‘He sets an example, then?’
‘I would say so.’
‘You say he has followed my progress?’
‘He closely questions anyone who has ever fought with you. I think you would be astounded by the depth of his knowledge of both your victories as well as your setbacks.’
The thought of the latter clouded the Guiscard’s brow for a moment; he hated to think of anything other than victory. ‘There must be anger too?’
‘If there is, it is well concealed. Your son is the master of his emotions, not a slave to them.’
Robert stopped walking and looked Ademar right in the eye. ‘Even when it comes to my wife, the Lady Sichelgaita?’
Ademar took refuge by being ambiguous; he knew if Bohemund loathed anyone, it was a woman he saw as his own mother’s usurper, to the point of never referring to her by anything other than an insulting soubriquet, the ‘much-larded sow’ being his favourite.
‘I have never heard his opinion of her — it is not a name that he mentions.’
‘I am minded to relieve you of the duty of raising him and take him under my own wing.’
Ademar had the satisfaction that he had guessed right. ‘I can think of no place where your son would be happier, and as to raising him, Bohemund is now grown to manhood. Certainly there is bulk to come with added years but he needs no instruction in combat. Leadership, perhaps, but not how to fight.’
‘You never call him by his given name of Mark?’ the Guiscard asked, in an abrupt change of subject, as he began walking again, his shoulders hunched; the impression created was that he had been too open and revealed too much.
‘It is not one he would answer to, even with his sister. You gave him the name of the mythical giant when he was a child and he wears it with pride.’
‘He was a giant of an infant all right,’ Robert said, stopping to face Ademar with a smile of reminiscence. ‘Damn near killed Alberada bearing him. Too narrow in the hips, I think she feared to bear another like him.’
They had come full circle to a point above the kitchens and the great hall, from where they could see, now that the sun was near gone, the flickering fires that illuminated the main encampment which had been set up outside the walls, temporary home to the mass of Robert’s forces, each blaze under a spit of roasting meat, the smell of which permeated the whole atmosphere.
‘Then we shall talk, my son and I, but not yet, for my nose, as well as my grumbling belly, tells me it is time to eat.’
The great hall of the castle of Corato was neither grand nor overly spacious; this meant, given the number of knights needing to be fed in the presence of their lord, it was crammed. Added to that it was exceedingly noisy, rowdy voices echoing off the bare stone walls as men who felt sure their campaigning was over indulged in the copious supplies of the wine that had been hoarded to quench the thirst of the recently surrendered defenders. They would have consumed to excess anyway, but with no enemy to face the next dawn it was likely to end up with many rendered insensible.
At the high table, set on a dais to dominate the assembly and to his father’s left, sat Bohemund, his expression benign and uncritical of what was happening before him. He nursed his half-empty goblet and was quick to put a hand over it when a servitor came from behind ready to refill it from the heavy clay ampoule. Likewise his father was careful in his consumption, if not as abstemious as his son, aware that if he was surreptitiously watching Bohemund, then the examination was mutual.
In between responding to the shouts of his followers, the Duke was working out in his mind what to say to this paragon and he had come to a reasonably swift conclusion that to seek to employ subterfuge, to make excuses or to dissemble would not serve. The boy had no reason to trust him and that was what he required, along with blind loyalty, so he would tell him the truth and watch closely to gauge how he reacted.
Before that could happen, both were obliged to sit through the acclaim heaped upon the mighty Duke of Apulia for his warrior prowess, as his knights sang his praises in drunken orations, their words interspersed with shouted toasts from their companions, each of which had to be responded to. Bohemund observed how his father allowed his goblet to be filled time and again and, just as obviously to one sat close to him, poured the contents on to the flagstones at his feet before rising to drain what was a near-empty vessel in a show of excessive participation. Hours passed as the hall filled with the smoke from torches and their heat added to the crush of bodies, as well as the high night-time temperature, to leave the diners, even in light clothing stained with spilt wine, drenched in sweat.
Robert maintained his place, beaming and returning shouts, as some of his followers began to pass out, while others voided their belly so they could keep drinking and eating. One or two had begun to slip away, the attraction of a waiting concubine greater than the desire to stay and partake of the feast, and still the Duke sat there in what was a deliberate attempt to break his son’s calm demeanour, to see him show even a hint of impatience. That he failed was half a cause for salutation, as much as being an irritant to a man who was known to have no fortitude in that area at all. Bohemund stood as soon as Robert did, underlining that he was waiting with some eagerness for what was to come.
The private chamber Robert had chosen was at the top of one of the corner towers, well away from prying ears, accessed by a trapdoor set in bare wooden boards, now closed, with balistraria on three sides and lit by tallow wads that smoked enough to hopefully keep at bay any biting insects. Peter of Trani’s bowmen had manned these arrow slots earlier in the day; now they allowed a welcome breeze to run through and over the simple cot on which the Duke would sleep, for the Guiscard was not a leader who craved luxury.
His first act was to abandon his blue and white surcoat, which bore his ducal coat of arms, then the sweat-stained cambric shirt, to leave him bare-chested, the first and most obvious thing his son observed being the number of red-to-blue weals and scars added to the dents of healed wounds that covered the flesh of his trunk. Then he went to stand by one of the balistraria, allowing the air to cool his body.
‘You may sit on my cot if you wish. I have no need for you to stand in my presence.’
Bohemund’s response was to half park his backside on the angled stones of an embrasure, his bulk completely blocking it, yet the crossed opening too allowed a draught of air to cool his back. Turning and observing where he sat his father frowned, as though he was witnessing an act of disobedience, then his face cleared and he waved his bile away. It was plain to Bohemund he was searching for a way to begin talking and when he did so it was several leagues away from the point the young man thought they must come to.
‘When I was your age I was still in Normandy.’
‘Driving my grandfather to chew his boots I have heard.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Your brother Roger related the tale of your upbringing to my sister. He says Tancred saw you as a sore trial.’
The Guiscard grinned at that. ‘Roger blathers too much, though what he says is true — my father and I never saw eye to eye.’
‘Roger has it that you were too much alike.’
‘Does that same blabbermouth tell you why I had to leave?’ Robert demanded, leaving his son to wonder at his irritation; was it Roger talking too much or memory? ‘Not that I was overly inclined to stay where I was scarce welcome and there was little chance of advancement.’
Bohemund did not reply, which made Robert curious, for the lad could hardly have failed to have heard that the leaving of Normandy had been forced upon him, nor could he be unaware of the dearth of opportunity that had brought his uncles south beforehand. Having been thinking of a way to approach Bohemund throughout the feast, his father now saw a route to entice him into a better understanding of his own life and actions, which might bind him to his cause.