Son of Blood c-1

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Right now, I think I need a slave to whisper in my ear that all glory is fleeting.’

  ‘Only now, Father? I would have said you needed that in your crib.’

  From feeling proud and regal, Robert’s mood was reduced to a feeling of ongoing irritation. Bohemund’s sister, Emma, come to see her brother off on his first independent command, had always possessed the ability to get under his skin. He turned to chastise her, only to find himself staring into the still, blue eyes of her six-year-old son, Tancred, which killed in his throat the shout he had been about to utter. What was it about grandchildren that so softened a man? He had never feared to bark at his own offspring, nor employ the back of his hand if they went too far, but somehow the gap in years made such a thing impossible.

  ‘Give me the boy,’ he growled.

  Emma’s reply was biting. ‘Only if you assure me you are not hungry.’

  Robert reached out for Tancred, who was given up without resistance and then raised to perch on his grandfather’s shoulders, first kneeling, then standing.

  ‘There, my boy, from such a height you can see the East and the future. Out on that galley is your Uncle Bohemund, the man to help me make it for us.’

  Bohemund, as ever dressed in his family colours and standing on the poop of the galley, had a feeling that to look backwards was unlucky — Lot’s wife came to mind — but he could not help but do so, for he wanted to feel that he had his father’s confidence and somehow hoped it would be able to travel the distance between them like some raw animal spirit. He saw clearly Robert lift a boy on his shoulders, knew it had to be his nephew and that induced a pang of regret; he could not recall that ever being gifted to him, for if it had, he had been too young to recall it. Abruptly he cast his eyes to the harbour mouth, aware that such a sight actually pained him and made him jealous of a child of whom he was very fond.

  There was much bellowing and oar work needed to get out safely, and when they finally emerged there was a moment of slight anxiety as the vessel hit the swell of the sea, for like all landsmen Bohemund feared to be sick; his shipboard experience to date had been the short trip across the Straits of Messina, another from Amalfi to Salerno Bay, both on very calm water. Here it was not truly rough — they would not have weighed if it had been — but there was a noticeable north-westerly breeze, which whipped up choppy waves that made the ship shudder when they struck. It made no difference that sailors often suffered from such an affliction; it was, especially to a warrior, too diminishing to be borne, too much of a blow to pride. With half his mind on his stomach, he addressed the sailing master, Lamissio of Viesti, the man who would control the whole fleet, as much to distract himself as to seek information.

  ‘It would be of interest to me to be told the meaning of your commands. I am eager to learn the ways of the sea.’

  The immediate if silent reaction to that request was one of scorn, quickly replaced by faux eagerness, for the thought, to the sailing master, of seeking to distil a lifetime of experience into few enough words to instruct one bound to be utterly ignorant bordered on the risible. Against that, this Norman was a Goliath, while he was a Lombard and, like most of his nautical breed, obliged to sail in cramped vessels, of necessity short and stocky even by the standards of his race. This fellow could pick him up with one hand and chuck him over the side. Quick as his change of expression had been, Bohemund had spotted it; the master was aware of the fact and he sought to head off the blast he knew was coming. Normans were bad-tempered by nature, yet Lamissio was surprised by the calm voice.

  ‘It will not suit either of us if I am totally in ignorance, will it?’

  ‘No, Eminence.’

  The gentle chuckle was even more unusual from a Norman. ‘I am not yet eminent, fellow, so Bohemund will do.’

  ‘I was about to send up the pennant that would have the fleet set sail, sir. With the wind on our quarter it favours us.’

  ‘You do not require my words to make it so?’

  ‘No,’ Lamissio replied.

  At Bohemund’s nod he raised a wide-mouthed trumpet to his lips and bellowed his command, which could be heard on the nearest vessels, those more distant relying on the chequered flag that was run up to the masthead. Bohemund left the poop for the deck so that he could closely observe the men hauling on the lines that raised the great square, blood-red sail, and was even more keen to see how they lashed it off to the side of the ship at an angle so it billowed out as it took full advantage of the breeze. The heel as it did so nearly caught him out, the canting deck forcing him to hang on to the bulwark, the only sound to add to the wind whistling through the taut ropes the noise of a fair number of his knights voiding their guts.

