fear to restrain his cousin, Count Rollo, the first Viking to trade pillage and sea-raiding for land and a title. Now great lords surrounded themselves with those who agreed with any statement they uttered, however foolish — a point so strongly felt that, inadvertently, he said so out loud.
‘No man should surround himself with those who fear to be truthful.’
‘I shall recall that, Father,’ Robert growled, ‘when next you tell me to be quiet.’
The angry rejoinder to that was cut off by the voice of a very excited and eager Roger, pointing at the advancing assembly. ‘There’s our cousin of Montbray, Papa, in the third rank behind the duke.’
‘Look to him, all of you,’ Tancred said, ‘for if there is to be any advancement for you at this court it will come through Geoffrey.’
‘You think he has the ear of the bastard?’ asked Robert.
‘He has the ear of men who counsel him. You, of all people, must talk with him and seek his good offices.’
Robert de Hauteville nodded slowly; that was why he was here, why Tancred had brought all his sons to Moulineaux. The ducal court was the fount of all advancement and perhaps the rancour of the past could be set aside. For Robert and Serlo, there might be a chance of being taken into ducal service after all; for the rest, like young Roger, if his elder brothers could prosper, then he could do likewise in their wake.
‘He doesn’t look like much of a fighter, our duke.’
‘He’s not yet a man, Serlo,’ Tancred responded, ‘give him time.’
‘There are many who will not, Father.’
There was truth in that: for every two men called to this assembly who had obeyed the summons, there was another who had declined, those unprepared to accept the bastard son of Duke Robert as his lawful successor. For some, not many, their objection was genuine, based on an inability to accept that illegitimacy; for most it was based on opportunity. Not close to the court and the munificence it could disburse, they saw no profit in support, more in rebellion, of which there had been many these last eight years. The King of the Franks had come this day for a ceremony; his previous incursions into Normandy had been to help put down the fractious subjects who opposed William, a boy come into his inheritance aged seven.
Many powerful men had tried to ensnare Tancred into rebellion, holding before him the tempting prospect that his sons, those now fighting in Italy, had a claim on the ducal title at least as valid as the child who held it. To them all he had given his refusal: first there was his own oath, but he also suspected their promises to be false. Ambitious magnates would use the de Hauteville name and connection for their own ends, not something they would adhere to if they managed to unseat William. They sought power for themselves.
Another flurry of trumpets interrupted that train of thought. Reaching the dais, William climbed the steps to kneel before King Henry, who rose from his carved chair to tower over the youth. With a flourish he took out his sword, a weapon of great beauty, decorated with gold and jewels and with a glittering unmarked blade which had never been tested against other metal, the tip of that touching each of young William’s shoulders as the king intoned the Latin words of investiture, everyone present aware of the true meaning of what was being said as they heard the responses.
William of Falaise was swearing before all that he held his lands and titles only from his rightful king; that should he fail in his duty to his sovereign those could be forfeit. It was an oath no ruler of Normandy had made since the days of the first Count Rollo over two hundred years before, who had been given Normandy as the price of a lasting peace in place of the constant alarm caused by Viking raids. No Norman ruler since had ever seen the need to publicly bow the knee to Paris, and it was an indication of young William’s weakness that it was taking place now.
If Tancred had been disgusted before, he was doubly so now: he had fought the Franks too often, and beaten them every time, to welcome the loss of ascendancy thus implied.
William of Falaise thus anointed, it was the turn of each landholder present to swear allegiance, and given the act of fealty to the Duke of Normandy was made in the presence of the King of the Franks, that too was significant, for each man was also pledging an ultimate allegiance to Paris. First to swear was Count Alain of Brittany, who had acted as William’s guardian, keeping him safe from those who desired him dead, and in a strict order of precedence, laid down by the chamberlain of the court, each lord, in turn, shuffled forward to bow the knee, say the words, which were witnessed by the hierarchy of Norman bishops and recorded in a great ledger by a monkish clerk.
Way down the list, it was a long time before Tancred, clad in a brand new surcoat of blue and white, found himself face to face with his suzerain, a boy he had not seen since the day his father first named him as his heir. Close to, the eyes were not shifty, nor were they in any way apprehensive; they were sharp and penetrating, and Tancred wondered if the impression given earlier was the fear of a sudden knife from a youngster unsure if all who had obeyed the summons to Moulineaux were loyal.
When William spoke, it was in a voice well broken and deep, close to being that of a man. ‘I have the right to call you “Cousin”, do I not?’
Tancred was cautious at such a friendly opening gambit: mighty princes could be devious and there was flattery in those words. ‘You have the right if you choose it, my Lord.’
‘Then I do so, Cousin, for I have been made aware of your loyalty to my house and the temptations to which you have been exposed since the death of my father.’
Such information could only have come from Geoffrey of Montbray. Did he have the actual ear of the duke; had he progressed that far?
‘Yet you have not rallied to my banner.’ That was said in a sharper tone, immediately moderated as the young duke added, ‘But it has been pointed out to me that to stand aside can be a wise policy when everything you own is at risk in such a polity as the Contentin.’
Tancred was tempted to rudeness then, and had to bite his tongue: the Contentin was a part of Normandy this young man feared to enter yet to agree it was a place full of rebellion would not be wise.
‘I have never once wavered, sire, in my oath to your grandfather.’
‘Which was?’
‘To always support his sons.’
The eyes of both man and boy were locked, but neither showed signs of anger, and if William was waiting to hear Tancred add the words ‘and his son’s bastard’, he waited in vain.
‘I did not know my grandfather.’
‘Duke Richard was a great man, and a great soldier.’
‘My father?’
‘He, too, proved to be a soldier of merit, as I am sure his brother would have been had he lived.’
That produced a thin smile: the elder son of William’s grandfather was a man rarely mentioned, but what had been said implied nothing. ‘You are better versed in discourse than I have been told, Tancred de Hauteville.’
‘I am, sire, what I have always been, a loyal servant of your house.’
‘Very well. I would speak with you in private, when time permits, and I have been told it would be to my advantage to make the acquaintance of your sons, who are reputed to be doughty on the field of battle. I have been assured, by the almoner of my Cathedral of Rouen, that I will see them this very day if I so wish.’
‘They are present now, my Lord, and await your summons.’
‘So be it. When all are sworn, bring them to this pavilion, and they may also bend the knee to the King of the Franks and make his acquaintance.’
‘I would wish to bring them all, sire, including my youngest, Roger, who is as yet too lacking in years to bear arms. Yet I have no doubt he will grow to match his brothers.’
‘Make it so, Tancred, for as you say, he will grow, and I would have him see his liege lord and remember it.’
Tancred had not been looking forward to kissing the young duke’s hand, fearing a cool reception. He did so with enthusiasm now: all the ghosts of the past, thanks to his clerical nephew, were going to be laid to rest.
‘You knew of this, did you not? I sense you did not trust me.’
Montbray acknowledged the truth of that, but with a wry smile. ‘I grew up in your house, you must recall. I have seen your temper and I know that bearding dukes is not a thing you fear. I heard of the words you exchanged
