by Jack Ludlow
‘William, I have taught you this, I am sure.’
‘I have a figure in my mind for hay,’ William lied, ‘but I wish to see if I have counted right.’
‘How can you be wrong, it is so simple? If there are two thousand horses and each requires thirteen librae of hay per day, you need some four hundred bushels, always assuming that there will be a certain amount of pasturage and that oats are provided by the Master Marshall on the route of march.’
‘Libra? You use the Roman measure?’
‘What else would I use?’
‘I was thinking of Charlemagne’s livres.’
‘So what is it in Charlemagne livres?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘Different,’ William replied, hastily, ‘very different. Take care as we cross the river.’
Fording the Epte for those towards the rear of the column was more taxing than for the men who had gone earlier: not the entry, but most certainly the churned up exit, as the faggots laid on the bank originally had long come apart, leaving a widening sea of earth turned to sludge by hundreds of hooves, mixed with liberal quantities of dung from horses nervous on the slippery ground.
The de Hautevilles were forced to dismount and lead their animals up the slimy bank, becoming covered from head to foot in what they were wading through as they dragged reluctant mounts though the muddy ground, not least from what was kicked up by hooves. Tancred’s mood was not improved when his two younger boys decided the destroyed riverbank provided an excellent mud slide, albeit one which washed them clean when they ended up in the dirty brown water, that parental ire made worse when he tried to kick them for a second attempt and ended up in an undignified heap.
‘Welcome, Father,’ called William, ‘to the land of the Franks.’
Picking himself up, a figure now a uniform brown from head to toe, and slithering to where William stood, he nodded and patted his son on the back. ‘It’s enough to make a man curse his neighbour, which is expressly forbidden in Scripture.’
A swiftly swinging foot took William’s legs and, landing on the muddy ground, he could not avoid slithering down into the river to where Robert and Serlo were now engaged in a bout of water-fighting, his journey accompanied by the bellow of his mollified father, as well as the laughter of his brothers.
‘Or to put in his place a disrespectful son, which is not. Now get up here the three of you and let us be on our way.’
Given the water that had dripped off those ahead, it was a good distance till the footing under their animals was dry, by which time they had dismounted again to walk, giving their horses some necessary relief and, once the mud had dried, for it was a warm summer day, trying to brush themselves clean. The army halted at noon and, after taking on food and drink, men who had travelled in their own lands in leather jerkins now donned their hauberks and helmets; they were no longer in Normandy, with no precise knowledge of where their enemy lay — it was time to be ready to fight.
Their route was still dictated by the River Seine, running between bluff white cliffs topped by dense forests on one bank, and rolling open country to the south, their aim to reach the great fortress of La Roche-Guyon, which for two hundred years had defended the Frankish border. The castle was invisible from the approach, being, as it was, built into the chalk cliffs, a bastion any invading army bypassed at its peril, given that the strong garrison of mounted knights would emerge from unseen openings at the bottom of the cliff face to fall upon the rear and engage in bloody execution, before disappearing back into their impregnable warren.
La Roche-Guyon also guarded a spot at which the Seine could be crossed and there were few of those between Rouen and Paris, which rendered the fortress doubly valuable. By now the whole host knew that the Duke of Normandy had pledged his men to the Frankish King on condition that the castle, as well as the rest of the French part of the Vexin, be surrendered to his control. It was a measure of how desperate the Capetian monarch was that he was prepared to give up such an asset, one that protected his capital from a potential enemy who would now be only three days’ forced march away.
Henry Capet, King of the Franks, had set up, beneath the hidden fortress, a great round pavilion of his own, there to await his ally. His army was encamped elsewhere, for there was precious little open ground between the cliffs and the river. By the time the host passed the pavilion the duke and his senior commanders were inside to hear the whereabouts of the King’s rebellious brother and to agree how he was to be met and where.