  The tang of the sea was strong in Bohemund’s nostrils, his knees bending alternately as he rode easily the pitch and roll of the deck. The sky was blue and the surrounding sea, save from his own vessels, was empty, with the black ravens in their coops cawing now, aware by some divine gift that the sight of land was diminishing. He was thinking this was how his Viking ancestors had terrorised the world, pagan warriors sailing or rowing to destinations sometimes a year away — the cities of the eastern Mediterranean had not been spared — over endless seas out of sight of land, even up rivers to great inland cities like Paris and Tours, to steal, burn and destroy, and if that failed, to extract tribute for the mere act of withdrawal. As of this moment he felt at one with them.

  If it was a mystery how the sailing master knew the direction in which to go in daylight; that was multiplied when darkness fell and the only sight of the fleet was the myriad flickering stern lanterns. The sky was filled with a million stars, numerous and strong enough to make up for the paucity of a moon, and by now Lamissio had realised that this commander was a different kind of Norman, with an even temper and a genuine desire to be instructed, amazed that to sail at night was easy for a man who had been at his trade from the age of five. Lamissio knew his constellations and the stars within them, and where they would be at any given time of year.

  ‘Why, sir, it is as easy as walking an old Roman road.’

  ‘When will we raise Valona?’ Bohemund asked, in order to avoid agreement; he was far from sure he could ever learn to do that which Lamissio did quite naturally.

  There was a pause while a concentrated examination was made of the heavens, Bohemund in the darkness having no difficulty in hiding a smile, for he guessed this was play-acting. ‘We will be off the town before first light.’

  ‘Could we sail directly in?’

  The sucking of teeth was just as overdone. ‘Depends, Your Honour. If the great lanterns are lit on the end of the moles, maybe, and even then we would have to risk them sealing off the harbour.’

  ‘Chains and logs?’

  The nod was imperceptible. ‘Which would rip the bottom off any galley that tried to enter.’

  ‘If the chain could be broken?’

  ‘Don’t see how, sir.’

  Bohemund laughed, for a plan was forming in his mind. ‘That is because you are a seafarer.’

  There was no overnight rest. It took five turns of the glass to relay Bohemund’s instructions, which saw the fleet of galleys drop their sails and close with great care till there was little space between the oars of those sailing abreast and even less between the bow and stern of the vessels following, a point from which orders to the fighting men could be relayed by shouts. Then they had to douse their lights, the only one visible that of Lamissio’s ship, out ahead of the rest, where a bit of thick canvas had been rigged to cut off the light from the approaching shore, while beside it rested the sailing master’s hourglass, the sand slowly dribbling through. Still too far off to be visible, it was the hankering caw of the ravens that told Lamissio they were as close to land as Bohemund needed to be.

  An order was relayed to the ship of Reynard of Eu, who would take over command if what Bohemund was about to attempt failed and, satisfied that all was understood, the command was given to Lamissio’s oarsmen to
bend their backs and head for shore, their course made easier by the twin pinpricks of light that marked the harbour entrance to Valona, one of which they trended left and away from. Looking back, Bohemund could see the phosphorescent spill of the trailing galleys as they came on at a lesser and he hoped controlled speed.

  Having been a sailor man and boy, there was scarcely a port on the inland sea that Lamissio had not visited at some time or other; he knew them from the outer mole to the most deeply embedded tavern-cum-whorehouse and everything in between. He had been to Valona more times than he could count and he knew to the width of his own hand where the barrier that blocked off the harbour at night was fixed. Would they have armed men on that mole? There was no way of being sure but the possibility had to be accepted. The Duke of Apulia’s intentions, a great fleet refitted for aggression and a huge army waiting to embark across a narrow stretch of sea, could not be hidden and the coastal towns of Illyria must be on alert.

