Mercenaries c-1

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘You fear him?’

  ‘I think perhaps you should fear him, Rainulf.’

  ‘I wonder. He seems to have no side to him.’

  ‘None he is showing now. What he will be like in time is harder to say.’

  ‘Perhaps we should test him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That is easy, Odo. I will make him responsible for his brother’s behaviour. If he turns out to be more loyal to his blood than to me, it will mean he cannot be fully trusted.’

  There had been no more private dining with Rainulf — in fact there had been few words exchanged since that first night — and William had discovered that he kept his men, even his captains, at a certain arm’s length, perhaps to underline the fact that the service they gave was moneyed not feudal. Nor did Rainulf reside in that square tower, using it only as a place from which to command his forces; he lived in a more sumptuous villa on the edge of Aversa, all marble, murals and mosaics. This he shared with his much younger wife, Pandulf’s niece, in what was said to be a stormy association.

  Given they trained and ate with the men, some of whom had been in Campania for years, William and Drogo soon learnt about the world into which they had ridden as well as the man who commanded them. Rainulf too had come south with an elder brother, one Gilbert, who had been killed at a great battle on the field of Cannae in Apulia. There the Normans and their Lombard paymasters, who were fighting to gain independence, had suffered the same fate at the hands of a great Byzantine host as the Roman legions had suffered at the hands of Hannibal of Carthage.

  Before Cannae, the Norman mercenaries, faced with Greek or Lombard opponents, had always been victorious; not this time. Constantinople deployed against them not only a good general with a substantial army, but a weapon equally as potent in battle as the Normans: the Eastern Emperor’s Varangian Guard, men from the land of Kiev Rus, of the same Norse stock as themselves who, unlike the opponents they normally faced, did not break or flee, but stood their ground and used the great axes, which were their principal weapon, to deadly effect.

  Chastened, the Normans had retired to Campania, to take service with new paymasters, but some had returned to serve, as mercenaries, the very Byzantine General who had defeated them, such was the volatility of life in these parts. Over the days that followed they struggled to get to grips with the seeming chaos of Southern Italy, and perplexing it was: a land of shifting fiefs, of claim and counterclaim, peopled by Lombards who ruled a mixed Greek and Italian-speaking population, with feudal oversight claimed by two emperors.

  On the eastern side of the Apennines, directly opposite Campania, lay the Principality of Benevento, nominally a papal fief but one that was a cause of endless dispute. Below and to the east of that stood the Byzantine provinces of Apulia and Calabria, collectively known as the Catapanate, which, under a good ruling proconsul, was a land of peace and prosperity, the Adriatic and southern coasts dominated by great, near-independent trading ports like Bari, Brindisi and Taranto.

  Threatened — and these proconsuls and ports often were by Lombard uprisings, Saracen raids, and even the odd attack from the Western Emperor and the Pope — they presented a formidable foe, as long as the leader was competent and he was given an army. Generally it was the opposite: there was either no one in office or some venal satrap given the position by court intrigue, which made febrile that which was unstable. Constantinople was far away and it was a place too often ruled by emperors who were weak or self-indulgent, which fired endlessly the dreams the Lombards had of a kingdom encompassing the whole region. It was in pursuit of that very dream they had been beaten at Cannae.

  It took many repetitions to get hold of what was a mass of confusion in terms of allegiances and ownership of land and titles, just to comprehend that the Campania region alone contained three distinct fiefs: Naples, Salerno and Capua. The lords of these territories were rarely associates, never friends. They sought constantly to undermine their neighbours, not difficult since each province was riven with petty baronies that were forever transferring their allegiance and often in conflict with each other and what passed for the centre of power.

  ‘My head is spinning, brother,’ Drogo complained, after one lengthy explanation. ‘This part of the world makes the Contentin look like a haven of order.’

  ‘It’s perfectly simple, Drogo, if you would listen.’

