by Jack Ludlow
Getting across the Ofanto at this time of year meant pushing the horses through a river that came up to their thighs, though thankfully the current was slowed by the spread of the flow over the flattish plain. No sooner had they crossed than it began to rain, a steadily increasing drizzle, then a downpour that soaked everyone to the marrow, despite their thick cloaks. William could only hope the same conditions were affecting Michael Doukeianos — nothing slowed foot soldiers more than wet weather: if rain made a horse drop its head, it destroyed much more quickly the spirits of men marching in mud.
They spent an uncomfortable night in the open, hobbling their mounts so that they could graze and sleep as they pleased, necessary with no hay to hand, and rose in the morning to an all-consuming mist that made getting dry impossible. It also prevented William from sending out patrols to scout ahead — not much point in that when they could see little — and it seriously hampered his desire to push on: without sunlight he had little idea of the direction in which to proceed, and it was mid-morning before the sun began to burn it off.
The extra time was good for the horses, and with no actual rain it was possible to groom them, not for beautification, but for their health. Brushing removed burrs, picked up riding through long grass and bushes, which, if left, could break easily into infected skin. The dust of the previous day had already been cleaned from their nostrils and dung residue from their behinds, but in the morning hooves required to be inspected for wear, and oiled to avoid splits that would render them lame, while backs needed to be checked for sores caused by wet saddlecloths.
Not all were in good enough condition to continue: on the march a loss of mounts was inevitable and this was no exception. When they headed out, two of his men were riding their packhorses, their regular mounts unsaddled, limping, and trying to stay with the herd. There was no time to light a fire, to kill and eat them: all William’s men had was some stale bread, and dried strips of beef on which to chew.
Those on the best and fittest-looking horses had been sent ahead, their task to look over every high point and ensure their confreres were not riding into a trap, while also looking to the east for any sign of marching men. Those scouts found a grass-covered hill that gave extensive views in all directions, all the way east to the silver ribbon of another river tributary, and stopped, William calling a halt for all as soon as he caught up. The ground on the slopes was dry, the grass at the base thick and green, and if an army had passed nearby he would be able to see evidence and there was none: he had got ahead of his foe. Across a rolling hilly landscape, he should be able to observe their line of march, as well as the early presence of Drogo and his lances coming from the south, allowing him to make whatever dispositions were needed.
All around packhorses had been stripped of their loads, but now, unlike the previous night, the contents they carried were laid out in the sunshine: no fires could be allowed as that would alert the enemy to their presence, although William had a great deal of timber gathered and brought in for later, piling up the wood along the crest of the mount.
Spare leather jerkins and woollen breeches had been donned to allow the ones they had worn previously to dry, and footwear had been removed for the same purpose. Still-wet cloaks covered the grass and they lay alongside chain mail, hauberks and gloves, which if left damp would rust. The men cleaned those when they were dry and their weapons, swords and lance tips, using the same oil as they had previously applied to hooves. William waited till all was done and his men were back to being ready for battle, then, having put out a piquet on the nearest hill to the east, he allowed those who wished to some sleep.
That was not a luxury he could allow himself: looking out over the surrounding landscape, barren and deserted except for the dots of grazing sheep and goats, he searched for a suitable field of battle, the best place to confront Doukeianos, wondering if he would be granted the right to choose it. Given his force was cavalry that should be the case: horsemen could manoeuvre with much more ease than milities, however well trained they were. But this catapan had outfoxed him once and he was too wise to think all the choices would remain his, a point he made to his younger brother.
‘All I can say for sure is that we got ahead of them.’
‘Can we stop them?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘That I do not know until I see their numbers.’
‘And if they are too numerous?’
‘We fall back on Melfi and prepare for a siege. At least we know we can outrun them.’
‘Not Venosa or Lavello?’
William smiled, aware his brother was asking these things out of ignorance; yet he had experienced battle, having, like William, ridden alongside their father under the banner of Duke Robert. But then so had Drogo, and though he was a mighty fighter he deferred to William when it came to tactics; Humphrey and Mauger would likely do the same. All four were formidable in battle; even if it had only been in mock combat he had contested with them and knew their prowess. That they could not best him meant less than the fact that they could beat most of the men he led.
Yet they were limited when it came to command; excellent at following instructions — also, certainly in Drogo’s case, good at close battlefield control — but none of them could plan what he had in his mind, which was a great deal more than just stopping this approaching catapan and his army. Sometimes William tired of responsibility, and often, at home in the Contentin, he had wearied of his status as elder brother, but that was useless: if it was a burden it was one that could not be put down, and in truth, he would not want to.
‘No. If we sought to retire on those, I think this Michael Doukeianos would just bypass us. Melfi is the prize.’
‘He will not capture it. The castle is too strong.’
‘He does not need to take it, Geoffrey, he needs to deny us the use of it, and the ability to sally forth at will. He also needs to let the Lombards Arduin is busy recruiting know that they do not have Melfi as a safe refuge. Doukeianos has little in the way of strength and a long time to wait before any reinforcements can arrive, and even if he had those he cannot hold Apulia if the entire population rises against him. Doubt of outcome in this is his greatest asset. News that he is besieging Melfi will make many minds cautious, will serve to divide those keen to rebel, and that will do. Byzantium rules by the fear of what its armies might do, not what they can actually accomplish.’
