Son of Blood

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I am Robert’s vassal as well as I am his brother, and even if I were not constrained by that, I would never challenge him. I did not take the vow that others did. Tancred had passed away by the time I left Normandy but I hold to it nevertheless in his honour, and if I challenged Robert in the past it was only because of his chicanery over what I was owed.’

  ‘That is not what I was about to solicit.’

  ‘I can guess your other concern, Sichelgaita, and I beg you put it to rest. I made a vow to Robert I would look out for your son and that I will do.’

  ‘Then you will support me when I ask that all Robert’s vassals swear to him.’

  ‘I will do what is needed.’

  Later, sitting beside his comatose brother’s bed, to the murmuring of priests saying prayers for his deliverance, Roger could too easily recall what he had called his chicanery, though he was forced to acknowledge that in his treatment he had not been singled out; many of Robert’s vassals had been treated the same. Robert could not help himself, for he was devious as well as cunning; he would promise anything to get what he wanted, then wonder why he should pay up when his aims had been achieved, and that was how it had been in Calabria.

  Roger had set out to subdue that Byzantine province on the pledge of being given the revenues of the fiefs and cities he took; his brother had reneged when he was successful. It had been necessary to rebel to get him to honour those undertakings and even then, when Roger had been required to rescue him from his own folly – or was it his hubris? – he had held out for an even share of those revenues. To this day the income from those possessions was split between them.

  Together they had gone on to take the capital city of Reggio, which left them gazing over the single league that separated the Calabrian shore from Sicily, long an ambition of the younger de Hauteville. Once the Guiscard had been persuaded that if he joined with Roger an incursion could succeed, they had acted more in concert. The result was that even with their limited number of lances, never more than five hundred and often a third of that – William of Normandy’s invasion of England had drawn off many of Robert’s knights in the years ’65 and ’66 – they had overcome insuperable odds. First Roger took Messina by a coup de main, then after a decade-long campaign along the north of the island, which included more than one reverse and at one time threatened to end in disaster, in concert they captured the magnificent Saracen capital of Palermo.

  If Robert de Hauteville was Duke of Sicily, that title granted to him by the late Pope Nicholas – really by Archdeacon Hildebrand in a rare moment when he needed the Guiscard on his side – it had been given to him when he did not have a single foot soldier on the island. Now it was clearly Count Roger’s to direct and it was at the centre of his own ambitions. Yet he also knew that the path to complete control of the island was a long way off; there were still emirs potent enough, and in possession of cities and fortresses strong enough, to make subduing the island a task which could take another decade and he was wondering what support he could expect from his brother’s ducal inheritance of Apulia and Calabria, regardless of who ruled, should that prove necessary.

  ‘My Lord, the Lady Sichelgaita sends to say that she has assembled Duke Robert’s vassals.’

  Roger left the bedchamber and the whispering supplicants to make his way to the great hall of the Castle of Bari, which in its size matched the importance of the port and city. A long gallery, high-arched and well lit, it was crowded, mainly with men of his own race but also with a sprinkling of Lombards who had been granted power in a land too large for the Normans alone to control. Everyone who held a fief from Robert, however small, from simple watchtower to great baronial castle, had been summoned, with the Count of Sicily speaking for the entirety of that island as well as his and his brother’s extensive and shared fiefs on the mainland.

  Sichelgaita had taken up a seated position on the raised stone platform at one end, regally dressed in shimmering white silks, with her braided hair shining, occupying a place where normally her husband would conduct his public affairs and oversee the great feasts of which he was so fond. Her brother-in-law was obliged to admit, as he entered, that holding that place suited her. Behind her, in full canonical garments, stood the Archbishop of Bari and beside him two servitors with the means to bless those assembled and ensure that whatever vow they took, it was to God as much as to their suzerain.

  Everyone in the great hall was aware that as a wife Sichelgaita held a position very different to the normal spouse of a great landed magnate; she was no mouse but had been as often Robert’s right-hand helpmeet as Roger himself. When the Guiscard was absent from Apulia, indeed in the long periods he had spent in Sicily, Sichelgaita had acted fully in his name; in short the Duke trusted her to rule his domains as he would himself, and she had done so with great competence. Yet this was a greater challenge and it was telling that for all her imposing build and forceful presence, having her son by her side took away a portion of that, for in presence he could not match her.

  ‘Count Roger, I would ask that you join me on the dais.’

  ‘And I, Lady Sichelgaita, would not wish to elevate myself above the other lords present. I am content to remain at the level of every one of my brother’s vassals.’

  It was impressive, the way she dealt with that, for it was a potent response from such a powerful man and it was not an obviously supportive one, which was plain by the expression on the faces of the others present, though many worked hard not to react at all as they sought to filter in through their own feelings and deep-seated hopes. Sichelgaita, although she must have been both hurt and anguished, managed a beaming smile and spoke with enough sincerity to seem untroubled.

  ‘Such an attitude does you great honour, brother. I hope that others present will see it as an example.’ Then she paused, her eyes ranging over the assembly. ‘You are all aware that my husband, your liege lord, is gravely ill and while we pray for his full recovery it must be accepted that our wishes and entreaties may not be answered.’

