by Jack Ludlow
That was the first good thing; the second was the news that his father was alive and close by, less cheering that Sichelgaita and his half-brothers were with him.
Since Robert was in no hurry, Bohemund got there ahead of him and had time to join the knights lined up at the base of the sloping causeway to receive their master, a welcome carried out with some ceremony. He was obvious not just by being head and shoulders above the rest but by the filth of both his clothing and accoutrements, added to the ungroomed state of his horse, in contrast to the men of the garrison who had been busy with polish and oil to glitter and glow before their liege lord. A flourish of trumpets accompanied him as he rode along the line, greeting each man he recognised, for there were many in the garrison who had fought with him in years gone by and would do battle under his banner in the future. He must have spotted his son well before he came abreast – how could he not? – which must have given him time to wonder at his presence. Face to face he hauled on his reins and brought his magnificently caparisoned mount to a halt.
‘I did not expect to set eyes on you this day.’
Partly it was the peremptory tone that made Bohemund respond the way he did – it was not a greeting with any degree of warmth – yet it was much more the glare he was getting from Sichelgaita that irked him, she having reined in behind his father.
‘Nor me you, I was told you were dead.’
‘Which you can see is not the case.’
‘I wonder how such news was received?’ Sichelgaita demanded, with a scowl.
‘With sorrow, what else?’
‘I can think of a dozen other emotions that might surface.’
‘Where is Reynard?’ his father asked, still without anything approaching a smile.
‘Inside the castle with my conroys.’
Robert just nodded, kicked with his heels and that moved his mount on, which was as good a way as any of saying that he would talk to his familia knight before he ever spoke with his son. That thought was wiped out as Sichelgaita came closer, angling her mount, he thought, so her sons could get a good look at him. Borsa tried to both appear taller and hold a cold stare, but he blinked, which spoilt the effect. Guy was too young to do anything other than be amazed at his size, actually gaping, which brought from Bohemund a slight smile, given it was a look to which he was well accustomed, the cheering reaction the fact that it clearly annoyed his mother.
‘Move on,’ she hissed, spurring her horse more than was necessary and making its head rear back, a loud snort coming out of its nostrils. As his half-brothers moved away, he heard her say over her shoulder, ‘Mark that man well, my sons, for one day he will serve to feed your dogs for a month.’
Not being called into his father’s presence until the next day, plus knowing that Reynard had been summoned, caused frustration; it made him feel of no account, but there was one blessing: Sichelgaita had not come to Melfi to stay – she departed with a substantial train at dawn on the second day, on the way, he was told, to her prenuptial home of Salerno. It was later, well into the afternoon, when Bohemund was sent for, entering his father’s privy quarters to another less than glowing welcome.
‘So, are you going to tell me what you failed to pass onto Reynard?’ Robert demanded. ‘Did you commit yourself to Capua, did they even seek to detach you from my service?’
‘There is nothing I can say in that regard that you will not guess.’ The look he got in response was designed to show much doubt. ‘But I think I have learnt much that might be of use to you.’
That got the kind of raised eyebrows that acted as an invitation to continue. Bohemund briefly reprised his conversation with Fressenda, but laid much more emphasis on the exchange with Jordan, seeking to skip over his offer of aid while underlining the disagreement with his father Richard about how to deal with the supposed death of his great rival. He did not leave out his impression of a one-time warrior prince going to seed through overindulgence, or the advice that a deeper investigation of who stirred up the recent uprisings might point to a different culprit.
‘Richard must trust him, since Jordan had no fear of his anger in letting me depart – either that or it was prearranged. I have had time to think since then and I cannot believe that what was said to me was anything other than a policy to which Jordan would hold. He claims to be continually prodded by Gisulf to bring you down.’
‘You trust his word on my dolt of a brother-in-law?’
‘I do,’ Bohemund replied, with real feeling. ‘As I do on many things.’
‘This son of Capua has clearly captured your heart.’
‘You mock me for believing him?’
‘You talked to him but once and you trust him. You claim he has the confidence of Richard without proof. I like to see into a man’s eyes myself and even then I look for duplicity, for the very good reason it is there more often than honesty.’
‘What if he really does believe that a bloody contest between Capua and Apulia will only advantage others and will do all in his power to avoid it? And if Jordan is speaking with sincerity and Capua did nothing to stir up and sustain the revolt of your vassals, who, then, was behind the likes of Peter and Abelard?’
It was pleasing that his impassioned statement did not draw ridicule; instead his father looked thoughtful, though he remained silent for a long time, even holding up his hand when it looked as if his son was about to speak. Eventually the silence became too much.
‘It could be Gisulf,’ Bohemund said quietly.
‘That fool! Even with the proceeds of his nautical larceny he lacks the means. The rebels had funds to pay their soldiers and that could not have come from their own money chests. And who armed those Lombards you slaughtered at Noci?’
‘Gisulf is a Lombard.’
‘So is my wife,’ Robert barked. ‘Leave me, I need to think.’
