Son of Blood

by Jack Ludlow

If there was one name to bring on deep irritation in the ducal breast it was that of the Guiscard’s other brother-in-law, the Prince of Salerno. Where Sichelgaita was steady and a helpmeet, her brother was a mischievous fly-by-night who hated him. Gisulf was an insect he could not quite swat, much as he would like to, for Salerno lay too close to the lands controlled by Richard of Capua and he would have to accede to any attempt to put the prince of that city in his place. If his wife did not hate her brother she knew him to be a dolt with an overinflated sense of his own worth, and she always sided with her husband when his follies were exposed.

  ‘Gisulf lacks the means to create such mayhem, while all the information I can glean points to Capua.’

  ‘Did the rebels admit this?’

  ‘No, but priests and monks travel, and when they do, they talk with each other and with those they serve. Many of them serve me, or depend on me to endow their monasteries and churches, and if they cannot say with certainty that Capua is the villain, they have heard many hints to that effect.’

  ‘So all you have is rumour?’

  ‘It is enough,’ Bohemund’s father barked.

  ‘Is it wrong of me to think proof would be better?’

  ‘How do you find it? Richard would not become involved himself; he would keep it at arm’s length, allowing stupid Gisulf to think it was he who was generating trouble, but consider this. If Capuan lands border mine they also border the papal possessions and Rome would very much desire that one seat of Norman power should seek to trouble the other, so in alliance with them he is a danger. There are many things to threaten what we hold, Bohemund, as I have just outlined, but at this moment I see my sister’s husband, in combination with Pope Alexander and his slimy helpmeet Hildebrand, as the most pressing. What would be your response if I said that I intend that such a situation should cease to trouble my thinking?’

  ‘Which means the power of Capua must be broken?’

  ‘And that would require every lance I could muster, including my brother Roger.’

  There was no doubting the meaning of that statement or the invitation it contained. ‘It would be my honour to put my lance into your service once more.’

  There was a touch of youthful bombast to that, which had the Guiscard suppressing a smile. ‘Tomorrow I return to Trani to prepare an expedition against our overmighty and double-dealing neighbour. The task I have for you now is to ride to the borderland where my possessions meet those of Capua.’

  ‘Under whose lead?’

  ‘You shall have the command, Bohemund.’

  ‘Not Ademar?’

  ‘He advises me you are ready to act without him being present.’ Seeing the shoulders square, Robert added, ‘Choose your own lances, not more than thirty, and I would suggest men close to your own age, who are known to be eager for plunder and much inclined to disobey their elders. Feel free to raid Richard’s farms, to burn his crops and interfere with his trade and do not hide that it is you who is the perpetrator. I will let it be known that I have forbidden such acts, but I will also let it be known that you will pay no heed to my commands. I want Richard worrying about you and blind to what is happening further east, to my preparations.’

  Robert paused to allow his son to contemplate the action he would carry out, before adding, ‘And if he seeks to recruit you to fight against me, which Richard will do, make as if to accept, but do so with no haste.’

  ‘Will he believe that I would betray you?’

  ‘Why not, Bohemund?’ his father barked for a second time, turning to return to his chamber. ‘You have cause enough, do you not?’

  ‘It is not disapproving to be told that you should be careful what you wish for, husband.’

  Sichelgaita of Salerno had strong hands and fingers, well able to ease the pains that assailed her warrior spouse. The bathing pool Robert was relaxing in had been in Trani since Roman times, and if many of his fellow Normans saw such immersion in cool water as risky and likely to soften a man, the Guiscard did not; he was wont to remind his followers that the consuls of Ancient Rome had conquered nearly the whole of the known world and bathed daily. A fear of water might serve in the cold and wet climes of Normandy, where it could bring on the ague, but here in Italy it was to be welcomed, especially now that it was edging towards high summer, when the midday heat made the body run sweat even when still and the beating sun could be enough to strike down a man wearing chain mail.