‘Better to fight him, then?’
‘I will if I can, but that will depend on many things, and not just the size of the force he brings against us.’
‘Such as?’
‘The quality. You can tell much about an enemy host by the way it deploys. If it is smooth and disciplined then they are likely to be steady under assault; if it is ragged and muddled they will not stand against our lances, and once broken they will not stop but flee the field. The ground too will have a bearing. Following that heavy rain we rode through, it would not be wise for us to fight in a valley until the ground dries out and ceases to be soft.’
Geoffrey acknowledged that: mud would slow the horses, impede any attack and make manoeuvre challenging.
‘And since Doukeianos knows this as well as anyone he will seek to draw us into such ground.’
‘How do you intend to deal with that?’
‘By talking, brother.’ Seeing Geoffrey’s questioning look, he added, ‘For I think the catapan, before he seeks battle, will try to do what Byzantium does best, and buy us off.’
The cry from a sentinel had them both looking south, to a long ragged line of horsemen approaching. Within a glass of sand William was greeting three more of his brothers, but most importantly, for they were weary and damp, he would now be, once they had rested, at maximum strength.
CHAPTER TEN
The forward piquet saw them first, just as the sun was setting, and alerted William so he could ride forward and observe, in the gathering gloom, a distant army marching in several columns over a broad front, men to the fore, a sizeable herd of donkeys, mul
es and probably camp followers to the rear, the only mounted men seeming to be those in positions of command, which cheered him: he would face no cavalry force. It was impossible to tell from this distance the state of their morale, but they could not be less than weary given the ground they had been obliged to cover in the last few days and the fact that they had just had to ford a river, which however narrow a watercourse it was, would make them wet; they were in for an uncomfortable night.
In reality, they should not still be coming on at this time of day: most armies would have camped on the far riverbank and crossed in the morning. Looking up William saw that the sky was clear and the moon, rising slowly, was three-quarters full, which, given the mass of stars to aid it, would bathe the landscape in sufficient light to see. Surely the catapan was not going to march on in the hours of darkness? If he had that in mind, it was time to disabuse him.
‘Back to the main body,’ he said to a man at his side. ‘Tell them to get those fires lit and blazing, all of them, right along the skyline. Let them see their way is blocked and in force.’
Signalling to the rest of the forward party, he had them ride up until they were lined along the crest, in time for their silhouette to catch the last dying light of the now invisible sun, but distance and gloom meant William had no idea if they had been observed. To their rear the first of the fires began to glow, bright orange flames and sparks rising into the increasingly dark sky from a hill higher than that on which they sat.
There they stayed until all that was left was the moon and stars, when slowly, William turned his horse’s head and led his men back to the main body. There, dividing them into three, he set one battaile on foot, out ahead of those fires to protect the camp, with the flanking sentinels told to keep their eyes peeled to ensure the Byzantines made no attempt to slip round their flanks. The rest were obliged to sleep in hauberks, with arms and helmets close by, given he had no intention of being surprised. The horses, now rested, were saddled; everything that could be done had been done, so an exhausted Norman commander could himself lie down and close his eyes.
‘Rider approaching.’
The dawn had come up with no sign of movement, yet William knew that the catapan had halted on the other side of the opposite hill and made camp, where smoke from the mass of cooking fires drifted lazily into the morning sky, and that could only be because he knew he had failed in his initial aim. The question remained, however, as to what he would do next, and the sight of the lone horseman approaching was, in part, likely to provide some kind of answer.
‘No armour,’ said Drogo, ‘but handsome silks.’
That was plain to all the de Hautevilles, lined up alongside William, helmets on, swords out and stuck in the ground before them, shields on their arm, the purpose to look as warlike as possible. It was certainly in contrast to this gaudily clad messenger, a slim fellow of medium height in splendid blue garments of varying hues, with long black hair, and eyes over a slightly hooked nose, a feature which he looked down with disdain as he reined in his mount and spoke.
‘I seek the leader of your band,’ he said in Greek.
‘Do you speak Latin?’ asked William. When the envoy nodded, it was requested he speak in that language: the two older de Hautevilles had some Greek, but the recent arrivals had none. The request was repeated.
‘He should dismount,’ growled Humphrey, his face plainly angry even if little of it was visible. ‘It shows a lack of respect to address us from the back of his horse.’
‘I think the quantity of lances you see before you elevates us above a band.’
‘It does not exalt you enough to explain your presence in a Byzantine province.’
‘Which would matter if we felt the need to explain.’
‘Get off that horse, damn you,’ Humphrey barked, an outburst which clearly amused the rider, who smiled disdainfully.
‘To do so would be to imply that as the representative of the catapan, Michael Doukeianos, I am willing to treat with you as equals.’ That was followed by a snort and a snapped addition. ‘Which I am not.’
‘And neither, I suppose, is the catapan?’
