Mercenaries

by Jack Ludlow

‘You know nothing.’

  ‘I know he is wedded to treachery, and you are a potential victim, as I once was. But is it not odd that my sister and I have come to save your hide?’

  ‘To strip the skin off my back more like, if that look on the face of the Lady Berengara is anything to go by.’

  ‘A trade in insults will get us nowhere,’ William insisted.

  He was actually thinking hard on what Guaimar had just said, in fact an accurate assessment of the true situation in which Rainulf found himself, and the beginnings of a solution were forming in his mind, but it had to be one kept close. He gestured to the servants that they should leave the room, Rainulf indicating they should deposit the jug of wine by his right hand. No one spoke until they had gone.

  ‘My lord would need some guarantees, and there is only one I can think of that will be acceptable.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘He must be confirmed in his title by the emperor,’ he said softly, so as not to be overheard. ‘Perhaps as a count in his own right.’

  ‘That is to ask a great deal.’

  ‘Is it? You say you wish to keep him in his title. I suspect when Conrad restores you, if he restores you and gives you Capua, you will acknowledge him as your rightful suzerain and he will, with some ceremony, confirm you in your title. Let him do the same for Rainulf and he will have imperial protection against you, and…’ William looked at the still-peevish Berengara,‘…your successors, as well as any other Lombard noble who wishes him ill.’

  Rainulf nodded vigorously; what William had proposed was a thing after which any man of sense would hanker. Right now he was in possession of his fief, but he had come by it in dubious circumstances which meant only his military strength kept him in place. To be confirmed by the Holy Roman Emperor would make him legitimate: if he could get rid of Pandulf’s niece, and perhaps breed a son with another, that child would be his lawful heir.

  ‘Only Conrad can decide that,’ Guaimar said.

  ‘True.’ William leant forward now, his voice remaining soft. ‘Sir, I have no desire to diminish you, but you are a messenger. Therefore the response must be carried back to Conrad Augustus to get his answer. Your aim is to detach Rainulf from his allegiance to Pandulf. Give him the desire to do so and you will succeed.’

  ‘And if I fail?’

  ‘Then you will face, when you seek to besiege the Prince of Capua, a force of Norman cavalry at your back which will put in doubt the success of the whole endeavour.’

  Guaimar made to speak but William stopped him. ‘You may have the greatest host Christendom has ever witnessed, but we will call upon our brothers from all over South Italy to come to our aid, maybe as many as a thousand lances. I doubt Conrad wants to face such a force, as well as Pandulf and his Normans. Take it from one who knows, and I have no doubt Conrad knows this too, nothing is certain in war.’

  There was bluff in what William had just said: Sicily was a more attractive prospect to the rest of the Norman mercenaries in Italy, but he imparted it with enough conviction to make it seem a real threat.

  Guaimar sat in silence for half a minute. He did not know whether to be angry or impressed. He had advised Conrad to do the very thing this William de Hauteville was proposing, the notion he had formed before he and his sister escaped from Salerno, the idea he had kept from the archbishop. But he had intended to tease matters out, and draw Rainulf into grateful acceptance of an idea that would seem to come to him with a flash of spontaneity.

  Imperial confirmation would make him, as his captain so ably outlined, inviolable: no matter how strong he became once back in his seat of Salerno, he could never revenge himself on Rainulf without incurring the kind of imperial wrath which was about to depose Pandulf, but he had very badly wanted the Norman to be grateful to him at least. Had he been outmanoeuvred? He was not sure, but he was now certain there was no point in doing that which he had originally intended, which was to ride out of Rainulf’s camp with the pretence of going back to plead with Conrad, then return to tell him that, after much argument, he had persuaded the emperor to agree.

  ‘I have no need to take such a message,’ he said finally, wondering, as he looked into the penetrating Norman’s eyes, if the man ever blinked. ‘It has already been conceded.’

  ‘As I thought,’ said William.

  ‘You knew?’ demanded Berengara.

