Mercenaries (10 page)

In a third attack targets had replaced those bales and they were required to accurately cast their lances as spears. The final mounted acts were individual, hacking at those great baulks of timber as they rode past or aiming their lances at the hanging targets, the one and only time they put their horses into a gallop. By the time that was over the horses were near to being winded.

‘Dismount,’ shouted Drengot.

Weary and sweating, William and Drogo complied, aware of two things. What their father had told them about fighting in southern climes was true, for he had fought the Moors in Spain to keep open the pilgrimage route to Compostela. Wearing a hauberk, cowl and a metal helmet made a man sweat copiously. The second was, though they were not going to openly
admit it, that they were tired and near as rusty in battle practice as their mounts.

‘Let’s see your sword work,’ Drengot ordered, signalling forward a couple of big fellows with the round staves that were used for practice.

‘Should they not be mailed too?’ asked William.

The reply was more of a sneer than an answer. ‘I’m not testing them, fellow, I know they can fight.’

Wearing only padded leather jerkins the opponents would have an advantage in freedom of movement denied to the brothers, and that showed quickly as they feinted with their staves, only to draw the pair forward, and to a gale of laughter they cracked them both across the helmet, making their heads ring.

‘Step back, Drogo,’ William ordered as their opponents attempted another ploy to embarrass them, this time trying to thwack their shins.

They had fought together since they were boys, as much with each other as anyone else, and they knew one another intimately. William de Hauteville was not obeyed because he was the older brother; he was obeyed because Drogo knew he was twice the fighter in combat than he was himself. In unison they took two paces back and created enough space to draw on the men intent on making them look like fools.

‘Now!’ was the single word of command and the two mailed brothers came forward again as one, staves swinging right and left which forced their opponents
to parry, before the weight of the blows then obliged them to step back. A man advancing generally has the advantage of one retreating and Drengot’s mercenaries were forced to defend themselves. They were no fools either and soon they made enough telling sweeps to hold their ground. It then became a contest of strength as the staves were swung, under, over, right and left, with occasional jabs, four pairs of eyes locked on each other seeking to detect where the next sweep was coming from.

‘Keep going, brother,’ Drogo called; he loved nothing more than fighting, if you excluded bedding women, a pair of traits that had caused them no end of trouble on their travels.

William barely heard him, he was breathing so heavily, while concentrating on his opponent, a shrewd swordsman. What told in the end was the sheer size and muscular power of the oldest of the de Hautevilles, for having manoeuvred his opponent into a position where he had to hold his weapon horizontal in defence, the downward stroke of William’s weapon had behind it so much weight that he smashed the stave in two.

Shocked, his opponent quickly stepped back out of harm’s way. William did not desist, he turned on Drogo’s man and with cruel intent and his brother’s assistance drove the fellow to his knees. Unaware of a loss of control, Drogo had raised his stave high
and was about to seek to smash the fellow’s skull, when Drengot’s barking voice brought him back to the present.

‘Enough!’

Slowly he walked towards them, they leaning now on their staves and sucking air into aching lungs.

‘So, you can fight, you Contentin ruffians, at least on foot, though I think you are dolts mounted.’

‘Our horses are rusty,’ Drogo insisted. ‘Give us a few days to train them up and you will think otherwise.’

‘Perhaps,’ Drengot replied, with the air of a man who did not want to be convinced. ‘I will tell you how it is here. We are mercenaries and when we are not fighting we are training to fight. You will be paid whatever you do and allowed to plunder as long as you don’t steal that which is mine by right. If I say kill, you do not hesitate, nor do you take the life of anyone who might provide ransom. I have the right of life and death over you. Serve me well and you will prosper, betray me and I will strip the skin off your bodies with hot pincers. Is that a bargain you accept?’

‘Yes,’ gasped William, removing his helmet and woollen cowl to reveal hair plastered with sweat.

‘If you die I will bury you with honour, and take steps to let your family know so they can say a mass for your soul. If you lose a horse or equipment through carelessness you must replace it, if you lose it in my
service I will provide you with a mount from my stud or a weapon from my store.’

‘Would it be possible to have a drink?’ asked an equally sweating Drogo.

Rainulf indicated over his shoulder to some servants who had come to watch and a ladle of water was brought from a covered barrel, both brothers supping greedily.

