Son of Blood

by Jack Ludlow

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Damn the Pope!’ The messenger from Rome, a priest, was shocked at such blasphemy and it showed on his face, but the force with which the Duke of Apulia expounded his curse made him take a step backwards too. ‘First he encourages me to invade Illyria, then he gets cold feet and demands of me that I desist.’

  ‘He does not ask for that, My Lord,’ the priest replied, in the kind of stammering tone that indicated he was in terror of the reaction. ‘He fears that with you and your entire host absent from Italy, there is nothing to prevent King Henry from descending on Rome to force an election – that it is only the threat of your intervention that prevents such a calamity. He feels a substantial body of your lances on the edge of papal territory will act as a deterrent.’

  ‘Benevento, you mean?’ Robert asked, enjoying the discomfort it caused; that was a territory three popes had been trying to throw de Hautevilles out of for years. ‘I thought Pope Gregory had excommunicated him again?’

  ‘He has, My Lord, but it has not had the same effect as hitherto.’

  ‘Then he’s learnt something, perhaps from me.’

  ‘A contingent of lances?’ the priest asked, with the air of a man desperate to get back on to the subject of his journey.

  ‘That won’t stop Henry if he is serious.’

  ‘That is not what His Holiness believes. He is of the opinion that such a thing will induce caution, for Bamberg knows that to harm one of your race is to raise anger in them all.’

  With Jordan ruling Capua, Robert wondered if that was now something of a myth, but it was one he would still propagate. Yet it left him on the horns of a dilemma, for he suspected that in Illyria he would need every fighting man he could muster. Against that he was in vassalage duty-bound to come to the aid of his suzerain if the Pope required it, and at the risk of falling out with Rome at a time when it would be unwise to do so.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘Return to the Lateran and inform Pope Gregory that I will do my duty by him.’

  ‘Did you mean that, husband?’ Sichelgaita asked when the priest had departed.

  ‘I will give him a small detachment only and by the time he finds out I have only half fulfilled my duty I might have beaten whatever force Byzantium sends against me.’ Seeing the look his son was giving him, one of deep disapproval, Robert snapped at him. ‘When you come to rule my domains, Borsa, you will find that the truth is a movable commodity, especially when dealing with a man like Gregory.’

  ‘I cannot but see it as a grave sin to lie to a pope.’

  ‘You see sin everywhere.’

  ‘For which I thank the Lord.’

  Robert poked his own chest as his chamberlain entered. ‘This is the lord you have to thank!’ Then he turned and barked at the man, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My Lord, a galley has just arrived from Valona, which is in the hands of the advance party.’

  ‘What!’

  About to say Bohemund had taken it, the chamberlain hesitated; the presence of Sichelgaita made that unwise. ‘The force you sent has control of the anchorage and the town. Reynard of Eu is waiting to report to you on how it was taken.’

  ‘Let him enter!’ Robert whooped.

  Then he looked at his wife and son as if to challenge them to say something. Sichelgaita, without a word, swept out of the chamber with Borsa at her heels, she having silently indicated that he must follow. His wife had no desire to hear how his bastard had taken in the blink of an eye a port that had not been expected to fall for at least a month and quite possibly not without his own presence as well as that of his army. Once he had heard the tale of Bohemund’s exploits he was quick to command that both the Master of the Host and the Fleet be sent for; Robert needed to get both his vessels and his men over the water quickly to take advantage of this.

  ‘Will you come too, My Lord?’ his familia knight asked, for he had heard a rumour that, for the sake of the Pope, his leader might be delayed.

  ‘Reynard,’ the Duke responded. ‘How can I wait?’

