‘It’s perfectly simple, Drogo, if you would listen.’
If Drogo loathed anything, it was times like these when his brother began to use his fingers to explain something, as though he was an idiot child. He understood that Rainulf’s present paymaster, and so ultimately his, was the Prince of Capua, and really that was all that mattered. That Rainulf had betrayed another magnate to get his fief meant nothing: that same duke had at one time bribed Rainulf to betray the Prince of Capua. It was the way of this world and the only common goal of the mercenaries employed was that they should prosper.
Capua was, at present, dominant, and that ensured a steady flow of money as they carried out whatever commands were issued by the rapacious prince of that fiefdom. If thunderbolts of approbation at his depredations came from the Pope in Rome, as well as the Holy Roman Emperor in Germany, who might claim to be titular overlord of this part of Italy, it mattered not at all unless it was backed up by force. Strictures from Constantinople counted for even less.
All that required to be understood was the fact that the Lombards were treacherous, greedy, unreliable and given to rebellion, as were their subjects and it was those traits which kept the Norman mercenaries regularly and gainfully employed.
Rainulf sought out the brothers later in the day. They were working in one of the paddocks used for the training of fighting horses, an activity which took place in the early evening when the sun had lost its strength, both with animals not long risen from being colts, seeking to teach them to respond to the command of the thigh alone, no easy task given they were still not fully trained on the reins. It was work that required endless patience: there was no way to force a horse into compliant behaviour, they were not like dogs, they had to be won over by constant repetition and a firm hand regularly applied, and even then only certain animals had the aptitude to face the kind of dangers to which they would be exposed in battle.
Rainulf, like every other Norman, bred his mounts with passion and made sure they were looked after, given they were the key to battle success. So he watched with interest as the de Hauteville brothers put these tyro destriers through their paces, gently cajoling them, occasionally hauling them up with strength to remind them who was in charge, trotting round the paddock standing upright, reins lightly held, pressing with one knee seeking to turn them left or right. You could go through this for weeks, months even, get it right, then find that the horse on which you had expended so much time in training would shy away from the danger of a shield wall, or pull up rather than jump a ditch.
To an experienced eye it was clear Drogo de Hauteville was better at the task. Not that his elder brother was poor, just that Drogo seemed to have an affinity with these equines greater than William. Indeed, listening, it was obvious that it was Drogo who was proffering advice, the precise opposite of what took place in the manege where they trained to fight. On their own mounts, now resting after their morning exertions, both seemed equal, but not with animals yet to be taught. Judging by the sweaty state of the horses, they had been at their training for some time, and they called a halt before tiredness in the animals made them cantankerous.
‘Drogo,’ Rainulf said, as they came to the rail, leading the sweating mounts. ‘Oblige me by seeing the horses to their fields. I wish to have words with your brother.’
There was a slight feeling of anger in Rainulf’s breast when Drogo hesitated, waiting until William nodded that he should comply; he was a man who expected to be obeyed, not to have to have his orders — and it had been an order however gently couched — approved by another.
Waiting till Drogo was well out of earshot, Rainulf spoke again, aware, close up, just how much taller William was than he. ‘Your brother seems to be good with horseflesh.’
‘I have never met one better.’
‘I saw you deferring to him just now.’
The way Rainulf said that, as though it was odd, made William question the statement. ‘Why should I not?’
‘You are the older.’
‘By a year, Rainulf, which is not much, and be assured I will happily take instruction from any man who is my peer in anything.’
‘Including me?’
The clear blue eyes hardened at that. ‘You have come to talk to me for a reason; you have sent my brother away, I think because he is the reason.’
That piece of perspicacity caught Rainulf out. He had intended to talk for a bit and bring the subject round to Drogo, but he had found this de Hauteville too sharp for his game, which made him wonder if perhaps Odo de Jumiege had been right. Should he be cautious of this man, for there was no doubt, in close proximity, he had a commanding presence?
‘He is trouble, your brother.’
William smiled at that, which was just as disconcerting, given there was a reprimand implicit in the words. ‘He is his father’s son.’
‘You will forgive me if I say that makes no sense to me.’
‘If you knew my sire, Tancred, it would make perfect sense.’
‘But I do not.’
‘Drogo is my brother, but there are ten more of the same in my family, as well as three sisters. My father, and Drogo has inherited it, has an unbridled appetite…’
Rainulf interrupted. ‘You sound as though you do not respect your father.’
‘I respect him and love him, but I would wish him less fertile. The only peace my mother got, God rest her soul, was when he was away fighting.’
‘Your mother is dead?’
‘She is, but he wed again, and I have a raft of half-siblings.’
‘Away fighting?’ Rainulf enquired. ‘Fighting who?’
‘The Moors in Spain, the Parisian Franks as well as those on our border with Anjou. He even went to England once, to help put a king back on his throne.’
‘Ethelred?’
William nodded. ‘You see, he was as active on the field of battle as he was in the bedchamber. He was much admired by Duke Robert’s father, as a soldier.’
‘If, as you say, Drogo is like his father, I need you to rein him in.’
William laughed out loud, and it made no difference to his humour that he saw the way it annoyed the Lord of Aversa.
‘Why do you laugh?’ he snapped.
‘You came here a long time ago, Rainulf.’
‘So?’
‘Do you remember that journey?’
‘That does not tell me why you laughed.’
William, though he was looking at Rainulf, was back on that long road south. The first thing the brothers had discovered was that they came from a race that was unpopular; it was better to deny they were Normans — hard, given their size and colouring — than admit to it. That they should not be loved in Frankish Anjou was accepted; the Angevin territory bordered on Normandy and had suffered much from incursion, though not without an equal amount of retaliation.
It was when they came to cross the Loire at Tours that it really struck home. The locals had memories that went back two centuries. Viking raiders — and the good folk of Tours saw no distinction between a Norman and a Norseman — had sailed up the river and inflicted on the city all the rapine and mayhem for which they were famous. To the inhabitants, it was as if it had happened yesterday.
Even the monks in the local hospice had treated them with a very unchristian reserve; they did not believe them to be true pilgrims, given the number of mounts and their nature — that was made obvious by the way they indulged others who were genuinely on the road to various shrines, pilgrims from as far away as Denmark, Caledonia, Hibernia and England. Too many Normans had passed this way claiming the status, when truly they were on the way to fight and that was before Drogo was caught in the nunnery, which led to much shouting, the drawing of swords in a place of sanctity, followed by a hurried dawn departure. It was that memory which had made William laugh, along with Drogo’s justification for his actions.