‘Go to the armourer tomorrow and get him to punch some holes in the rear of your helmets. You cannot fight in this climate without it, or your head will fry. And always wear a bandana underneath to keep the sweat out of your eyes, otherwise you will be so misted up you will be bound to die from being blinded.’

‘Anything else?’ asked William.

‘Yes. Get out of that mail.’

‘We need to wash.’

‘There is a stream fifty paces from the back of my donjon. You might wish to cool yourself in its waters.’

‘We must look to our horses.’

‘It is good that you look to the comfort of your mounts before your own. Perhaps you are true Normans after all.’

For the first time Rainulf Drengot favoured them with a genuine smile as he shouted to the servants behind him, who had fetched the water, pointing to the now hitched but still sweat-streaked destriers. ‘Get these animals seen to, groomed, fed and watered,
but have care which paddock you put them in.’

‘We too have not taken sustenance since sun up,’ Drogo said.

‘Then I bid you enter my dwelling, for there is food and wine on my table.’

‘Thank you, my Lord,’ William replied.

‘I have a desire to hear of the fight at Bessancourt.’

That was as much of an acceptance as they were going to get. William nodded and put his arm round the shoulder of Drogo. ‘Journey’s end, brother.’

‘Thank God, Gill, you have no idea how sick I am of nothing but your company.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

They were shown to one of the round, earthen-floored huts, an empty one, in which two more women, with similar colouring to the one they had first seen, were busy stuffing palliasses with fresh straw, prior to putting them on two low, wooden-framed cots; apart from those the place was bare of furnishing, but someone had brought the packs off their horses. Seeing Drogo’s eyes drawn to the rear of one of the woman bending over, William spoke loudly.

‘It might be best to find if she’s already got a man, brother, before you exercise your charms. We’ve done enough fighting for one day and a dip in cool water will do you more good.’

‘Allow me to judge what I want to dip,’ Drogo replied, reaching out to stroke the woman’s posterior. The speed with which she spun and slapped him,
and the weight of that slap, made Drogo wince and William laugh.

‘What makes you think she needs a man?’ Drogo complained, rubbing a cheek made even more red than that achieved by the work of the sun, this as the woman went back to stuffing straw. ‘If we’d had to fight her this day we’d be lying in the sand. So, how do you find Rainulf?’

‘A hard taskmaster, I think,’ William replied.

With some care the two women, task finished, manoeuvred their way round the walls to the exit, leaving the brothers to remove their hauberks. The place had been occupied before; there were nails hammered into the walls on which to hang possessions, and these soon had on them helmets, shields and mail, with both stripping to the waist, removing leather jerkins that had become almost as heavy as the mail, so filled were they with perspiration.

‘That was tough going.’

‘We’re flabby,’ William insisted. ‘Properly battle hard we would have seen off those two in no time.’

‘They should have beaten us.’

William scowled. ‘They didn’t because they were not good enough. Given we were not good enough either, that bodes well. Now let’s wash.’

Drogo wrinkled his nose and glanced around the walls. ‘I wonder if I can get one of these to myself. Then I won’t have to smell your armpits all the time.’

‘I hope you do, brother, because your grunting while you are belabouring some poor wench is hard to sleep through.’

Drogo grinned. ‘It’s the screams of pleasure that keep you awake.’

‘Pleasure? I always thought they were cries of pain and regret.’

Washed and in smocks that were, if not fresh, at least not more worn than a week, the pair found the paddock where their mounts had been put to graze, pleased that they seemed to be doing so peacefully, and not in any way challenging any of the other horses. Gentle calls brought them to the rail and they could see they had been well groomed too, the dust of the day brushed out of their hides. Both had words to say to them, the kind of endearments even hardened warriors make to animals they have known since they were foals. Neither brother was soft about horses; they had a purpose and they must fulfil it or be replaced, but a bond between rider and mount was an aid to the way they behaved when they were required to perform the duties for which they had been bred.

‘I think they will relish a chance to stay in one place,’ said William.

‘They and us, brother,’ was the reply, as he nuzzled his head into his horse’s neck. ‘Now I think we should go and attend our new master.’

‘We’re mercenaries now, Drogo. Rainulf is no more than our paymaster.’