It was not often that Robert de Hauteville considered that he might have been duped, but he was thinking that now and in the background he saw the hand of the one-time Hildebrand. If Bohemund was right and Jordan was telling the truth, then there were only two other places the funds to feed the rebellion could have come from and he had already discounted Byzantium, while Bamberg was too distant and too disinterested. But if the cunning archdeacon were the gremlin he would work to keep his hand well hidden, so it was very possible that he had used Gisulf as a proxy. If that was the case, how much more trouble would Hildebrand cause now he was Pope Gregory; there was no comfort in thinking he might desist – the man was not like that.
Odd that in ruminating on such a conundrum, the thoughts he had mulled over the day before should resurface, melding into a set of possibilities that might solve several problems in one fell swoop. What emerged was the kind of tangled solution that the Guiscard loved, and in truth it had all the hallmarks of the combination of cunning and clear-sightedness for which he was famous; no one could pull the strings of the tangled skein like him. The call for messengers, when he had reached his conclusion, was as loud as that to which his clerks were accustomed.
‘Messengers and scribes!’
For Reynard the notion of being a messenger was not one to make him feel elevated, but Robert had insisted that the message he was sending had to go with someone known to be close to him, so that its importance could not be doubted, and to assuage his pride the Guiscard had gone as far as to appraise him of the contents. This saw him heading back from Melfi in the direction in which he and Bohemund had so recently ridden, though at a less furious pace and on a constant change of horses.
There was no sneaking into Capuan territory this time; he went straight to the old Roman bridge and settlement by the Ponte Ufita where there was a contingent of soldiers to back up Prince Richard’s toll collectors, stating his business and demanding free passage. Naturally, such a crossing was home to a hostelry where he could get food, drink and negotiate for a change of horses, his to be stabled until he came through on his return. It was while he was arranging this, as well as bespeaking a bed
, that a knight of Capua, a tall, burly fellow in a red and black surcoat, came to talk to the innkeeper on exactly the same subject and since they were both Norman it was natural that they should fall into conversation over a flagon of wine.
‘A messenger you say?’ Reynard asked, for the fellow, who went by the name of Odo, had about him the air, as well as the build – not to say the scars – of a fighting man.
‘To the Prince of Capua,’ Odo replied.
‘Can I say you do not look to be a mere messenger?’
That puffed his chest. ‘I am one of the senior familia knights to Prince Richard of Capua, but it was felt that a communication of such importance required that it be carried by someone of my rank.’
‘On what purpose, friend?’
From being affable, the look on the fellow’s face made the appellation ‘friend’ seem out of place. He positively growled. ‘I am not at liberty to share the thoughts of my prince.’
‘What if I were to tell you that I too am a messenger, that I too am a familia knight, to the Duke of Apulia, and that he prevailed on me to carry a very important communication to Prince Richard for the very same reasons of standing?’
‘Yet you will not know its contents?’
‘Not the words, but I do the sentiments.’
There had to be something in the way Reynard said that, for Odo’s eyes narrowed and he whispered, ‘Peace?’
‘And harmony between Capua and Apulia.’
‘There’s devil’s work here, Reynard, for my message is the same.’
‘Not the work of the Devil, friend,’ Reynard replied, filling both their goblets then raising his. ‘Maybe God’s?’
Bohemund was allowed to accompany his father to the meeting with Richard of Capua at the Castle of Grottaminarda, but required to be discreet in his presence, for Borsa was there too and it would have been unseemly for him to seek to stand as the acknowledged heir’s equal, added to which Sichelgaita was on her way from Salerno. Naturally, he and Jordan exchanged meaningful looks but to avoid suspicion they did not seek each other out for a private discourse. The two rulers greeted each other with a warm embrace; they had, after all, fought as allies against Pope Leo at Civitate many years before and if they had been very deeply suspicious of each other’s motives since, and no doubt still were, they understood the demands of diplomacy and conversed as friends, while Robert graciously kissed his sister Fressenda’s hand.
The arrival of Sichelgaita allowed for the very necessary great feast in which the followers of both magnates sought to outshine each other, while their wives sought, with less success, to disguise their mutual loathing, for Sichelgaita knew exactly what Fressenda thought of the annulment and her subsequent marriage. But important as both the spouses were, such dislike was not allowed to cloud the masculine bonhomie.
Richard, as was his habit, drank too much and had to be led off to bed, and a keen eye might have spotted the look from the Guiscard that followed him as he departed at a stagger; Jordan certainly did, and Bohemund, observing his father, saw that he was far from pleased, for it was not a benign gaze, rather one of pity mixed with calculation – the look of a plotter, not a companion. To Bohemund it only showed that his father too had drunk too much; he suspected he was normally more careful to disguise his feelings.
The outline of their discussions the next morning was perfectly simple: they would not fight each other but cooperate in those areas of mutual advantage, and part of that related to Robert’s wayward brother-in-law, for Gisulf was as much if not more of a thorn in the flesh to Richard as he was to the Guiscard. The Prince of Capua’s land bordered what little Gisulf still retained and if he had the power of a flea, they still nip and leave a mark, so when the suggestion was put forward by the Duke that both men should gain from the meeting it was warmly received.
‘I sent my wife to warn him to behave and he laughed in her face, Richard, and swore to bring me down. Even now I think him still in league with Rome, so I will countenance that no more. I intend, when the time is right, to chase Gisulf out of Salerno and make it my capital.’
