by Jack Ludlow
Desiderius had been born into a cadet branch of the princely family that had ruled Benevento prior to their being ousted by Humphrey de Hauteville, yet he had renounced all that brought in wealth and comfort for his faith and the simple life of a Benedictine monk. If both men were Lombards, they could be marked more by their differences than their similarities: Hildebrand was ill-tempered, dogmatic in his faith and intolerant of any perceived transgressions of the creed. Physically short and stocky, swarthy of face and with untidy black hair, he wore his canonical garments badly, managing, even in magnificent vestments, to look every inch the peasant many claimed him to be. The Abbot of Monte Cassino eschewed display, yet with his silver-grey locks, kindly, well-proportioned features and forgiving nature, looked and behaved like the aristocrat he was.
‘We must pray for the soul of every one of Our Saviour’s flock, Hildebrand, regardless of how much they have sinned.’
‘The Guiscard won’t cease to do that even in death,’ Hildebrand snorted. ‘He’ll probably storm St Peter’s very gates, prodding with his lance and demanding heaven submit; that is, if he ever gets to paradise.’
‘He has endowed many places of worship.’
‘And destroyed ten times more and he is an excommunicate. He deserves to burn in hell.’
‘My friend, if I pray for his soul, I shall do so for you with as much sincerity when your time comes.’
That stopped whatever Hildebrand was about to say; the notion that he would need as many entreaties as a devil like the Guiscard to enter heaven was a sobering one and enough to silence even his normally uncontrollable temperament.
‘You know these heathens better than I, Desiderius. I need your advice on how to proceed.’
That made even the calm abbot look askance; Hildebrand was as likely to ignore him as endorse any opinion he put forward, but it was true he knew the Normans well and had dealt with them on numerous occasions, all the way back to Rainulf Drengot and William Bras de Fer. His aim had been to protect his monastery, which lay sandwiched between Rome and Campania, and in that he had been more than successful. Destroyed many times, not least by marauding Saracens, and rebuilt only to be diminished by Lombard-inspired Norman incursions, Desiderius had managed to secure it their protection, and that brought with it both peace and prosperity till the only rival it now had in Christendom, in terms of riches and prestige, was the mighty French Abbey of Cluny.
Naturally, with the news of Duke Robert’s death came a report of the assembly called by Sichelgaita, its purpose as well as the conclusion. Desiderius was well acquainted with, indeed he had appointed, the personal confessor of the putative heir.
‘This Roger they call Borsa is a pious young man I am told.’
‘Which,’ Hildebrand snapped, ‘will do him no good at all if he cannot rule in Apulia.’
‘The boy’s mother is a formidable woman. If what we hear of this swearing of vows is true, I would surmise that while he may hold the title, it will be she who controls the reins until the boy reaches maturity.’
‘What will Capua do when he hears this news?’
‘Nothing, unless he had support from the Apulian barons, and they have just been soundly routed. Richard lacks the strength to invade without that, and even then he would come up against the Count of Sicily now he has sworn allegiance to a legal inheritance. You know less of him but he is as good a general as ever was the Guiscard.’
‘If he is so puissant a warrior why did he not take the title himself?’
‘I surmise he is an honourable man.’ That got a loud snort from Hildebrand; the concept of honour in a Norman was not one he could easily accept. ‘If Roger Borsa has a difficulty it is with his half-brother, Bohemund, who is, I am told, a formidable young man.’
Hildebrand, when he replied, had no need to seek to appear cunning. His features inclined towards that naturally — his trouble was an appearance of sincerity. ‘It could be in our interest to set them at each other’s throats.’
‘Would it not, Hildebrand,’ Desiderius responded with a sigh, ‘be better to bring them to a peaceful understanding?’
‘Understanding, with a Norman?’ Hildebrand sneered. ‘No such thing is possible, but let us leave that aside, as we have other matters to consider.’
‘I beg you not to go to them,’ the abbot replied, for he had a very good idea of what was coming.