  Bohemund had not waited either; his confidence was so high he felt he could conquer anything and anywhere merely by showing intent, so he sailed down to Corfu with a small portion of his force. Possession of the island was a necessary precursor to any invasion of Illyria, this to protect the southern flank from an incursion by what remained of the Byzantine navy, once powerful, now, due to neglect, a shadow of its former self. Yet any naval force, even a small and badly equipped one, could distract from the main purpose, and should they appear in Corfu they would have an anchorage too close for comfort to the rear of the Apulian operations, able to emerge at will from the narrows of the channel between the island and mainland to raid the Guiscard’s supply lines.

  The initial target was the Castle of Kassiopi, one of the three Byzantine fortresses on Corfu, which covered the northern exit from the narrows. Bohemund knew the total island garrison to be tiny and poorly equipped – this information supplied to his father by Greek traders – which would mean insufficient men at Kassiopi to even hold all of its walls. The Guiscard’s plan envisaged securing the island by bringing his whole fleet to its shores as if that was where they meant to land, an armada against which the Byzantines could offer no meaningful resistance; faced with overwhelming numbers no blame would attach to the governor if he surrendered, but to take it without that would be a feat to equal or even surpass Valona. Bohemund wanted to gift his sire Corfu as a prize before he even set sail from Brindisi.

  Without those numbers, the notion of taking any of the fortresses was based on bluff, it being more a case of asking them to surrender rather than threatening any action other than burning boats and parts of the towns over which they presided. Much bluster was employed to persuade the garrison of Kassiopi to open the gates; the Greeks just laughed at his threats, being behind stout walls, now crammed with the population of the town, who had fled to join them as soon as the Norman galleys were sighted. Somewhat disheartened, Bohemund was forced to withdraw and anchor his ships off Butrinto, across the Corfu Channel on the mainland, there to wait for the Duke and his armada.

  It took days to get the army in its entirety into and through Brindisi, down to the quays and onto the ships, which included every trading vessel Geoffrey Ridel, his Master of the Fleet, could commandeer, and they were sent to the outer anchorage as soon as they had sorted out the mayhem and got men loaded. The less than perfectly trained milities were bad enough, the Saracen levies Roger had sent from Sicily much better, but that was as nothing to the bugbear that attended every Norman army making a sea crossing.

  There would be horses in Illyria; Bohemund would have sent out parties from Valona to acquire as many as he could, but that would be nothing like the number the Apulian host would require. Roger first, then Robert and he in company, had experienced the problem in crossing to Sicily, an operation in which they had learnt a great deal from their Byzantine opponents, who were much more practised in the art of moving a mounted host. Also, despite his aversion to the Duke of Normandy, Norman solidarity, added to a close-to-pleading request, had obliged him to advise William regarding the transport of his horses over to England using the same methods and specially adapted vessels as were being applied now.

  ‘And what did I get for it?’ he would demand when the subject came up, which it did when his knights wanted to amuse themselves by goading him. ‘Nothing, not even a brass groat, and this while he was handing out land to all and sundry, even his damned squires. If he had not had his destriers at Senlac, he would not have the crown of England and he would not have got them there without we told him how!’

  He came down to the quay himself to watch the loading and to add his towering voice to the confusion, which was not always an aid. Horses had a terror of anything with which they were not familiar and that included moving ramps, and however generous, ships that were not steady either, even in harbour – broad-bottomed sailing vessels onto which they had to be loaded in their thousands,
enough mounts for fifteen hundred Norman lances as well as the lighter Lombard and Saracen cavalry.

  The destriers, bred for and trained in battle tactics, were the easiest to load, for they had been, through long training, brought to a pitch of fearlessness necessary to carry their rider straight at a shield wall of yelling adversaries waving swords and spears. The cavalry mounts were more skittish, and a stiff wind blowing sails and ropes about, as well as any loose bits of canvas, made it hard to get them to voluntarily walk up the gangways to the deck, which was as nothing to getting them down another narrow ramp into the dark hold and into the constricted stalls set up to keep them safe on the swell, each with strapping to run under their bellies in case their legs gave way.

