by Jack Ludlow
In this industry he was aided by his son, Jordan, who gave an impression of taking a full part in ruling his father’s holdings, and given the princess had retired from the midday heat, Bohemund was left to his own devices. If he was a prisoner not a guest — yet to be proven despite what that herald had said — then he was bound by silken cords, free to move around at will, both inside the castle and the immediate surroundings, but never out of sight of a watchful gaze from the many who attended upon his relatives.
He had grown up with people staring at him because of his height, but even taking that into account, the amount of attention he received from the Capuans amounted to an unusual degree of scrutiny and after a while he realised that one or a pair of them were observing his meanderings, if not always closely so. It was as if in his movement and actions they had been tasked to discern the very workings of his mind, while in conversation, when they did engage him, he was subjected to an unaccustomed amount of flattery. To hear them talk it was as if the prince’s nephew had plundered the possession of some sworn enemy rather than that of their lord and master, for they were full of praise for his sagacity and his actions; no mention was made of those Lombard lances who had died in that narrow, treelined valley.
There was not much to Montesarchio, either in the way of extensive fortifications or the town itself, yet it had all those attributes that marked it out as a Norman outpost, not least a large training manege by which he stopped, with a battered false shield wall occupying one whole end, stout wooden stakes marked by the deep cuts from wielded broadswords, posts set in a zigzag pattern that required good horsemanship through which to manoeuvre at a decent pace, much of the guiding having to be done by the pressure of thighs and knees alone, for the hands would be occupied with weapons. There were straw-stuffed sacks set on swinging uprights to test a man’s skill with the lance. It was empty now, being raked to remove all trace of what had taken place in the cool, early hours of the morning.
‘You will join us on the morrow, I hope,’ said one of the knights who kept popping up to converse with him. ‘We will all wish to observe your obvious prowess.’
‘Is it so apparent?’
‘How could it not be when you have so recently run rings round we poor Capuans? We were given to wonder if the name Bohemund was another appellation for a chimera.’
The gap between flattery and falsehood is wafer thin; that sounded more like the latter to Bohemund, making him consider a less than encouraging thought. Had he been allowed to raid at will, had they let him plunder in order to aid the seduction to which he was bound to be subjected? If he hoped not, still he felt it best to at least consider it possible, given it is better to dent your pride than burnish it.
Walking on, he cast a professional eye over the quality of the extensive stud, many areas full of mares and foals — they kept well away from their sires — until he found the paddock with his own mount, who was grazing so contentedly that it ignored his calls. Still it had been well groomed and looked sleek, crest and tail well combed and the hooves shiny with oil. He would have liked to find his saddle and harness but that was not possible, given he was still under observation, and the thought occurred that if he needed to make a break he might have to do so riding bareback.
Lest they work out his thinking he moved away, examining the castle and its defences from every angle, until he came full circle to a point where the small town of Montesarchio abutted the bottom of the causeway that led to the main gate. He made to enter the first of the narrow streets, only to find his way blocked by a pair of fellows who by their gentle gestures — a hand on their sword hilts added to a minimal shake — made it plain that such a course was not open to him. Tempted to brush them aside and go his own way, he was stopped by the sound of the running footsteps of a servant; the message had been sent that the princess, now the sun was past its zenith, was eager to receive him.
Not doubting that her husband was keen that she should test the waters of potential disloyalty, Bohemund turned and made his way back up the steep causeway, realising as he entered the cool stone interior that, still fully dressed in his mail, he was sweating from even those less than exacting perambulations. Even if the sun had dipped, it was still baking, which made him long for one of those naked dips in a cool river which he had enjoyed in the company of his conroys when they were sure no danger was at hand — the last occasion had been many days past. No doubt for the same reasons of temperature, Fressenda, attended by a pair of ladies in waiting, sat in near darkness, the small east-facing room she occupied heavily shuttered to keep out the sunlight.
‘Please sit, nephew, and tell me all about yourself.’
‘What is to tell that you do not already know?’
‘Much, I suspect, for if we are family we are not of the close kind. I have not seen you since you were a bouncing child and an appealing one at that, with your curls. You were of a size even then and restless, never still. Now, on the cusp of manhood you have your passions in check, but I wonder if there is anything of that boisterous babe still present?’
‘I have not lost my love of mischief.’
That, an obvious allusion to his recent actions, made her laugh, and it had about it something of the Guiscard, though without the booming level of noise. Bohemund was frustrated by the gloom; he wanted to see her face, not just hear her voice. It is easy to dissemble when your features are hidden, much harder to be evasive when every word is accompanied by a facial expression, and, he thought, since she shared features and certain gestures with his sister Emma, Fressenda might give away more to him than she knew.
‘Your father sent you to our lands?’
‘No, I am here against his wishes.’
‘His wishes, Bohemund? Are you defying him?’
‘Word was sent that I was to desist and I was reminded that the Duke is your brother.’
‘My much-beloved brother,’ Fressenda replied, and it was not necessary to see her face to note the tone of irony. ‘If you wish to defy him, would it not be best to plunder in his lands, not ours?’
