by Jack Ludlow
‘I shall seek to convince them it is the will of God that we have come here.’
‘Very well, try.’
While their mounts grazed contentedly on the rich grass of the valley floor, Gartmod made his way up the hill to attempt at friendly persuasion. When he returned covered in the content of the monks’ privy, which had been dumped on him from atop the walls, even his Christian forbearance was overstrained. He was just as keen as Robert de Hauteville to teach the monks a lesson, but at a loss to know how to do it without an assault and the inevitable violence.
‘If we spill blood the whole countryside will rebel against us.’
‘Fear not, my friend, I have a plan.’
And Robert did, the first part of which involved he and his men riding away as if they accepted they could not have their wish, but that was only to get out of sight and to find a place to camp overnight. Then, choosing the least tall and the darkest of hair, he had them use the juice of tree bark to darken their skins, this while those who were good with wood fashioned a makeshift coffin. That done, they were told to don the hooded cloaks that every man had in his pannier.
What the monks saw from their elevated position at dawn the next day was a body of mourners bearing and trailing that coffin. Mourners in such numbers denoted someone of means had expired and needed to be buried in consecrated ground, a service for which the monks could charge a decent fee either in produce or, if it was truly a wealthy individual, in coin. Slowly the party, heads covered and bowed, wended their way up the road that led to the heavily barred gates, with much wailing rising and falling from their throats. One of the Normans who had originally come from Aversa, and had been in Italy for many years, went ahead to seek entry in Greek.
The gates swung open and the mourners bore the coffin into the large open and paved courtyard, with a well-stocked fishpond in the centre, the whole surrounded by solid-stone double-doored buildings. Further on there were some stables and a mill, well tiled and weatherproof, the whole assembly of buildings buttressing the outer wall, with what looked like dormitories flanking the church at the furthest point from the gate. The place reeked of prosperity and it was full of monks seemingly in prayer for the departed soul, but they were cautious folk, for those same gates were being quickly closed behind them.
As soon as they heard the wooden bar drop to secure them, the mourners let go of the coffin, which falling to the ground and far from well built, fell apart, spewing out the swords and shields with which it had been weighted. At the same moment the heads of the faux mourners were uncovered, the hooded cloaks were thrown back and the monks of Fagnano found themselves facing fully armed Norman warriors who looked intent on killing each and every one of them.
Men who give their lives to God in poverty and true righteousness are brave, and would probably have stood their ground, willing to meet their Maker if that was his will. Those who use piety as an excuse for avarice and a life of comfort lived off the backs of a put-upon peasantry are not. The wailing now was coming from the monks as, to a man, they dropped to their knees, hands clasped in front of them in supplication.
One fellow was not cowed, for the bells at the top of a tower were ringing furiously, summoning the people of the valleys, who looked to the monastery for eternal deliverance, to defend their place of worship, which set off the animals penned and cooped; so as well as the ringing and wailing the air was full of bleating, mooing, screeching geese, braying from the donkeys and alarmed clucking from the ducks and chickens.
Robert sent men to check the storerooms and brusquely ordered that the fat abbot be fetched. In his less-than-perfect Greek, once the man was kneeling before him, he gave the bloated divine a choice: the monks could stay and help the Normans build a castle, or they could be cast out to sustain themselves in the same manner as the peasants they exploited, while he and his men destroyed every building in sight.
‘I would roast you over a spit, myself,’ he barked, jabbing his blade gently into the unresisting fat of the abbot’s huge belly. ‘Though God knows how much wood I’d need to cook you right through.’
‘Robert, there is a mob of peasants coming up from the valley.’
‘The storerooms?’
‘Near to full,’ replied one of the men he had sent to check, who was now slicing and distributing bits of a smoked leg of ham. ‘Sacks of corn, hams and cheeses, enough to feed us for a year, and wine – flagons full of it.’
‘Open them up and somebody get up the bell tower and stop that ringing.’
That done he ordered the gate unbarred and partially opened, then went to stand in the gap, sword in hand, as the mob approached, carrying with them the implements they used to reap, sow and harvest, which could be just as deadly as any weapon wielded by a warrior. It would have taken more than a man of his height and presence to stop them, and Robert knew that what slowed their approach was not the threat he presented but the curious fact that he was facing them alone.
He searched for a leader, there was always one or more in a situation like this, a person the others would look to for guidance, and the fellows were not hard to spot, they being the ones who were shouting and gesticulating the most. So intent were they on their purpose they did not look behind them, for if they had they would have dispersed. Having a voice that went with his stature, Robert yelled that they should do so now.
At first they ignored him and he had to repeat the call twice, preparing himself to step back behind the line of the gate, which would be slammed shut; he was as brave as they come but not fool enough, with only his sword as defence, to die under a hail of blows from hoes and scythes if the people he confronted were too stupid to listen.
The change in the shouting was enough to tell him that someone had cast a backwards glance, and that was enough to alter the tone from belligerence to apprehension. From the bottom of the hill came a line of fully armed and mailed Normans, a hundred in number, lances at the ready, more than enough to massacre, at will, the mob Robert faced. This time, when he shouted that they should stop, they obeyed. His next shout brought his lances to a halt as well.