  Valona had been selected because it had an anchorage large enough to provide the Guiscard with a base for his fleet and it would not require too wise a head for the Byzantine governor to be aware of this, just as he would know that if his town walls were sound and would require a fully enforced siege to break, his Achilles heel was the harbour mole. Lamissio outlined the way they acted to protect that: apart from bowmen and pots of catapulted fire, sharp iron-tipped stakes were set into the stonework which protruded out far enough to snare any vessel at a distance from which they could not do harm.

  It was the thought of his Viking heritage that had brought a solution to Bohemund and because of that, lying on a long plank protruding from the bows, he was the sharpest pair of eyes in the ship. The galley, propelled by a half-reefed dark-red sail, was approaching at a snail’s pace, the oars used more to slow progress than propel, what the man in the bows could see passed back in whispers.

  ‘My Lord, your surcoat will catch the starlight.’

  Looking down, Bohemund realised that Lamissio was right; half of his family colour was a stark white and having already unstrapped his sword belt — the weapon for the coming task was an axe — it was flapping too, thus more likely to catch the eye. He whipped the garment off and rolled it so only the blue was showing, then tied it round his waist, eager to wear it into the coming contest. Just then a low call came back that they were approaching the first of the wooden barbs, its sharp point visible only because the metal tip reflected a small amount of the light. The call to his knights, who had been crouching in the bulwarks, was just as soft, though there was, he thought, an excess of carrying noise from knocked weapons as they stood to prepare.

  Bohemund reasoned, and knew he would pay a high price if he was mistaken, that any guard detachment would not be stationed overnight out on the mole and neither would they be wide awake; they would have a shelter somewhere close to the quay and sleep in their mail and with their weapons beside them. That would mean a lookout, possibly only one on each side of the harbour entrance, and they would have been staring out at a silvery seascape for a long time, tiring to the eyes and inclined to induce slumber. He had used the lanterns to stay well away from the mouth, and the sailing master had also kept them out of the stronger streak of light provided by a sliver of moon now high in the sky. Could they get ashore unseen?

  ‘Back the oars,’ Lamissio called, bringing on a splash, thankfully covered by the sea slapping against the base of the mole. There was a thud as contact was made and so sharp were those metal ends that the galley shuddered to a halt as it embedded itself in the timbers. Bohemund had to admire the man in charge of sailing the vessel, for without being told Lamissio had got ready a grappling iron which was cast the short distance to another barb where one of the prongs got enough purchase to pull in the stern, and Bohemund gave quiet orders to proceed when contact was made with the side of the ship.

  To say that those he led had doubts was an understatement; not all of them so readily harked back to a Viking inheritance and one of his lances had made a very valid point when he suggested the barbs might be greased. The sailing master solved that by bringing up from below sacks of ballast, which contained grainy sand and, before the first Norman foot hit the protruding wooden poles, a pair of ship’s boys went first, barefooted, nimble and who could both swim, spilling sand ahead of them on which they got their own purchase.

  Now sure they could keep their feet, Bohemund led his knights in file along the same wide tree trunks — gingerly, for they were less sure of foot than the youngsters. If it was not an example of the old Viking game of walking the oars, it was close enough for the man in command and he was tall enough, when he got to the end, to hoist himself onto the wall that lined the mole, as well as strong enough once he was on it to reach down and help up his confreres. Within what seemed like a blink Bohemund had twenty fully armed knights ready to do battle.

  That was not the aim; the target was the log and chain barrier and that was close by the nearest harbour-mouth lantern. Two men were there as guards and lookouts, though they failed in both respects, for they had seen nothing and were so surprised at the sudden appearance of an enemy that they could not even get their swords out in time. Both were clubbed to the ground while Bohemund used his axe to cut, with six powerful and noisy blows, the thick cable that secured the barrier.