‘As a knight and a leader of men I must make my way, though I cannot ride alone and I must in all conscience have a care for those who attach themselves to my banner, all of whom are knights in his service. What chance of advancement if all my father knows of them is what they stole from him?’
‘So you think that even in defying him, you personally will not be subjected to any retribution? It sounds more like an enterprise blessed than forbidden.’ That was a suggestion best not replied to. ‘When did you see your father last?’
‘At the castle of Corato; he returned to Trani, I rode west.’
‘And was he in good health?’
‘“Robust” would better describe him.’ Fressenda did not respond to that, and since she did not speak and he did not know what to say, a long silence followed, before his aunt added, forcefully, ‘I am glad to hear it, but perhaps you are less inclined to feel happy that he is, as you term it, “robust”.’
As an invitation to damn him it was obvious and given he had no intention of doing so, it led to another extended silence.
‘You do not respond, Bohemund. Can you forget that he made a bastard of you?’
‘No.’
‘You, your mother and sister cast aside just so Robert could wed a Lombard and add to his riches?’
‘That was not the reason given. He claimed to fear eternal damnation.’
‘It does not occur to you that instead of asking the Pope for a dispensation of annulment, which was accompanied by several talents of gold to oil the wheels, that same bribe could have been put to the purpose of overcoming the consanguinity of his marriage to your mother? Why did he not choose that? It was driven by ambition, not fear, and if he can put aside the mother of his two children who will he not betray to gain his ends?’
His aunt’s voice was irked, but was she really angry or just trying to manipulate his emotions? Without he could clearly see her eyes he could not tell.
‘Do you hate him, Bohemund?’
‘To do so would be a sin.’
‘You are so deeply religious?’
‘As I am sure are you.’
That held her in check for a moment; people with power tended to pay lip service to the Ten Commandments, relying on occasional and public acts of piety to ensure salvation, this while loudly exhorting those over whom they hold sway to trust everything to God. There were exceptions, his half-brother Borsa by repute being one, but nothing he had seen of his aunt, admittedly not much, made him suspect she was overly devout.
‘Do you sin when you think of Sichelgaita and Borsa?’
‘I rarely allow either of them to intrude upon my thoughts.’
That brought forth a low chuckle. ‘If you wield your sword with the same skill as you do your tongue, nephew, you will go far.’
‘I hope to do so.’
‘Do you aspire to be Duke of Apulia, Bohemund?’
‘If I did, it is not something I would openly admit to while my father is still alive.’
‘It would be treason?’
‘Foolish, more like, if he is as you say he is.’
‘You can voice thoughts here that you cannot be open about in your father’s domains.’
‘Just as I can keep them to myself, wherever I am.’
‘Even when help may be at hand?’
‘You alluded to our family not being close, but you are of an age to have known all of my uncles, those who served with Rainulf Drengot. I would be eager to hear of their exploits and what kind of men they were; even more how they rose from humble knights to become great lords.’
‘They were all de Hautevilles, is that not enough?’ Again he did not need to see her eyes; the impatience at the deliberate change of subject was obvious in that reply. There was a rustle of clothing and enough light to see she had stood. ‘Forgive me, nephew, I must prepare for our coming feast and so, I suspect, must you.’
‘Meaning I smell like a horse?’ Bohemund joked.
That brought forth another burst of real laughter. ‘Not any horse I have ever owned; you’re as rank as a pig.’
Like any great magnate, Richard and his wife ate in public, surrounded by a large number of their vassals, with, in this setting, the addition of jesters and musicians, which imposed as much strain on the limitations of Montesarchio as the Duke of Apulia had on Corato, while the knights that lined either side of the great hall were equally eager in their imbibing. There the similarities ended; there were no shouts of acclamation hailing their leader and victory, for there had been none, while Richard showed by his consumption of both food and wine why he had such a puffy face and a paunch; he overate voraciously and never let the wine servant go by without he drained his cup and had it refilled.
His conversation was stuttering because of that, though interesting originally as he told the youth rambling tales of his Uncle William’s service with Rainulf Drengot, the very thing his wife had declined to do. These became progressively less controlled as the wine took hold and the number of de Hauteville brothers rose from two to five. It got to the point of nearly naming them, William Iron Arm most of all, as ingrates who had enjoyed Rainulf’s kindness, then with Lombard help betrayed him.
‘I would hope that you will hunt with us, Bohemund,’ Jordan called, as the thoughts his father was harbouring made him look sulky and kept his face in his wine cup.
‘That I would like, cousin.’
Bohemund responded as was required, but in truth he was thinking that this fellow, some ten or more years his senior, was the person who should be seeking to detach him from loyalty to his father. He was Richard’s heir and time’s arrow was more likely to find him holding Capua when the moment came to contest his inheritance, which he would most certainly do, even if he was not prepared to be open about it with those hinting they might help. Against that, Jordan had married a sister of Sichelgaita, making him also a brother-in-law to Gisulf of Salerno, a known hater of de Hautevilles, so his allegiance might lie in the wrong direction.