The sun was well past its zenith by the time they were ready to climb the ramp in the square tower, yet it was pleasant to enter a cool chamber where the walls were covered with tapestries to make gentle what was bare stone. The place had about it an air of luxury and there was a pair of servants too, who produced bowls of water in which they could wash their hands, as well as cloths with which to dry them; which was a surprise to a pair unaccustomed to such refinements.

Rainulf, having greeted them, had gone to the head of a stout wooden table and thrown himself into a high-backed chair, from which he eyed them in silence. By the time they joined him he had emptied one goblet of wine and taken a refill, William reckoning he had just seen the source of the man’s high colouring. The table had a joint of lamb half consumed, fruit in abundance and bread that, when picked up, was floppy and fresh. Drogo was first out with his knife, hacking at the meat and, once he had carved some, filling his mouth with both that and wine, watched by an amused host. William took more care, accepted a goblet of wine and drank deeply but once. His carving was careful, and the consumption of meat was accompanied by equal amounts of fruit.

He could not help but feel that something was
wrong. In his twenty years, and as the eldest son of a Norman baron, he had been a guest in many a neighbour’s home, and, just as in his own, every meal was an affair of many folk and abundant food as long as the land had been fruitful; no one feasted at all when it was not. His father had also taken his heir to the nearby castles of the regional counts where in great halls the lords of those places were wont to show their wealth by feeding a multitude, down to and including their serfs.

Yet this Rainulf, with a numerous body of men in his service, had the air of a man who commonly ate alone, and at a board that would easily accommodate twenty. It could not be from lack of provisions: the fields through which they had passed that day and the one before were in his fief and they were fertile. They had seen vines aplenty, crops in abundance both in the ground and on trees, as well as plentiful sheep, pigs and cattle.

‘More wine,’ Rainulf said, indicating to his servants to top up his guests, one having done so for him. ‘So tell me, what brought you here?’

‘Is it not enough that we have come?’ William replied.

‘I find it helps to know something of those in my pay.’

It was Drogo, through mouthfuls of food and wine, who named one of the two paramount reasons: a
patrimony too small to support the number of sons their sire had fathered.

‘Neither of us hankered after the role of running a petty barony in the bocage. We have worked ploughs, we two, as well as wielded weapons.’

‘So you are not running from your neighbours.’

‘It is our neighbours who fear us,’ William replied, ‘not the other way round. But when you have carried a lance in battle, to return to husbandry is disagreeable.’

‘A good enough reason,’ Rainulf agreed. ‘There is no other?’

Both brothers allowed themselves a small shake of the head. The other reason, which had to do with the bloodline of their mother, both William and Drogo would keep to themselves.

‘The country we passed through seemed quiet,’ said Drogo, the enquiry muffled by his full mouth.

‘For the moment there is peace.’ Seeing Drogo’s face register disappointment, Rainulf laughed out loud. ‘But it never stays long like that. Eighteen summers I have been here and not one has gone by without a quarrel from which I have been able to prosper. And if it is too quiet, we have ways to ensure we do not go without.’

‘Such as?’ asked William.

The question seemed to annoy Rainulf; his face went a deeper shade of purple and the eyes, already hard to see,
seemed to slip deeper into the fold of the flesh surrounding them.

‘You will discover that in time,’ he rasped, holding out his goblet for a fourth refill. ‘Now, tell me about Bessancourt.’

‘William will do that,’ Drogo insisted.

Which his brother did, for he was a good storyteller and he had, many times, told his tale coming south to willing listeners in the various pilgrims’ hospices in which they had found a place to lay their heads. Rainulf interrupted occasionally to ask a pointed question or two, mostly about how the Frankish milites had performed, never without supping from his goblet, and he forced William to be quite exact in his description of how they had first retreated, then were able to reverse that and resume the attack.

‘They must have been well led.’

‘They were beaten,’ William insisted, as the servants lit candles, mildly distracting him as he came to the end of his tale: candles cost money and he was more accustomed to smoky tallow. Whatever else Rainulf was short of – like company – it was not money.

