On the morning of 9 March 1161, at about the third hour after sunrise, the signal was given. The dungeons were flung open, the prisoners snatched the weapons that had been laid out ready for them and hurried to let in the conspirators by the side door where they were waiting. Then, led by the princes Simon and Tancred who knew the palace well, they ran to the large room in the Pisan Tower where they knew the King would be holding his regular morning conference with Henry Aristippus. William was taken utterly by surprise. Seeing that flight was impossible, he dived for the window and began shouting for help; but hardly had the first cry left his lips when he was seized bodily and dragged away. Two of the plotters, William of Lesina and Robert of Bova, the first described by Falcandus as 'a most atrocious man'—vir atrocissimus—the second 'famous for his cruelty', now advanced threateningly upon him with drawn swords; only the intervention of a third, Richard of Mandra, saved his life. Meanwhile another group made straight for the Queen's apartments and arrested Margaret and her two sons.
As soon as the royal family had been safely secured, the pillage began. The palace was a veritable treasure-house, and the intruders went through it like locusts. The collections of gold and jewels so lovingly amassed by Roger and William over the past forty years were ransacked. Nothing portable was left behind. The precious pots and vases, with everything else that could do duty as a container, were filled with coins from the coffers and carried off, as were all the royal and ecclesiastical vestments from the Tiraz. Saddest of all perhaps, Edrisi's great silver planisphere, despite its immense weight, disappeared never to be seen again. A fire was lit in the courtyard, and nearly all the government records, including the entire registry of fiefs and the services due for them, were hurled on to the flames. Meanwhile all those eunuchs who could not make good their escape were put to the sword; the harem—left undefended—was broken into, its inmates dragged screaming away or violated on the spot.
The massacre of the eunuchs introduced a new and sinister element into the situation. The aristocratic party had long objected to what it considered the disproportionate influence of Muslims at the court, and the initial success of the coup seems to have released a pent-up hatred of the whole Islamic community. Suddenly, no Saracen was safe. Even those working innocently in the diwan, the mint and other public offices had to flee for their lives; several of the Muslim artists and sages whom William, like his father, accommodated permanently in the palace—among them one of the most distinguished Arabic poets of his day, Yahya ibn at-Tifashi— were hunted down and killed; while down in the lower part of the city a Christian mob descended on the bazaar, forcing all the Arab merchants and shopkeepers, who since the African defeats of 115 9— 60 had been forbidden by law to carry arms, to retreat to the specifically Muslim quarter of the town where the narrow streets gave them the protection they needed.
By now a still larger crowd had gathered in the great square before the palace. Swept by conflicting and contradictory rumours, its prevailing mood was still one of bewilderment. The King was dead; he was alive; he was a prisoner; he was free; it was a Saracen plot to seize power; it was a Christian one to purge the government of Muslim influence. Within the building, however, the ringleaders knew that this atmosphere of uncertainty could not last. Sooner or later, popular feeling must crystallise; and on the form it eventually took the success of the entire coup would depend. It was not enough to curry the favour of the mob by flinging an occasional handful of coins out of the palace windows. The time had come for a public declaration of policy and intent. It was therefore announced that William's eldest son Roger had formally succeeded his father on the Sicilian throne, and that he would be crowned in the Cathedral within a very few days—just as soon, in fact, as Matthew Bonnellus returned to Palermo. Meanwhile the little boy, now nine years old, was mounted on a horse and solemnly paraded through the streets of the capital, and the people were invited to acclaim their new King.
Their reaction does not seem to have been enthusiastic; and when the procession was repeated on the following morning, an acute observer might have noticed that even those accompanying the young prince were looking a trifle uncomfortable. Before long the whole city knew why. The conspirators, their ranks now swollen by a number of senior government and church officials who had since pledged their support, were themselves in open conflict. A growing body of opinion was now turning against the idea of a child king, and was favouring instead the succession of Simon, Roger's bastard son.
For the moment there was deadlock, and the leaders of the revolt decided to leave the issue open until the return of Bonnellus. It was a fatal mistake. Any political coup, if it is to succeed, must be swift and certain. Momentum is everything. The people must be presented with a fait accompli; there can be no half-way pauses and changes of direction. Thus a second vital rule was broken, and King William's throne was saved. The royalists seized the opportunity to regroup themselves; their agents went to work in the streets and taverns, spreading rumours unfavourable to Bonnellus and his party and everywhere finding ready listeners. The conduct of the insurgents and in particular the sack of the palace had had a deplorable effect. All respectable citizens had been revolted by the bloodshed and the violence, and shocked by the indiscriminate looting of riches which might one day be needed for the defence of the Kingdom. Little by little public opinion began to harden; sympathy grew for the captive King; and the conspirators suddenly awoke to find all Sicily united against them.
