by Jack Ludlow
‘He is, and so are those who will defend the place, but being Greek makes no difference, they are all forged in the same way. If they did not hate each other so much I think we would be chased out of these mountains in a month.’
‘Then thank God they do. They have to be damned to even live in such a place. My legs ache just from looking at it. Imagine living up there with nothing but silkworms for company.’
The one-time Castellan, who had first greeted Roger outside his brother’s castle, looked around him at the high wooded hills to both north and south, as well as the rock-filled watercourse that tumbled down the steep ravine at the very base of this latest objective.
‘You wish you had stayed in Melfi?’ Roger asked.
‘I had hoped for plunder and I never ever thought that easy, but this?’
‘This is more work than we both imagined. My brother made it sound easy. I should have known.’
‘He likes to tell tall tales.’
Roger smiled. ‘Do not think such a habit has come with his title. He was like that as a youth — something he got from our father — though I think old Tancred was less given to outright embroidery.’
‘Is that another word for lies?’
‘It could be.’
‘This one might agree to terms.’
‘Then this one will be singular, for few have.’
The route through the mountains had been a succession of such obstacles and only a handful had allowed themselves to be persuaded what was proposed made sense. There was really only one other carrot Roger could dangle outside security — to accept his brother as suzerain was to be on the side of right and might — not something extended to those who had to be overcome by force. Their land, if they resisted till the bitter end and drew too much Norman blood, became forfeit, available to be parcelled out as a fief by one of the Count of Apulia’s captains.
The only saving grace was the end was not in doubt: there was no chance of a Byzantine force coming to the rescue, unless they were prepared to mount the kind of expedition that left bare the more valuable Eastern possessions where they faced the inroads of the warlike Turks. Previous incursions into Calabria, like that of Robert Guiscard years before, had been more in the nature of armed raids than invasions; this time he had arrived with a complete army and a set aim: total subjugation.
‘We have been at this longer than we hoped, Roger, and must soon think of quartering for the winter.’
Ralph de Boeuf was right: the task was incomplete but to seek to continue in this high country when autumn faded was not a good idea. There would be snow on the higher ground even this far south and, lower down, the kind of persistent rain that rotted harness, rusted weapons and ruined chain mail. His men were already, after a long spring and summer of fighting, showing signs of strain. The horses, too, were giving indications of decline; they needed to be rested and allowed to grow their coats to ward off the coming cold, not something that could be allowed if they needed to cover long distances and bear on their backs armed fighting men.
‘Time to climb up there and talk to this so-called Count of Montenero.’
‘That’s a grand title for the possession of such a pigsty.’
‘It may look better when the sun shines.’
There was a winding roadway up to the heights, more of a cart track and, judging by the many areas of repair, one subject to the elements, especially torrential rain and rock falls. His horse slithered often on the loose stones, head down and weary, entirely matching the mood of its rider, who had to force himself to look eager and martial, knowing he was in view of those to whom he must speak. The clatter of a thrown rock landing in front of him told Roger those behind the walls thought he and his dozen strong escort had come far enough, close enough to be heard if he raised his voice to an undignified shout.
The words had become too familiar, spoken in his far from perfect Greek, addressed to an unseen listener, outlining the power of his brother, soon to be lord of all Calabria, a man who had beaten Byzantium to the east, where they had been strong and committed, and would do so here where they were weak and absent. The truth: that this small fief could not exist in safety alone, so they would be better to peacefully accept the new dispensation and volunteer tribute to the Guiscard’s tax collectors than face his wrath for their refusal. Then there would be the invitation to submit, followed by the dire nature of the consequences.
There were rules to this game: they could not throw a lance or fire an arrow to tell Roger they declined, but he was not surprised the reply came as a hail of stones, which made his mount skittish as they rattled all around, one or two ricocheting to strike its forelegs. He had to press hard with his knees and haul on the reins to keep it facing to the front and when he retired it was not far. He needed to dismount and, leaving his horse on a piece of flattish ground, he proceeded to walk the defences and seek out the weak spots at which he might make a breech.
‘Will they have enough water to withstand us?’
The question, addressed to one of his escort, was rhetorical and the fellow knew it, so did not reply. If they lacked wells at this height they would have cisterns dug into the rock that held the falling rain and snow melt, enough to last the summer, however hot. For food they would keep within the walls live animals to be slaughtered and, in cool cellars, sacks of grain and peas, so to starve them out was probably impossible, even if he thought the place worth the time it would take, which he did not. The best solution was to give whoever led the defence the chance to surrender with honour. It was not necessary to completely overcome them but to make it plain that the eventual outcome was not in doubt.
