‘Who makes this offer?’
‘William de Hauteville.’
‘You do not command the force that demanded my submission. He named himself as Odo de Jumiege.’
‘Odo is our captain,’ William replied, without being certain of the grounds he had for his confidence, ‘but in this hall I have all the authority I need.’
‘And how can I be sure that Odo de Jumiege will accede? And behind him stands Prince Pandulf.’
‘It makes little difference. You can die now, or take a chance of life. I offer you only what I can.’
The man was looking into William’s eyes over a distance of ten paces. Was he seeking reassurance or looking for a trace of reserve in his adversary, a reluctance to fight? It was because of the steadiness of his own look that William saw him accept the offer before he spoke, and he felt a deep sense of relief.
‘Put up your weapons.’
William felt the tension drain from his body, as he had them disarmed, then he addressed their master. ‘You must prepare yourself to accompany us to Capua.’
Odo had been taken back down to the house he occupied and was in a bad way, his wound too grave for him to be moved. William, since no one else in the band seemed keen to take the responsibility, had the locals send for a mendicant monk to look to his needs, and once that Benedictine had examined the invalid and pronounced it safe to move him, he was taken up to the castle to occupy the quarters of the late owner. Only then could the monk look to the needs of the other Normans, William included. Following on from that came more burials, a common pit for those who had defended the castle, individual graves with crosses for the half-dozen dead mercenaries.
Then he called the Normans together and asked them about electing a temporary leader. That led to much shuffling and mumbling, but not to anyone putting themselves forward. For the first time in many months William felt like the elder brother he had been in Normandy. There he had faced the same desire that he should make any decisions that were not the lot of his father. Because of that, he felt no scruple in assuming command; if anything it came naturally to him.
The priest was obliged to say a mass for all the souls of the dead in the local church and two days were spent ensuring that all was secure, and counting up the value of everything the castle held, from the contents of the coffers, what arms and mail had been captured, horses, fodder, food and wine, down to the last vessel of lamp oil; Rainulf, the man to whom William would report, would want to know, so that he could claim his due reward from Pandulf.
William de Hauteville also used part of that time to find out which citizens were respected in the town and to question them, his aim being to find out what they thought of their captured lord. The opinion was not high; though they feared the Normans and what they might bring in the way of tyranny, it was obvious that the man being taken away was not revered. What he said to them was a mixture of reassurance and threat.
Odo would have to remain, and since he was too comatose to make decisions, William made them for him, leaving ten of the remaining Normans to garrison the castle, safe in the knowledge that there were no forces left in the Montesarchio fief to attack the place, and in any case it was still well stocked for a siege.
‘But,’ he admonished them before he departed, ‘you are small in number. Do not treat the local townsfolk badly, for you will depend on them for much. The lord we have taken prisoner had a heavy hand, and he was not loved. Perhaps if he had been the men we fought would have defended his person better. Do not make the same mistake as he.’
That done, he rode off out with the remaining seven of the men who had come to this place, to take the prisoner to meet his fate.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The party had been observed from the top of Rainulf’s tower — seven Norman knights, a prisoner, and a string of several dozen packhorses, so by the time they rode into the encampment the whole of the remaining force of mercenaries were gathered to greet them. That Odo de Jumiege was missing, and William de Hauteville was riding at their head, set up a buzz of speculation, but most eyes were drawn to the downcast figure of the Lord of Montesarchio, who had been obliged to ride on a donkey so small that his feet touched the ground. William had done this so that when departing his domains, which they passed through on the old Roman road, those who owed him service, from the meanest peasant to richest artisan, should see how low he had fallen.
Rainulf was at the doorway of his tower again, the height of that ramp enabling him to see everything over the heads of others, like Drogo greeting his brother warmly, the questions obviously pouring from his lips as to why he seemed to be in command, and just as ardently being answered. Annoyed, his voice came out as a roar that turned every head towards him.
‘I think it is proper to report to me.’
William looked up; he had been bent off his horse talking to Drogo, and he gave Rainulf that lazy, amused smile which he suspected might infuriate him, as it had so many others. Judging by the deepening purple of Rainulf’s face, he succeeded. Yet the look at that was fleeting; William dismounted, and bid the Lord of Montesarchio do the same, then, giving orders that all the contents of the numerous packhorses should be deposited safely in the tower, he led his prisoner to and up the ramp, and introduced him.
‘Where’s Odo?’ Rainulf demanded, ignoring the man.
‘In a cot, with a wound in his side that will take time to mend, if it ever does. I left him in Montesarchio with ten men to hold the place.’
‘You left him?’
‘I took command.’
‘I cannot believe Odo gifted that to you.’
William had suspected that, for all his own dislike of the de Hautevilles, in the way he had been treated by his captain, the man might be acting on instructions from Rainulf. He was tempted to ask, just to force his leader to perhaps lie.
‘He was in no position, Rainulf, to gift anything to anyone. I must tell you he may not survive. As for my being in command, the men you engage are certainly fighters, but few of them relish the idea of being a leader.’
‘And you do?’
‘I brought the men back, and your prisoner. What happens now is for you to decide.’
‘Am I to stand here like some peasant?’
Rainulf seemed glad to turn away from a defiantlooking William and glare at the prisoner.
‘Take what treatment you get and be grateful. You will rest here tonight, and tomorrow we will ride to Capua, where you can face your prince.’ Then he turned back to William. ‘And you will accompany us.’
‘The wound is clean,’ said Drogo, sniffing at the bandage in which the mendicant monk had wrapped it. Then he gently probed around the angry cut with his fingers, making his brother wince. ‘Do you know what he used?’
‘An infusion of herbs that stung like the Devil. There was the juice of a yellow fruit that he offered me to suck too. It was hellish sharp, worse than an unripe apple.’
‘You should have asked him to give you some. It has clearly worked on your wound.’
‘These monks share their knowledge. Rainulf’s fellows will know of it. Right now, let the air do its work.’
‘So you’re going to Capua?’
The way Drogo said that did nothing to hide his envy; there had been plenty of that too when William had told him of the fight, even more when he had described the full coffers, stables and food stores of the Lord of Montesarchio, some of which must come to him.
‘I shall ask that you accompany us.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see if Rainulf refuses. If he does, that will tell us if he intends that we should never ride out together.’