Jack Ludlow - Mercenaries

‘They are fighters, sire, as I have raised them to be and they have proved their worth many times against any who would trouble my lands. They ride well, handle both sword and lance as they should. Manners, if you think it something they lack, can be acquired.’

Duke Robert was looking at William as he replied. ‘And what is it that you want for them?’

‘If I mention your late brother, sire, I do so out of the respect I had for him.’

The response came as a hiss. ‘My relationship was more of the kind we have just overheard outside this tent.’

‘It was always understood that when my boys came of age, they would become part of his familia and serve him as knights of his body. That he died before that came to pass…’

The interruption was sharp. ‘I know from your repeated correspondence you would like me to do the same!’

‘They are your blood relatives and would serve you well.’

‘You have great faith, Tancred, in the connection wished upon us by blood.’

‘To me it is a sacred bond which surpasses all others, outside the grace of God.’

‘Not a view with which I agree. Why are we here gathered on this riverbank, if not to support one brother, the King of the Franks, against another, not to mention the King’s own mother who sees the wrong one of her sons as the ruler of Paris?’

There was bitterness in that last part: Robert’s own mother was not fond of him.

‘The Franks do not share our ways,’ protested Tancred.

The reply was almost weary. ‘Your ways, Tancred, and long gone they are. I doubt even your own sons share them.’

‘They would never fight each other!’

‘Are my ears mistaken? Did I not just hear that very thing.’

‘I mean with weapons. William here would tell you no different. Certainly they come to blows and will wrestle, what brood does not, but no son of mine will ever raise a sword against his own brother. To do so is to invite the mark of Cain.’

The duke looked as if he had been slapped, but William also detected his determination to avoid a loss of control. ‘On pain of your wrath?’

‘Yes.’

‘You will die one day, Tancred, and then maybe your wrath will be meaningless.’

‘God’s forgiveness will still be necessary.’

‘God,’ Duke Robert said, almost sighing. ‘There are ways to gain his forgiveness.’

William felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘I wish you to take them into your familia. Let them serve close to you and prove their worth. I count each one of my children as a blessing, but my patrimony is too small to support them all. Let them win both their spurs and some reward in your service, let them earn their own demesne from you.’

William de Hauteville knew that the duke was going to refuse, even though he did not speak: it was in his eyes and the ghost of a smirk that made the corners of his lips twitch.

‘Perhaps they may come into more than that,’ the older man said, which made his son suspect he had come to the same conclusion.

‘More?’

‘William, leave us,’ Tancred said. ‘What I have to say now is not for your ears.’

‘Father,’ William replied, executing a slight bow. Once he had gone Tancred spoke softly. ‘You are unwed and childless, sire…’

For the first time Robert of Normandy really raised his voice. ‘I have a son and a daughter.’

‘Born out of wedlock.’

‘As was your late wife,’ the duke snapped.

‘Your brother died without issue, which places my eldest son, William, your nephew, as one of your near blood relatives.’

‘There are others, not least the child of my father’s sister.’

‘Edward of England, that milksop! He is a man who fights on his knees. I fought on behalf of his father and he was a dolt. If you have family around you, at least have those with warrior blood, men who do not fear to lay down their lives.’

‘Do you think me a fool, Tancred?’ Robert asked softly.

The negative shake of the head he got in reply lacked conviction.

‘My own William, not yours, is my nearest blood relative, and given the love I have for him, I would not surround him with a tribe who might see, as blood relations, advantage in doing him harm. Do you really think I am mad enough to invite into my household your brood, all of whom, no doubt, thanks to your prattling, think they have some right to my title?’

‘Marry, have sons. Mine do not seek your title, they seek your respect.’

‘Even if I do marry, I would name William as my heir.’

‘Then stay alive, Robert,’ Tancred growled, ‘for there will be men in the hundreds who seek to do him harm, men to whom your dukedom is a glittering prize, though I swear on the grave of your sister not one of them will bear my name. I see the men you consort with and I can smell their measure. You surround yourself with silken tongues and see loyalty where there is only self-interest. The men you asked to leave our presence will not dare dispute with you, as I will and as they should, but this I will tell you straight. They are not going to respect a bastard boy regardless of how much you love him.’

‘Dispute with me! What has a bare-arsed baron from the Contentin got to tell me that I should take heed of?’

‘This bare-arsed baron has fought the Franks, the English and the Moors and he would tell you this campaign on which you are engaged is folly. A new Capetian King mounts his throne in Paris and his brother disputes his right? He calls on you to aid him and you oblige, and that is an error. We should let these Frankish brothers fight each other as much as they wish, for there is more advantage in that than there is in aiding one against the other.’

‘You know nothing, old man.’

‘I know your father would have stood aside. No doubt you have received promises of reward, of land and castles, but they are only as good as the strength you can put in the field in the years to come. Let your Frankish King Henry become powerful enough, which he will surely do with no one to contain him, and he will take them back and more besides.’

‘Yet you came to fight?’

‘It is moneyed service. The King of the Franks will pay for every lance you put in the field and I have mouths to feed, but I would gladly forgo it to let the Capets stew in their own fratricidal juice.’

Like a bursting damn the fury of the Duke spilt over, and he shouted in a voice that no canvas would contain, so loud that it was very likely audible on the bank of the Seine.

‘I think you came to beard me, Tancred, not for the silver you will be paid. You ask that I respect your sons? Well I will do so by not having you and them slung into the pit of the nearest donjon. I will do so by letting you join the battaile of the Sire de Montfort, as I say you are obliged to do, even if you dispute it. But when we fight, if we fight, make sure you are not in my sight when it is over, for I may forget that you married my sister, forget that you loyally served my father, and have that head of yours off your shoulders and, to protect myself and mine own from vengeance, take those of your sons as well down to the youngest babe in arms, as well as rip out anything carried in the womb of your wife. Now get out.’

‘Sire.’

It was a chastened Tancred de Hauteville who emerged from the ducal pavilion, and there was no need for him to tell anyone, sons or supporters, that he had failed in the task he had set himself. His grim visage was evidence enough, even if they had not heard the shouts emanating through the canvas. It fell to William to ask the obvious question.

‘Do we stay?’

‘What choice do we have?’ Tancred replied. ‘By the time we got back home we would be paupers with barely a fit horse left to ride.’