‘I do not comprehend you, Desiderius. The Supreme Office is yours for the asking. Not a voice would be raised, even in Bamberg, if you assumed the papacy.’
‘One voice would object most heartily, Hildebrand, and that is my own. I do not want it.’
‘Well,’ Hildebrand replied, in a way that did nothing to convince Desiderius he accepted his decision, ‘I will convey that to the Curia, but do not be surprised if they do not accept it.’
‘It is not an office that can be forced on any man.’
‘What if it is the will of God?’
‘How can one be sure of that, when it is expressed through mere mortals?’
‘You should pray for guidance.’
‘That must wait till tomorrow morning,’ was the reply, as the abbot made to depart. ‘Until then I shall do as I intended before you sent for me and sit vigil by Pope Alexander’s catafalque. If my supplications have any value, which I doubt, then they should be employed to see that good man into the arms of Our Lord, not me into his vacant chair.’
Hildebrand went back to the arrangements for the next day’s interment; having buried four pontiffs, it was a task to which he was well accustomed, but he had other concerns, not least how to persuade the man who had just departed that it was his duty to accept the mitre of St Peter and his own personal feelings had no bearing. If he felt it a burden all he would have, if he so wanted, were the trappings; Hildebrand had been running things for so long, down to the most tedious level, and he could continue to do so if asked.
Unbeknown to him, there were several conversations of the same topic being carried out in houses as well as palaces all over Rome, as the assembled cardinals and bishops met with the Roman aristocrats to see where they had common ground in the election of a successor to Alexander. What emerged took much overnight scurrying to and fro from meeting to meeting, as well as messages flying between the most important locations. In a city where plotting was endemic, the sole surprise was the speed of unanimity in coming to a conclusion between such disparate entities.
Those divines who had risen to high office in the last twenty years found, to their surprise, that they shared a desire with the leading Roman families for an outcome, and given those same aristocrats controlled the mob, and they could with their coins direct them to carry out their aims, it fell to these families to make necessary arrangements to ensure the right candidate was elected.
Hildebrand was up long before it was light, first to say his devotions and then prepare for the coming ceremony, made sad by contemplation, because he had loved Alexander as a person as well as he had served and guided him faithfully. As that, he would have liked to lead the procession to the nearby Lateran Basilica where Alexander was to be interred, but even as Chancellor of the Apostolic See he must give precedence to cardinals, the senior bishops and abbots like Desiderius, now assembling with the clergy of Rome to perform the ceremony of consecration and burial. It was fitting that he fast this day, so with only a sip of watered wine to sustain him he stood while his servants robed him in his vestments, trying, and as usual failing, to make him look as noble as he should.
Outside, when he emerged, stood the Church of Rome assembled and his heart swelled to see their magnificence: vestments of heavy silk sown with pearls and jewels, crosses of solid gold, studded with gems, to be carried in procession, all the trappings that testified to the glory of God and his Vicar on Earth. In his lifetime the religion for which he had toiled so hard had been much reduced, and if his efforts had restored its pride he had also been instrumental in the restoration of its revenues to the point that there was no disp
lay of splendour it could not undertake. Yet for all that glitter, there was Desiderius, still simply robed as the monk he was, and the two exchanged greetings, an act repeated with all those whom Hildebrand had summoned to Rome. But no time was wasted and the bishop who would perform the Mass went to the head of the gathering to lead the catafalque and those who would follow it the short distance to the basilica.
A huge crowd of citizens had gathered, both high-born and low, and they fell in behind, the aristocrats naturally to the front. Most would be barred from the interior of the Lateran Basilica — space would not allow them all entry — but equity as well as sound policy dictated that a number of representatives of the guilds as well as the urban poor be admitted. For the rest, they would remain in the plaza yet still take full part in the Mass, conducted to them by relays of priests. Smoky incense filled the air as the bearers swung their thuribles and the plainchant of the accompanying monks rose in a slow but sweet dirge, which changed its note as it went from the open air and entered the high-roofed building, echoing off the rafters.