  ‘No, I did not know, but to detach Rainulf you had to offer him something he could not refuse, and, given he has much wealth, that was the only thing that made sense.’ He turned to look to the top of the table, to where Rainulf was looking confused. ‘I advise you to accept, and if you do, I suggest that it would be a kindness to offer these two visitors both a meal and a bed if they want one.’

  Rainulf just nodded. Berengara looked as if she had bitten that yellow fruit the monk had used at Montesárchio to cleanse William’s wound.

  ‘I would give my eye teeth to see the look on Pandulf’s face when he hears this,’ she said.

  ‘Let him hear it only when he sees our lances,’ said William. ‘I sent the servants out of the room so that they would not overhear. Not one of the men we command will be told of this till we turn up under Pandulf’s walls.’

  ‘I must tell the emperor.’

  ‘No, your honour,’ said William, giving for the first time some credence to his claimed title. ‘It is I who will tell the emperor, and I will also tell him that the next time he will meet you and your sister will be under the walls of Capua.’

  ‘You don’t trust me.’

  Rainulf laughed, his belly shaking. ‘He is a true Norman, of course he does not trust you.’

  ‘And now,’ William said finally, standing up. ‘I would like a few words with my lord, alone, while you are shown to one of our huts. I fear the accommodation you will be offered will not meet the standard to which you are accustomed, but it is all we have.’

  ‘You have no idea, William de Hauteville,’ snapped Berengara, ‘of what we have had to live in these last few years.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  William rode out at dawn the next morning, accompanied only by Drogo, leaving behind him a camp speculating wildly about what was afoot. Like his brother, they were in ignorance, and try as he might Drogo could get no answers to his questions until the camp and Rainulf’s tower was well out of sight. That was not just caution on William’s part; he still needed time to think through what he was going to do, well aware that he had been lucky in his talk with Guaimar. Up against a more experienced envoy he would not have nailed things so easily, but he suspected the young man would learn: he had not been stupid enough to seek to string matters out when his ploy had been exposed.

  William was in his prime: never had he felt more fit to be a leader and a warrior, and he knew Drogo was also at his peak, unlike Rainulf, who was fading. Though he might have many years to live, his days of leading men into battle were numbered, if not actually over, and while nothing would make William disloyal to a man who had come to trust him, he had to consider, in a world where every creature was at the mercy of an implacable and mercurial God, as well as the vagaries of his fellow humans, what would happen after Rainulf was gone.

  ‘The wine will kill him,’ opined Drogo, when the thought was finally broached, ‘though maybe if he can get himself a new wife, he might put aside the jug.’

  ‘You think a woman can rejuvenate him?’

  ‘It does wonders for me. That Berengara creature would make me feel like the Archangel Michael.’

  ‘She’s a fine-looking woman…’

  ‘Ah hah!’ crowed Drogo, who had often guyed his brother about his lack of attachments; there was a woman in Aversa he visited, but so infrequently that to Drogo it was like chastity.

  ‘But, I think she might be murderous if crossed.’

  ‘Take my word for it, brother, always choose a woman who might kill you, for such a creature will surely entertain you.’

  ‘It’s a wonder you’re still with us.’ />
  ‘I am fleet of foot. Now are you going to tell me where we are going and what we are going to do?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ William said, dismounting.

  * * *

  Drogo whistled more than once as his brother outlined what was about to happen, though he did have his own questions, and he was unaware that William was not telling him everything he had in mind.

  ‘You’re sure Conrad can win?’

  ‘If his army is as large as Guaimar implied, he would beat Pandulf, and might do so even if we aided him.’

  ‘I didn’t like the idea of aiding Pandulf before you said that. I like it even less now.’

  ‘This may have come just in time.’

  ‘How so?’ William looked at Drogo as though he was dense. ‘You think we have to fear the Wolf?’

  ‘Rainulf does, even if he has never openly said so. I do not know if we have to; remember, he tried to recruit us once.’