The Normans did not join with the levies of the King for three days, two of which were spent setting up and breaking camp, travelling short distances to new pastures and integrating themselves into a truly disciplined force. The de Hautevilles had much to occupy them apart from that: they needed to get to know the men alongside whom they would fight, riding with them in conjoined lines under the direction of the Sire de Montfort, ensuring that they had clear knowledge of the commands he would issue.
Tancred might loathe the man as well as his pretensions, and dispute whether he had the right to lord it over him in his home region, but he was, to his mailed glove, a soldier, and one who knew that to allow a dispute of that nature to interfere with their common purpose in battle was to invite disaster.
Battle was imminent but few knew when, though rumours abounded, while sorting those from fact was a daunting task: there were many who would believe and disseminate any tale, however stupid it might be. But the day came when all doubt was gone: the enemy was at hand and tomorrow they should clash. The sudden increase in the attention paid to the condition of mounts and weapons, the depth of prayer that came from constricted throats at the mass held in the dying light, was evidence of that, for those in entreaty knew that, on the morrow, some of them would die.
Geoffrey confessed Tancred, his sons and followers, as well as the two boys, who would stay with the horses and the duke’s baggage train. It was not unknown for that to be a prime object of an enemy assault. It was evidence of their youthful foolishness that they hoped such a thing would happen, for in their minds they were certain that they alone could repulse it.
CHAPTER THREE
The summons for Guaimar and Berengara to attend upon the Prince of Capua was delivered at dawn and without much in the way of grace. Osmond de Vertin had turned up outside the small gatehouse lodge they now occupied in the heart of Salerno, banging on the door with the same impatience he had shown at the abbey church. He had brought along two spare horses, one with a saddle suitable for a young woman, and he was in no mood to wait for their — particularly her — need to properly prepare themselves.
It was a measure of how unthreatened these Normans felt that, on this undertaking, not one was wearing mail, a helmet or carrying a lance. They were dressed in soft hats and surcoats over leather jerkins, slashed on the sleeve to allow the breeze to cool their bodies. Both the youngsters, with the prospect of facing the Wolf in his own lair, had donned elegant court clothes and covered them with cloaks, guaranteeing a warm and uncomfortable journey.
So hurried was the rousing out and departure that it took time for Guaimar to realise the different colours these men wore, no longer the red and black of Rainulf Drengot, but the yellow and green of the Prince of Capua, an indication that Osmond and this band of Normans who garrisoned Salerno must have changed their allegiance. What this portended he could not tell.
It was a journey undertaken at speed, a steady canter, with frequent changes of mounts every two leagues and a strong party sent ahead to clear the road, and God assist any peasant who got in the way. Those walking were forced into the storm ditches while anyone driving a cart was as likely to find it tipped on its side, and fear made sure they hid well their deep resentment, some even bowing to the passing horsemen. Nothing was allowed to interfere with the passage of this band, with the chief escort proud of the way his power was so decidedly demonstrated. Many a glance was directed at Berengara, in the hope of observing she was impressed.
A journey of twenty lea
gues took all day, even across a flat, featureless plain on a well-maintained Roman road, and they had little chance to snatch food and drink at the infrequent stops. It was telling that Osmond bypassed the home and camp of Rainulf Drengot near Aversa, which was on the direct route to Capua, underlining that he no longer served the mercenary leader.
It was a weary and dust-covered party that, in the gathering evening gloom, rode through the Norman guarded gates and into the courtyard of Pandulf’s palace-cum-fortress, tucked in a bend of the River Volturno inside the walled city. As soon as they were dismounted, before even they had a chance to ease their aching limbs, Guaimar and Berengara were ordered into the great hall in which Pandulf was wont to receive visitors.
‘Bring them forward.’
The voice called from the end of the hall, which, though lit, was too dim to distinguish the speaker at such a distance, but it was one known to them. Guaimar felt himself pushed in the back and as he advanced his sister did likewise. Closer to the raised dais at the end of the great hall, Pandulf was sitting in a throne-like chair, with one leg casually thrown across the arm.