  If Drogo loathed anything, it was times like these when his brother began to use his fingers to explain something, as though he was an idiot child. He understood that Rainulf’s present paymaster, and so ultimately his, was the Prince of Capua, and really that was all that mattered. That Rainulf had betrayed another magnate to get his fief meant nothing: that same duke had at one time bribed Rainulf to betray the Prince of Capua. It was the way of this world and the only common goal of the mercenaries employed was that they should prosper.

  Capua was, at present, dominant, and that ensured a steady flow of money as they carried out whatever commands were issued by the rapacious prince of that fiefdom. If thunderbolts of approbation at his depredations came from the Pope in Rome, as well as the Holy Roman Emperor in Germany, who might claim to be titular overlord of this part of Italy, it mattered not at all unless it was backed up by force. Strictures from Constantinople counted for even less.

  All that required to be understood was the fact that the Lombards were treacherous, greedy, unreliable and given to rebellion, as were their subjects and it was those traits which kept the Norman mercenaries regularly and gainfully employed.

  Rainulf sought out the brothers later in the day. They were working in one of the paddocks used for the training of fighting horses, an activity which took place in the early evening when the sun had lost its strength, both with animals not long risen from being colts, seeking to teach them to respond to the command of the thigh alone, no easy task given they were still not fully trained on the reins. It was work that required endless patience: there was no way to force a horse into compliant behaviour, they were not like dogs, they had to be won over by constant repetition and a firm hand regularly applied, and even then only certain animals had the aptitude to face the kind of dangers to which they would be exposed in battle.

  Rainulf, like every other Norman, bred his mounts with passion and made sure they were looked after, given they were the key to battle success. So he watched with interest as the de Hauteville brothers put these tyro destriers through their paces, gently cajoling them, occasionally hauling them up with strength to remind them who was in charge, trotting round the paddock standing upright, reins lightly held, pressing with one knee seeking to turn them left or right. You could go through this for weeks, months even, get it right, then find that the horse on which you had expended so much time in training would shy away from the danger of a shield wall, or pull up rather than jump a ditch.

  To an experienced eye it was clear Drogo de Hauteville was better at the task. Not that his elder brother was poor, just that Drogo seemed to have an affinity with these equines greater than William. Indeed, listening, it was obvious that it was Drogo who was proffering advice, the precise opposite of what took place in the manege where they trained to fight. On their own mounts, now resting after their morning exertions, both seemed equal, but not with animals yet to be taught. Judging by the sweaty state of the horses, they had been at their training for some time, and they called a halt before tiredness in the animals made them cantankerous.

  ‘Drogo,’ Rainulf said, as they came to the rail, leading the sweating mounts. ‘Oblige me by seeing the horses to their fields. I wish to have words with your brother.’

  There was a slight feeling of anger in Rainulf’s breast when Drogo hesitated, waiting until William nodded that he should comply; he was a man who expected to be obeyed, not to have to have his orders — and it had been an order however gently couched — approved by another.

  Waiting till Drogo was well out of earshot, Rainulf spoke again, aware, close up, just how much taller William was
than he. ‘Your brother seems to be good with horseflesh.’

  ‘I have never met one better.’

  ‘I saw you deferring to him just now.’

  The way Rainulf said that, as though it was odd, made William question the statement. ‘Why should I not?’

  ‘You are the older.’

  ‘By a year, Rainulf, which is not much, and be assured I will happily take instruction from any man who is my peer in anything.’

  ‘Including me?’

  The clear blue eyes hardened at that. ‘You have come to talk to me for a reason; you have sent my brother away, I think because he is the reason.’

  That piece of perspicacity caught Rainulf out. He had intended to talk for a bit and bring the subject round to Drogo, but he had found this de Hauteville too sharp for his game, which made him wonder if perhaps Odo de Jumiege had been right. Should he be cautious of this man, for there was no doubt, in close proximity, he had a commanding presence?

  ‘He is trouble, your brother.’

  William smiled at that, which was just as disconcerting, given there was a reprimand implicit in the words. ‘He is his father’s son.’

