‘If you have a plan that will give me Bari then tell me, brother, for outside a ten-year siege I have none.’
Robert was still smarting from what he saw as a rebuff, a hard thing to take for a warrior accustomed to, when it came to major combats, unbridled success in the field. Roger was aware that what advice he had proffered — not a great deal, but mostly to say they could not take Enna — being proved right in the end, was not a thing of fond memory.
‘Perhaps when I come to Melfi we can talk of it then?’
‘In the spring,’ Robert barked, as he swung his leg over his mount. With a nod he was gone, his familia knights following in his wake, the banner of his dukedom flying stiff in the wind.
‘He is a fine child, Judith,’ Roger said, taking her hand and looking into the crib containing his newly born son. His other hand was in that crib, a finger strongly gripped by the gurgling infant.
‘He is your heir.’
That obliged him to look at Judith, on his face a wry smile. ‘I must speak with Jordan.’
‘He requires that you do.’
‘He has spoken with you?’
‘He has been sullen with me, which is not in his nature.’
‘It may be in his age, Judith. Manhood is not far off, as you can see in the eruptions on his face.’
‘Given the way he lusts after the serving wenches he might make you a grandfather before they disappear.’
‘I never thought to come to this, to be like my own father, dispensing advice.’
‘With Jordan you need to show love.’
‘Surely he knows how much of that I have for him.’
‘No, Roger, he does not.’
Being awkward with a growing son is a rite of passage for all fathers, and it is only when facing it themselves they realise the misery through which they put their own sires. Showing affection to a girl child was easy, only made awkward by signs of womanhood. With a son it was not possible to easily be tactile. To treat Jordan like a man would sound false, to act as if he were still a child would cause anger. Roger took refuge in that parental standby, an enquiry about progress in something the boy cared about.
‘Let me show you,’ Jordan said, ‘for to boast of prowess is immodest.’
That was a pleasing response, from a spot-covered youth, gangly in his frame now, but ready to fill out and become a man of the formidable proportions that were part of his bloodline. They made their way to the paddocks to fetch out his horses, then to the manege where he could demonstrate his prowess with both mounts and weapons. Roger had been proud of many things in his life, sometimes he had checked in himself the sin of excess, but watching his bastard boy perform those manoeuvres he knew so well, and seeing the accomplishment with which he carried them out, his heart swelled.
‘Acceptable, no more,’ he said, holding the head of a sweating destrier. Jordan looked crestfallen to receive no more than those three words; that made Roger laugh, which in turn made Jordan angry. ‘Do not seek praise, my boy, for I have learnt that those who give it too freely are rarely sincere.’
‘I want to come with you next year.’
‘With me?’
‘On campaign.’
‘You are sure there will be one?’
‘There is always a campaign,’ Jordan insisted.
Thinking back to his own youth, when, due to Tancred’s determination to stand aside from the turmoil of Duke William’s succession, there had been no such thing as a campaign, only neighbourly quarrels, it caused Roger to wonder at the life he and his kind now led. There was no pessimistic direction to that thought, he had been raised to be a warrior and was happy in the role. Yet there was just a hint of a hankering for a more peaceful life, one in which he could watch his children grow and see to the husbandry of his fiefs that soon followed by the thought that he would go mad in such an existence.
What to say to Jordan, who was, at thirteen summers, really too young for war? He should say no, say that he must wait, but here was a chance to show him how much regard he had, show him that the arrival of Geoffrey, which would deprive him of any chance of inheritance, did nothing to dent his father’s feelings.
‘I had a mind to suggest it, Jordan; after all, the sooner you set about carving out your own patrimony the better.’
‘For which I had looked to you, Father.’
‘Never fear, Jordan. If you are half the de Hauteville my brothers were you will end up a duke.’
‘Is that what you will be?’
‘Perhaps,’ Roger replied, but he did not elaborate, given the question took him back to his relations with Robert. ‘But I have a charge for you. Geoffrey is your brother, he will need your hand to guide him. Swear to me now that in all things you will be his friend and guardian.’
Christmastide was hardly over when he felt that such a piece of advice would have been welcome to Robert, who was, once more, holding back on the monies promised to meet Roger’s responsibilities in Calabria, added to a demand that he remit even more. It was not one that Roger could accept and, added to previous frustrations, it brought about a sharp response.
He reminded his brother of the services he had rendered, of the promises he had received, as yet unfulfilled, as well as the fact that he was now not some bare-arsed bachelor but a married man, a father with a household to support and a wife who deserved to live in a manner befitting her station. The closing words were a warning of the risk of a final breech, that if Robert did not meet his legitimate claims, he would have no recourse but to resort to a decision by arms; the reply was not long in coming.
‘No mention of all those titles and fiefs I was to be granted, plus a threat that should I fail to comply he will come personally to chastise me.’
‘Why are you smiling?’ asked Ralph de Boeuf.
‘What else would you have me do?’ Roger replied, waving the parchment on which Robert had written his demand. ‘I have no intention of giving in to this.’
‘You think he does not mean it?’
‘No, he will mean it, but it is the why that interests me, given I am the only brother Robert treats in this way. Geoffrey he indulges and Mauger he ignores.’
‘He has no fear of either of them.’
‘What has he got to fear from me?’
Roger was being disingenuous, yet Ralph de Boeuf tapped his forehead anyway. ‘You are at least his equal up here. Was it not the Jew who said he saw William in you? Well, Robert may see that too.’
‘I would never challenge him.’
‘You don’t have to, given he is challenging you! You were right at Enna and he was wrong, something known to every lance he leads. The Guiscard wants you to acknowledge he is your superior in every way, he wants you tugging your forelock like some peasant, and he would truly be happy if you did it in front of his entire army.’
‘That I will never do.’
‘Then you must dispute with him.’
‘Should blood be spilt for a brotherly squabble?’
‘There’s not a man you lead, and I am one of them, who would respect you if you did as Robert wants. So I suggest that word be sent out for every lance we command to gather here.’
‘Will that be enough?’
‘Roger, you have no notion of how much you are loved in Calabria since the famine. There is not a town that will open its gates to the Guiscard without he has to use force, unless you command they do so. You may move around at will and our men will be welcomed and fed. You can attack your brother wherever he is and wound him, even if he has superior force; you do not have to do battle with him but to wear him down. His numbers will be a burden to him, not an asset, for he must forage where you have no need.’
De Boeuf sat back from the table at which they sat. ‘I do not know why I am telling you all this, given you already know it better than me.’
