That brought forth a low chuckle. ‘If you wield your sword with the same skill as you do your tongue, nephew, you will go far.’
‘I hope to do so.’
‘Do you aspire to be Duke of Apulia, Bohemund?’
‘If I did, it is not something I would openly admit to while my father is still alive.’
‘It would be treason?’
‘Foolish, more like, if he is as you say he is.’
‘You can voice thoughts here that you cannot be open about in your father’s domains.’
‘Just as I can keep them to myself, wherever I am.’
‘Even when help may be at hand?’
‘You alluded to our family not being close, but you are of an age to have known all of my uncles, those who served with Rainulf Drengot. I would be eager to hear of their exploits and what kind of men they were; even more how they rose from humble knights to become great lords.’
‘They were all de Hautevilles, is that not enough?’ Again he did not need to see her eyes; the impatience at the deliberate change of subject was obvious in that reply. There was a rustle of clothing and enough light to see she had stood. ‘Forgive me, nephew, I must prepare for our coming feast and so, I suspect, must you.’
‘Meaning I smell like a horse?’ Bohemund joked.
That brought forth another burst of real laughter. ‘Not any horse I have ever owned; you’re as rank as a pig.’
Like any great magnate, Richard and his wife ate in public, surrounded by a large number of their vassals, with, in this setting, the addition of jesters and musicians, which imposed as much strain on the limitations of Montesarchio as the Duke of Apulia had on Corato, while the knights that lined either side of the great hall were equally eager in their imbibing. There the similarities ended; there were no shouts of acclamation hailing their leader and victory, for there had been none, while Richard showed by his consumption of both food and wine why he had such a puffy face and a paunch; he overate voraciously and never let the wine servant go by without he drained his cup and had it refilled.
His conversation was stuttering because of that, though interesting originally as he told the youth rambling tales of his Uncle William’s service with Rainulf Drengot, the very thing his wife had declined to do. These became progressively less controlled as the wine took hold and the number of de Hauteville brothers rose from two to five. It got to the point of nearly naming them, William Iron Arm most of all, as ingrates who had enjoyed Rainulf’s kindness, then with Lombard help betrayed him.
‘I would hope that you will hunt with us, Bohemund,’ Jordan called, as the thoughts his father was harbouring made him look sulky and kept his face in his wine cup.
‘That I would like, cousin.’
Bohemund responded as was required, but in truth he was thinking that this fellow, some ten or more years his senior, was the person who should be seeking to detach him from loyalty to his father. He was Richard’s heir and time’s arrow was more likely to find him holding Capua when the moment came to contest his inheritance, which he would most certainly do, even if he was not prepared to be open about it with those hinting they might help. Against that, Jordan had married a sister of Sichelgaita, making him also a brother-in-law to Gisulf of Salerno, a known hater of de Hautevilles, so his allegiance might lie in the wrong direction.
A good-looking fellow, with an intelligent cast to his eye, Jordan looked more the prince than his sire. The smile he was aiming at his guest seemed slightly enigmatic, though Bohemund had to accept that the impression was possibly brought about by heightened imagination and not judgement. Because he was abstemious, he had, while talking to the hard-drinking prince, been able to observe much and one thing had been obvious: Jordan had watched him the way a falcon observes an unsuspecting field mouse and the look had carried with it a hint of private knowledge, for he had also seemed, in some way, amused.
Both were then distracted by Prince Richard’s fool, dressed in ludicrous layers of multicoloured rags, who was now bouncing around and jabbering in front of the high table. He had been making jests aimed at Hildebrand and Gregorian popes, but his tune had altered; now he was crying out that time had seen weasels and stoats back where they belonged, deep in the ground, with God to do the burrowing all the way to the anguish such creatures were entitled to get in the netherworld, for that was what they deserved.
Lords of the undergrowth one day, gobbling up mice and voles with low cunning in their supple hunt, meat for maggots the next. Beside him, Richard had begun to laugh in an inebriated way but his son was clearly less pleased. Yet it was not he who acted; it was Fressenda who threw the goblet that struck the poor idiot on the face, and with such force that it cut him. He staggered away from her and closer to Bohemund, his hand going to the point of contact and coming away with a trace of blood.
That set off a wailing and crying, for he was, like fools everywhere, a poor creature of dull wits who could, because of his afflictions, say things to the high and mighty that no other low-born person would dare to, for again, like all his breed, he was held to be much cosseted by God and that gave him protection from retribution. He fell against the table and turned, his odd-looking too-wide eyes fixed on Bohemund, showing his sad, flat face and yellowing skin. Then he cried out.
‘Mustela nivalis is no more. Weep in the burrow!’
Then two servants grabbed the fool and dragged him away, with Bohemund looking round quickly to try and see who had given the instruction, just in time to observe Jordan sit back, his smile now looking more forced than enigmatic, this while the hubbub of noise in the hall dropped suddenly. He had to work just as hard to compose his own features, to pretend that he had not understood the message the fool had been imparting, this while the Prince of Capua turned to his wife in such a way as to present his back to his guest, so his face was hidden.
‘I will have your horse saddled and ready at first light, Bohemund,’ Jordan called once more. ‘If that meets with your approval.’ When the response was a nod, he added, ‘You and I must speak with each other as much as you must talk with my father. I would have us be friends, if that is possible.’
To smile actually hurt. ‘I am sure we will be that.’
‘Wine!’ Jordan cried. ‘Damn it, my cup is empty and look to our guest.’
That was no sooner out than Richard turned back towards him, a lopsided grin on his face. ‘And when you have hunted we shall converse, Bohemund. We have much to offer each other.’
Allowing his wine cup to be filled, Bohemund’s thoughts were in turmoil; was that fool telling the truth? For with his damaged wits he was as likely to invent as to make jests that were truthful just as he knew the Latin tag for a weasel and that creature’s relationship to his sire. How could he not when he had heard it used so frequently? He could not ask, for in truth if the fool did have it right he was not sure he would get a straight response from anyone. Was it no more than a ploy to trap him into making some kind of arrangement? He must get away and suddenly that musing about riding bareback took on a more serious meaning. But he was going hunting and he would be gifted a saddled and harnessed mount, and surely, out in the fields and woodlands there would be a chance to break away.
The feasting went on for an age, his host becoming near insensible, which was a blessing since it saved him from too much conversation, and when Jordan or his mother took the opportunity to surreptitiously look at him now, it was with an air of enquiry which was matched in Bohemund’s breast. Finally, at a signal from his wife, two servants took hold of an unresisting prince and aided him on his way to his bedchamber. With him gone, and most of his vassals as drunk as was he, it was clearly time to bring matters to an end. When Fressenda stood those who could follow did so and she swept out of the great hall with her son at her heels, Jordan avoiding Bohemund’s eye, giving a mumbled message of, ‘On the morrow,’ as he passed him.