Son of Blood c-1

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Odd,’ Sichelgaita replied after a long pause, for she could not disagree with her son, ‘that he loves a city in which so many loathe him.’

  ‘Is that why we came here?’

  ‘Partly; it was his favourite from the day he rode in to accept the surrender, but the best Greek physicians reside here too and they are much required.’

  ‘And the other reason is?’

  ‘Surely you have thought about what will happen if God takes him from us?’

  ‘I try not to, Mother, and I shall pray that it is not so until he is well again.’

  Few mothers see anything untoward in their sons and Sichelgaita was no exception with both her boys. She relished the piety of her eldest and saw his way of ever counting and recounting his purse money that had earned him his sobriquet of Borsa as just a harmless affectation, so much so that she employed it herself. But for all the maternal mote in her eye, she also knew that her son lacked the fiery spirit of his sire, and while he was a competent fighter for his fourteen summers, he was not amongst the first rank of his peers; in short, there were those of his own age who could best him in mock combat, and given the closeness of Norman training to actual battle, such a handicap was likely to apply there as well.

  Experience, added to a few years, would make him more capable but he was not yet commanding by nature. Sichelgaita knew that if what she feared to happen came about, and her husband did not recover, then it would fall to her to protect her Roger until he could come into the qualities he required to hold his own amongst the Guiscard’s troublesome vassals. So be it; she had often stood in for her husband, indeed was seen by many as a co-ruler of the dukedom and was a match for Robert as a force of nature, understood the politics needed to acquire and maintain authority, all of which she would employ to keep Borsa safe.

  ‘Come, let us go ashore,’ she said. ‘I desire you to go ahead of your father’s bier and I also require that you smile at the populace. Look confident, Borsa, for whatever happens in the coming days, that is an attitude you are going to require.’

  Robert had been craned ashore and laid on to a litter, to be surrounded by monks swinging thuribles of burning incense meant to ward off any malodours, with the crowd pressing forward as far as they were allowed to look at him, peering between the soldiers who formed an outer ring, seeing a much-diminished figure if you took account of the face. Gone were the florid cheeks and full red lips, to be replaced by heavily drawn features in which the bones of the jaw and the nose were prominent, while even his hair, which Sichelgaita had dressed, looked like used straw. Many just stared, but there were those, and this cheered Sichelgaita, who crossed themselves repeatedly and seemed to silently pray, hoping for his recovery, not saying farewell to his departing soul.

  Massively walled, Bari also had a strong castle with a formidable citadel at its heart and it was to here that Robert was taken. His son made for the partially built cathedral, where he knelt with the priests and the congregation, many of them recently Orthodox in their worship, as the new Archbishop of Bari said Mass in the Roman rite to aid in the recovery of their overlord. Robert now lay peacefully in a private chamber, no longer the ranting, sweating victim of whatever assailed him, but in his wax-like appearance akin to an alabaster representation of the kind that one fateful day, mailed and with a sword in his hands, might grace his sarcophagus.

  Bohemund was well beyond the reach of that and, in any case, heading further west. He had sight of Montesarchio a good while before they came to the base of the steep, cobbled causeway that led up to the castle gates. Once there he could not, as a Norman warrior, look at it from any other viewpoint than a fortress that required to be taken by assault. With his worship of family it would have pleased the young man to know that this was where his Uncle William had first won his spurs in the mercenary service of Rainulf Drengot, to know that the warrior who many years later became known as Iron Arm and Count of Apulia had bloodily fought his way up that cobbled causeway to the very gate through which he would be welcomed, and once inside, given the man commanding the expedition was wounded, taken it upon himself for the first time to act as a leader not a follower.

  Constructed of cream stone blocks, the small castle of Montesarchio was set on a high hill, almost conical in shape, broad at the base but tapered at the top so that there was no glacis around the actual walls on which either ballista or ladders could be employed; thus the only route of assault was up the causeway, making it a hard place to capture. From its highest point — probably, judging by its aged stone, the original Roman tower — it overlooked the surrounding landscape, not least an old imperial road running straight east and west, which rendered it also near immune to surprise. From the pole at the top of the tower flew a red and black banner to tell all it was a fief of the Prince of Capua, though in size it barely suited his station.