Dark of colour, and with swarthy skin — which hinted at Saracen blood — Pandulf was a handsome man who prided himself on those looks. Guaimar had only met him on two occasions prior to the day he usurped his father’s place, but he could clearly recall the easy charm, the deep and attractive voice, as well as the ready smile and the twinkle in the eyes that engendered trust in those who had not before dealt with him. Anyone who had experience of his true nature did not trust Pandulf at all.
Yet no one could deny that he had luck, or was it that easy manner, smile and magnetism which so blinded people to his true character. The citizens of Capua were not fooled: the whole of Campania knew how much they hated him, knew how they had rejoiced when he had been deposed himself for earlier acts of chicanery as he played Byzantium off against the power of the Western Emperor, always for his own gain.
Yet somehow, having been taken to Germany as a prisoner by the previous emperor, he had thrown himself on the mercy of Conrad Augustus upon his election and had succeeded in convincing that newly crowned overlord of his good intentions. Conrad had set him loose and he had returned to claim his fief. The same citizens who had rejoiced to see him go had paid a heavy price for their hate: many had died, burnt at stakes or strung on ropes hanging from the walls of this very castle. So had Guaimar’s father!
‘You’ve grown, you pups of Salerno,’ he called, as though he was greeting old friends. ‘Pray take off those cloaks so I can get a good look at you.’
He sounds just like a benign and favourite uncle, Guaimar thought, as he undid his clasp, the cloak being taken from him by a silent retainer who appeared from the gloom at his side. That’s the way he talks: jocular and friendly. It made him think of the Garden of Eden snake.
Pandulf was on his feet, and coming down to meet them, his smile wide, his eyes fixed more on Berengara than her brother. ‘Grown did I say? Blossomed more like.’
Berengara had dropped her head, but close to, Pandulf lifted her chin. Then he took her hand and led her to a pool of stronger light, forcing Guaimar to follow. ‘You have turned into a beauty.’
‘We came as quick as was possible, sire.’
The hard voice of Osmond de Vertin, seeking praise for the speed with which he had carried out his orders, changed Pandulf’s face, making the eyes less twinkling and the mouth harder, but that slight change of expression was reversed as he faced his new Norman recruit.
‘You have done well, Osmond. You and your men must be weary. Take them to the guard quarters and give instructions that, while we dine, you too are to be fed.’
Guaimar was looking at Osmond as Pandulf spoke, and he sensed the man’s disappointment, not hard given it was written on his features. Did he feel he was elevated enough, now he served Pandulf directly, to remain in their company? Had he expected to dine at the princely table? Osmond stiffened in a sort of salutation, then spun on his heel and stalked off, his boots stamping hard to demonstrate his displeasure. It was doubtful if Pandulf noticed; he was back staring into Berengara’s upheld face.
‘We too must dine, but first I think you, young lady, should be granted some attention from the maidservants of my wife, to ease the strains of the journey. I have words to say to your brother.’
‘I have no objection to Berengara hearing anything you have to say.’
‘But I have, Guaimar,’ Pandulf replied in a sharp aside, before making a gesture with his hand that summoned one of his retainers. ‘Take the young lady to my wife’s private chambers. Ask that she be looked after and made more becoming, if that is possible.’
Berengara looked at Guaimar, who nodded. If he intended them harm, there was nothing he or she could do about it. If he did not, it would make no difference. As soon as she was gone, Pandulf returned to his chair, and, throwing himself into it once more, looked at Guaimar with an amused expression.
‘You too have grown, boy.’
‘It is, I believe, normal to do so.’
‘The question is, having done so, what have you grown into? A paragon or a nuisance?’
‘It might be possible to be both.’
Pandulf laughed. ‘Take the word of one who knows, Guaimar: it is not.’
‘Your superior knowledge, so painfully gained, humbles me.’
