Giscal

San Marco Algentano is a small village located on the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea, where salty sea breezes blow year-round.

As Robert Giscual gradually made a name for himself, his half-brother, Drogon de Hautville, the Norman leader in southern Italy, once again accepted him and allowed him to build his own castle there.

Castles! Land! How could a child raised in Normandy resist such temptation!

At this point, the castle was only in its initial stages, with some areas still showing clay used to fill the gaps, but Robert had already moved in impatiently.

Deep within the castle, the merchant Isaac stood sweating profusely in a dimly lit room. Opposite him sat the renowned Giscard.

"So, Mr. Isaac, you mean that the 'Grey Wolves' gang got greedy and tried to steal our goods, but luckily a mercenary team came to our rescue, which barely saved most of our valuables?"

Robert Giscard was about thirty-five or thirty-six years old. He was not tall, but his shoulders were unusually broad, which made Isaac feel very intimidated.

"It's absolutely true, Lord Robert! Thanks to Conteville for saving me, otherwise I wouldn't be able to come back to see you." Isaac hurriedly bowed in reply, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead onto the stone slabs beneath his feet.

"You didn't let them know what you were doing, did you?"

"Rest assured, Lord Robert. I told them this was business with the Papacy. That Conteville knew I was spreading the Gospel for the Papacy... for the Papacy, so he had no doubts! I even forgave his debts; they're so grateful they won't think twice!"

A brief silence fell over the room, and Isaac could hear the sound of his blood pounding against his eardrums.

Finally, Robert waved his hand: "Mr. Isaac, you've worked hard. Go collect your share from my officers!"

The merchant Isaac felt as if he had been granted a pardon and left the room.

"Conteville... yet another Conteville?"

Robert Giscard muttered to himself, his knuckles unconsciously tapping the hard oak edge of the table, the dull sound echoing in the empty room.

Standing opposite him was his younger brother, Roger de Hautville, who had just come from his hometown in Normandy to make his way in southern Italy.

This future King of Sicily from another timeline is currently just a 21-year-old boy, his young face bearing the dust of a long journey and a hint of eagerness from his new arrival.

“My dear brother, I’ve investigated everything. That merchant Isaac didn’t lie to us,” Roger replied proudly. “I contacted my informant in the city, and he confirmed it. It was indeed this mercenary group that rescued Mr. Isaac from those scumbags, the ‘Grey Wolves.’ In gratitude, Mr. Isaac forgave his debt of five hundred gold coins. And brother, the leader of that mercenary group shares the same name as our father—Tankred.”

"Oh? 500 gold coins?" Robert paused slightly as he tapped the edge of the table, his grey-blue eyes appearing unfathomable in the flickering firelight.

"Do you think Tancred would believe Isaac's 'Papal Business' nonsense?"

Roger thought for a moment and replied, "It shouldn't be a problem, right? Isaac was openly known as the moneylender to the bishops of Rome; that's common knowledge in Italy. Besides, given our relationship with the Church, no one would believe that people from our two camps would cooperate in secret!"

"Foolish brother, you are still too young." Robert shook his head slightly and let out a barely audible sigh.

He stopped striking and instead gripped the hilt of his sword with his left hand. Roger clearly remembered that the last time Robert did this, a disobedient knight had lost his head.

"This little mercenary captain is burdened with a massive debt of five hundred gold coins. Just for this 'life-saving grace' and a few seemingly high-sounding excuses, would that Jew, whose veins flow with silver coins, willingly write off such a huge debt?"

Roger was taken aback at first, then his expression changed slightly: "You mean Isaac is lying to you too! He also realized that Tancredi had noticed?"

"I'm not sure either, my foolish brother. But I, 'Giscal,' don't like uncertainty!"

The air in the room seemed to freeze instantly at his words, and the torchlight cast flickering shadows on his angular face.

Roger sensed Robert's murderous intent and stepped forward, lowering his voice to advise, "But brother, Tancred is different now. He just completed his registration and officially became a registered mercenary under Count Richard Drogon. If something 'accidents' happen to him now, Richard can't possibly be completely unaware. This would only alert him and cause unnecessary suspicion!"

"Hmph, it's Richard Drogon again, that troublesome fellow, it's always him!" Robert's tapping stopped abruptly, his fingers clenching into a fist as he slammed them heavily on the table. "And my cowardly brother, all he ever does is unite, unite, letting these disloyal little bastards grow bigger and bigger!"

Roger lowered his head in silence, not daring to utter a single word.

His full brother Robert recently had another conflict with his half-brother Drogon.

Drogon gradually realized that the Normans were angering all the powers in Italy, and a rebellious alliance was forming that could devour the Normans at any moment. Therefore, he was extremely cautious and restrained in dealing with the four forces, and tried his best to maintain peace among them.

However, this greatly displeased many new Norman adventurers like Robert.

After all, you older folks already allocated the land, so naturally you don't want to go through the hassle. But what about us young people who came to Italy later and haven't even gotten our hands on any land yet?

Robert advocated for a multi-pronged attack, not only to annex the minor lords who refused to submit to Autherville, but also to continue seizing lands from the Greeks, Lombards, and even the Papacy. His ideas attracted many to join his ranks, secretly raising funds to plan even larger offensives.

"In that case, we must eliminate any potential threats," Robert finally made up his mind, speaking decisively. "If this little bastard figures out something and reports it to Richard, or even Drogon, all our plans will have been for nothing!"

"But brother, Gray Wolf and his men have all been wiped out. We don't have enough manpower in Aversa!"

"Who said we'd have to use our people?" Robert smiled slyly.

The Mediterranean silver fox put his arm around his younger brother's shoulder and said, "Tell those Saracen pirates in Sicily that we've been sending them money for so long, it's time for them to show their appreciation!"