On top of that there were the endemic disputes with other landholders, the containment of uprisings against ducal authority, on whose side Tancred always placed his duty, and the task entrusted to all the knights in their area when the bells sounded in alarm: the defence of the coast of their part of the Contentin; there was nothing unfamiliar in what they were being asked to do.
William and Drogo had one major problem: their destriers had not been in training for all the months they had been on the road, so they were skittish and harder to control than normal when harnessed, and set next to unfamiliar mounts they did what all horses do: tails stiff and high, stepping like dancers, they tried to assert dominance and that did not go unchallenged, so there was much biting and some flying hooves that, had they made contact with human flesh, would have at the very least broken a bone. Strong hands and many a hard slap on the neck were required to keep them under control and get them into line, and even then they were disinclined to settle.
Thus their performance was far from perfect as they manoeuvred, riding from one end of the manege to the other, first at a walk, then at a trot and finally at a canter. At the command all ten lances should have turned left or right as one, or reversed their course and retreated in unison. The best that could be said was that it was untidy. Norman cavalry could pretend flight, a tactic that often broke an otherwise solid line of pikemen who could not resist the urge to pursue and once the defence was fractured the Normans would swiftly reform and attack again. An attempt at that left William and Drogo lagging behind.
Reformed and cursing, the next manoeuvre went better as a touch of fatigue made their mounts more malleable. The whole convoy attacked the shield wall, first with lances couched, each one hitting a guard of wood and leather in a tattoo of sound before turning to the right and rising on their stirrups so that their shields protected their flank. They could then employ their swords to smash at the same targets and, being upright, their blows were delivered with great force. To follow came the same attack but this time with lances raised above their heads. Again they stood upright, controlling their mounts with their thighs, shields held forward with reins in the same hand, while they jabbed over the shield wall at straw bales, which represented the holders of the line or those who made up the second rank.
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.’