  That set the archbishop nodding and naturally set up a murmur, but it did not last; all wanted to hear what they knew was coming.

  ‘When I married Duke Robert there were reasons for our match that transcended the regard we found for each other as man and wife. I need not tell you Normans present that the lands he holds are peopled more by my race than your own, even more by Greeks than either combined, and that has only increased as he has expanded his possessions. If he has granted you lands and titles, he has also granted you overlordship of a less than settled polity. You will all be aware that in the last rebellion, it was not only his dissatisfied Norman barons who rose against him – some of whom are present and have been in receipt of his benevolence – it was Lombards too.’

  Her eyes then, as they ranged around the room to pick out the mutinous, were like agate, and those of whom she was speaking had the good grace to look abashed.

  ‘My husband realised that no Norman could hold this patrimony with the numbers he could muster, and he took me as wife as much because I am a Lombard as a princess of the House of Salerno. Also, when he has been absent it is to me he has given the reins of his power to wield, and I have used it to create harmony amongst a population that does not love you any more than they loved Byzantium.’

  Abelard could not restrain himself; he stepped forward, tall and gangly, for if he had the de Hauteville height he had none of the physical substance. ‘I will not be party to this. My uncle, whom I will not grace with any title, stole my inheritance. It is fitting that should he cease to lord it over my rightful possessions, then they should be mine to take by my bloodline.’

  ‘I invite you to find support in this chamber,’ Sichelgaita replied, lowering her voice to add a caveat. ‘With a reminder that the Guiscard still breathes, as you have all borne witness. I would not want to promise that he would be magnanimous if those whom he has so recently forgiven their transgressions against him were to show a lack of gratitude. I would certa
inly counsel him against it.’

  As a warning it was palpable; she had, at this moment, the power to act as she saw fit and would see hung, drawn and quartered any such ingrate even if Robert was against it.

  ‘My claim is just,’ Abelard cried, looking around for a pair of eyes that would meet his own; none were forthcoming and it was a sorry retreat that saw him seek to lose himself, after only a moment’s consideration, back in the crowd.

  ‘If my husband knew that to hold his fiefs required that the Lombards from whom he took power were appeased, who amongst you would dare to think yourself even his equal, and be willing to ignore that? Are there not men in this chamber that share my race whom he had promoted to that purpose? And is not the principle of any succession to maintain that which we now hold and do so in a way seen to be legitimate?’

  She was never going to mention Bohemund’s name, but that was as good a way as any of saying that he, as a pure-blood Norman, for all his supposed attributes – and they were as yet hardly proven – neither had the right, nor would be able to control such an inheritance.

  ‘I therefore demand that you accede to your suzerain’s wishes, which he would shout to the rafters if he were present, and swear, that should God see fit to take away that dazzling light, the only person who can hold tight what he leaves behind is his own beloved son, Roger, known to you all as Borsa.’

  With that she looked very pointedly at the man after whom Borsa was named, but she was addressing them all. ‘I therefore demand here in this chamber and on this day, in the presence of His Grace the Archbishop of Bari, that on your honour and at risk of the damnation of your soul, you swear allegiance to my son and his title, as the heir to the triple Dukedoms of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily.’

  The silence that followed seemed to last a lifetime, with not so much as a whisper, not even from Abelard, from an assembly that could not number less than two hundred men who held, in their own fiefs, a degree of power. The Archbishop of Bari had stepped forward and made the sign of the cross and that allowed the knights to do likewise and murmur a small incantation, some of which would have been the mere pious request for guidance. That was when Roger, Count of Sicily, chose to move and the crowd parted to allow him to approach the dais, for he had remained at the back of the hall where he had entered.

  Stony-faced, Sichelgaita observed his progress; her son was less in control, for he showed a measure of apprehension as he tried to read from his uncle’s expression what he was about to say. Count Roger knew all he had to do, once he came close, was to mount that dais and declare his own right to the title; the Normans in the hall would erupt in approval and there were too few Lombards to contest with them. Close to the archbishop he fell to his knees and crossed himself, and spoke in a strong and echoing voice.

  ‘I, Roger de Hauteville, Count of Sicily by grace of my brother’s trust, do hereby swear to be a true and loyal servant to his son, named after me at birth, and to attend upon his person as my liege lord when the time comes for him to rightfully assume his father’s titles, may God strike me down if I transgress this vow.’

  The archbishop, with some relief of his own, sprinkled holy water on Roger’s head and said a prayer that bound the kneeling man to his words. Behind the Count of Sicily the others lined up, Ademar of Monteroni to the fore, to make the same vow and then kiss the out-held hand of the youth they were anointing as their coming suzerain. Standing to one side and watching, Count Roger finally met Sichelgaita’s eye, to see there a feeling of hurt, for she knew what he had done; her son had been told, and so had she, that he held his titles only at the will of his powerful uncle.

  But another message had gone out to those assembled and that was just as plain, for they knew to a man that Bohemund would not quietly accept such a dispensation; he would fight for what he considered his rights. Roger of Sicily had left a message for his absent bastard nephew to say that he would not stand by and let him overthrow his half-brother Borsa; he would, if need be, intervene to keep him in power.

