The tiltyard at Rouen rang with the clash of wood on wood.
Boys of noble birth, scarcely out of the nursery, hacked at one another with blunted swords, their small bodies armored in padded gambesons stitched by their mothers.
The air was alive with shouts and laughter, with the baying of hounds tied to posts, with the creak of saddles and the scent of trampled grass.
At the edge of the yard, Robert I, Duke of Normandy, watched with narrowed eyes.
His cloak was lined with sable though the summer day was warm, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword worn smooth by use.
He was not an old man, but years of war and worry had carved lines about his eyes.
Before him, his son William, no more than five, stood with a practice blade nearly as long as his arm.
His dark hair clung damp to his forehead, his small mouth set in fierce determination.
The boy's blows were wild but full of stubborn power, each strike aimed at the taller lad who sparred with him.
