Mercenaries

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I am willing to do so.’

  ‘The man may lop off your head.’

  ‘If he is so inclined, I will have failed. Given that, what do I have to live for?’

  ‘Don’t go throwing away your life, Guaimar. Not even Salerno is worth that.’

  ‘Not to you, sire. But it is to me.’

  ‘I wish to accompany you,’ Berengara insisted, not in the least deflected by her brother’s furious shake of the head. ‘You say it is dangerous, I believe my presence makes it less so.’

  ‘And if we both perish?’

  ‘Then it is God’s will and so be it.’

  ‘Berengara,’ Guaimar pleaded.

  ‘You took me to Bamberg for the same reason.’

  Argue as he might, Guaimar could not shift her, so it was a small party that included her which left Conrad’s camp, and made for a place where they could safely cross the River Volturno.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sentinels at the top of Rainulf Drengot’s tower again gave early warning of the approaching party. Even at some distance they could see this was a different kind of delegation to that which normally called on the encampment: one of the party was a highborn female and, closer to, the sight of the imperial banner held high by one of the armed, six-man escort made apparent the sense of something unusual.

  Riding through the rows of round huts, they were scrutinised by every woman in the camp; likewise the mercenaries lined the rail of the training manège to watch them pass. By the time they arrived at the ramp leading to the entrance to the donjon, Rainulf awaited them, his dogs snuffling about his lower legs, in the company of his trio of captains, which now included, since the defection of another senior mercenary to Pandulf, the recently elevated Drogo.

  It was obvious to both the youngsters that Rainulf had aged: what had once been a full face, albeit a high-coloured one, was now lined and there was the beginnings of a dewlap of flesh under the chin as well as large bags under the eyes. His hair was now more grey than black and thinner than the young man remembered, while his build seemed less solid. Where previously he had looked like a warrior to be feared he now had the appearance of an ageing man, whose watery eyes were staring, trying to make out who was approaching.

  Guaimar was the first to throw back the cowl and reveal himself, which made one of the quartet stiffen, though it had no effect at all on the de Hautevilles. Rainulf gasped at a face he never thought to see again, before composing himself, but that was as nothing to the reaction of the four of them when Berengara dropped her own cloak to rest on the haunches of her horse. She had dressed her hair as well as plucked her eyebrows as if attending a court ceremony and had donned a low-cut gown that showed to full perfection the swell of her breasts. Two of the escorts Conrad had sent with them jumped down to help her off her horse, Guaimar dismounting on his own.

  ‘Lord Rainulf,’ he said, with a nod more than a bow.

  The Norman looked at the bright-yellow imperial banner, with the standing black griffin, the flag of Conrad the Salian, held by one soldier still mounted, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I do not know how to address you under such a standard.’

  ‘There was a time you would have been obliged to address me as Duke.’

  ‘A time long past,’ Rainulf replied. ‘Let your name suffice.’

  ‘Does that imply a welcome?’

  ‘No, Guaimar, it does not. I shall, however, greet your sister as the Lady Berengara.’

  The use of the names made William look harder at both; Drogo had never taken his eyes off the lady, mainly at what lay under her chin. There were not so many who bore those names, so their identity was obvious, and he had been told chapter and verse about the deposition of their father in favour of Pandulf, as well as just how much Rainulf had profited by his switch of allegiance.

  ‘I come with a message from Conrad Augustus.’

  Guaimar waited until that had the desired effect, waited till Rainulf could compose himself enough to respond, for, try as he might, he could not help reacting to that name.

  ‘All the way from Bamberg?’

  ‘No. Conrad is encamped near Castro dei Volsci on the River Sacco, and he has with him the whole might of his imperial power. I am surprised you are not aware of this, for I suspect Prince Pandulf might be by now, given he is not very far off from Capua.’

  One of Conrad’s acts had been to close the road to the south after he left Rome, in order that his progress should be kept covert. There was no way he could surprise Capua; they would know when he got close, but the less time they had to prepare the defences the better. In skirting that city Guaimar had been pleased to note than no one in the hinterland seemed aware of the approaching storm, but that could not last.