Their last hope lay in Matthew Bonnellus. By his absence he had avoided any direct responsibility for what had occurred; if he could be brought back quickly enough, the magic of his name and prestige might yet save the day. Two of the leaders rode off at top speed to Mistretta to fetch him. They were too late. Scarcely had they left Palermo when a group of high ecclesiastics, whose loyalty to the King had never wavered, took an initiative of their own. They were led by the Archbishops Romuald of Salerno and Robert of Messina,
Bishop Tristan of Mazara and Richard Palmer, the Bishop-elect of Syracuse. None of them had been particular friends of Maio, but they had no wish to see their own considerable influence at court destroyed by the aristocrats. They also genuinely deplored the offer of violence to an anointed King. On Saturday 11 March they called on the people of Palermo to storm the palace and rescue their sovereign; and the people responded.
The rebels soon saw that against such numbers resistance was hopeless. To gain time, they tried to negotiate, pointing out that Bonnellus would soon return and that once he resumed control all the present misunderstandings would be resolved. It was no use. The name had lost its magic. Meanwhile those defending the walls reported that they could not hold out much longer; if the building were taken by storm, it would be a miracle if any of them escaped with their lives. They were beaten. Running to the captive King, they fell on their knees before him and implored his pardon.
William was saved—in theory; but he was not yet out of danger. Physically he remained in the power of his enemies, to whom he was an invaluable hostage. They were desperate, and if they thought they had nothing to lose they might yet carry him with them to destruction. Walking slowly to a window of the Pisan Tower1, he showed himself to the crowd gathered below. Immediately a great cry went up, a demand for the palace gates to be opened and vengeance taken on the traitors; but William raised bis hand for silence. His subjects, he said, had given him more than adequate proof of their loyalty and affection. He would ask them now simply to lay down their arms and to disperse quietly to their homes, allowing free egress from the palace to all those still within, to whom he had granted his royal pardon. The crowd obediently withdrew; the rebels slipped out and fled back to Caccamo.
Only after they had gone did Romuald and his fellow-churchmen enter the King's chamber. From the window, shortly before, William had spoken bravely and well; but they found him now in a state of
1 Plate 16. Falcandus claims that it was from the neighbouring Gioaria that William addressed the throng, in wh
ich case he almost certainly spoke from the window of what is now known as the Sala di Kuggero. (See pp. 241-2.) But Romuald of Salerno, who was an eye-witness, is categorical on the subject, and we must accept his word.
near-collapse, sobbing uncontrollably. After the events of the past three days, such emotion would in any case have been easy enough to understand; but the real tragedy, they now learned, had occurred at the moment of his salvadon. During the last assault on the palace his little son and heir Roger, who had been in the room with him, had been struck in the eye by a stray arrow, and now lay dying. This final shock had been too much; William's spirit was broken.1 With difficulty the bishops persuaded him to descend to the great hall beneath, where a numerous delegation of his subjects, heedless of his earlier injunction, was waiting to congratulate him on his escape. He appeared before them but still could not trust himself to speak. All he could do was stammer a few words into the ear of Richard Palmer— 'a man of great learning and eloquence' as Falcandus reminds us— who relayed them in the King's name to the assembled company. It was a strangely humble speech, in which William admitted his past wrongs, acknowledged that his recent sufferings were not undeserved and promised to revoke certain recent decrees which had caused resentment. As an earnest of his good intentions, the local customs dues levied on all foodstuffs brought into the city were abolished from that moment.
Whether this last idea was the King's or Palmer's, it suited the occasion perfectly. William was cheered to the echo. Henceforth, at least in Palermo, his position was re-established, his popularity assured.
But, though the rebellion had failed, the rebels were still free and under arms; and from the castle of Caccamo to which they had retreated there came no word of surrender. Militarily, the King remained vulnerable. He had no forces in the capital except the three hundred men of the palace garrison; they had been singularly ineffectual during the past few days and were no longer to be relied upon. He therefore summoned the bulk of the army and the fleet from Messina; meanwhile, playing for time, he sent an ostensibly friendly
1 Falcandus, leaping at the chance of pinning a new atrocity on to his old enemy, admits the arrow wound but suggests that little Roger was in fact kicked to death by his father, in a rage at what he considered to be the boy's earlier disloyalty : a suggestion so improbable that one wonders whether it could ever have been taken seriously.
message to Matthew Bonnellus, now himself back at Caccamo, asking why he was giving asylum to enemies of the Crown.
Matthew's reply was an interesting one. He began by assuring the King that he was himself quite unconnected with the last uprising. It was true, however, that the insurgents were his friends and colleagues ; how then could he possibly refuse them shelter ? They had done what they did out of sheer despair, only because there was no other way of obtaining redress for the wrongs that they, with all other members of the nobility, were obliged to suffer. To cite but one example, they could no longer even marry off their daughters without prior permission of the Curia; and this permission was often so long in coming that many a lady had to wait for a husband till she was long past child-bearing age, while others were condemned to perpetual virginity.1 In short, there could be no reconciliation between King and aristocracy until William agreed to restore the old customs and usages introduced by Robert Guiscard and Roger I in the preceding century.
Once again Matthew had miscalculated. This was no time for arrogance. His reply infuriated the King. If, William protested, the nobles had first laid down their arms and then come to him as suppliants, he would have listened sympathetically to their grievances; as it was, he would willingly sacrifice his kingdom or even face death itself rather than give in to threats. Negotiations were immediately broken off; he had nothing more to say.