  These were the weeks in which no one campaigned, for it was possible to lose a whole army to the kind of sickness that could assail them when the temperatures made the very earth seem to shimmer and the metal parts of a shield too hot to touch. Added to that the river courses dried up, which was no good for a mounted army and thousands of horses that required up to two sesters of water per day’s march, and that took no account of oxen and donkeys; wells, the only other source, could be poisoned and frequently were by a retreating enemy.

  The campaign, when it was launched, would take place once the weather started to cool and the rains filled the lowland rivers, so his conscript Lombards and Greeks could go about their daily occupations until the time came to assemble and be drilled before marching. Training, which for a Norman never ceased, took place in the cool of the morning, and that applied to a duke as much as it applied to the newest lance come south to seek advancement. Robert de Hauteville had been in the sand-covered manège, practising with the men on whom he relied in battle, both mounted and on foot, employing padded lances and hard wooden swords that, when they got through, left heavy bruises, now being soothed and kneaded by his wife. Opponents often asked why the Normans were so successful; such endless preparation was the answer – when it came to an actual battle they were at their peak.

  He winced as his wife pressed hard on a long, bluish welt, given to him by one of his knights who had, and this was rare, got through his guard on more than one occasion to strike home. For once, that morning, he had not dominated the manège and even now he felt an unusual degree of lassitude, almost a desire to close his eyes and sleep, not made any less enticing by the way he was being nagged. Sichelgaita, of course, had enquired as to his health – she had noted his weariness – and had her concerns brusquely brushed aside, but he was not feeling himself and his response was tired to a woman whose opinions he usually inclined to treat with great respect.

  ‘You seem certain Bohemund will be seduced by my brother-in-law.’

  ‘The boy hates you, even if you are not told of his loathing.’

  ‘I am told he admires me.’

  ‘You listen too much to Ademar and he is blinded by his regard for his wife.’

  From an open arch a breeze came in from the Adriatic, a hot wind from the east that did nothing to ease his lethargy. ‘And you think too much like a Lombard.’

  Sichelgaita laughed and it echoed off the tiled chamber walls, for it was no slight creature that sat on the pool edge, her feet submerged to the knees. She was a blonde Amazon who could stand toe to toe with Robert, was his equal in height and had a frame to match. Both being huge, it needed a stout bed to hold them and an even more robust construction when they engaged in carnal conversation, for when it came to enthusiasm and frequency in the bedchamber Sichelgaita could match her husband for gusto there too.

  ‘What are you saying to me, husband? That Normans are more faithful to their overlords?’

  Normally one to share the humour of such a remark, Robert just shook his head and began to haul himself out of the water, falling back as a pair of servants rushed forward with drying cloths. That was followed by a curse, then a more powerful effort, and once he was upright on the mosaic floor he grabbed a cloth and wrapped it round his trunk, making for the open arch, there to allow the warm breeze coming off the Adriatic to dry his upper body.

  ‘Bohemund will be tested and he will either pass that test or fail it.’

  That Sichelgaita prayed for the latter was no secret to Robert; she hated and feared Bohemund, for if his father had monitored
his progress as he grew to manhood so had she, and for once it seemed more pressing than normal. To be so tired, so lacking in vigour was unusual, almost novel to the Guiscard, who was famous for rarely succumbing to the fevers and agues that afflicted others with whom he fought and marched. Yet at this moment he could feel the ache in his thighs and across his lower back that he knew to be the onset of some kind of malaise. Less normal was the feeling of morbidity, which he forced himself to suppress; he would suffer a few days of discomfort as he had in the past and would then, as usual, be back to his full and formidable strength.