  ‘And the message is?’

  Guaimar ran his eyes over the trio of captains, recognising only the one, Turmod, the others being strangers, two very tall and imposing individuals with golden hair and big shoulders, so obviously Normans. At one time he had known all of those who served Rainulf close, indeed he had seen them as friendly adults who always indulged an impetuous youth. How easily they had turned into demons.

  ‘For your ears only, Rainulf.’

  ‘I might be disinclined to listen.’

  ‘I have called you many things in my time, none of them to your credit, but I never thought you a fool.’

  ‘Have a care, boy, or you might go out of here across your saddle instead of astride it.’

  William was only half listening to the exchange, too busy examining the features of both Guaimar and Berengara. The young man was good-looking in a Lombard way, with the same kind of complexion and hair colour as Pandulf, though without any attempt to beguile. He also seemed self-assured, but not so much as his sister, who wore the kind of slight smile that told everyone looking at her that she knew precisely the train of their thoughts – she knew of her own beauty. William speculated that if she had known Drogo’s in detail she would probably have slapped him.

  He did wonder what was wrong with Rainulf: these people represented no threat to him, and if they came as an embassy from someone like a Holy Roman Emperor then he should treat them with respect. It then occurred to him that Rainulf found their mere presence uncomfortable, a living and breathing reminder of the way he had betrayed their father.

  In the months since his own elevation William had learnt a great deal about the Lord of Aversa, as Rainulf had learnt about him. A bond of trust had been established, not that such a thing led to an exchange of confidences, just to a sense of mutual regard. For instance, William had discovered the mercenary leader was not as thick-skinned as he liked people to think. He drank too much, and in part that might be for shame at some of his deeds, and right now he was looking at the reminder of one of the worst. Added to that, a man knows when he is ageing, knows when his physical prowess is diminishing at a rate which means things once seen as effortless seem to slip away and become a trial almost every day, just as he knows how apparent such a loss is to those around him.

  Rainulf ate alone because in drink he became maudlin, and in that state he no doubt felt he would diminish himself in the eyes of the men he had to lead. He slept in his villa so that he would not be seen in a state of total inebriation, given his relations with his wife were stormy enough to drive him to the wine. He wanted a child; she denied him her bed and much as he would like to he dare not put her aside and marry another, for she was Pandulf’s niece. He needed to be seen as still the puissant warrior, to be thought cold-blooded: a man who would not give way to a shrew, would not weep for a death, would not fear his own and would not consider any notion not motivated by profit.

  In truth, he was as sentimental as Tancred: for all that tough carapace their father had presented, Tancred loved and was as proud of his boys as he was of his own title and his exploits in the field. What had it cost him to practically beg Duke Robert to take them into his trust? If Rainulf could not be said to love his men he cared for them deeply. He had probabl
y done to the parent of these two what he thought necessary, but William seriously doubted whether he enjoyed the memory of it.

  More telling was the fact that Rainulf was now forced to be cautious. Word had come from the south of the proposed Byzantine assault on Sicily, to take advantage of a split between the island’s rulers. The Emir of Palermo had been assassinated, following on from a rebellion led by his brother and a Zirid invasion by an emir called Abdullah from North Africa. The island was in turmoil as the Saracens fought each other, and so ripe for an invasion.

  The payment for such service was high, the possibility of substantial booty even higher, especially if the excuse of aiding one emir against another could be turned into a full-scale reoccupation of an island that had increased in value since the Saracens took it from Byzantium. Unquestionably this was the ultimate aim of Constantinople. In short, it was perfect for a band of mercenaries not only at present underused, but also a way to stem, and perhaps reverse, the losses in men Rainulf was experiencing with the land inducements offered by Pandulf.