  Fearing that his horse would slip on that cobbled causeway, Bohemund dismounted, the reins immediately taken from him by one of the men on duty as sentinels. When he was halfway up to the open gates an elegantly clad group, some six in number, emerged and stood waiting to greet him. From the bearing of the man in the middle he knew he was about to meet his relative by marriage, who was employing the first step of what would be a long attempt to flatter him by the singular act of coming out to give him greeting. By his side was a lady who stood a good hand taller, whom he assumed to be his aunt, given he could see in her something of his sister Emma.

  If the Princess Fressenda was loftier than her spouse — she had a measure of the de Hauteville build — it was natural that her nephew towered over him and by habit he sought to shrink himself by slightly hunching his shoulders to mitigate the effect. Bareheaded, the suzerain of Capua was stocky, small and balding, with cheeks that seemed puffy in a way that indicated he ate and drank well. An eye drawn to his midriff showed he had a paunch as well, which for some reason Bohemund found unbecoming in a Norman leader; if his father had bulk, it was muscle not fat. Try as he did, it was impossible to avoid the need for Richard to strain his neck to meet a pair of eyes now searching his face, the effort of forcing himself to smile obvious.

  ‘Greetings, cousin.’

  Bohemund turned to a more genuine smile, that of his aunt, and as she proffered her hand to be taken by his, he dropped to one knee to kiss it, saying as he did so, ‘You do me great honour, Lady.’ He would have been pleased to observe her husband’s expression; he looked piqued that no such accolade had been addressed to him.

  ‘It gives us great pleasure to receive you, Bohemund,’ Fressenda replied, gently raising him up again, then stepping forward and forcing him to bend so she could kiss his cheeks. ‘And it is to be hoped that you will stay as our guest for some time. I wish you to know that, for us, this is as much the bosom of your family as anywhere in Apulia.’

  Looking down still, Bohemund smiled; there was no time-wasting here — that was the first round in an attempt to seduce him from service to his sire. A movement to his aunt’s rear made him look past her, this as she stepped aside to introduce a young man who had recognisably de Hauteville features: broad shoulders, red-gold hair, blue eyes, a fair complexion and, not least, a height greater than his father, though like most men he was dwarfed by Bohemund.

  ‘Allow me to name to you your blood cousin,’ Fressenda said, ‘our son Jordan. It is to be hoped that you will behave more like brothers.’

  Jordan’s eyes narrowed as swiftly as did those of Bohemund; how they would come to see each other, whether they would be friends, indifferent or enemies would not be dictated by blood but by the kind of rivalry that afflicts all young men.

  ‘Come,’ Fressenda said, turning to re-enter the castle, ‘we have here dozens of men eager to set eyes on the youth they could not lay by the heels.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  While the Duke of Apulia hovered between life and death, those who owed allegiance to his person began to arrive in Bari, but the one face Sichelgaita longed to gaze upon was not yet present. H
er husband’s most potent vassal, she knew that his voice would carry most weight when it came to the succession and she had sound reasons to think him steadfast in her cause. Much would rest with Roger de Hauteville, Count of Sicily and younger brother to the Guiscard, after whom Borsa was named. He was on his way from the island, that she knew, for Robert had called upon his brother to bring to Apulia what forces he could muster to aid his campaign against Capua.

  What she did not know, and her husband had prior to his illness suffered the same uncertainty, was how long he would take to arrive; there was no way of guessing the precise depth of his engagement against the continuing Saracen resistance to the complete Norman subjugation of the island. Boats had been sent out to intercept him on his way to Trani, to which he had been summoned, to ensure he changed course for Bari, which he must bypass on the way.

