivered as pleas to the judgement of the ducal court.
For all that Evro de Montfort argued his right, Tancred knew that his nephew was a stalwart voice against him, and perhaps, given he could provide accommodation inside the castle and had so many servants to do his bidding, that rising star was taking him to a level where he would have much more influence.
But Geoffrey knew that what he did was not to make a case for the de Hautevilles: he was confined to denying a right to de Montfort. ‘Uncle, I will not fight your suit too hard until I am sure of success. It is best not to press for too much.’
‘I trust your judgement,’ Tancred replied, though the look in his eyes did nothing to match his tone. ‘But I say this, Geoffrey, I have not long for this world, and I would dearly like to see that donjon built before I must confront my sins and my Maker.’
Roger de Hauteville arrived in a flurry of noisy footsteps, his face flushed and eager. ‘Papa, I have seen the duke.’
‘And did the sight impress you, Roger?’ asked Montbray.
Roger de Hauteville looked at his cousin for a while, a man he really did not know, the one-time priest of his local church who had left to find advancement elsewhere. His brothers had praised him as a good friend and a fellow to be seen as like a brother, so he decided to answer with the same truth he would have given his father had he posed the question.
‘Not really, he is rather short in the leg, his hair is dark, and he has a shifty look in his eye. Perhaps that comes from his being a bastard.’
‘No, it is not that,’ Montbray replied. ‘You too would have that look, Roger, if you had as many enemies intent on killing you as he.’
CHAPTER SIX
All those summoned assembled next morning for the ceremony of knighthood, which took place in an open field bordering the Seine, before a huge pavilion erected to house the King of the Franks, while on the river lay the gilded, blue-painted barge on which he had travelled from Paris and on which he rested at night; no sovereign went lightly into the castle of a powerful vassal on the very good grounds he might never get out again. Everyone there to participate had attended Mass in the grey dawn light and committed their souls to God and their sins to his justice, lords high and low down to the meanest squire.
Duke William entered from one end of the field attended by his most powerful lords, counts, viscounts and clerics, wearing a surcoat bearing the device of his house, two gold and recumbent lions on a background of scarlet, looking right and left as if unsure whether his attendance was wise; the king, in a blue cloak decorated with fleurs de lys, sat on a throne-like chair at the other end, set on a dais designed to show he was above not only the common herd, but his vassal.
Both sides of the field were lined with the cream of Normandy, the men who held the land and the lances who served them, while behind the ducal party came the familia knights, all sturdy men and doughty fighters, all dedicated to keeping alive young William the Bastard, the man they served. Should he ever engage in battle, they would ride with him and never leave him exposed, even if it meant the need to forfeit their own lives. They would man his castles, hold safe both his borderlands and battle to keep in check internal rebellion. For that they would be rewarded with many things: regular pay certainly, lands possibly, and for the most favoured or successful, a title of their own.
It was that which Tancred had wanted for his own sons, only to have it denied, to serve as familia knights, and it was that which he had raised them to expect. Never had he indicated that as blood relations to the reigning house they had any rights other than knight service, for had he not vowed to William’s grandfather, on taking his illegitimate daughter as wife, that should he be blessed with children, no one of his line should aspire to anything above his baronial station.
The whole affair, this confirmation of vassalage, he watched with a jaundiced eye: to Tancred, the ceremony and the fripperies surrounding it spoke of everything he despised about the Franks and their customs — gaudy display and over-elaborate rituals which were seeping inexorably into the court life of Normandy: too many great blasts from trumpets, the top notables overdressed in fine silks, bishops gloriously attired, all attended by fawning servants leading decorated hunting dogs and surrounded — especially King Henry and young Duke William — with what the old man called simpering dolts.
Tancred had grown to manhood when no fighting man feared to tell his liege lord that he was in error: service was a two-way thing, the lord as beholden to his vassals as they were to him. His own grandfather did not