  Yet it was the Wolf who made acceptance dangerous; his recruitment of Rainulf’s men could only have one aim: to so weaken Rainulf that his position as Lord of Aversa became brittle. Pandulf, when it came to greed, knew no limits, likewise betrayal. In his meetings with Rainulf, at which William had now become a presence, the fulsome protestations of love and loyalty looked increasingly threadbare as the number of Normans engaged to Capua increased in direct proportion to Rainulf’s losses. Those coming south from Normandy stopped at the Volturno now – the rewards were greater – cutting off the numbers coming on to Aversa, thus increasing an imbalance which could only end in one way.

  ‘It would make sense to listen,’ William said, in a whisper, his mind racing with a complex set of calculations.

  Rainulf did not respond, but William knew he had heard. He had come to rely on him, trusting him in a way he did not trust Drogo or Turmod, and in part it was his experience as an elder sibling that had gained him such faith. To be a big brother to such an unruly bunch as the de Hautevilles had required qualities that made him useful to his leader: a level head, the lack of a quick temper, a slightly jaundiced seen-it-all judgement that made light of things that breached the code by which the mercenaries lived, added to an ability to resolve disputes between fighting men in a way that left no rancour. The other thing was his utter lack of sycophancy: on more than one occasion he had pointed out to Rainulf, in private, never in public, that he was utterly wrong.

  ‘Treat them as you would the man they represent.’

  If Guaimar had not heard the whispered words, he had seen the lips move. He also saw, after a pause, how Rainulf nodded to this blond giant, and he wondered who was this man who spoke to the Norman leader in that manner; no one else Guaimar had ever known, the likes of Osmond de Vertin, Odo de Jumiège or Turmod, had dared to even look Rainulf in the eye.

  ‘Drogo, Turmod,’ Rainulf said, ‘look after the escort. See them fed and the mounts cared for. You, Guaimar, I will allow into my tower, along with your sister.’

  ‘I’d rather take care of her than the horses,’ Drogo moaned.

  Though he did not say it out loud, the words were expressed strongly enough to carry to the ears of Berengara. Her smile broadened, as if she was not upset, but Guaimar glared at him, which got him, in response, a very elaborate wink, as if both shared the truth implicit in the remark.

  ‘William, you will join us.’

  In the cool chamber of the tower, Rainulf offered them to sit, then ordered his servants to fetch wine and fruit. While that was happening he sat in silence staring at the young man, during which time William wondered what to say, as he tried not to be too obvious in his glances at the dark line of the sister’s alluring cleavage. It was all very oppressive, with Rainulf clearly, by his stillness, seeking to imply before a word was spoken that, whatever this messenger from Conrad wanted to say, it was of no interest. Tempted to speak again, because it was mere posturing, William knew he should not; his task was to aid his leader, not to diminish him.

  Guaimar broke the silence as soon as he had a goblet of wine in his hand, this while Rainulf was draining his.

  ‘I am not sure I want to speak in front of…’ The young man looked at William, as if inviting him to name himself. That was Rainulf’s right, so all he got in reply was the amused half smile that, unbeknown to him, had once guyed another duke.

  ‘This,’ Rainulf responded, once his goblet was refilled, ‘is William de Hauteville, and he is my right hand. What you say to me can be said in front of him.’

  Two people reacted with disguised surprise: Guaimar because it underlined his opinion that the Norman mercenary had aged; in past times he had never needed another’s counsel. William was astonished for another reason: although he knew he had become trusted enough to give Rainulf advice, the older man had never before used that expression regarding his standing. Berengara’s reaction was different, a sort of coy sideways movement of the head and eyes, as if to say that he had, no doubt, gone up mightily in his own estimation.

  ‘Conrad intends to depose Pandulf.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘He should hang, draw and quarter him,’ spat Berengara, showing, both in the way it was said and the expression that accompanied it, a vicious side to her, up till then, amiable character. ‘I would happily cut out his heart.’

  ‘You would need a long blade to even find it,’ said Rainulf, spluttering at his own jest.

  ‘I would claw his eyes out with my own fingernails.’