A good-looking fellow, with an intelligent cast to his eye, Jordan looked more the prince than his sire. The smile he was aiming at his guest seemed slightly enigmatic, though Bohemund had to accept that the impression was possibly brought about by heightened imagination and not judgement. Because he was abstemious, he had, while talking to the hard-drinking prince, been able to observe much and one thing had been obvious: Jordan had watched him the way a falcon observes an unsuspecting field mouse and the look had carried with it a hint of private knowledge, for he had also seemed, in some way, amused.
Both were then distracted by Prince Richard’s fool, dressed in ludicrous layers of multicoloured rags, who was now bouncing around and jabbering in front of the high table. He had been making jests aimed at Hildebrand and Gregorian popes, but his tune had altered; now he was crying out that time had seen weasels and stoats back where they belonged, deep in the ground, with God to do the burrowing all the way to the anguish such creatures were entitled to get in the netherworld, for that was what they deserved.
Lords of the undergrowth one day, gobbling up mice and voles with low cunning in their supple hunt, meat for maggots the next. Beside him, Richard had begun to laugh in an inebriated way but his son was clearly less pleased. Yet it was not he who acted; it was Fressenda who threw the goblet that struck the poor idiot on the face, and with such force that it cut him. He staggered away from her and closer to Bohemund, his hand going to the point of contact and coming away with a trace of blood.
That set off a wailing and crying, for he was, like fools everywhere, a poor creature of dull wits who could, because of his afflictions, say things to the high and mighty that no other low-born person would dare to, for again, like all his breed, he was held to be much cosseted by God and that gave him protection from retribution. He fell against the table and turned, his odd-looking too-wide eyes fixed on Bohemund, showing his sad, flat face and yellowing skin. Then he cried out.
‘Mustela nivalis is no more. Weep in the burrow!’
Then two servants grabbed the fool and dragged him away, with Bohemund looking round quickly to try and see who had given the instruction, just in time to observe Jordan sit back, his smile now looking more forced than enigmatic, this while the hubbub of noise in the hall dropped suddenly. He had to work just as hard to compose his own features, to pretend that he had not understood the message the fool had been imparting, this while the Prince of Capua turned to his wife in such a way as to present his back to his guest, so his face was hidden.
‘I will have your horse saddled and ready at first light, Bohemund,’ Jordan called once more. ‘If that meets with your approval.’ When the response was a nod, he added, ‘You and I must speak with each other as much as you must talk with my father. I would have us be friends, if that is possible.’
To smile actually hurt. ‘I am sure we will be that.’
‘Wine!’ Jordan cried. ‘Damn it, my cup is empty and look to our guest.’
That was no sooner out than Richard turned back towards him, a lopsided grin on his face. ‘And when you have hunted we shall converse, Bohemund. We have much to offer each other.’
Allowing his wine cup to be filled, Bohemund’s thoughts were in turmoil; was that fool telling the truth? For with his damaged wits he was as likely to invent as to make jests that were truthful just as he knew the Latin tag for a weasel and that creature’s relationship to his sire. How could he not when he had heard it used so frequently? He could not ask, for in truth if the fool did have it right he was not sure he would get a straight response from anyone. Was it no more than a ploy to trap him into making some kind of arrangement? He must get away and suddenly that musing about riding bareback took on a more serious meaning. But he was going hunting and he would be gifted a saddled and harnessed mount, and surely, out in the fields and woodlands there would be a chance to break away.
The feasting went on for an age, his host becoming near ins
ensible, which was a blessing since it saved him from too much conversation, and when Jordan or his mother took the opportunity to surreptitiously look at him now, it was with an air of enquiry which was matched in Bohemund’s breast. Finally, at a signal from his wife, two servants took hold of an unresisting prince and aided him on his way to his bedchamber. With him gone, and most of his vassals as drunk as was he, it was clearly time to bring matters to an end. When Fressenda stood those who could follow did so and she swept out of the great hall with her son at her heels, Jordan avoiding Bohemund’s eye, giving a mumbled message of, ‘On the morrow,’ as he passed him.
The morning was not cool, but it was mildly warm and pleasant as Bohemund, having struggled with his breakfast, emerged, dressed in the hunting clothes with which he had been provided — no doubt with great difficulty and the aid of a seamstress — after a less than peaceful night in which every possible avenue between truth and lies had been explored over and over again. He was greeted by a cousin who looked as though he had not slept well either, with neither willing to refer to the fact. Instead, both were quick to mount and in the company of a ten-strong party of Jordan’s own familia knights they rode out of Montesarchio, heading into the sun and thus east at a steady canter, which was curious to Bohemund, given it was taking him closer to home.
Was it a standard, a signal or a prearrangement that had those knightly companions of Jordan’s drop back out of earshot? There was no way to tell, but they did as almost immediately the heir to Capua began to speak about the new Pope and what troubles that might bring to both his father and Apulia, not forgetting to add that Pope Gregory had a strong desire, one he had often voiced as Hildebrand, that men such as Jordan and Bohemund could better serve their God by taking ship to Byzantium and fighting the Turks.