  ‘I wonder, Roger,’ Sichelgaita enquired of him once the chamber was emptied. ‘Would you have sworn that oath if you possessed a son of your own?’

  ‘Since I do not, your question is not one I can answer.’

  Sichelgaita could not hide the fact that she was reassured. Much as she would fight like a she-wolf for her firstborn son, and young Guy if Borsa expired before her, she also knew, like Robert himself, that the laws of nature indicated she would die before either of them. However, Sichelgaita also knew that Roger’s wife Judith, who had been fecund in producing daughters, was now past child-bearing age.

  ‘You will remain with us?’ she asked.

  ‘Until my brother recovers,’ Roger replied, smiling, ‘and then I am his to command.’

  The assembly had done that for which it had been called and most of those called to attend preferred to return to their own domains with their liege lord still not recovered. It was never possible to discover where the rumour began that Robert de Hauteville was dead, but it had begun to spread, perhaps either through malice, delusion or even wishful thinking. Suffice to say that it travelled in the wildfire way that such things do despite strong denials to the contrary from those who knew the truth, first through the city then out into the hinterland and beyond, snaking at walking pace up the trade routes, much more rapidly along the coast, carried by fast-sailing merchant ships to every port on the Adriatic and thence into the interior.

  It was an irony that, as that news began to be promulgated across the northern Apennines, the object began to show the first signs of recovery – an occasional bout of consciousness, and a day or two later wakeful enough to take on the first solid food he had consumed for an age and with strength enough to ask that those miserable clerical supplicants disturbing his peace with their prayers be removed. He was weak and Sichelgaita kept anyone from his bedside that might trouble the recovery, even Count Roger, though Borsa and his younger brother were admitted to be blessed by a feeble parent. Sichelgaita took to nursing him herself.

  ‘The rumour in the marketplace this last week,’ she said, in between feeding him, ‘is that you have gone to meet your maker.’ Then she smiled. ‘Or the Devil who spawned you.’

  ‘I think I spoke with Satan recently,’ Robert croaked.

  ‘It certainly sounded as if you were at war with him in your fevers. But it would be well to show yourself, even in your diminished state, and lay to rest such rumours, which is the only evidence some folk will believe, for they can cause nothing but trouble and messengers must be sent out to suppress it in the countryside.’

  ‘There is no risk here in Bari, surely?’

  ‘No, all who matter know you are recovering and those who might want to profit by it have dispersed, while Count Roger has taken command of the garrison. He is anxious to speak with you, of course.’

  The expression that crossed his face could not be the same as before; his eyes were too opaque to sparkle and the cheeks too drawn. ‘A week, you say.’

  ‘At least.’

  The laugh began heartily enough, but soon turned into a hacking cough, from which Robert took time to recover his breath, but there was no mistaking the gleam of a coming prank.

  ‘Then a few days will make no difference, for I am not yet recovered enough to be seen. Let the rumour run and let us see who seeks to make mischief with it.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Leonine City was in mourning: Pope Alexander, who had throughout his pontificate brought to the city a decade of something approaching harmony, was dead and once more all the demons that cursed the election of a successor were back in play. The Roman aristocrats looked at their extended families to select a possible papal candidate and counted the money in their coffers to calculate how much they could disburse in bribes to the mobs that often took control of the city, should they be able to conjure up some clerical support. The Imperial Prefect sent messages off to Bamberg to alert his master, the Emperor-elect and King in Germany
, Henry IV, to a potential crisis, while other riders had spread out to the great monasteries and important bishoprics to call to Rome those whom Archdeacon Hildebrand knew would be required to both attend the obsequies as well as name and elect a successor.

  Now the last of these divines had gathered, it was time for the funeral of Alexander to go ahead. Hildebrand was in the act of finalising the arrangements of the procession which would assemble the next day, when he received, from across the mountains, the news from Apulia. The cries of ‘God be praised’ echoed through the Lateran Palace, for Hildebrand was a man much committed to his hatreds. If it had taken action by the Normans of Capua and Apulia to secure Pope Alexander’s position as well as that of his predecessor, plus their aid to defeat the machinations of an imperial antipope, it had come at the cost of confirming those demons in their ducal and princely titles in a ceremony that, when he recalled it, seemed to Hildebrand a form of nightmare.

  Such concessions had been brought about by the expedient need to keep the armies of the boy Henry IV north of the Alps; easy when he had been a mere child with his mother as regent, it would be much more troublesome now he was grown to manhood and said to be wilful with it, so perhaps he would have to seek their aid again. If having to rely on the Normans sat ill with Hildebrand, it was not just them; he hated to have to rely on anyone. Surely that could not be the will of the omnipotent God to whom he continually prayed?

  As the archdeacon saw it, the Church of Rome had to be the fount of all authority; how could it not be, given where its teachings came from: the very mouth of Jesus, the Son of God, as relayed through his disciples? No temporal power had the right to challenge that and it was his life’s work, as he saw it, to bring to pass that such supremacy should be acknowledged. Emperors, kings, dukes and counts bowed the knee to the Pope, not the other way round, for that flew in the face of scripture.