  Rainulf was still amused. ‘Your sister is bloodthirsty, Guaimar. I sense that you are not.’

  ‘I seek only the return of that which is mine.’

  ‘Was yours,’ the old man snarled. ‘I took it away from you.’

  ‘Conrad will give it me back.’

  ‘And if I say that he shall not, what will Conrad do then?’

  ‘He will add you to his enemies.’

  ‘Look at me, Guaimar. Do you see me tremble?’

  ‘You have come to offer something, sir,’ said William, in an even tone, looking at Rainulf who, in nodding, gave him leave to continue. ‘It would be best to get to that and stop this sparring, which produces nothing but bile.’ Seeing Guaimar hesitate, he added, in a much harder tone of voice, ‘You have come with an offer for the Lord of Aversa. Make it!’

  ‘How do you know I have come to offer no more than the fact he might live?’

  Seeing Rainulf sit forward to roar at the youngster, William held up his hand: no good would come from a loss of temper. It was pleasing that Rainulf responded positively, waving to William to carry on and burying his face once more in his goblet of wine.

  ‘Allow me to speak for my lord. I trust that Conrad Augustus has a brain, and if he is possessed of one he will know that killing Normans is a vow often made and even more often regretted.’

  ‘I would not regret it,’ said Berengara, words which had her brother holding up his hand to restrain her. Defiantly she added, ‘It would provide much pleasure to line the Via Appia with hanging Norman bodies, as the Roman general Crassus once did with the soldiers of Spartacus.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure hard won, lady. We Normans tend to spill more blood than we lose.’ As she made to respond, William talked right over her, addressing her brother. ‘But you are not here to vent your spleen, however right you feel in doing so. I repeat what I said just now. You have an offer! Make it, let Rainulf consider it, and when he has decided on it, the response can be taken back to the emperor.’

  ‘It’s perfectly straightforward,’ Guaimar replied, looking at the bloated, purple face of Rainulf. ‘If you wish to keep the title of Lord of Aversa, you must loosen your ties to Pandulf.’

  William was thinking this young man had a lot to learn. Before saying those words it would have been wise to find out from Rainulf what was his view of Pandulf at this time; he knew it was not high after the Wolf’s depredations at Montecassino and it
had dropped even more with his inability to go to war on behalf of Byzantium. He had also laid out on the table, without gaining any leverage, the very obvious fact that he was prepared to forget Rainulf’s previous betrayal of his father, if he would change sides once more.

  ‘So Conrad will reinstate you?’ William asked.

  ‘He has assured me he will.’

  ‘And Capua? What happens to that after Pandulf is removed?’

  Guaimar shrugged, but the answer was obvious: it would be joined to Salerno.

  ‘Can you be sure of the emperor’s word?’

  ‘As sure as I can be of anyone’s.’

  ‘That does not take you very far,’ William replied, with just a touch of asperity. ‘But let us say you have the right of it, and you’re installed as Duke of Salerno as well as Prince of Capua. You are saying you will confirm Rainulf in all his present lands and titles?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And I don’t believe you,’ Rainulf growled, before he leant forward. ‘I think like a Norman, and I know a Lombard. You will say and do anything to get rid of the Wolf, but once he is gone, and Conrad is back in his German lair, my title would not be worth a pitcher of piss.’

  ‘I will give you my word.’

  ‘You can poke your word up your Lombard arse, begging your pardon, Lady Berengara.’

  She looked as though she would like to put a red-hot poker in his, then twist it.

  Rainulf was not drunk, but he was drink affected. It took less and less to get him to the point of a slight slurring and he was there now. And he was trying to rile this young man, to get him to lose his temper, but he failed.

  ‘I am told Pandulf has so many Normans in his pay now, many of them your old levies, he could depose you if he wished.’

  Rainulf belched. ‘He knows better than to try.’

  For the first time Guaimar raised his voice. ‘He will try eventually, Rainulf, for I doubt he still sees you as an ally.’