‘Most certainly not.’
‘Probably too frightened to come himself,’ scoffed Drogo.
‘You have a message,’ William said, ‘deliver it.’
‘To you?’
‘To me, William de Hauteville, the leader of the Normans in Apulia.’
‘The catapan has been informed that you have illegally occupied his great castle at Melfi.’
‘He has good ears,’ said Drogo. ‘Or many spies.’
‘You are also at large in the domains for which he is responsible, which he takes as an act of war-’
‘Then he is blessed with wisdom,’ William interrupted. ‘For that is what it is.’
The messenger carried on as if William had not spoken. ‘You are required to depart these lands forthwith on pain of the most severe punishments.’
‘And if we refuse to go?’
The head went back slightly, as though the horseman had something untoward beneath his nose, and it was almost with a sneer he continued. ‘The catapan has good reason to believe you have been promised much in the way of reward for your illicit incursion, and he is conscious of the fact that you are mercenary warriors. In the spirit of Byzantium, which is known to be generous, he is prepared to pay to you, in gold, a sum sufficient to make up for what you feel you might lose, as long as you depart.’
‘But that would mean Michael Doukeianos knows what it is we want.’
‘What else but money?’ the envoy sniggered, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘What else do you Normans ever want?’
‘Respect!’ Humphrey yelled, stepping forward till he was right in front of the horse’s nose. ‘Enough to get off your damned horse and speak to us as equals.’
‘That would fly in the face of God’s purpose.’
William was about to point out, in a calm way, that insulting the men before him was not the job of an envoy and would hardly aid his task. He never got the chance. Humphrey’s mailed fist took the horse right between the eyes in a mighty blow that so stunned the animal it immediately dropped to the ground, poleaxed, taking the sniggering messenger with it. It was only by great good fortune that the fellow avoided one of his legs being trapped beneath it and crushed.
Throwing himself clear he hit the ground with a thud, and as he scrambled away from his unconscious horse, Humphrey grabbed him by the front of his silks and hauled him to his feet, pushing his nose guard right up against the fellow’s face.
‘Now you are where you belong. Learn, pig, never talk down to a Norman.’
When Humphrey let the fellow go, he nearly collapsed, so shaken was he by what had just occurred. The arrogant look had gone from his face to be replaced with one of complete shock. His mount was out cold, two stiff legs in the air, while it was clear the rider’s own pins were visibly trembling.
‘Hold him up, someone,’ said William. Mauger and Geoffrey stepped forward to stop him tumbling in a heap. ‘Now, you will go back to your master on a horse we will provide and tell him this. The way to Melfi is barred, and will stay barred by us. If he wishes to go there he must go through we Normans, which is not something that can be done without much bloodshed, and most of that will fall upon the men he has led here. Tell him to keep his bribe, for we do not want gold we can take at will in the future. He is free to withdraw to the coast and stay there, for this part of Apulia is no longer a fiefdom to Constantinople, it is Lombard. Is the message clear?’
The still-shaken envoy nodded.
‘Humphrey, fetch the poor fellow another horse.’
‘I’d make him walk, brother.’
William grinned. ‘Let us show Byzantium a courtesy they scarcely showed us.’
When the horse was brought forward, the fellow had to be helped to mount. Turning its head, Humphrey slapped it on the rump to get it going; the man on its back was still too much in a state of shock to get it mov
ing himself.
‘Why did you punch the horse?’ Drogo rasped, clearly unhappy.
‘Because I’m not sentimental about them, like you.’
That was an argument the brothers de Hauteville had not heard for an age, but one they had heard too often, for it was a subject on which these two had clashed many times at home. Humphrey had no time for horses; he needed them, yes, and he trained them to do as they were bidden, but affection for them was beyond him. Drogo was the opposite: he had an affinity with equines of all kinds down to the most stubborn donkey. The only thing he loved more than horseflesh was women, the difference being the former never got him into trouble, the latter always did.
‘I hope the bugger comes round and kicks you in the head.’
Humphrey spat on the recumbent animal, which had at least opened its eyes. ‘If it does I’ll fetch you the same clout I gave him.’
Drogo moved forward, shoulder hunched and threatening. ‘You and who else…?’
‘Enough!’ William barked, his hand pointing to the smoke still rising into the sky. ‘We have enough fighting on our hands over there.’
‘Are we going to fight?’ asked Mauger.
‘Let us say, brother, we are not going to withdraw. So whether we fight or not is up to the catapan.’
If the message returned by his envoy was not delivered with clarity, there was no doubting the sentiment, and it presented Michael Doukeianos with a real dilemma. What he had with him was not a force any general would choose to take into battle: few, if any of those he led, had served before and they were not suffused with enthusiasm. The rest were new levies, but to withdraw was impossible.
Even if he had known his enemies had possession of Venosa and Lavello, it would not have changed his dispositions: that was an action he would have undertaken had he been in the place of the Normans. Such thinking had been built into his plan to outflank them, to get between them and the fortress. It was Melfi he was after, yet without surprise or a properly trained army, taking it would be near impossible.