‘Are you clever, Guaimar?’
‘Modesty forbids an answer.’
‘Then you think you are, and your modesty is false. If you were truly self-effacing you would have given a different response. So let us assume you are clever and you are aware of that gift. What do you think opposing me will gain you?’
‘Have I opposed you?’
‘I do not know and for me that is not comfortable.’
The desire to tell this man how much he hated him was strong, but it had to be kept in check. Pandulf was not a person to challenge when you were entirely in his power, he being famously capricious, and all this polite banter could be a blind: the dungeon might be waiting, indeed his sister might have already been taken there. If the Wolf saw him as a threat, he would not hesitate to take steps to neutralise him. Guaimar thought he only had one asset: his own youth and lack of experience.
‘You do not answer?’
‘In truth, Prince Pandulf, I do not know what to answer. I am but a boy, in the presence of a man too well versed in the byways of discourse to challenge.’
He knew Pandulf was vain, just as he knew, with his dark and handsome looks, added to that insincere, friendly manner, he had the right to be. Right now, that insincerity had him adopting a look of confusion.
‘I wonder, Guaimar, if you understand me, or my purpose?’
‘As to the first, I would not presume. To the second, I plead ignorance.’
Pandulf was on his feet again, and coming close. ‘You bear yourself well, boy. No doubt you think I have brought you to Capua to harm you.’ The dark brown eyes, big pools of deep enquiry, bored into those of Guaimar. ‘Again you do not answer.’
Suddenly Pandulf was pacing up and down in front of him, speaking in a rapid voice. ‘I prayed for the soul of your father as you did, and I beg you to believe that I intended him no harm. Things were done that had to be done!’
That produced a pause in both talk and walk, accompanied by a hard look, a challenge to call him a liar. The response being a bland expression he was off again. ‘People talk ill of me, I know that, but in my heart I alone know that what I have done has been for the greater good of the Lombard cause. I do not act to benefit Pandulf, but to benefit the whole of the region of Campania and, after that, all of Southern Italy.’
Staying silent and controlled at that piece of mendacity tested Guaimar’s self-control to the limit.
‘What have we Lombards tried to do these last hundred years?’ It was not a question that sought an answer. ‘We have tried to rid ourselves of the yoke of Byzantium. And have we succeeded?’ Pandulf bellowed, before again answ
ering his own question. ‘No!’
Guaimar could feel his nails digging into his palms; how could this walking paradigm of treachery talk so when he had aided Byzantium in the crushing of the last Lombard revolt. That was what had cost him Capua and made him a prisoner in Germany!
‘We have not succeeded,’ Pandulf continued, ‘because we have not been united under the right leader.’
The boy could see where this was going and decided he had to cut off the flow of lies and self-justification to which he knew he was about to be exposed.
‘And you wish to unite us?’
Pandulf was clearly animated, as he rattled off an incoherent plan to bring together all the Lombard magnates of South Italy, into a great confederation; of course, under his banner. He would unite all the Normans as well: he had the means to buy the service of every band in the region and that would deprive the enemy of their prowess. With a mighty host he would throw Constantinople out of the whole of their Italian fiefs.
‘And then, Guaimar, we can tell Conrad Augustus to go hang as well, to stay in Germany and out of our affairs. Finally, we will be free.’
‘Do you not owe Conrad a great deal? Did he not free you?’
That earned Guaimar a pout. ‘I, boy, owe nothing to anyone.’
Guaimar was no stranger to the notion of Lombard independence, of a great kingdom that would embrace the southern half of Italy; he had heard it from his father all his growing years. It was a dream constantly alluded to and never realised because unity amongst the various rulers was impossible. Even with his stiffening of the Normans he had engaged as mercenaries, Melus, the last leader to try had been badly defeated, as much by internal squabbling and treachery as the army sent by the Eastern Emperor. Even the Normans had been chastened by that lost battle.