In a ceremony that would last half the day there was no sign of impatience; the congregations of Rome were accustomed to lengthy Masses as well as the stifling heat of packed humanity; there was no room for a communion wafer between the shoulders of the crowd. It was only when the final prayers were said over the coffin that the murmuring started, a beehive-like noise that made bile rise in Hildebrand’s throat and his blood begin to surge, for it showed a lack of respect to the man being interred.
Then he recognised his name, first being whispered, then called, to be finally shouted, and he felt a frisson of fear. It had not happened for a long time, but it was not unknown for a Roman mob to string up someone they blamed for a real or perceived sin, and Alexander had been a much loved pontiff, added to which no pope died without rumours spreading through the seven hills and foul-smelling slums of rank deeds being involved in his passing. The noise grew, becoming universal, and it was only then he understood what it was they were yelling and that induced in his heart a feeling of cold fear.
Those close by, all clerics, parted to let through to him the poorer members of the laity, and it was their hands that took him and lifted him bodily to bear him out of the church where he was greeted by a screaming and packed mob. From being hustled along Hildebrand was suddenly lying flat on his back being passed over a sea of hands, he saying as he was transported a loudly expressed prayer to God that was drowned out by the cacophony all around him. They bore him to the Church of St Peter Viniculus, where Alexander had been crowned, the only pope to use that church, and still the cry went up to rebound off a second set of church rafters and, even if he did not know it, throughout the crammed streets and squares until it seemed the whole of the Eternal City spoke with one voice and the cry was: ‘Hildebrand for Pope! Hildebrand for Pope!’
All those chosen to elect Alexander’s successor had followed and were now in conclave, which gave Hildebrand some hope, for canonical elections in their progress were long, drawn-out affairs; opinions were canvassed, names put forward and rejected — sometimes days, even weeks went by before consensus was arrived at and a candidate accepted. The Curia elected Hildebrand in less time than it took to consume a full flagon of wine and such was the cheering that no one could hear him protest that he could not be pontiff, for he was only a monk in lesser orders, not a fully consecrated priest, even less a bishop, which the Pope must be.
That too fell on deaf ears; in the millennium since its foundation the Catholic faith had been proscribed and provided martyrs in the thousands, risen to a state religion and been overawed by emperors, seen its possessions, even its spiritual home, sacked and destroyed, and had brought it back to life and prominence. In that time it had become accustomed to both the necessity of compromise and need for expediency; when this objection finally got through to those who had elected him the solution was simple: Hildebrand was immediately ordained to be fully a priest and so entitled to hold the pontificate — his consecration as a bishop could wait.
‘Your election was popular,’ Desiderius insisted, to a collective and murmured assent as he chose to speak for the High Church dignitaries assembled inside what was now Hildebrand’s Lateran Palace. ‘Every voice in Rome from high to low is raised in acclamation.’
Seated by the desk at which he had worked for decades and slumped from exhaustion, Hildebrand replied with resignation, an unusual tone for such a passionate man. ‘I never sought this.’
‘Which makes you more suitable than most.’
‘It should be you.’
‘And if it was,’ the Abbot of Monte Cassino replied, ‘I would do no more, and pursue no policies other than those you advised. Better you do command yourself and are known to, than disburse the proclamations under another name.’
‘What will Bamberg say?’
‘They will fight you as Pope or whosoever we had chosen, for it would not be the Emperor’s nominee, but your own.’
‘Henry would have accepted you, Desiderius.’
The abbot wore a thin smile as he responded. ‘Which surely makes me a very unsuitable candidate.’
As they had been talking, a clutch of clerks had entered carrying folders relating to those things which Hildebrand had been dealing with before his elevation, a list of appointments to the various offices of the Europe-wide Church, or at least approval or denial of same — William of England was being particularly difficult regarding the See of Canterbury. There were sheaves of letters, reports on everything, from what was happening in Constantinople to clerical malfeasance in selling benefices — neither encouraging — instructions to bishops to enforce celibacy or to defrock forthwith the deniers, and this applied especially in the regions ruled by the Duke of Apulia.
