by Jack Ludlow
One knight fired with the desire to go to Italy was Richard Drengot, a nephew of Rainulf, and such was his attraction as both a person and a leader, and so well found was he in monies commuted back from Aversa, that when he rode off from the family lands around Alencon, he did so at the head of forty knights, all well mounted and equipped. In his progress south he suffered none of the travails of those who had gone ahead individually. Richard Drengot travelled in the style that suited his attachment to his uncle’s wealth, the only experience he shared with the likes of Robert de Hauteville that of passing through a Rome of stillwarring popes.
He and his band were not far south of there when an even more potent force arrived from the north, a whirlwind that would shake the Eternal City to its foundations: the new arrival was no other than the Emperor of the West, Henry III, heir to Conrad Augustus and a man committed to putting an end to the stench of papal politics. Trained since childhood to exercise power — he had been King of Germany since the age of eleven — Henry, a conscientious and overtly pious ruler, knew he would never have integrity in his domains without an end to the machinations of the Roman aristocracy and their endless warring over who held the office of pope.
Although a cause of endless dispute, every Emperor of the West held that the papacy was an office in their gift: no man could rise to be pontiff who did not have their approval. Opposed to that were not just those Roman aristocrats but also a majority of cardinals, bishops and abbots of the great Christian monasteries. Even in his own German domains siren voices were raised against what was seen as imperial presumption, but it had been a right exercised by Charlemagne and no successor of his was inclined to surrender it.
Riding in Henry’s entourage was one of the holiest men in Western Christendom, Suidger, Bishop of Bamberg, and the aim of this imperial mission was made plain at once: a synod was convened in St Peter’s at which all of the three competing popes whose rivalry had so rocked Rome were dethroned, and Suidger was proclaimed as Pope Clement II, his task, to bring back to order the Church of Christ, to put an end to simony and the selling of indulgences, and to perform the ceremony of marriage for Henry and his imperial bride.
So honest was this Suidger that, even with imperial approval, he insisted his elevation be confirmed by a convocation of the leading churchmen, so, for the first time in decades, one upright and properly holy man held the office of pontiff without dispute, yet it was an office with temporal as well as spiritual responsibilities: the Papal States were extensive in both land and wealth and they bordered on Campania and Apulia, so naturally lay matters were also raised at the imperial synod, not least the turmoil in the south.
The removal of Byzantium from Italy was to be welcomed: it had been a desire for centuries, though one every emperor had struggled to achieve. The Eastern Empire was formidable, and even if it was rocked by constant succession strife, even if in the last four hundred years it had lost all of Arabia, most of Persia and the entire North African coast to Islam, it always seemed able to regenerate itself closer to its spiritual homelands. Now it seemed, at last, it was on the rack of near expulsion.
Yet no imperial ruler could be content with vassals appointing themselves to lands and titles, so the great cavalcade, with the Pope in attendance, made preparations to proceed to Capua where another synod would be convened to deal with these temporal problems. Guaimar would be summoned, along with Rainulf Drengot, the de Hautevilles and the Prince of Benevento, now in a state of open conflict with Salerno, to attend upon their ultimate liege lord, Henry III, Emperor of the West.
‘Argyrus got more than gold, William,’ reported a dustcovered Drogo, freshly returned from an expedition to the south and now drinking successive goblets of wine to get that grime out of his throat. ‘The Emperor Constantine has appointed him Catapan of Apulia and he has taken possession of Bari.’
William sighed. ‘A city that assured us of their support not two months past. Lombards are bad enough, brother, but a combination of them and Greeks is worse. I pity the Italians, though I have no reason to think them more scrupulous.’
‘You would be wise to think so. Look what they did at Montecassino.’
‘The men they slew got their just deserts at Montecassino, brother. You will get no less if you steal the sustenance out of people’s mouths. But let us concentrate on the enemies before us.’
‘Argyrus is safe as long as he stays within the walls of Bari.’
‘Which he will not,’ William replied, with a weary expression. ‘He must come out and seek to retake the Catapanate.’
‘He cannot do that, Gill, unless Constantinople gives him a powerful army and no other city has declared for him. Nothing has altered.’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘You did not think it to be over so soon?’ Drogo asked.
‘No, but I confess to being fatigued with war.’
Drogo grinned. ‘I admit you look peaked. Is that not too much activity in the bedchamber, Gill, keeping two women content?’
‘Such exertions never harmed you.’
‘I think you have told me often, brother, we are very different.’
Said with humour, Drogo could not fail to notice that William was indeed looking drained, and if it was not by endless warfare and intrigue, it could just as easily be brought on by his assumption of too much responsibility. The fever he had suffered from previously had abated, but the marks of it were upon him. Nor did he allow himself respite: he took everything on his shoulders and he had a set of brothers and subordinates happy to let him carry the burden. The jest about the bedchamber could not hide the fact that he had other concerns.
