Jack Ludlow: Conquest

The dukedom of Normandy, ceded to the Viking leader Rollo two hundred years previously, was in theory a province of Paris, but being both bellicose and powerful, subsequent dukes had made this a strained relationship, more often one expressed in conflict than alliance. Young and weak, William had needed his powerful neighbour to the east: now, master in his own house, he was more of an equal than a vassal. The Frankish King Henry, sensing his rising strength, was rumoured to be planning to invade Normandy, this time as a mortal enemy.

‘It is a time when I need all my fighting men around me.’

‘My liege,’ Roger replied, ‘you have so many that one as insignificant as I will not be missed. Besides, you will have three of my brothers who will rally to your service. They have sworn to remain in Normandy.’

The reference to the number of brothers made the seated William frown, leaving Roger to speculate on the reason: was it that so many of his Norman knights had chosen Italy as the place in which to seek prosperity, or was it the memory of the murder committed by Roger’s brother, Serlo, immediately after William had been knighted? Drunk, Serlo had stabbed a potent vassal of the duke, at a time when standing instructions had been issued that no weapons were to be drawn regardless of any perceived slight. Serlo had fled to England to avoid retribution and was still there in the service of the lords of Mercia.

‘I should have had all twelve,’ William growled, ‘though my justice would trim that number by one.’

‘I believe, sire, that the reason you do not have all of my family in your service rests with decisions made by your father.’

Surrounded by courtiers it was an unwise remark to make, for they reacted with hissing or horror to what they saw as lese-majeste — odd, since a good half of them would have no idea of the reason Roger had spoken so: the matter to which he referred had happened many years previously. William, alone, might have ignored any allusion to what was an ancient disagreement but he could hardly do so in the presence of so many adherents, some of whom advised him, some of whom protected his person and all of whom would flatter him, such was the way of court life.

‘You dare to question the actions of my late father?’

To those three brothers who still lived in the Contentin, as well as many of their contentious neighbours, Roger was known as more diplomatic a person than was the habit of either his own father or his rumbustious siblings. But he was very proud of his name and his lineage, not least of the man he had loved most in the world, his father Tancred, warrior parent to warrior sons and a man who never feared to remind authority they held their power by the consent of those governed, not by force. It was in that memory he spoke.

‘No more than he dared to question the motives of mine.’

William shot to his feet, a mistake if he sought to overawe a man a good two hands taller than he. For all his lack of height he had presence, so it was an equal contest, underlined by the even tone in which Roger continued to speak.

‘My father asked your father to take my half-brothers into ducal service and he declined for fear of their blood.’

The look of fury had Roger speculating again: Tancred’s first wife, Muriella, had been the illegitimate daughter of Richard, this duke’s grandfather, so any reference to her could be construed as a reference to that condition of birth, not something to be alluded to in his presence, this again obvious by the vocal disapproval mouthed by his courtiers. But it had undertones some of those would miss, which included the allegation, never wholly laid to rest, that William’s father had murdered his own elder brother to gain the title. Tancred de Hauteville, faithful warrior to Duke Richard, had known them both as children and had made no attempt to hide his greater love for the eldest son.

‘I have no need to fear your blood, do I?’

The tone was harsh; how easy it would have been to reply in kind, to lay bare before this prince and his arse-lickers that he was no better a man that any of Muriella’s sons. Roger might have a different mother but he was part of a family who, proud of their Viking blood, were famed for their temper. Yet he had, and sometimes he wondered if it was a curse, the ability to see where his own abrasive words would lead and to act to avoid it. He thus spoke in an almost emollient voice.

‘That is true, My Lord, but if you were to say that I can have no pretensions to your title, I am bound to remind you that my father swore a sacred oath to your grandfather that, by allowing him to marry his daughter, no offspring of that union would aspire to anything other than that already held. I would take it amiss, and I believe be entitled to do so, if any man was to question my father’s honour.’

William was checked by that: powerful he might be but there were rules for princes as well as vassals. To go in the direction this man before him was suggesting he might pursue was to open up a can of worms. It did not oblige him to apologise for any imputation of dishonour, but it did mean it would be unwise to labour it.

‘Had your father,’ Roger continued, ‘consented to take my brothers into his service as familia knights, as was, I believe, promised to them, they would have laid down their lives to protect both his life and your own, as was their duty. That he refused to do so because he mistrusted their ambition, that he falsely believed they would seek to usurp your position, drove them to mercenary service. I think by their actions and successes they have proved such an act to be a profound mistake.’

That brought forth another hiss from those around them: this fellow was talking to their liege lord like an equal.

‘And you?’ William demanded.

Roger had him then: he had not set out to trap William of Normandy, reputed by all to be a shrewd statesman and a charismatic leader, but sharp as he was the duke had walked into a snare in which Roger de Hauteville could remind him publicly, before his entire assembled courtiers, that his rank was not much greater than that held by his own family now. He was, and it pleased him to realise it, paying the man back for the insult his father had delivered to old Tancred, loyal and true, all those years ago.

‘I am proud most of all of my eldest brother, your namesake, who became Count of Apulia in his own right, a title that has passed on to the present holder, Robert, and it is to him I owe assistance before any other. Not to take service with my own brother would, to me, be a denial of my duty to a loyalty that transcends that which I owe to your house.’

Looking into the face of a man too angry to speak, lest by doing so he would show how much he had been bested, Roger bowed, turned his back, and left, thinking that if his father could see him now, looking down from his place in heaven, where for all his transgressions he must surely reside, he would be smiling.

Roger was not: asking for the hand of Judith of Evreux, a faint hope in any case but one he had been determined to pursue, had died completely with that confrontation.

Preparations for departure had been put in place before the journey to Falaise so Roger had only days back at home before he was ready to leave. Unbeknown to him he performed an act carried out by William Iron Arm twenty years before: he went to the top of the tower to look over the family lands. There had never been enough to satisfy twelve sturdy sons, hence the need to near beg the late duke and, following on from his refusal to take those sons into service, the need to go south to Italy.

All had been born into a world where only by successful combat could the offspring of a petty baron prosper and they had been raised with that in mind. From the top of the tower, stone now in place of the wooden structure William had ascended, Roger could look over the de Hauteville demesne, the small hedged fields, some pasture or directly tilled by family serfs, others let out to tenanted villeins. Hemmed in by trees he could follow the course of the stream where he had first learnt to swim and fish, and to one side of that the open field used as a manege, where he had been taught to ride a pony as a boy, then to handle both horse and weapons as a youth and a man.