The great castle of Moulineaux stood stark and pale grey, high on the hillside, set against the deep-green and corn-gold fields of the Normandy landscape, dappled by sunlight and high white clouds, with a rolling slope, part cultivated fields, part woodland, reaching down to the silver ribbon of the winding River Seine, the whole now dotted with tented encampments. Beyond the fluttering pennants of the great lords who occupied these pavilions there were boats and barges plying their way upriver, some to Rouen, others which would continue on to Paris and perhaps all the navigable way to fertile Burgundy, for the Seine was a major artery of trade with the interior, a source of great wealth to whosoever controlled the river as it exited to the sea.
To the elderly man who emerged from the deep woods on the high ridgeline, the sight before him spoke of different things: it reminded him of his heritage and the tales he had heard at his grandfather’s knee. Once that same river had been the means by which his Viking forbears had terrorised this part of the world, as they had done so many others, sailing their longboats up to and beyond the island on which Paris stood, and besieging the city until paid enough treasure to depart.
The land around this part of the Frankish Kingdom, from the coast to the core, had been rich, fruitful, full of churches, monasteries, castles and walled towns the men from the north had plundered at will; it was rich now, but it was also the land settled by those same raiders for two centuries and thus not for despoliation. There was a part of Tancred de Hauteville that had always hankered after the notion of living in older times, even if the age he lived in now was troubled enough for any man.
The rest of his party, all members of his family, fanned out alongside him. Tancred and his sons were not only on higher ground, but being mounted as well, they were at near eye level with the round, crenellated towers of mighty Moulineaux, which stood at each corner of the curtain walls that connected them. They were close enough to see the separation between the mortar and the stone blocks, as well as the dark slash of the deep ditch before the ramparts, though not enough to see into the great square keep they protected.
Within ballista range the forest had been cleared to deny cover to any approaching enemy intent on battering the walls, but Tancred, who, despite his advanced years still prided himself on his skill, as well as his experience as a fighting man, was adamant the castle was not built in the right place.
‘Mind it, some clever clogs will build a contraption that can fire a stone ball further than we now know, and they will gain distance from this high ground. Those walls could be breached and even the keep could be open to a shower of deadly rocks big enough to kill. Duke Robert should have put it up where we are sitting now so it could not be overlooked, and I told the young fool that when he was building the place.’
‘Which is no doubt why he sought your advice in all matters since that day.’
‘Mind your cheek, boy!’
Robert de Hauteville, named as a child after the very duke just mentioned, showed no reaction to this stricture from his father, nor did he even deign to look as though he noticed the glare which accompanied it. The rest of the family did not react: that was just Robert and his papa, forever in disagreement as they had been on the whole journey and for years prior to that. If anything, they were slightly embarrassed, given that riding to attend a ceremony of great importance – one to which every loyal subject of the Duke of Normandy was ordered to be present – their party was in company with many others travelling on the same errand.
One such group, a dozen knights, rode slightly ahead of them on the narrow highway that ran along the ridge top, with yet more close behind, all summoned to attend upon their liege lord. King Henry of the Franks, was coming downriver from Paris in all his majesty, his purpose to confer knighthood on his vassal, William, the adolescent Duke of Normandy, this on the occasion of his fifteenth birthday.
‘Roger,’ Tancred barked to his youngest and favourite child. ‘Do me the honour of not growing up to be like this one, who, by his manner, is bound to be a changeling.’
Such a statement was nonsense, of course: you only had to see Robert and Tancred together to know that the old fellow, for all his hair was white, his frame somewhat shrunk, with a face lined and craggy, was the sire of this sturdy, tetchy giant. Indeed that was where the constant rubbing up against each other came from: they were too alike.
From a mere ten-year-old, the response was loud and firm. ‘I will match his height and valour, Father, if not his conduct.’
‘Don’t be too keen on the loftiness, lad. There comes a point where it clearly affects the brain.’
‘Then I must have more sense than anyone else in the family,’ insisted Serlo, who, though a year older than Robert and no dwarf, was nowhere near the size of his half-brother; few men were.
‘Are you going to block the path, or move your fat arses on their way?’
The irate voice came from the party immediately behind them, half a dozen mounted men still in amongst the trees, and the reaction was telling. Tancred half-turned to request patience, his face showing no rancour, but in the time he had done that Robert had his sword out from its scabbard, and was hauling on his reins to turn his horse, bellowing as he pushed it through his brothers, as well as the packhorses on which rested the family possessions, back into the woods, demanding to know who dared speak so.
Being family, and with Robert urging his mount to the rear, Serlo did likewise and the remaining two de Hautevilles old enough to bear arms, Aubrey and Humbert, had their weapons out too; even Roger was quick to brandish his knife. The men behind were sharp to the defence, so that in seconds the two groups were ready to do 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.’
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.’