Like his brothers, the title of count, by which William was known, had been granted to him by the acclamation, to be reluctantly confirmed by Guaimar in his capacity as the self-styled duke of the province, in itself a suspect creation. It was one that was open to challenge as to its legitimacy, for only the power of his sword and the ability of the men he led made it real. Not wishing to be beholden to any other power, the only way to make it more than that was by the continuous application of force of arms, so in time it came to be accepted by all.
Added to that, William needed to produce an heir, a child who would cement his position in the same way little Hermann had done for Rainulf, in fact he could go one better, for a child of his present union might have a future claim on Salerno and Capua. He never mentioned it, but he had, like any man who had risen as high as he, dynastic ambitions for his bloodline.
Never spoken of, William de Hauteville still felt the slur of being refused recognition as a blood relative of the House of Normandy. He longed one day that an heir of his would treat with a Norman duke as an equal. The way to wipe out that old affront was not only to gain his own title but to pass that and more on to a legitimate heir who would, in turn, have sons of his own.
Despite his efforts, and they were resolute because they needed to be, Berengara showed no sign of becoming with child. It was no secret that nothing had happened to abate her hatred for Normans, and if that had at one time been concentrated on Rainulf, it had moved from him to William. Her strength of feeling was as strong as ever, and that applied to her determination. Every conjugal act was a battle bordering on force and she had to be kept away from any public gathering so that her insults would not be aired in a way that diminished her husband.
The brothers would have discussed it with him if William had been open to such, but he was not. Drogo, for one, would never have married her, but had he made that error he would now be looking for a way to put her aside and find another, not, in his case and given his reputation, necessarily in that order. William would not do either: to his brother he was too upright for his own good.
‘So, Drogo, how do we deal with Argyrus?’ Normally, William would not have posed such a question. While he was happy to listen to advice, it was he who decided what course of action to follow.
‘We could invest Bari.’
‘Not yet.’
‘It is the right thing to do.’ That got him a shake of the head, and that smile which implied secret knowledge. ‘I have often wished, Gill, that you would be more open with me. It is as though you lack trust.’
William’s response was quick, but good-humoured. ‘Only with women, Drogo.’
‘Then why not invest Bari?’ William made to respond but Drogo cut him off. ‘Before you say it is too formidable to capture easily, I know that. It could take a year or more, but at least if we were outside his walls Argyrus would be kept from mischief.’
‘You must see that if we institute a siege it must be carried through to success. We could not afford to fail, regardless of how long it took.’
Drogo nodded. ‘We have the means to win.’
‘One day, Drogo, Bari, and all the other port cities, will either acknowledge we Normans as their overlords or they will burn, but if we were to do that now, to whom would the ultimate gain accrue? Bari defeated would trouble the others, which might bring that which neither they nor we want.’
‘Guaimar as king.’
‘Do not think he has given up his dream. He got his Apulian title by chicanery, if he wants to take the diadem let him get it himself. I will not fight and spill Norman blood to have a crown put on his head.’
‘And your own.’
That made William laugh. ‘Not mine either, Drogo, but perhaps my son or grandson will aspire to it one day.’
‘Then, Gill,’ Drogo hooted, though he did register that William had been more open with him than hitherto, ‘much as it pains me to say so, you must get into your bedchamber this very minute and get busy.’
The summons to attend upon the Emperor Henry at Capua came at an awkward time: Argyrus was doing that which William predicted, raiding out from Bari, but always with a line back to his base should he be threatened, which had Norman cavalry engaging in fruitless and dispiriting pursuit, for he never let himself be faced by a combination which included soldiers on foot. He was also showing a skill William never thought he possessed, which made him wonder if there was a secret direction behind his actions, a proper soldier.
Whatever the Lombard traitor did, it had to be ignored, for Henry could not be: to do so would risk such an affront that it would turn the emperor against the whole de Hauteville family, and the consequences of that could be enormous. Yet it was also an opportunity: provided the price of vassalage was not too high he might be able to acquire imperial confirmation of his title, and his brothers likewise. The dukedom of Apulia might be recognised as well, which would not be to his liking and could create future difficulties with Guaimar, but the solution to that would have to be left to time. Also paramount was the need that his wife should accompany him, not a notion that was well taken: Berengara refused point-blank.
‘You will accompany me even if I have to lash you to a litter,’ said William. ‘I will not be embarrassed before the emperor by your absence.’
‘And I suppose your little shepherd girl will be taken along to provide you comfort?’ Berengara responded, her voice, as it always was, dripping with bile. ‘There will be no embarrassment there, I think.’
‘If you refuse me comfort-’
‘Do not pretend you would not use us both in a like manner if I allowed it.’
‘I will use you as I have the right to as your husband.’
‘Then make sure we do not pass a monastery, for if I have the chance I will escape and slam the doors behind me.’
‘Which I will burn down.’
‘Not because you value me.’
‘Bear me sons and I will leave you in peace.’
‘Any son I bear you I would strangle at birth.’
‘This is futile,’ William yelled. ‘Make yourself ready for the journey, and when we get into the company of the emperor hold your tongue or, believe me, you will make the return journey in a penitent shroud and bare feet, lashed to a rope that will be tied to my horse’s tail.’