  Meanwhile she could sense the atmosphere growing more febrile as the numbers who had taken up residence in Bari, and who had now witnessed for themselves the depth of their liege lord’s malaise, turned idle talk into varying schemes.

  All of these sought personal advantage and had only enough force behind them to last till they foundered on the aspirations of their equally ambitious peers. Naturally, those who had rebelled at some time were the most vocal, and noisiest amongst them and a perennial complainant was Abelard, loud in his constant protestations that he was the rightful heir to the dukedom and that it would be a double denial of his inheritance if the son of the usurper was considered as fitting to hold his title. It was a blessing he lacked the attributes to be a true leader of such a fractious polity.

  Sichelgaita got minimal encouragement from her son; Borsa moved among those same vassals without the ability to engender much in the way of support, hardly surprising given his age. Too often, feeling either ineffectual or rebuffed, he took refuge in long hours of prayer with his personal confessor, without ever letting it be known what supplication they were seeking from God. His strong desire that his father should live was something he shared only with his mother and it was observed by her that when in the company of the men from whom he would require backing, few, when caught not looking at him face to face, gazed upon him in a way to produce encouragement. Quite often, in her fevered imagination, the looks aimed at his back had about them more a trace of the dagger.

  Sichelgaita needed these men to pledge loyalty to her son and did much in the way of persuasion and sometimes outright bribery to increase that support, but with too many unwilling to confirm she feared to put an oath to the test; if the lords of Robert’s domains refused to endorse Borsa while her husband still breathed there would be scant chance of them doing so once he had passed away, yet the longer she delayed increased the risk that some combination would be formed to thwart her wishes. Her pleas to the tribe of physicians for a clear prognosis fell on an equal amount of dissension: one would claim that recovery was inevitable only for another to insist that death could not be avoided and was hourly to be expected.

  In the middle were those who hovered between being positive one day and the opposite the next but it was clear to even a medical layman that if Robert could not be fed, and being comatose that was hard to achieve, even if his vital spirit was strong it would weaken slowly until the end could not be gainsaid. So when the news came that a fleet of galleys had been sighted approaching the harbour from the south-east and that the lead vessel flew at its masthead a blue and white pennant, Sichelgaita could hardly contain her relief — Roger was here.

  Looking from the deck of his vessel at the massive fortifications of the most populous port city in Apulia, Roger de Hauteville was astounded, even if it was a proven fact that his brother had ever managed to take the place. The walls did not just protect the port from the landward approach; what made it so formidable was that the entire inner harbour was enclosed, which, had it not faced such a cunning adversary, would have made it unassailable to a land-based assault. Also he wondered what he would face behind those walls, for if the boat that had intercepted him had told him his brother was seriously ill, there was no sign from his standard flying atop the citadel to say that he was more than that — it still flapped at the very top of the pole. Still, being by nature prudent, he had no intention of landing in force until he knew what lay ahead, evidenced by his call to his master of the fleet.

  ‘Signal the other galleys to anchor in the outer roads. We will go in alone.’

  Roger’s sister-in-law, as well as his namesake nephew, were on the quay to greet him as his galley tied up and a gangplank was lowered for him to cross. Much as dignity was prized, there are few men who can move from a vessel to terra firma and quite hold their balance; after many days at sea their body has become used to the motion of the ship and some adjustment is required, so when Roger came off the gangplank he did so unsteadily. Sichelgaita was more concerned with the look in his eye than gait and that was firm, unblinking and meeting her own, so if others watching were unsure of his loyalty, she felt her own concern ease. It needed her two hands, both held in his, to make him feel steady as he kissed her cheeks and whispered his brother’s name, the reaction of relief palpable when he was told he was still breathing.

  Sichelgaita pushed him to arm’s length and smiled. ‘There you are, Roger, ever the most handsome of your tribe. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.’

