by Jack Ludlow
The feasting went on for an age, his host becoming near insensible, which was a blessing since it saved him from too much conversation, and when Jordan or his mother took the opportunity to surreptitiously look at him now, it was with an air of enquiry which was matched in Bohemund’s breast. Finally, at a signal from his wife, two servants took hold of an unresisting prince and aided him on his way to his bedchamber. With him gone, and most of his vassals as drunk as was he, it was clearly time to bring matters to an end. When Fressenda stood those who could follow did so and she swept out of the great hall with her son at her heels, Jordan avoiding Bohemund’s eye, giving a mumbled message of, ‘On the morrow,’ as he passed him.
The morning was not cool, but it was mildly warm and pleasant as Bohemund, having struggled with his breakfast, emerged, dressed in the hunting clothes with which he had been provided – no doubt with great difficulty and the aid of a seamstress – after a less than peaceful night in which every possible avenue between truth and lies had been explored over and over again. He was greeted by a cousin who looked as though he had not slept well either, with neither willing to refer to the fact. Instead, both were quick to mount and in the company of a ten-strong party of Jordan’s own familia knights they rode out of Montesárchio, heading into the sun and thus east at a steady canter, which was curious to Bohemund, given it was taking him closer to home.
Was it a standard, a signal or a prearrangement that had those knightly companions of Jordan’s drop back out of earshot? There was no way to tell, but they did as almost immediately the heir to Capua began to speak about the new Pope and what troubles that might bring to both his father and Apulia, not forgetting to add that Pope Gregory had a strong desire, one he had often voiced as Hildebrand, that men such as Jordan and Bohemund could better serve their God by taking ship to Byzantium and fighting the Turks.
‘There is too much that detains me here, Jordan – and you, I suspect – to even consider such a crusade. Our new pontiff is buoyed by the success of my Uncle Roger in Sicily—’
‘And what had happened in Spain?’ Jordan interrupted. ‘They too are fighting and succeeding under a papal banner.’
‘He thinks the throwing back of Moors and Saracens as well as their religion is easy, or should I say he sees it as the undoubted will of God, but what we hear of the Turks does not lead me to think they will easily succumb.’
‘I think you right, Bohemund, and fear it would take more than we Normans to even attempt such a thing. If the might of Byzantium was destroyed at Manzikert, what force would it take to ensure we did not fall to the same fate?’
‘What was that fool babbling on about last night, cousin?’
The abrupt change of subject and its effect went through Jordan’s hands and body, making his horse jibe slightly, as Bohemund continued, ‘I am not fool enough to be ignorant of why I have been brought to meet your father, but so far I have only hints from my aunt. It would be better if I had plain speaking and since I think you know the prince’s mind it would be as well from you as any other.’
Jordan did not respond immediately, with Bohemund remaining silent too, aware that if he spoke it would only allow his cousin to hedge his answer. When he did talk, and after the shock of what he said had subsided, Bohemund was amazed at his candour.
‘We have been told that your father, the Duke, is dead at Bari of a fever, but we have no idea if it is rumour or truth. The fool spoke too soon.’
Bohemund sought to keep any trace of desolation out of his voice. ‘You did not think to tell me of this rumour?’
‘We thought of it and my father decided against it until it was confirmed.’ Jordan hauled on his reins and faced Bohemund, who had automatically done likewise, the men behind them stopping too in order to keep their distance. ‘I do not think I need to tell you why.’
‘No.’
‘You cannot begin to conceive of the times your name has come up in our talking these last weeks.’
Lost in contemplation of the news he had been given, and wondering how much it was fact, it took Bohemund some time to respond. ‘I hope it was every hour of every day.’
‘Every action was discussed from hanging you to throwing you into a dungeon and leaving you there till you rot.’ There was a temptation to remind Jordan that they had failed to corner him and his men, but that was superfluous; best to let him speak. ‘It was my notion to bring you in as a guest, in which I was aided by my mother.’
‘And to what purpose was the invitation extended?’
‘To offer you full Capuan support when you seek to take your rightful inheritance.’
‘You’re sure it is mine?’
‘I think my mother answered that.’
‘Did your father agree?’
‘No, he thought we should balance out our aid to keep Apulia in turmoil, and when the time is ripe, to invade. He does not think, as I do, that such a thing is a malignancy, which is inclined to spread, not peter out. If your father could not contain his vassals, it is hardly likely we would do better and what trouble would that stir up in our own bailiwick?’
‘Yet you just encouraged those very vassals to rebel and supported them.’
‘We did not.’
‘That was not the belief held by my father.’
‘It would benefit him, or whoever now rules, to look a little deeper.’
‘Are you saying you do not hanker after Apulia?’
‘Only by invitation.’
‘Which I would never issue.’
‘Neither will your half-brother or any other de Hauteville. Apulia can only be taken by force, something my brother-in-law, Gisulf, writes to encourage me to undertake often, under his brilliant leadership, of course. First I doubt it possible, and very much impossible if your father still lives, uncertain even if he does not, and it would be a long, drawn-out affair in which we would bleed as much as those we fight. While we are busy fighting and killing each other, which we Normans have never before done here in Italy, what will our sworn enemies do?’