There was a risk in him stepping forward, right up to the front line, for all their fury had not abated, but Robert sheathed his sword and dropped his voice to disperse any sense of threat, asking in a level voice for whoever led this rabble to show themselves. That led to much shuffling: vocal and brave before, those who had been the most vociferous now did not want to be identified, but their even more fearful compatriots pushed them to the fore. Speaking even more softly, and having to repeat himself so they could comprehend his accent, Robert invited them in Greek to follow him, so that they could see for themselves the monks were unharmed.
Still reluctant to follow, he had to take one by the arm, a quite sturdy and stocky fellow of half his own height, to lead him through the gate. Trying not to tremble, for he thought he might be about to die, the peasant followed reluctantly and Robert took him across the paved compound of the monastery, past the kneeling but unharmed monks, to the first of the storerooms, standing back to let him enter.
He was guessing that whatever produce the peasants of the valleys delivered to their monkish masters they never saw it in its full measure, and judging by the look of wonder on the fellow’s face he was right. Calling forward the man who spoke better Greek, he had him explain that the peasants outside could come in twos and threes to be given some of this largesse.
‘Tell him we are here to stay, but we will not harm their monks, but protect them. We will also protect the valleys that lead to Fagnano as well as all the land around, so that no Saracen dare ever again trouble the province.’
Robert doubted the word province would make much sense, but the word Saracen did, for without a force to deter them they had come here enough times to make their name a potent and fearful one. But it was what he said next that really hit home.
‘The abbot and monks of this monastery will, in future, work alongside you to seed, plough and grow, and in doing s
o they will render better service to God than they do now. That will be needed, for the able-bodied men hereabouts must help us quarry stone to build a fortress into which you may flee and be secure should anyone come to despoil your lands. Now go back through the gate and tell that to the others.’
Just about to do as he was bid, Robert spoke again, and these words were chilling. ‘But know this, we can make war on you as easily as we can make war on those who would ravage your lands. You will show us the kind of respect you show these monks, or those lances and swords you see will be used against you.’
In twos and threes the peasants came through the gate, many looking fearful still, and most reluctant to take from the monks they revered or feared that which they had grown to keep them portly. There was no mystery to their caution: simple folk with simple needs, their dreams tended to be fixed on the next life, not this one, and the men from whom they were taking this food had convinced them they had the path to salvation, a message much repeated in the services held in the nearby church which they were obliged to enter through a separate outer door.
Though God-fearing, Robert was of a mind to think otherwise: that if God needed slugs like these to carry his message – and he had met too many well-fed monks in his life not to think of them as such – then he was not the Saviour of Holy Scripture.
‘I think it would be good to have a Mass said for our souls,’ said Gartmod.
Robert burst out laughing, his booming mirth bouncing off the surrounding walls. ‘I think the roasting of some of that beef and pork which is yet on the hoof would do more for our souls than prayer. We have fasted long enough, brother.’
The soubriquet given to Robert, who was busy laying out plans for his castle walls, following on from taking over the monastery, became common amongst the Normans, and was repeated often enough to make those monks who accepted the new dispensation curious. They tended to be young as well as inquisitive, less resentful and, in truth, still retained some of the devoutness that had brought them to Fagnano in the first place. Eventually one of them plucked up the courage to ask Gartmod, who had shown himself to be a pious fellow and less likely to take offence.
‘Guiscard?’
‘It is a word I do not know,’ the monk said.
‘Neither would you, for it is Norman French.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘It means cunning, which our leader most certainly is.’
When Robert heard it he wondered if he might not be known by a more suitable soubriquet, like that of his eldest half-brother, William. Bras de Fer sounded better than Guiscard, which could also mean weasel-like. Yet he knew no man would dare to use it in that sense and let him know they were doing so. In time he became comfortable with it, even to the point where some of his lances dropped his given name completely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The multiple assassinations ordered by Argyrus had checked the Normans, but it had not stopped or removed them, underlined by the fact that Pope Leo was in constant receipt of complaints that his territory of Benevento was still being ravaged by roving bands of mailed warriors. Added to that, the grip of the Normans on the principality, despite assurances that they were not encroaching, was increasing. Appeals to the Emperor Henry to come south once more, this time with the whole might of the empire behind him, had produced nothing, leaving the Pontiff at a loss to know what to do – doubly frustrating given his background.
When the envoy arrived from Argyrus asking for permission to come to him, it took no great leap of imagination to conjure up a very good idea, in advance, of what he wanted to talk about. Argyrus had to travel incognito, secretly by ship from Bari to a point further up the Adriatic coast, before journeying inland, with Leo coming east to meet him at a secluded monastery high in the Apennines. They met alone, without attendants and devoid of the trappings of their responsibilities, Leo ostensibly on pilgrimage, Argyrus just an unknown traveller, the latter opening the discussions with a blunt statement of the truth.