  Robert de Hauteville was not one to brood on his own mortality, even if he knew the number of his years and was aware that he was likely to expire before Bohemund and his legal heir. His son Roger, known as Borsa for his habit when a child of always counting the contents of his purse, was as yet physically no match for his older half-brother, which was odd given the brute size of his parents. Not that he was tiny; more that he was of an average height instead of a commanding one and showed no sign that he might put on a spurt to alter those dimensions. Borsa too had been in the manège that morning and he was, for his fourteen summers, a hearty fighter in contest against those of his own age, though in no way exceptional.

  Such limitations extended to his manner, which was reticent where it needed to be bold, and to his father’s way of thinking his son and heir was also too inclined to be swayed by priests; the boy spent far too much time on his knees. A pious man by his own lights, the Guiscard was of the opinion that God had to be kept in his proper place; no man, not even a pope – and that had been proved too many times to be gainsaid in their own venal bailiwick – could rule by the tenets of Jesus Christ. Robert worshipped regularly and was generous in his endowments, funding abbeys and building churches, while at the same time doing all in his power to spread the tenets of the Roman practice of the Christian religion with which he had been raised by, allowing monks sent by Rome to freely proselytise, but he refused to be a slave to faith.

  This he did, notwithstanding his own present state of excommunication – was it the third occasion or the fourth he had been denied a state of grace by Rome? Not that he cared; it was a stricture that carried so little weight in the lands over which he held sway, for most of his subjects were Greeks and still adhered to the Eastern rite which they had practised for centuries. Likewise the Lombards, while those of his own persuasion owed everything they had or could hope for to him. In terms of worship things were changing among his subjects, but slowly and not without resentments that could be added to all the other grievances the ruled held against their Norman overlords.

  The entrance of his chamberlain broke the train of thought he was following, a brooding both on his state of grace and his troubled relations with Rome. Here to see him was the man entrusted to ensure that what his master needed to know was put before him in terms that allowed for decisions to be made; his other task was to keep at bay the minor matters that fell beneath the ducal dignity.

  ‘My Lord, I have the prisoner, Lord Peter, in your privy chamber, as you desired. Also there is a communication from Constantinople under the imperial seal that is said to be significant and is for only you to see.’

  There was a moment when Robert felt like saying both would be required to wait, but it could not be. There would be much to consider on top of that, for after his chamberlain, and despite all his efforts to ease the burden of ruling, would come his treasurer, then the Master of the Host to report on the state of his supplies, then followed the various leaders he had tasked to plan the training of his forces. After he had dealt with those there would come a number of merchants and traders, ships’ captains and guild masters, too important to ignore, supplicants seeking either favours or relief from the customs duties he demanded. Finally, in order that his subjects should know they had access to his largesse and the rule of law, he would need to listen to a whole raft of petitions from those who felt their lives blighted by either the principles he imposed, or the lack of his hand where it was weak.

  ‘Let’s deal with the flea first; I’ll come as soon as I’m dressed.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘I would hang him,’ Sichelgaita insisted, as clothing was brought to her husband from those same servants who had sought to dry him, the last garment his surcoat, crested with his coat of arms, a shield of red and gold crossed with a chequered blue and white bar dexter.

  ‘Ademar was of the same opinion,’ Robert laughed softly, as the garment was placed over his shirt and loose breeches. ‘You are a bloodthirsty pair, to be sure.’

  ‘He rebelled and forced you to retake this city by siege and assault.’

  For all she was married to a Norman, Sichelgaita was too much a Lombard to understand his thinking or the truth of his position. It was as he had said to Bohemund on the battlements of Corato: too many of his vassals, when he was not actually present, asked themselves why they should bow the knee to a mere de Hauteville, a family no better than their own. Such thoughts fed upon many other minor resentments that they held, so that when two or more Norman barons combined over food and drink, such grievances took on a life of their own as they worked off each other. That, if left unchecked, led to revolt, usually minor and easily contained.