He had no need to mention popes or emperors east or west; they had been trying and failing to divide the Normans for decades – they would gather like vultures to consume the remnants.
‘The only question which remains is, what will you do now?’
‘I must find out if the rumour regarding my father is true.’ The questioning look in his cousin’s eye demanded a response. ‘And if it is, I will be quickly back in Capua and not to plunder.’
Jordan used his knees to edge his horse close enough for the two to take each other’s hand in a strong clasp. No words were added; they did not need to be.
‘Go as you must, Bohemund,’ Jordan said once their hands had been disengaged. Then he smiled. ‘Odd that I hope the rumour is false – our world will be a sorrier place without the Guiscard.’
‘I share that hope, which might surprise you.’
‘No, it would be dishonourable that you should desire otherwise. If you ride straight into the sun you will come upon the men you led.’ Before Bohemund could ask how he knew that, Jordan added with a grin, ‘They were taken late in the very same day you were invited to Montesárchio, cousin. Without you to lead them they were easy meat.’
‘Harmed?’
Jordan threw his head back and laughed, so loud that it had the birds flying in alarm from the surrounding trees. ‘Not a hair, for who knows, you may need them.’
CHAPTER TEN
Having rescued his captured lances – they too had been in ignorance of the rumours – the party set off immediately for the borderlands with Apulia, their destination the ducal capital of Melfi, where Bohemund would find out the truth about the Guiscard. But there were other reasons to go there: that castle was one of the few places in his father’s domains from which, in his possession, he could not be easily dislodged, while it was also the centre of the administration of the whole domain and in its vaults were the staggering revenues accumulated by Robert’s tax gatherers, including those remitted from Calabria a
nd the Norman parts of Sicily.
Naturally, on the way there was time to ask how his men had been so easily rounded up. The truth was sobering, for it transpired that Prince Richard – or was it Jordan? – had so covered the ground with their own conroys that escape became impossible. Reynard had jinked from one direction to another, taken refuge in a forest, which avoided capture on four or five occasions, only to find that whatever way he subsequently rode, there before him was an enemy, always Normans, more powerful in numbers, that could not be swept aside. In the end, in trying to break out of the encirclement, he had led the Apulian lances into a well-laid trap in which there were only two alternatives: to surrender or die.
‘Which would have been foolish given we were offered safe conduct back to the River Ufita and that included what plunder we had on our packhorses.’
‘To so box you in must have taken hundreds of lances.’
‘Agreed, which means that Richard of Capua knows full well of your father’s intention to invade and has moved his forces up early to meet him. Given the numbers we encountered, he was planning to cross the Ufita first.’
‘You are sure it was not just me that brought them out in such numbers?’
‘The river,’ Reynard replied.
He said this pointing ahead and that hid the look on his face, a mixture of curiosity and a degree of concern; the one matter not discussed since they had come together had been what had been offered to Bohemund while he was a guest of the Capuans and what, if anything, he had agreed to. The familia knight had not asked and this stripling son of the Duke had shown no desire to enlighten him, while it was obvious that, should the rumour of the Guiscard’s demise prove true, they were riding into a situation in which Reynard himself would be required to make a decision about where his own allegiance lay.
The older man could not know the reason for Bohemund’s silence, which was, quite simply, the need to seek some kind of reason for what had occurred at Montesárchio, and that included the Capuan leniency with his men, who at the very least should have been deprived of both their plunder and the means to ride – proper retribution might have seen them hanging from the trees. In that short talk with Jordan much had been implied that was left unsaid and that too had to be picked at for meaning; that no conclusion was possible nagged at him all the way to his destination.
Two days hard riding, in which no equine care at all was lavished on their mounts, brought them into distant sight of Melfi. As soon as the castle was visible Bohemund called a halt so that when they did arrive their horses would not be utterly blown – not a wise thing to do when he had no idea what he might face. They were unharnessed and allowed to graze while his men, tired as he was himself, were adjured to rest. Not that he himself could do so; there were still too many teeming thoughts in his head, and he walked a little away to examine a town and stronghold he had not seen for several years and to reflect on the fact that it was where he had spent his early childhood, before he and his sister had been packed off elsewhere.
Before him was one of the great seats of Norman power in the southern half of the Italian Peninsula, a de Hauteville possession ever since the days of William Iron Arm. His scrutiny was carried out, as at Montesárchio, with a professional eye as well as a sentimental one, for there was much to admire about both the location and the structure. Melfi had withstood every attempt to take it by main force ever since it had been built by the Byzantines, one of two unassailable bastions designed to hold the western border of Langobardia against incursions by Lombards, their Norman mercenaries and, should he venture so far south, the Western Emperor.
Melfi itself had expanded since William’s day from a tiny and poor settlement to a vibrant and substantial town; how could it not with so much power close by? But it was the dominating fortress that mattered, standing on a high elevation and controlling the central route through the mountains from the east of Italy to the once powerful coastal cities of the west: Salerno, Naples and Amalfi. In a country dominated by defensive towers and fortified, walled towns, only one other location, also built by the Byzantines, could match Melfi for its ability to accommodate a force of mounted knights numbered in the hundreds and strong enough to be described as a host.