  In this they would kick and bite, as well as splay their legs to become immovable even with ropes round their flanks, which is when an equine found out just how much a Norman loved his horse, for many got a hard buffet on the snout from a less than contented knight. The packhorses, many of them mares, were the worst, neighing and rearing in panic, a goodly number only happy when hooded and rendered blind, others requiring a mix of herbs that Count Roger had learnt how to mix from Calabrian monks, a potion which sedated them enough to allow them to be led aboard. Then came the donkeys and those who looked after them, that great trail of bodies of various trades and none that would bring up the rear of the host when it marched.

  The same scene was being played out in the port of Otranto, lower down the Apulian coast. When the ships bearing both the knights and their mounts had departed for the outer roads it was time to load the supply vessels with everything the army needed, from bales of hay down to cooking pots, farrier’s nails and shoes, hoof oil, curry combs, spare weapons, mail, bolts of canvas to make tents and salted fish and meat. That was a supply that might need to be maintained as long as the host was in Illyria; the Normans lived off the land where they could, but that was not always possible, especially when the force was numbered in the thousands.

  The return of Count Radulf from Constantinople brought Robert back from overseeing the loading to his castle, but it did not bring to his master any joy or the information he sought – quite the opposite; what he was told sent him into a towering rage. In the first place the usurping Emperor Botaneiates, who was so unpopular Robert saw him as easy meat in any coming battle, had himself been overthrown, replaced by a claimant to the purple called Alexius Comnenus.

  He was, according to Radulf, the nephew of a previous emperor and so had the right to the diadem. He was also a talented general, popular with the Byzantine mob and a soldier who could command respect in the imperial provinces. None of this came as music to Robert’s ears, but what pricked Robert’s anger most was the calm way his envoy informed him that Alexius was strong for peace. He was prepared to return the Duke’s daughter or even allow a marriage to Constantine, to whom he had acted as guardian, his envoy adding that that young man’s father, the deposed Michael Dukas, was still alive, happy making his way as an Orthodox priest, and that Radulf had even spoken with him.

  Pope Gregory had sent Robert a fellow who claimed to be that self-same deposed emperor, a wretched-looking creature in a monk’s garb who certainly did not convince many, and certainly not a sly judge of character like the Guiscard; his son and heir, Borsa, had openly scoffed at the notion that this might be the true Michael Dukas, and he was far from alone – not surprisingly, for Dukas had been, prior to taking the purple, a successful general and man of some standing, an able courtier to boot, who had all the attributes to go with his position. Gregory’s false Michael was not quite an oaf, but he leant closer to that estate than towards the kind of grandeur of a man who had ruled Byzantium.

  To Robert anyone would do, even if he was utterly unconvincing; in the tangled skein of imperial politics there would be those who still professed allegiance to Michael Dukas, and if he could claim that he was acting with and on the deposed emperor’s behalf, how many men could be detached from their present loyalty and thus reduce the number of his foes? Gregory’s man was a weapon, not a very good one but an asset nevertheless. The last thing the Duke of Apulia wanted publicly spoken about was that he was definitely an impostor, which was what Count Radulf was keen to prove.

  ‘The coup had not taken place when I departed,’ Radulf continued, his voice full of confidence. ‘I heard it as I crossed Romania, but I suspected it was coming and spent time with Alexius Comnenus as though he had already assumed the throne. He speaks of harmony between Apulia and the Empire and would welcome the opportunity to talk with you in person and in friendship.’ In making his report, Count Radulf had failed to see the effect his words were having on his master: the Guiscard’s already florid face had gone bright red, not least because it seemed his envoy had utterly failed in what was his true mission.

  ‘Did you speak with those Normans who have taken service with Byzantium?’

  Radulf responded with an airy wave. ‘I did, but not to press them to come to join you, My Lord, since it seems we are to be at peace with the new dispensation.’

  ‘So you have not brought back with you a single lance?’