‘The Normans are as much a plague to the Church of Rome as they are to Byzantium.’
Considering those words, with fingers arched before his mouth, Pope Leo was also sizing up this Lombard. He saw before him a solid-looking young man of fine countenance, with a direct gaze and a lack of the kind of excessive gestures or eager explanation which denoted insincerity.
‘Does the Emperor Constantine know of this meeting?’
‘No, Your Holiness, the court of the man I represent is not a place for confidences any more than Rome.’
‘Are the Normans not Christians?’
Argyrus knew the Pope was avoiding the point and, he surmised, seeking to find out, before he committed himself, the nature of the person with whom he was dealing.
‘Of a kind, though I sometimes wonder if there is a God, given that what they often do deserves that they be struck down by a bolt from Heaven.’
Leo replied, wearing a thin smile on his pale lips. ‘There is most certainly a God, my son, and should they seek his intercession he will forgive them.’
‘Do you?’
‘For their sins?’
‘For their actions in your fief of Benevento.’
Those arched hands parted to show open palms, and the freckled face took on a querying look. ‘Christ bore a cross to his Calvary, is it not fitting that the heir to St Peter should have the same kind of burden?’
‘So you are saying that you will turn the other cheek.’
‘When I first came to Italy it was as a soldier in the service of the Emperor Conrad – a bishop, yes, but a warrior who would not have recoiled at taking the life of anyone who opposed the imperial host. If I saw before me now a single head that I could remove, and by doing so eradicate a problem, I would be a soldier once more.’
‘That has been attempted.’
If he had hoped to shock Leo by a near open admission of secret murder, Argyrus failed: he was greeted by no reaction at all, so he was left to pose another question. ‘And if you had an army?’
‘Would you be offering me one?’
It was now the Lombard’s turn to smile. ‘Part of one, yes, for if I had the force necessary to defeat the Normans I would not have come to you here, would I?’
‘No. But you must know I do not have an army of my own to bolster yours.’
‘The day may come when you need one.’
‘And you think that day is near?’
‘What, Your Holiness, do you think the Normans will do once they have swallowed all of Benevento?’ That being greeted with more silence, Argyrus continued. ‘I think you must see that is what is going to happen, which will bring them to the borders of your own Papal States.’
Leo leant forward, nodding. ‘This I know.’
‘I cannot see what will satisfy them, can you?’
‘And you are suggesting?’
‘Force is the only thing they understand, and their removal from Italy is the only thing that will bring peace. Get the Western Emperor to join with the forces of his imperial cousin and together we will have an army too strong for the Normans to oppose.’
‘I am not sure Henry would wish to see Byzantium fully in control of Apulia once more.’
‘He would rather have a de Hauteville?’
‘No man relishes the choice of the lesser of two evils when he does not know which is the worse.’
‘We had peace before, we can have peace again,’ Argyrus insisted. ‘And I do not think it should be just the combination we have mentioned. You have massive authority through your office. Let us gather together all those who have suffered from Norman brutality, including Salerno.’
‘Guaimar?’
‘He has suffered more than most and he can hardly be said to be master in his own domains when he has Norman vassals like Richard of Aversa who do as they please. If he joins with us, others will follow, but no request from me to him would get so much as a hearing, but from you…’
‘You wish to remove the Normans from It
aly?’ Leo asked.
‘Yes, but we must defeat them in battle first, then offer them that as a way out.’
‘And if they refuse?’
‘Then they must die, every one of them, down to the last boy-child. It is the only way.’
‘Would God forgive us for that?’
‘Would God forgive us for doing nothing, Your Holiness?’
‘I must go to Bamberg,’ Leo said, after a lengthy pause. ‘I must seek help from the emperor in person, but I will write to Salerno.’
When Guaimar received Pope Leo’s request to join in a grand coalition against the Normans he knew it was not a matter he could discuss with his council: the mere mention of it in public and it would be known in Aversa before a day had passed. In any other matter requiring discretion he might have sent for Kasa Ephraim, but he knew the Jew had extensive dealings with the Normans, so he could not be sure that any advice given would not be tainted by that connection. It was an indication, and an uncomfortable one, of how isolated he could become in such matters that the only person he had whom he could trust as a sounding board was his sister Berengara, and he was most discomfited, on broaching the matter, to be greeted by derisive laughter.
‘How long have I sought this,’ she said, ‘and how many times have you ignored me?’
‘I hesitated to even ask you. You have a half-Norman child.’
‘I have a girl-child who has tainted blood, but I will raise her to hate the Normans as much as I do. Did not her own relatives disown her?’
‘I have often wondered if it was you who had Drogo murdered.’
‘How I wish I had, and I would give my all to the man who did.’
‘So you had no hand in that?’
Berengara produced an enigmatic smile, one her brother had seen before and he knew was designed to bait him: he would never know if Berengara was guilty or not, for he would never hear either an admission or an outright denial from her lips.
‘Why did you laugh when I asked you if I should accede to Pope Leo’s request?’