There was a pause then, a look exchanged between Jordan and his father, which was held until the Guiscard added, ‘And I will make no move to interfere should you wish to take Naples and I will also come to your aid with my fleet to enforce a blockade.’
Richard of Capua nodded; to take Salerno the Guiscard would wish passage for part of his forces across Capuan lands – he lacked ships to lay siege to a port like Naples. That was all that was needed, there being nothing put in writing: an air of amity they could show to the world, as well as an embrace made in public. Such secret arrangements had to remain that, so as not to forewarn their numerous enemies, while beneath the bonhomie, the mutual suspicion and distrust had not dissipated one jot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The news that all his plans in the south had come to nought sent Pope Gregory into another one of his teeth-gnashing passions; all his machinations through Gisulf were now exposed and the awareness of this saw a newly gifted chalice thrown against a wall of his Lateran Palace with such force that the dozens of jewels and pearls embedded in the solid-gold body flew free to roll across the floor because, sent by King William of England, it reminded him of those who were his enemies. He could not have the two great Italo-Norman powers in accord at a time when his other adversary, Henry IV, was weak; the Western Emperor-elect, a young unproven ruler of twenty-three years of age, was dealing with a revolt in Saxony and struggling to press home his imperial claims as throughout the Empire.
Desiderius was, as ever, the mediator and fount of knowledge when it came to dealing with Capua and Apulia. He was sent for and he advised Gregory of the obvious: that he must, in such a precarious situation, seek some kind of accommodation with the Norman rulers. That was easier with Prince Richard than the Guiscard, given the latter was an excommunicate and no pontiff could even dream of holding talks with anyone not in a state of grace, while papal dignity meant it could not be lifted without good reason. The first task as Desiderius saw it was to pacify at least one branch of the threat, not least in order to protect his own monastery of Monte Cassino, which overlooked the road from Capua to Rome and was thus likely to become embroiled in any dispute with Richard regardless of any wish to stand aside.
Envoys were despatched to offer a treaty of peace to the Prince of Capua in order to keep him quiet, with the granting of various benefits in terms of disputed revenues as an inducement. To initiate that was unsettling enough but Christ’s Vicar on Earth nearly choked when it came to Robert de Hauteville. If compromise had been anathema when he had been Hildebrand, then as Pope Gregory it was even more unpalatable. Yet he had, on the pragmatic advice of Desiderius, to write to Roger, Count of Sicily, who was still on the mainland, hinting his elder brother could find his way back to the bosom of the Holy Church if he showed a degree of repentance. An offer that would have been declined out of hand by Robert caused surprise by being accepted; there was, after all, the future capture of Salerno to take into account and it would help if the Guiscard could persuade Gregory to disown the unreliable and foolish Gisulf.
After months of comings and goings, which must have taxed the body of a man well past his prime, and just enough give and take to allow the excommunication to be lifted, Desiderius got both the Guiscard and Gregory to Benevento, where the Pope had a palace, for if the Duke of Apulia held the lands of the principality, the city itself was still papal territory.
There this outburst of harmony stopped; Robert would not enter the city for fear of assassination, Gregory would not leave his palace for the dread of a further loss of papal dignity. Thus an encounter designed to make peace and foster concord did exactly the opposite and both went their separate ways without meeting. Gregory was already fuming when news came that the Duke Sergius of Amalfi had passed away, leaving only an infant son to inherit a city and trading port that had been in conflict with its nearest neighbour Salerno for decades, a conflict deepened
by the fact that the Amalfians had participated in the murder of Prince Gisulf’s father.
So, to protect themselves against the Prince of Salerno’s oft-stated desire for retribution – he would hang half the citizens if he took the city – Amalfi asked the Duke of Apulia to accept the title. A letter from Gregory forbidding the Amalfians to allow Robert to accept was ignored and he was again excommunicated. But that was insufficient for the Pope, who decided he had to finish off the Guiscard once and for all. Hildebrand’s memory of Apulian humiliations was long; he had served Pope Leo, only to see him humiliated by the de Hautevilles at Civitate – it was time to rectify that stain on the office he now held.
Since he was relatively secure in the north, and having that just-signed treaty with Richard of Capua that would, he hoped, keep him out of any conflict, Gregory sent out his envoys to those powers that he could count upon to aid his cause: Beatrice of Tuscany, her daughter and her hunchback husband who held Lorraine, to the port cities of the Tyrrhenian Sea, Salerno, Pisa, to Amadeus of Savoy, the Count of Burgundy and Raymond of Toulouse, all Christian knights in good standing with Rome.
Gregory was cunning in his appeal; the object of such a host, he insisted, was not to just spill Christian blood; indeed he desired that the gathering would bring the Guiscard to heel without a drop being shed. The prize was singular: once the Normans were subdued – Capua would be much more amenable if Apulia was humbled – the assembled forces would find themselves free to use the ports of the Adriatic coast. Given that access, they should not disband but proceed by ship to Constantinople to aid their Christian brethren suffering under the constant attacks from the followers of their so-called Prophet.