  There was no need for silence now. Bohemund shouted for the covered stern lantern of his galley to be shown, that being the signal to those following that the harbour mouth was open and they were safe to point their prows at those twin lights and sail between them. A clever brain would have doused one — what was coming must have been obvious — but that too was lacking. All that could be heard were panicked shouts, but that was fading as the Normans made their way towards the point where the mole joined the quay.

  Fighting men, roused from their slumbers, faced them, but they were Greeks who had never come up against Normans and very likely not of the highest calibre anyway. As soon as the front rank of three were despatched, a pair being cut at so hard they ended up in the water, the rest fled, this while behind them Bohemund’s galleys were entering the harbour, making a hellish racket as instructed to strike terror into what defence could be quickly mustered. Chasing the mole defenders, the party of land-bound knights found themselves on the quay without an enemy, this as the first hint of light began to tinge the sky above the harbourside buildings.

  Half the shouting now was from the inhabitants hurriedly fleeing their houses, shouting that the Saracens had come, a cry that did more to aid Bohemund than any sword or axe. The infidels who worshipped Mohammed had come many times over the centuries and they did not just come to plunder; they came to rape both women and men, to roast their captives over open fires and to destroy every Christian church they came across — the Saracens, in this part of the world, were the dread in the dreams of adults and children alike.

  What soldiers the governor of Valona possessed made for the citadel, surrounded by fleeing locals. Meeting up with Reynard on the now dimly lit quay, Bohemund cautioned his men not to engage but to merely chase them into that defence. The citadel he did not need — that could wait, especially if those who might contest with him were locked up inside. It was the waters of the anchorage he wanted, as well as the long, low shoreline and the town. A fast-rowing galley was sent back to Brindisi to tell the Guiscard that he had a base for both his fleet and his army.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Damn the Pope!’ The messenger from Rome, a priest, was shocked at such blasphemy and it showed on his face, but the force with which the Duke of Apulia expounded his curse made him take a step backwards too. ‘First he encourages me to invade Illyria, then he gets cold feet and demands of me that I desist.’

  ‘He does not ask for that, My Lord,’ the priest replied, in the kind of stammering tone that indicated he was in terror of the reaction. ‘He fears that with you and your entire host absent from Italy, there is nothing to prevent King Henry from descending on Rome to force an election �
� that it is only the threat of your intervention that prevents such a calamity. He feels a substantial body of your lances on the edge of papal territory will act as a deterrent.’

  ‘Benevento, you mean?’ Robert asked, enjoying the discomfort it caused; that was a territory three popes had been trying to throw de Hautevilles out of for years. ‘I thought Pope Gregory had excommunicated him again?’

  ‘He has, My Lord, but it has not had the same effect as hitherto.’

  ‘Then he’s learnt something, perhaps from me.’

  ‘A contingent of lances?’ the priest asked, with the air of a man desperate to get back on to the subject of his journey.

  ‘That won’t stop Henry if he is serious.’

  ‘That is not what His Holiness believes. He is of the opinion that such a thing will induce caution, for Bamberg knows that to harm one of your race is to raise anger in them all.’

  With Jordan ruling Capua, Robert wondered if that was now something of a myth, but it was one he would still propagate. Yet it left him on the horns of a dilemma, for he suspected that in Illyria he would need every fighting man he could muster. Against that he was in vassalage duty-bound to come to the aid of his suzerain if the Pope required it, and at the risk of falling out with Rome at a time when it would be unwise to do so.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘Return to the Lateran and inform Pope Gregory that I will do my duty by him.’

  ‘Did you mean that, husband?’ Sichelgaita asked when the priest had departed.

  ‘I will give him a small detachment only and by the time he finds out I have only half fulfilled my duty I might have beaten whatever force Byzantium sends against me.’ Seeing the look his son was giving him, one of deep disapproval, Robert snapped at him. ‘When you come to rule my domains, Borsa, you will find that the truth is a movable commodity, especially when dealing with a man like Gregory.’