‘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.