‘Which reminds me,’ Hildebrand said, as he beckoned one fellow forward, taking from him his folder and opening it to reveal on the top a finished letter, requiring only that it be signed. ‘This I penned last night, a message of condolence to the Duchess Sichelgaita on the loss of her husband. Hypocrisy, of course, God forgive me.’
‘If God will not forgive his Vicar on Earth, then who?’
Hildebrand looked hard at Desiderius then, for the abbot, despite all his apparent saintliness, was not beyond mockery. Speedily he read his letter again before reaching forward to extract a quill, which he dipped in his inkwell. Then he hesitated and looked up at Desiderius.
‘How shall I sign it, for I have not yet decided how I will be named?’
‘Now, Your Holiness, is as good a time as any.’
Hildebrand was startled to be so addressed. He sat for several moments in contemplation, then quickly bent and signed the letter. As soon as he did so another one of his clerks came to the desk and produced a stick of wax, which was held to a candle to melt. Then he put a red ribbon on the bottom of the missive, dripped the runny wax onto it and watched as the new Pope pressed home the ring with the papal seal that only he had the right to use. As he finished, Desiderius held out a hand, took it from him and looked at the name scrawled across the bottom, nodding slowly.
‘Let us hope, Your Holiness, that Gregory is a name you can live up to.’
In Bari, the day before, the bells pealed out to announce that their liege lord had fully recovered, and to prove it to even the most sceptical and ill-disposed of his subjects he walked through the streets, on his wife’s arm and trailed by his sons. Behind them came Count Roger and the leading men of his court and the garrison, heading to the cathedral where a Mass was said to thank the Lord for his deliverance. He was, of course, examined closely; was it truly the Guiscard and not some cunning ploy of a lookalike? But even the most doubtful had to accept the truth, for if his appearance could possibly be faked, his irrepressible manner and sheer presence could not.
Naturally the priests claimed it was their prayers that had saved him, the physicians equally certain their ministrations had brought about the recovery. Robert himself put it down to his own robust spirit,
though he was careful to assuage the Almighty with several Masses performed in gratitude for his deliverance over the coming week. That was when the letter of condolence arrived from Rome, along with news of the election of a new pope and who had been elevated. Yet that was not what set him off; it had to wait till the seal of the office of the new papal chancellor was broken. When he opened and read it the Guiscard laughed so hard he nearly suffered a relapse.
The letter was full of duplicity; he was not an excommunicate, but a dear son of the Holy Church. The cardinals and the Roman Senate were grieving at his passing; indeed they had been brought low by the news. It said that Sichelgaita in order that she should know of the perfect love we bore your husband could take comfort from their permission for his son to succeed to those titles which his father held from the Pope, our predecessor. In other words, much as it pleased his wife when he read those words, remember he is our vassal!
‘Gregory the Seventh, by damn!’ Robert spat when he read the signature. ‘You can’t fault Hildebrand for ambition.’
‘He may live up to the name,’ Roger replied.
‘I hope not, brother; the last thing we need is a pope who earns the right to be called Gregory the Great. Hildebrand was enough of a damned nuisance as an archdeacon.’ Another of Robert’s huge belly laughs followed that. ‘Who knows, he might not last — he might go the way of Alexander when he hears I am still alive, which he will do from the messenger that will depart this very hour.’
CHAPTER NINE
With extensive possessions to control and the news circulating of the elevation of Hildebrand to become Pope Gregory VII, it was not surprising that Richard of Capua, having seen to the greeting and engaged in just enough conversation to be polite, had excused himself and his son, for he had much business to which he had to attend. Locally this meant a line of supplicants taking advantage of their lord’s close presence, while mounted messengers came and went with noticeable frequency, carrying messages to and from the whole of Campania and very likely many places beyond.