  ‘You will forgive me if I say that makes no sense to me.’

  ‘If you knew my sire, Tancred, it would make perfect sense.’

  ‘But I do not.’

  ‘Drogo is my brother, but there are ten more of the same in my family, as well as three sisters. My father, and Drogo has inherited it, has an unbridled appetite…’

  Rainulf interrupted. ‘You sound as though you do not respect your father.’

  ‘I respect him and love him, but I would wish him less fertile. The only peace my mother got, God rest her soul, was when he was away fighting.’

  ‘Your mother is dead?’

  ‘She is, but he wed again, and I have a raft of half-siblings.’

  ‘Away fighting?’ Rainulf enquired. ‘Fighting who?’

  ‘The Moors in Spain, the Parisian Franks as well as those on our border with Anjou. He even went to England once, to help put a king back on his throne.’

  ‘Ethelred?’

  William nodded. ‘You see, he was as active on the field of battle as he was in the bedchamber. He was much admired by Duke Robert’s father, as a soldier.’

  ‘If, as you say, Drogo is like his father, I need you to rein him in.’

  William laughed out loud, and it made no difference to his humour that he saw the way it annoyed the Lord of Aversa.

  ‘Why do you laugh?’ he snapped.

  ‘You came here a long time ago, Rainulf.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do you remember that journey?’

  ‘That does not tell me why you laughed.’

  William, though he was looking at Rainulf, was back on that long road south. The first thing the brothers had discovered was that they came from a race that was unpopular; it was better to deny they were Normans — hard, given their size and colouring — than admit to it. That they should not be loved in Frankish Anjou was accepted; the Angevin territory bordered on Normandy and had suffered much from incursion, though not without an equal amount of retaliation.

  It was when they came to cross the Loire at Tours that it really struck home. The locals had memories that went back two centuries. Viking raiders — and the good folk of Tours saw no distinction between a Norman and a Norseman — had sailed up the river and inflicted on the city all the rapine and mayhem for which they were famous. To the inhabitants, it was as if it had happened yesterday.

  Even the monks in the local hospice had treated them with a very unchristian reserve; they did not believe them to be true pilgrims, given the number of mounts and their nature — that was made obvious by the way they indulged others who were genuinely on the road to various shrines, pilgrims from as far away as Denmark, Caledonia, Hibernia and England. Too many Normans had passed this way claiming the status, when truly they were on the way to fight and that was before Drogo was caught in the nunnery, which led to much shouting, the drawing of swords in a place of sanctity, followed by a hurried dawn departure. It was that memory which had made William laugh, along with Drogo’s justification for his actions.

  ‘I feel sorry for them,’ he had insisted, when William castigated him for the twentieth time. ‘They don’t want to be in a nunnery, it’s their damn families who have put them there.’

  ‘They put them there to keep them chaste, not for the likes of you to deflower them.’

  ‘Deflower? There wasn’t a virgin in sight.’

  ‘No doubt you tried them all?’

  ‘Not even I am that stalwart, brother, though I confess, if I could have stayed, there were enough covert glances to make me think I could have died happy, and some of those from aged creatures who you would think past such impious thoughts.’

  What to say to Rainulf: that Drogo had an appetite that made his own father look tame? That was unfair to Tancred who had never strayed from wedlock in his carnality. His second son could not see a wench without trying to have his way with her, and many a fight had he been saved from, merely because he had so many brothers who would take his part, even when he was clearly in the wrong. There must have been fathers in the Contentin who heaved a sigh of relief to hear he had gone south, just as there were those in that same part of Normandy with numerous bastards at their hearth, the paternity of which could be, with some certainty, laid at Drogo’s door.

  In Tours he had climbed the nunnery walls to get at his conquests, and insisted they stay for extra days, with the excuse that the horses were fagged, only for his brother to find out the true reason when the hue and cry broke out, caused, Drogo had insisted, by the jealousy of some fellow engaged on the same mission as he, who opened the door of a paramour’s cell to find him on top of her. As trenchant as his activities, were his views on the subject of nunneries.