  That was greeted with a wry smile and a negative shake, for if he was indeed a fine figure of a man Roger did not possess the vanity to take the compliment without being dismissive. He turned to look at his nephew, whom he had last seen as a small boy; now he was close in years to manhood and while Roger was smiling there was in the eyes sharp examination — this lad could be a strong influence in his life and it was fitting that he make an assessment. Under his soft cap Borsa’s hair was the colour of charcoal, not the red-gold of a de Hauteville, and his face was olive-coloured, for it took the sun well, unlike the family tendency to reddish cheeks that suffered from overexposure. There was something about the boy that nagged at his mind until he placed it: he had about him similar features to his mother’s brother, Gisulf of Salerno, quite natural given their relationship. It was not, however, one to encourage Roger, who knew only too well what a dolt was the boy’s Lombard uncle.

  ‘Do they still call you Borsa, nephew?’

  ‘They do,’ the youth said in response, before adding a shy grin. ‘Though I am given to wonder if I might have more names to answer to than that.’

  ‘If you don’t have them now, you will.’

  Sichelgaita killed any notion of what they might be as she made the ritual enquiry after a lady of whom she was fond, Roger’s wife Judith, as well as his daughters, a diversion in which she could not but touch her boy, for if she too had four girls she also had two legitimate sons, Borsa and the ten-year-old Guy; Jordan, Roger’s only male offspring, was illegitimate and without question so, therefore surely no threat to her hopes.

  ‘Sichelgaita, I long to see Robert,’ Roger insisted, when manners and the rituals of greeting allowed.

  ‘And you shall, though I recall it was not always so.’

  Her brother-in-law laughed out loud as they began to move from the quay towards the citadel, for there was much truth in that; it was hard to know if, in the last fifteen years, they had fought with each other more than cooperated, for even he had been forced to rebel against Robert over his brother’s continual refusal to meet the obligations to which he had sworn. In moments of reflection Roger knew why his relationship with his older sibling was never smooth and it was not just a family trait — the Guiscard was conscious that in Roger he had a match, a de Hauteville with no shortage of the family genius in both war and statecraft, and it was a rivalry that he did not enjoy; he liked to think himself supreme in such arts.

  ‘If he hears the sound of my voice he will stir for fear that I might usurp him.’

  Meant as a jest, Roger was quick to see the effect on Sichelgaita was one of apprehension and if he knew it to be misplaced he als
o knew what was the cause: that should he contest the ducal inheritance with his nephew, then Borsa was doomed. Succession was not guaranteed by bloodline amongst the Normans of Italy; each de Hauteville brother who had succeeded had done so as much by acclamation as by a sibling gift and that had come about because of their unmatched abilities. It was necessary to reassure her.

  ‘Then if he has any sense at all, he will know that I would never do so.’

  ‘Roger, I am required to ask something of you.’

  ‘I am Robert’s vassal as well as I am his brother, and even if I were not constrained by that, I would never challenge him. I did not take the vow that others did. Tancred had passed away by the time I left Normandy but I hold to it nevertheless in his honour, and if I challenged Robert in the past it was only because of his chicanery over what I was owed.’

  ‘That is not what I was about to solicit.’

  ‘I can guess your other concern, Sichelgaita, and I beg you put it to rest. I made a vow to Robert I would look out for your son and that I will do.’

  ‘Then you will support me when I ask that all Robert’s vassals swear to him.’

  ‘I will do what is needed.’

  Later, sitting beside his comatose brother’s bed, to the murmuring of priests saying prayers for his deliverance, Roger could too easily recall what he had called his chicanery, though he was forced to acknowledge that in his treatment he had not been singled out; many of Robert’s vassals had been treated the same. Robert could not help himself, for he was devious as well as cunning; he would promise anything to get what he wanted, then wonder why he should pay up when his aims had been achieved, and that was how it had been in Calabria.

  Roger had set out to subdue that Byzantine province on the pledge of being given the revenues of the fiefs and cities he took; his brother had reneged when he was successful. It had been necessary to rebel to get him to honour those undertakings and even then, when Roger had been required to rescue him from his own folly — or was it his hubris? — he had held out for an even share of those revenues. To this day the income from those possessions was split between them.