‘The enemy horse were broken and suddenly with them in flight it was clear that we had the power of decision. Duke Robert did not rush; he ensured an organised line before calling for the advance, so that the King of the Franks could be in no doubt as to the person to whom he owed his triumph. A number of the
enemy pikemen formed up to defend themselves, but for all their bravery the battle was lost. We hit their line like a great rolling rock smashing a haystack.’

‘That, brother, is too poetic.’

William smiled at Drogo. ‘Is it? Almost the whole of those who stood to defend themselves paid with their lifeblood. Behind them panic took over as each man sought to save himself, and that included the King’s rebel brother.’

‘I hope he flayed him alive,’ said Rainulf.

‘No,’ Drogo hooted, ‘he made him Duke of Burgundy. He gave the Frankish half of the Vexin to Normandy for a battle that he did not need to fight.’

‘Some men will forgive their brothers much.’

The look in Rainulf’s hooded eyes then was a curious one, which was not helped by the way his gaze was fixed on William. ‘You describe the battle well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Let us hope you get a chance to do for me what you did for Duke Robert.’

Over the days that followed the brothers discovered how well organised Rainulf was: there was accommodation for up to four hundred knights, the great barn for communal eating and feasts, a proper stud to provide a steady supply of mounts, mendicant monks from the monastery at Aversa to see to the ailments of men and horses, a nursemaid equally versed in remedies to
care for the women and children.

The balance of mares to stallions and good animal husbandry ensured a steady supply of foals, and extensive ditch work and careful attention to paddock numbers, fed by windmills, gave all the mounts good pasture, while the fecund fields of the Aversan plain provided fodder in abundance, the peasants taking away as rich fertiliser the dung that littered the fields.

There was a blacksmith who doubled as an armourer to maintain weapons and keep the fighting mounts shod while the Norman leader had even engaged the services of a scrivener so that anyone unlettered, wishing to send written word back to Normandy, could do so, through the auspices of a Jewish trader, who would also commute money through mysterious channels, this gained from both normal service and plunder.

Guaimar had grown to manhood in some luxury, but he had never seen anything like that which attended the family of Pierleoni. They lived in a villa that had once been the property of a wealthy Roman senator, a haven of arboreal peace in the teeming city which surrounded it. There were fountains set in mature gardens, cool, tiled and colonnaded courtyards from which to stay out of the sun, endless rooms in which to take repose and a whole tribe of hosts who could
not let their legions of servants do enough for these two young unfortunates from the south. Yet the walls that faced the city of Rome had been fortified and armed retainers made sure that no one could breach the peace of this fabulously wealthy family. It was such a relief to come to this after their journey.

Sailing in a boat normally used for limited coastal trading had been damned uncomfortable out in deep waters. It had taken every wave in full measure, the bow lifting and dropping, the vessel pitching from side to side at the same time as the single sail reacted to the unsteady wind. Guaimar had been sick the first day, but had recovered; not so Berengara, who had lain below the deck the entire journey in a state of wretched distress, in the now fetid space, while her brother had sucked in fresh sea air and tried to hold conversations with the trio of taciturn Italian sailors who had helped them escape. Initially he had been fearful of them, for they looked like a bunch of cut-throats, until it finally dawned on him that the reverse was true: they were in some dread of him.

Even in clothes that had suffered from his previous confinement, he had still looked, with his build and features, like authority to these fellows, the kind of person, in Salerno, they would have avoided like the pestilence. He had assumed the Jew had paid them well for the service, and he had extracted from them the reason why they were out of sight of land – the
need to avoid curiosity from boatmen from places like Naples and the various offshore islands by which, in the distance, they took their bearings.

The young man did not think it wise to point out that the mere knowledge of such places as Ponza and Palmerola, the last small island now a smudge over the stern, was telling evidence, in a boat this size, of the occupation they followed. What did they smuggle? It was not a question he could ask.

It had been a shock to find they had no possessions, not so much as a change of clothes, something Guaimar had kept from his sister; she was suffering enough. He had to assume that Ephraim had seen the necessity of using those as a blind. The purse he had been handed was far from heavy and, standing in the prow, looking north, he had worried as to how they were to clothe themselves for the onward journey to Bamberg and he had felt like a vagabond when a velvet-clad and scented representative of the Pierleoni came to the synagogue in Ostia to fetch them. His sister felt that more than he; since the age of ten she had been fastidious about her appearance.