‘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.