The rebels had badly overplayed their hand. Bonnellus saw that his only hope was to strike again—and to strike quickly, before the expected reinforcements could arrive from Messina. Suddenly and without warning he and his men swooped down from Caccamo to a point near Favara, only a mile or two from Palermo itself, and from there spread out to occupy all the approach roads to the capital. It was a bold and well-executed plan. The Palermitans, taken by surprise and without adequate provisions or defences, began to panic; and if Matthew had pressed his advantage home and marched straight into the city this second attempt might well have proved
1 This grievance was prompted by something more than paternal compassion; Bonnellus apparently forbore to add the real reason for the nobles' indignation— the fact that if they died childless their estates reverted to the Crown. successful. Instead, at the critical moment, he hesitated. As he did so the first ships from Messina appeared in the harbour; soldiers were hurriedly disembarked and posted in key positions; other loyal detachments arrived from the interior of the island to join them; and the rebels, now hopelessly outnumbered, retreated once again to Caccamo.
This time they were ready to talk reasonably; and the terms which William was prepared to offer proved more generous than any of them had a right to expect. There were no executions, no imprisonments. Most of the leaders elected to go into exile, including Simon, Tancred and William of the Principate—another distant cousin of the King—to whom passage was offered in Sicilian ships as far as Terracina. Several were sent on forced pilgrimages to Jerusalem. Richard of Mandra on the other hand—who, on that first fateful morning, had shielded his sovereign's body with his own—received a free pardon. As for Matthew Bonnellus, the driving force behind three coups within six months, he too was granted a pardon and summoned back to the court, where William once again received him with every show of friendliness and favour.
Why, at such a moment, did the King show himself so astonishingly merciful? Only five years before, after an insurrection no whit more serious than that which was just over, he had embarked on an orgy of hanging, drowning and blinding, filling his prisons with those lucky enough to escape anything worse, leaving the smouldering ruins of what had once been Bari as an example of the fate which awaited any city in his dominion that dared set itself up against him. How can it be that, after three days of terror from which he had narrowly escaped with his life, we find him pronouncing no more fearful sentences than those of comfortable exile, and receiving back with open arms the traitor who had come nearer than any other in the Kingdom's history to toppling the Sicilian throne ?
The first, short answer is that although the insurgents had failed in both their attempts to seize power, they had still not surrendered. The fortress of Caccamo was commandingly situated and strongly defended, and if Matthew had resolved to stand firm it might well have held out for a year or more. Just what effect this would have had on the general morale in Palermo is hard to assess, but the terror caused by the recent blockade suggested that it might be serious; and William could not risk any more major disturbances in the capital. Only by the total cessation of hostilities and the speedy dislodging of his enemy from Caccamo could tranquillity be restored. But Matthew would not surrender unless he were sure of a pardon. In such a case it would hardly be possible to make an example of his followers.
It was lucky for William that the young man was as conceited as he was foolish. Otherwise he could never have been persuaded, as he apparently was, that his prestige was still such as to make him at once indispensable and invulnerable. But when at last he swallowed the bait and stood, truculent as ever, once more before his sovereign, William must have known that Matthew Bonnellus was finished. Victim of his own vanity, he would never make trouble again. He was to enjoy a few more weeks of liberty, swaggering about Palermo and boasting of his power over the King; but when, towards the end of April, new revolts broke out in central Sicily and on the mainland, William decided to have done with him once and for all.
The arrest itself presented no problems. Matthew was simply summoned to the palace. Despite several secret warnings he still believed his position unshakable, and obeyed without hesitation. Once there, he was seized by the
guards and hustled away to what Falcandus is at pains to describe as a particularly revolting dungeon —not, this time, in the palace itself (William never made the same mistake twice) but in the adjacent fortress, usually known by its Arabic name of al-Halka, the Ring.
The civil disturbances that followed seem to have been little more than a formality. Since his return to Palermo Matthew had worked hard to keep his image bright, and on hearing of his capture his agents in the town lost no time in mobilising support for a popular demonstration. But the citizens' hearts were not in it. They were tired of unrest and upheaval, and were discouraged almost before they began. Both the palace and the Halka had been put under close guard; a rather desultory attempt to burn down the gates was easily frustrated; and, writes Falcandus,
seeing that they could achieve nothing, the people . . . suffered a sudden change of heart—preferring, as is characteristic of the Sicilians, to bow to the needs of the moment rather than to maintain any constant faith. And as many as had formerly cried out for the liberation of Bonnellus now took pains to make it clear that they had never been among those who sought his friendship.
Among the King's supporters only one casualty is recorded— Adenulf, the royal chamberlain, who was set upon and stabbed to death by one of Bonnellus's knights. The rebel side, however, was less fortunate; William's mood of clemency was past. Few of those who now fell into his hands escaped death or muldlation. And Matthew himself, blinded and hamstrung, was left to languish in his dungeon cell—in which, not long afterwards, he died.
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The Kingdom in the Sun Page 27