Added to that it was a place impossible to take by a coup de main, overlooked as it was by the even higher peak of Monte Vulture, the mountain topped by a watchtower. That too formed part of its defence; no substantial force could hope to approach from any direction without being seen a whole day’s march distant, which gave the defenders the chance to both prepare their resistance as well as to send out a mobile raiding force that, using the surrounding mountains as a refuge, would render any siege a nightmare by the cutting off of communications with the coast, the interdiction of supplies and reinforcements, plus the fact that they could raid the siege lines in force at will.
Few men were needed to secure the walls and it was no easy task to even get close to them. A wide, winding causeway led up to the great gates, itself with a defensible wall. Imposing from a distance, with its great square keep and hexagonal corner towers, Bohemund knew from childhood memory how much more redoubtable it became at close quarters. A stone bridge spanned the moat to the twin curtain walls that contained a deathtrap between them, one that an attacker must cross to even attempt to take the main outer wall, this overlooked by a pair of tall, castellated barbicans manned by archers. Having done that they must somehow get open a double gate, only to be faced by yet another ditch with a raised drawbridge. Caught between the two they would be at the mercy of the defending bowmen and they would suffer greatly as they tried to subdue the defence.
Those walls and towers were made from the stone of the mountains in which the castle sat, rock so hard the walls could not be undermined, and they were well buttressed to withstand assault by ballista, while being tall enough to make firing anything over the parapet near impossible. On three sides lay steep escarpments that reduced the options for any attacker to a frontal assault up the causeway. The interior was spacious, with well-constructed accommodation that could house large numbers of knights, sufficient stabling for their mounts, with vaults below and lofts above that could store a quantity of supplies to sustain them for an eternity, added to which it had a water supply that could not be stopped: several deep cisterns in what was well-watered and fertile country.
Unbeknown to Bohemund the same examination was being carried out by his father, though he was riding, not stationary, and at the head of a long train of knights and all the paraphernalia that accompanied a great magnate on his travels, including, right behind him and also mounted, his wife and two sons. Also different was the emotion, for underlying Robert’s examination was a sense of melancholy; he had inherited Melfi from his elder brother Humphrey and had no love of the location, unlike for example Bari, a place that had once thought itself impregnable until he proved the inhabitants wrong.
Melfi was not a place he had himself captured and neither had the two eldest de Hautevilles who had bequeathed it previously. A Lombard, Arduin of Fassano, given the captaincy by a foolish Byzantine catapan, had taken the castle in an act of betrayal thirty years before, bringing into its walls a force of Normans led by William. It had withstood any attempt at recapture, becoming a base for their expansion, originally in the cause of Lombard independence, ultimately on their own behalf, and it had served the family well as a place from which they could not be ejected.
Yet now there was the question of its continued suitability: was it still an appropriate location to oversee an extended fiefdom that included the whole of Apulia and Calabria as well as, since the capture of Palermo, a good third of the island of Sicily, which would increase with time and his brother’s efforts? In reality, Robert thought the centre of his administration, to be truly effective, needed to be on the west coast of Italy, not the east or even in the mountainous middle.
As against that Melfi was perfect as a place from which to launch any proposed campaign against Capua, for in this
location he could gather his entire force and sustain them without, he hoped, it being obvious what he was planning. It was simple to cut any links to the west and keep his preparations hidden, as well as to disguise his route of attack. As these thoughts surfaced he wondered about Bohemund and how his raiding had progressed; he also wondered what he had heard, if anything, about his illness and supposed demise. He knew from his own experience, when plundering, that staying out of contact with the kind of people who might pass on such information was essential; they tended be those trying to stop you.
Robert craned his neck to look to the top of the high peak and to the banner on the flagpole. For several hours it had been a fluttering ochre, a sign to the garrison of Melfi alerting them to the approach of an armed party of unknown provenance; nonsense, of course, since messengers had arrived days before to alert them to the movements of their suzerain. Now the men that manned it could see his lance pennants they could confirm his arrival and replace the ochre with a long stream of blue and white, as if to say not even Duke Robert was permitted to approach his foremost castle without he must identify himself.
‘Bohemund,’ Reynard called, his arm outstretched towards the top of the mountain.
There was a long pause while Bohemund examined that long pennant bearing his family colours, wondering who did it signify, for it could mean that Borsa was approaching, not the Guiscard. If it was his half-brother, no doubt in the company of his fat sow of a mother, then he needed to get there before them, though the notion that he could then seek to hold it and keep them out was unlikely. What mattered more was that he was not barred from entry, so it was necessary to saddle up and move out quickly.
If Melfi was well defended from the east, the west was not ignored, and they were only halfway to the castle when a strong party of mounted men, fully mailed, closed at a rapid pace. Discretion demanded that Bohemund show no aggression towards them; he needed to halt and wait, which was frustrating, but he was not held up for long. If sometimes his height and build could be a burden, this was not one of those occasions; as soon as he put forward his identity it was accepted by men who very likely had never seen him before, so much had his proportions become the stuff of tales – he did, of course, look like a de Hauteville.