  Yet murderous revenge was not likely to achieve the kind of concord that eased the rule of such an extended patrimony; powerful as he was, he could not be everywhere at once. There had always been upheavals and there always would be – it was an ingredient of his inheritance and an element of the very fabric of being part of a race descended from Vikings: a ruler held what he held by force of arms and his personality; if that was in any way weak, his possessions were there to be taken. That the recent rebellion had been more serious, added to the implication of Capua, to Robert meant a high degree of calculation was necessary; too heavy a retribution might bring on more trouble instead of restore harmony.

  Besides, one of the most vocal and active of the rebels had been his own nephew Abelard, the aggrieved son of Humphrey, whom he could not in all conscience kill even if the young man was a pompous fool who endlessly insisted he should have inherited from his father. If he could not bloodily chastise a member of his own family, it would be seen as unjust to exceed his punishment with others. Not long from now he would need every fighting man he could muster and he required them strong in his cause, so he would give the rebels another chance and see how they fared on the field of battle, a place where the thought and availability of plunder tended to ease their gripes. It would also confound others and confuse them, which was always something the Guiscard enjoyed; doing the expected brought him no pleasure.

  ‘If I was to hang every Norman lord who thought of rebellion I would scarce have a lance to my name.’

  ‘Surely having fought to capture Trani you will not restore it to him?’

  ‘No,’ Robert replied, as he felt the acid bile rise in his throat. ‘I will not give him the city back, but I will give him a chance of redemption, restore just enough, like Calore and some other fiefs, so he knows he will not starve, and use him in my coming campaign against Capua. I must drive home to Richard how much his efforts have failed, and what better way can there be than for him to see those he set against me fighting him?’

  The vomit could not be held in check, and shot as a fount from his throat as he bent to avoid soiling his garments. With one hand against the wall, he used the back of the other to wipe his lips as he sought to make light of his indisposition.

  ‘But I’ll be damned if I will eat food from his kitchens again, for I think if Peter has few loyal followers, his cooks are amongst them.’ With some effort he pushed himself to his full height, looked at Sichelgaita as if challenging her to allude to what had just occurred, then added, ‘Come, let us see to this business and get it over with.’

  The ‘flea’, as Robert had referred to him, was quick to kneel as he entered the council chamber where he and his monks had chosen to conduct their business, his foot chains
clanking and the prisoner babbling his regrets, mouthing platitudes regarding his foolishness in falling for the blandishments and wicked promises of others, evil Abelard especially, without looking his liege lord in the eye; those were firmly fixed on the floor.

  ‘Odd, Peter; I had you named as the man who raised the banner, not my nephew, that others followed where you led, though I would wonder where you found encouragement.’

  The head came up and on Peter’s face was an attempt to look innocent, which amused the Guiscard, because it made him look like an idiot. Yet by mentioning Abelard he showed he had a brain; the de Hautevilles never spilt the blood of their own and he was looking for equal justice. It was almost as if he had read Robert’s mind.

  ‘Not so, My Lord. I was lied to and led astray by Byzantine gold, and a fool – I admit it. I beg your forgiveness and vow to serve you faithfully if that quality for which you are famous is forthcoming.’

  ‘Ah yes, I am known to be magnanimous in victory, but does not that invite more and more insurrection, Peter? Would not your head rotting on one of the town gates do more to discourage rebellion than that I should let you live?’

  Peter, who would no longer be Lord of Trani, threw himself on the floor, arms and legs spread in submission, a stream of beseeching promises bouncing off the flagstones, which had Robert grinning; this before him and being sick had made him feel better, even if he did not believe the lie about Byzantium.

  ‘You play the Saracen well, Peter, but it is unbecoming in a Norman to so grovel.’

  The head came up, for the tone lacked any hint of harshness, and Peter got to his knees as his punishment was given. The face changed to show a flash of anger as he heard he was to be deprived of one of the richest and most important ports of the Adriatic coast, but it was fleeting; to antagonise a man sparing his life with an untoward look was not sensible and he fought, as well, to keep any hint of resentment out of his tone.