‘And the message is?’
Guaimar ran his eyes over the trio of captains, recognising only the one, Turmod, the others being strangers, two very tall and imposing individuals with golden hair and big shoulders, so obviously Normans. At one time he had known all of those who served Rainulf close, indeed he had seen them as friendly adults who always indulged an impetuous youth. How easily they had turned into demons.
‘For your ears only, Rainulf.’
‘I might be disinclined to listen.’
‘I have called you many things in my time, none of them to your credit, but I never thought you a fool.’
‘Have a care, boy, or you might go out of here across your saddle instead of astride it.’
William was only half listening to the exchange, too busy examining the features of both Guaimar and Berengara. The young man was good-looking in a Lombard way, with the same kind of complexion and hair colour as Pandulf, though without any attempt to beguile. He also seemed self-assured, but not so much as his sister, who wore the kind of slight smile that told everyone looking at her that she knew precisely the train of their thoughts — she knew of her own beauty. William speculated that if she had known Drogo’s in detail she would probably have slapped him.
He did wonder what was wrong with Rainulf: these people represented no threat to him, and if they came as an embassy from someone like a Holy Roman Emperor then he should treat them with respect. It then occurred to him that Rainulf found their mere presence uncomfortable, a living and breathing reminder of the way he had betrayed their father.
In the months since his own elevation William had learnt a great deal about the Lord of Aversa, as Rainulf had learnt about him. A bond of trust had been established, not that such a thing led to an exchange of confidences, just to a sense of mutual regard. For instance, William had discovered the mercenary leader was not as thick-skinned as he liked people to think. He drank too much, and in part that might be for shame at some of his deeds, and right now he was looking at the reminder of one of the worst. Added to that, a man knows when he is ageing, knows when his physical prowess is diminishing at a rate which means things once seen as effortless seem to slip away and become a trial almost every day, just as he knows how apparent such a loss is to those around him.
Rainulf ate alone because in drink he became maudlin, and in that state he no doubt felt he would diminish himself in the eyes of the men he had to lead. He slept in his villa so that he would not be seen in a state of total inebriation, given his relations with his wife were stormy enough to drive him to the wine. He wanted a child; she denied him her bed and much as he would like to he dare not put her aside and marry another, for she was Pandulf’s niece. He needed to be seen as still the puissant warrior, to be thought cold-blooded: a man who would not give way to a shrew, would not weep for a death, would not fear his own and would not consider any notion not motivated by profit.
In truth, he was as sentimental as Tancred: for all that tough carapace their father had presented, Tancred loved and was as proud of his boys as he was of his own title and his exploits in the field. What had it cost him to practically beg Duke Robert to take them into his trust? If Rainulf could not be said to love his men he cared for them deeply. He had probably done to the parent of these two what he thought necessary, but William seriously doubted whether he enjoyed the memory of it.
More telling was the fact that Rainulf was now forced to be cautious. Word had come from the south of the proposed Byzantine assault on Sicily, to take advantage of a split between the island’s rulers. The Emir of Palermo had been assassinated, following on from a rebellion led by his brother and a Zirid invasion by an emir called Abdullah from North Africa. The island was in turmoil as the Saracens fought each other, and so ripe for an invasion.
The payment for such service was high, the possibility of substantial booty even higher, especially if the excuse of aiding one emir against another could be turned into a full-scale reoccupation of an island that had increased in value since the Saracens took it from Byzantium. Unquestionably this was the ultimate aim of Constantinople. In short, it was perfect for a band of mercenaries not only at present underused, but also a way to stem, and perhaps reverse, the losses in men Rainulf was experiencing with the land inducements offered by Pandulf.
Yet it was the Wolf who made acceptance dangerous; his recruitment of Rainulf’s men could only have one aim: to so weaken Rainulf that his position as Lord of Aversa became brittle. Pandulf, when it came to greed, knew no limits, likewise betrayal. In his meetings with Rainulf, at which William had now become a presence, the fulsome protestations of love and loyalty looked increasingly threadbare as the number of Normans engaged to Capua increased in direct proportion to Rainulf’s losses. Those coming south from Normandy stopped at the Volturno now — the rewards were greater — cutting off the numbers coming on to Aversa, thus increasing an imbalance which could only end in one way.
‘It would make sense to listen,’ William said, in a whisper, his mind racing with a complex set of calculations.
Rainulf did not respond, but William knew he had heard. He had come to rely on him, trusting him in a way he did not trust Drogo or Turmod, and in part it was his experience as an elder sibling that had gained him such faith. To be a big brother to such an unruly bunch as the de Hautevilles had required qualities that made him useful to his leader: a level head, the lack of a quick temper, a slightly jaundiced seen-it-all judgement that made light of things that breached the code by which the mercenaries lived, added to an ability to resolve disputes between fighting men in a way that left no rancour. The other thing was his utter lack of sycophancy: on more than one occasion he had pointed out to Rainulf, in private, never in public, that he was utterly wrong.
‘Treat them as you would the man they represent.’
If Guaimar had not heard the whispered words, he had seen the lips move. He also saw, after a pause, how Rainulf nodded to this blond giant, and he wondered who was this man who spoke to the Norman leader in that manner; no one else Guaimar had ever known, the likes of Osmond de Vertin, Odo de Jumiege or Turmod, had dared to even look Rainulf in the eye.
‘Drogo, Turmod,’ Rainulf said, ‘look after the escort. See them fed and the mounts cared for. You, Guaimar, I will allow into my tower, along with your sister.’
‘I’d rather take care of her than the horses,’ Drogo moaned.
Though he did not say it out loud, the words were expressed strongly enough to carry to the ears of Berengara. Her smile broadened, as if she was not upset, but Guaimar glared at him, which got him, in response, a very elaborate wink, as if both shared the truth implicit in the remark.
‘William, you will join us.’
In the cool chamber of the tower, Rainulf offered them to sit, then ordered his servants to fetch wine and fruit. While that was happening he sat in silence staring at the young man, during which time William wondered what to say, as he tried not to be too obvious in his glances at the dark line of the sister’s alluring cleavage. It was all very oppressive, with Rainulf clearly, by his stillness, seeking to imply before a word was spoken that, whatever this messenger from Conrad wanted to say, it was of no interest. Tempted to speak again, because it was mere posturing, William knew he should not; his task was to aid his leader, not to diminish him.
Guaimar broke the silence as soon as he had a goblet of wine in his hand, this while Rainulf was draining his.
‘I am not sure I want to speak in front of…’ The young man looked at William, as if inviting him to name himself. That was Rainulf’s right, so all he got in reply was the amused half smile that, unbeknown to him, had once guyed another duke.