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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 fatherallowed 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 sonobserved 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