  Radulf finally began to realise his account of his embassy was not being well received. His voice lost its air of self-assurance and he began to stammer. ‘A-as I s-said …’

  He got no further, and if his master stared low in his rebuke, the voice rose inexorably to a pitch of saliva-spitting rage. ‘You are a dolt, Count Radulf …’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Silence! A fool who has not for a second even begun to obey the instructions with which I despatched you to Constantinople. I sent you on the pretext of my daughter, not on an errand to see she was being well cared for. I sent you to get some sense of the forces Botaneiates could put in the field and to attract to my banner those Norman lances that, due to your stupidity, I might now face in the field, and then you come back singing the praises of another damned usurper, talking of him as though he is a companion of your bosom.’

  The walls being stone, Robert’s voice reverberated, but now he dropped it to an even more terrifying whisper.

  ‘Know this, fool: when we meet this Alexius, which we will surely do if the seat of his arse on that purple imperial cushion is sound, it will be you who occupies the first line of attack, you who will lead in the first conroys and you who will be forbidden to withdraw even if I command the men you lead to do so. You will not be kissing this new usurper’s cheeks, arse or face, but the point of his lance. Now get out of my sight!’

  It was by torchlight and after two whole days that the last of the vessels was ready to sail and only then would Robert admit to the depth of his weariness. If he was tired, he was content, aware that in the coming days he would cross the sea to take command and begin a conquest that might well end in the Hippodrome of Constantinople with his being acclaimed as Emperor. Normally, when seen off on campaign by his wife, Sichelgaita was full of good wishes; not this time, for she had asked that he take their son as well and he had refused.

  The last ship to leave the near-empty harbour of Brindisi was his own galley, with Robert very visible on the deck, his barrel chest covered with his colours, his red-gold hair flowing in the breeze. Cheered by his fighters as he made his way out to the open Adriatic, anchors were plucked as he passed by, sails set and oars dipped, each vessel falling in behind their leader in a pattern that had been worked out by Geoffrey Ridel. The war-fighting vessels were on the outer rim to protect the mass of supply ships lumbering along in the middle, each one with men hanging over the side voiding their guts.

  Once they rendezvoused with the Otranto contingent, they changed course for the Corfu Channel, where Bohemund awaited them. The Byzantine governor of the island, on seeing the size of the forces now opposing him and knowing he could expect no aid from Constantinople, readily surrendered all three of his castles. The tiny Greek garrisons were evicted to make way for Apulians and enough vessels were left to Robert’s new governor to make any attempt to use the ch
annel a costly one.

  Bohemund now in company, the fleet set sail with undiminished confidence for Valona, there to disembark the backbone of his forces, the men needed to secure his base and keep his army supplied and their equipment in good order, the remainder then destined to invest and capture the great port city of Durazzo, once the capital of Roman Illyricum and a place from which ran a proper Roman road, the Via Egnatia, all the way to the imperial Eastern capital. Once Durazzo was his, it would be his base for his march deep into Romania.

  It was almost as if the ancient pagan gods, who had been worshipped when that road was built, felt the need to take a hand, to remind even the most mighty warrior of the sin of hubris. The storm that suddenly and unexpectedly hit Duke Robert’s fleet, coming out of the mountains of ancient Macedonia, was stunning in its violence, with a wind that tore sails from their eye bolts and waves of a size that, hitting galleys on their beam, had the force to so cant their decks that water flowed over the bulwarks and if they could not be quickly righted they capsized.

  All Geoffrey Ridel’s attempts to get the fleet facing into the tempest, to point their prows into the waves, were hampered by a system of signalling that was primitive and required good vision. The rain that came with the storm made that impossible, a downpour so heavy that he was unable to even see those vessels sailing in close company, while the screaming wind carried away from them any voice commands he could yell through his speaking trumpet. Down below on the transport ships the horses were in panic, neighing and snorting, kicking their stalls with such force that the timbers were being smashed, this while the men who would ride and fight on them sought, by whispers and endearments and holding their bridles hard, to calm them down, while at the same time being sick.