  ‘Me,’ Drogo had added, ‘I would shut them all. It’s one thing for a man to renounce the world and become a monk, but to force a woman into chastity is wrong. Mind, there were a few black habits sneaking about as well as my cuckold. I wasn’t the only one favoured with a bit of warm flesh, the hypocrites.’

  William had ventured to advance the concept of family honour, even although he knew that Drogo had never let an insult to their name pass, knowing he was wasting his breath. Drogo would never change, and in truth, what he had said about nunneries had a great deal of validity. Certainly there were some young women who elected to become Brides of Christ, but for the majority they were incarcerated against their will because of some transgression real or imagined, and perhaps only on the possibility of sin.

  Or they were widows; their late husbands’ families wanted them out of the way, and on many occasions it was more to do with an inheritance than any notion they might cause disgrace: a woman in a nunnery was not likely to remarry. Then, of course, there were the wives who had cuckolded husbands powerful enough to do with them as they wished. They, according to his brother, who had made a habit of night-time excursions in every place they had stayed, were the most needing of his attentions.

  Looking at the man who now employed them he was tempted to relate the tale he had recalled, but he decided it might not sit well with him. ‘Why did I laugh? One day, Rainulf, you must let me relate to you Drogo’s adventures and you will laugh too. I assure you it will be a long day. If his seed is any good you will be able to trace his route back to Normandy by the bastards he created.’

  ‘It is that very thing about which I need to talk. Now he is here and he is causing trouble. He will not desist from disquieting the women of other men.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He might be killed for this habit.’

  ‘I think you have already observed, Rainulf, that is not easy. So what do you want from me?’

  ‘To make him your responsibility.’

  ‘And if I decline?’

  ‘I like trouble with my enemies, not with my soldiers.’

  William said nothing for several secon
ds, just holding Rainulf’s gaze. The inference was obvious: either rein in Drogo or saddle up and depart.

  ‘How do your men come by their women?’

  ‘Mostly they buy them. There is always a peasant with too large a brood willing to sell a daughter.’

  ‘Then I must ask you to advance the price of one and the time to find him a concubine. The only way to keep Drogo out of that kind of trouble is to give him something to occupy his attention.’

  Rainulf thought for a moment then nodded. ‘The price is not high, but any woman who comes here cannot be the kind to cause trouble. If your brother buys, it must be on the arrangement that the girl can be returned.’

  William decided, as he saw Drogo coming back to join them, that such a sanction was not one to pass on to his brother, otherwise he would try out every wench in Campania. Besides there was a more pressing concern.

  ‘And I will need another hut in which to sleep.’

  ‘That can be arranged when you return.’

  ‘Return?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Lord of Aversa called as he walked away. ‘You are about to earn your keep.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  William knew he was under scrutiny. The men on this expedition were all mercenaries of long experience; he was still, though popular, the newcomer, perhaps with a chance to show his peers that the tales of the fighting he had done in the past were not boasting but true. It was also significant that Drogo had been left out; separating them had been deliberate.

  Bringing up the rear of the party he was enveloped in the dust of a dry autumn. There had been no rain for weeks and his surcoat was covered in so much dust that the red and black colouring that now identified him as one of Rainulf’s men was quite hidden. Once more, he had a leaf in his mouth to protect his lower lip, and on his head he wore a straw hat bought in Aversa. But it was battle service, so his helmet was to hand, hooked over his saddle, while under the mail hauberk, even at this early hour of the morning, his body ran with sweat.

  Both dust and heat eased somewhat as the company left the flat agricultural plain and moved up into the rocky foothills and a cooling breeze, manoeuvring up a track that previous downpours had scarred clear of earth, the metal on the hooves occasionally ringing as a foot struck bare rock. Far ahead, in the clear air, the higher hills rose all the way to the forbidding mountains of the southern Apennines, set in a bluish haze like jagged broken teeth. Somewhere between there and where they now rode lay the place where he would be tested.