  They talked of that; of the way Rainulf must now be seen by Pandulf, as leading the only force in Campania that could possibly check his ambitions, plus the fact that he was getting older and weaker in manpower, which made him obviously less able to defend himself.

  ‘You’ve forgotten us.’

  ‘No I have not, Drogo, but hand on heart, faced with Pandulf, and looking at Rainulf, how many of the men we lead might think it better to defect if it came to a choice?’

  Drogo nodded. ‘Too many, because the Wolf would come armed with all the gold he has torn from the throats of his vassals.’

  William nodded; Pandulf was not called the Wolf for nothing. Rainulf excluded, he had taxed his inferior lords mercilessly, the likes of Montesárchio being sent back to bleed dry anyone with property, and they in turn bore down on their peasantry, robbed anyone who showed even a hint of prosperity. The man was fabulously wealthy and William was not about to castigate those who might desert Rainulf for a bribe. They were mercenaries: they fought for gold, which was why they had come all the way from Normandy.

  ‘I’d rather go south,’ Drogo said.

  William looked sharply at him then; had he heard about Sicily? Rainulf had confided in him but no one else, but Drogo was just staring at the road ahead, his face bland.

  ‘Do you remember this road when first we travelled it?’

  ‘Do I?’ Drogo groaned. ‘I can remember my belly was empty and my arse was raw.’

  ‘We have done well, have we not?’

  That made Drogo look hard at William, being far from a fool. He knew by the look on his face that his brother was driving at something and he demanded to be told what it was.

  ‘Rainulf came south how many years ago, less than twenty, and what has he achieved? Add to that what he will have if Conrad confirms and raises him to an Imperial Count of Aversa. When we rode here, we came with the intention of one day returning home, did we not?’

  ‘We did, and before you ask me, I am not sure that now I would still wish to do that.’

  ‘Because there is less for us in Normandy than there is in Italy.’

  ‘By some margin, brother, unlike you, who had an inheritance to look forward to. I never had a spare piece of copper at home; I have a box of gold here, not much, but some, and so have you, and that is after we have sent back enough coin for father to build his stone donjon.’

  William nodded, thinking, if he had an inheritance, it was not a great one. He could ride around Tancred’s demesne in half a morning. As for a proper stone tower, that could not be built without ducal approval, which had been denied.

  ‘There are things I miss,’ Drogo added, ‘but not having my arse hanging out of my breeches, and knowing that, despite our bloodline, we had nothing, and that was likely the way it was going to remain.’

  It was not something of which they often talked, their connection to the ducal house of Normandy, the fact that they both had as good a claim to the title as the Bastard of Falaise who held it. There was little need and both knew everything, and had said it all too often. News had come from the Contentin, mostly discouraging to any hope of increased good fortune there.

  Several barons had rebelled, seeking to put aside Duke Robert’s bastard, and each uprising had been crushed with the aid of the King of the Franks. So much for Bessancourt; all Duke Robert had done, as Tancred had predicted, was to strengthen the entity that posed the greatest threat to Norman independence. William had felt the time had come to make a decision he knew he had pondered often and put off again and again. ‘So you think we should stay?’

  ‘I will, what you do is a choice you make, Gill.’

  That was a tacit acknowledgement of William’s prior claim, after Tancred, as head of the family. He would inherit the demesne, if he wanted to. Yet Drogo also knew his brother was not cut out for such a life, any more than he was himself. Yes, it was attractive if it could be extended, but the chances of that, given the present duke and his support from the Capetian King, were slim. In fact it was quite the reverse. At home, William would be drawn into conspiracies of the kind that had already failed. Instead of gaining more land and power, he might lose everything.

  ‘You have said Rainulf is old, Drogo. It is also true he has no heir. What happens to the County of Aversa after he is gone?’

  There was no need for Drogo to respond to that, for the answer was too obvious: the loss of Rainulf would still leave his men, and they had to be led by someone. The heir to that, and quite possibly the title, was William.

  ‘Do you trust my judgement?’