William would have been surprised if, having stormed out of the chamber, he had returned moments later: Berengara was in floods of tears, for this was not the life she had imagined for herself.
‘I cannot take you with me, little one.’
William felt the head lying in the crook of his shoulder jerk, but Tirena did not sob, as he feared she might, even when they were upright and facing each other, but she made no secret of her unhappiness, which made him feel wretched. Nor did he really want to explain to her that he must, in the imperial presence, behave properly, for there was much at stake. This Henry was reputed to be a principled fellow much taken with prayer and confession, not long wed, who might take a dim view of someone attending upon him in the company of an obvious concubine.
How different it was when he was with this girl. She made him laugh, she made him happy and she brought out in him a love of the bawdy, a side of his character he kept hidden from even his own brothers, who saw him as somewhat dour. Had she been of the right blood he would have wed her in an instant, not least because she so wanted to please him, a feeling he had to be guarded about reciprocating.
William actually fretted about raising her hopes: the girl knew his marriage was far from blissful, just as she knew it was not based on affection. He realised that one day, even if it would render him miserable, he might have to send her away: should fortune favour him with an heir, he would not raise the boy in close proximity to such an evident mistress. She would never starve: he would help her to find a husband and provide for any children she had, and he reassured himself the course he had in mind was the right one; but would he not be as miserable as she?
The ride into Capua, from his tented encampment, on the day appointed for the synod, brought back many memories, not least that in this locality Normans were not loved: the looks they received from the population as they made their way from city gates to the castle left them in no doubt that time had not abated the fear Capuans had of these blond, blue-eyed warriors. Then it had been just him and Drogo, now it was all six of the brothers de Hauteville: even Robert was in his entourage, riding alongside the litter in which sat Berengara, the drapes firmly closed.
But there were other memories, more pleasant: it was here he had ceased to merely be a mercenary lance without patrimony and had become, or so he thought, heir to the County of Aversa. He had ridden up to the gates of the twin barbicans of the castle he was now approaching as an imperial messenger, to demand its surrender. Now he was coming to it as a warlord in his own right, older and, he hoped, wiser.
The walls and gate were manned by imperial troops, Swabians by the look of their accoutrements and speech, who demanded to know his name and title before allowing him admission to the inner keep, this accompanied by suspicious looks at the powerful escort of fifty lances William had fetched along. From there, once dismounted, the senior members of the party made their way to the great hall he had visited so often in the past, in more disordered times.
Guaimar was already present in all his pomp, as was the Abbot of Montecassino, who looked daggers at them, as he would at any Norman, while on a dais sat two men. One, young and fresh of face he took to be Henry, the other, given his pontifical garb and his great age, undoubtedly the Pope. Rainulf was standing by the aisle, with a stalwart-looking young fellow by his side who William suspected might be his nephew, Richard, news of whose arrival from Normandy had filtered through to Melfi. Clearly, if it was, and given his presence at such a gathering, he already had the ear and trust of his uncle.
The Dukes of Naples and Gaeta were identified by the gonfalons retainers held over their heads, proud men and Lombards, owners of their own fiefs, who nevertheless knew they held their titles by imperial favour, and it was telling the distance that existed between them and Guaimar, whom they knew to be ambitious that Salerno, having subsumed Amalfi, should surpass them as the greatest trading port of their shared coast. To these lords he was a constant threat, having, as he did, Rainulf’s still-numerous Normans at his beck and call.
The surpri
se of the gathering, in fact no less than a shock, only revealed itself after they had made their bows to the dais and been welcomed by the emperor. Standing to one side, partially hidden, stood Pandulf, the one time Prince of Capua, the man known as the Wolf of the Abruzzi, in what had been his own great hall, this before he had been deposed. Hasty questioning of the others, gathered as they retired, revealed the truth: if the release of George Maniakes from his dungeon had been one of the Emperor Constantine’s little surprises on his accession to the purple, this was another, potentially equally troubling. Pandulf had been freed and sent home, in the certain knowledge that he was bound to cause trouble among his fellow Lombards, which could only benefit the Byzantine cause.
‘So, William de Hauteville,’ Pandulf said, having made his way through the throng to sidle up to a man he had once tried to recruit, the very fellow who had seen to it he lost his title. ‘I find myself addressing a very different fellow. You have risen in the world.’
The Wolf had aged, hardly surprising for a man who had spent years in a Byzantine oubliette; at one time darkly handsome, he was now drawn-looking and his black hair was streaked with grey, but the dark, dancing eyes were the same as was the voice, one which William knew to be silky and insincere, but also one which wove a spell on the uninitiated, which seemed to be able to embrace and render congenial whichever person he was addressing. And there was the smile as well, slightly crooked.
‘And you, Pandulf, have risen from the dead.’
‘If it were not blasphemous, I would compare myself to Christ.’
‘I do not recall that you feared blasphemy or damnation,’ said Drogo.
Pandulf ignored that remark, looking past Drogo and his brothers to Berengara, the eyebrows lifting and the smile broadening in mock wonder. ‘And you have taken as wife the beautiful Berengara, William. How I envy you such a prize.’