  Drogo hooted, and leapt onto his mount. ‘What fool trusts his brother?’

  That reassured him: if Drogo had replied in a serious tone he would have been worried. He too mounted. ‘Then, Drogo my brother, we must, before we go to see the Holy Roman Emperor, call upon the Wolf of the Abruzzi.’

  The look Drogo gave William then pleased him mightily; his brother had no idea what he was about.

  As they approached the centre of Capua, they could hear the labours being carried out to repair the defences long before they saw the men working on the walls: hammers hammering, levers being used to remove loose blocks of stone, with tackles rigged to fit replacements. No castle was ever properly maintained, such things were put off until danger threatened and many a fortress fell because time did not allow for it to be put into a proper state for defence. Pandulf was no different: rich he might be but he would hoard his money or use it to bribe and suborn, not employ it to ensure he had an impregnable place from which he could defy anyone who threatened him.

  Carts loaded with hay and wine, others with wheat and oats, herds of sheep and lowing cattle were crowded in the open space before the castle gates, as the garrison tried to stock up for a siege. Given the number of fighting men working and manning the walls it was obvious that everyone had been called in from the countryside, some from their seized monastery lands; if the castle fell they could kiss those possessions goodbye.

  As they forced their way through it was clear the fellow Normans who greeted them were nervous, even if they tried to be bluff and jesting. It was just as telling the looks the two brothers had got as they rode through the streets of the city. Pure hatred was the most accurate description: the good folk of Capua saw the Normans, any Normans, as the power that helped keep them under the thumb and rapacity of the Wolf. There would be no aid from that quarter, which meant the walls of the city, the first line of defence, could not be manned.

  ‘We bring messages from the Lord of Aversa,’ William called to the sentinels by the gate.

  ‘He has heard then?’

  ‘Who has not?’ Drogo replied.

  ‘When is he coming?’ asked another, a fellow William recognised as one who had left Rainulf’s service.

  ‘As soon as he is ready,’ Drogo replied.

  ‘And before any damned emperor,’ William added, before crossing himself by habit. He was still his father’s son.

  That got a sort of hollow cheer from the fighting men who could hear, leaving William to w
onder what they had been told. Did they have any real notion of what they faced? If they did, would they desert Pandulf?

  ‘No, they took an oath facing God,’ said Drogo, when William voiced that possibility. ‘They will keep it, as would we.’

  They took their horses to the stables and gave instructions they should be fed and watered, then went in search of the Court Chamberlain.

  ‘William and Drogo de Hauteville to see Prince Pandulf on a matter of great urgency, bearing the greetings of the Lord of Aversa.’

  Previously the man’s response would have been haughty; there was none of that now, he practically ran into the audience chamber, shouting who had arrived and on whose behalf. The brothers did not wait, they marched in behind him, to find the Wolf surrounded both by fighting men and courtiers, all of whom seemed intent on giving him advice.

  ‘My good friends,’ he cried when he espied them, coming towards them arms outstretched.

  William went down on one knee. Drogo followed, whispering, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trust me,’ William replied, just before Pandulf’s hand touched his arm.

  ‘Arise, arise, you have no need to kneel to me.’

  Odd, the thought came, how you always ignored me when I came with Rainulf. Upright, William looked the Wolf right in the eye. ‘I wish you to have no doubt of the depth of respect in which we hold you, Prince Pandulf, and so does our liege lord.’

  ‘Good. Rainulf sent you to me in my hour of need.’

  ‘To assure you he is making ready to come to Capua with every lance at his disposal.’

  ‘Will it be enough?’ Pandulf asked, his face creased with concern.

  ‘It is to discuss this that we have been sent to speak with you.’

  Pandulf could not help himself; a look of deep suspicion crossed his face, before he wiped it off and replaced it with his worried smile.

  ‘I think we need to speak with you alone, sire.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Pandulf cried, waving his arms at those who had previously surrounded him. ‘Leave us, I must hear what the Lord of Aversa has to say.’