Yet up here he was aware the place had attractions not obvious from the base of the hill, having, as it did, a sight down several valleys in all directions. He also suspected on a clear day he would be able to see the coast and the Ionian Sea, though now, on a grey afternoon of hazy mist, the whole melded into one indistinct line. Sharp eyes from a tower at this elevation would be able to oversee much of the surrounding countryside, and with hill beacons it could act as the centre to provide security for a hundred square leagues.
Most of his life, old Tancred had dreamt of having his stone watchtower, a donjon atop the hill at Hauteville-le-Guichard from which to overlook his demesne, to replace what he did own and could afford to maintain for protection, the old structure of wood and mud. That he had achieved it was due to the wealth sent home by his successful sons; Roger, as a boy, had dreamt of owning a stone castle with four corner towers, a keep with a great hall, all surrounded by stout curtain walls.
Many hopes had travelled with him and that childish vision was one, the ultimate mark of success for a Norman warrior, a castle of his own, which flew his own personal standard to tell the world of his possession. Some achieved it through service to a greater being, as fortress captains; few were gifted the chance to build their own, as Robert had done at Monte Fagnano. Yet here was a fine spot for that very thing, one that could hold a permanent garrison. The more he walked, the more he looked over the walls he and his men must overcome, the more vital it seemed he must have possession of the place.
At the base of the hill he could see the bulk of his men and their horses, the latter now unsaddled and tethered, with hay at their feet or being taken in turns to drink at the pool that had formed in the rock-strewn river. They would be useless up here: the ground close to the defences was too steep, and mentally thinking ahead to the possibility of a garrisoned castle, he reasoned there would be a need to build stabling if this was to become a permanent Norman holding. It would be wise to accommodate warriors and mounts down below, so they could move swiftly to meet any threat in the surrounding countryside or on the coast.
‘So, no terms?’ Ralph de Boeuf asked when Roger outlined his thinking.
‘No. We must take the place.’
‘Quarter?’
‘We will kill what we must, but keep alive what we can.’
‘Then we had best get what we n
eed up that damn hill.’
‘I will organise the peasants to supply us and when that is complete I want them building fences around the local pasture. If we are going to be here permanently, properly husbanded grassland will be necessary.’
If whoever was overseeing the defence had any doubt about the Norman intention it would have died when he saw them constructing a dry-stone wall set across the track right to the cliff edge, high enough and stout enough to make any attempt to sally out and dislodge them dangerous. They could also see a constant stream of packhorses, as well as their own local peasants, carrying heavy loads up to this encampment: food, skins of water and wine, as well as copious amounts of wood for the fires they would need at night, added to the kind of timber and reeds needed to make shelters to protect them from both sun and rain.
‘The one thing they might not have is an abundant supply of weapons, so we want them using those against probing attacks.’ He looked around the assembled conroy leaders, all thirty of them, each in command of nine other men. ‘We will approach the walls then retire when they respond. I don’t want these attacks pressed home, I want them to be coming from different directions, drawing their fire before retiring.’
‘If they’ve got any sense they’ll ignore us.’
Roger looked at the man who had spoken, his blue eyes steady but without any rancour: it was good they voiced their concerns, good that they used their brains and experience and did not just blindly follow orders. There were men here who had many years on him as well as a wealth of fighting skill. The lances he had brought from Normandy would follow him regardless but he had worried at the outset of the campaign that those Normans given him by his brother might baulk at having to obey such a young and untried leader. There had been a trace of resentment to begin with but that was now gone: Roger had proved himself able, proved that he was not the leader just because of his bloodline.
‘If they do I will be racking my brain for an alternative.’
‘Then we are going to be here an eternity,’ jested Ralph de Boeuf, to general laughter.
Working in parties of thirty at various points, the tactic was partially successful, depending on the amount of control exercised behind the walls: if the man commanding that section was strong of mind there was little response, if weak then his men let fly with what they had. The result of each probe was reported back to Roger, who then made his dispositions. To fight at night, without mail or shield, gloves or helmets, was risky but necessary, and he led the way, discarding his surcoat — the white could alert the defenders — the sword in his hand sheathed in straw in case it inadvertently struck stone. Scabbards, too, had to be left behind, seen as a possible encumbrance.
Torches lit the ground close to the walls, but they created pools of Stygian darkness not far off. Being strewn with scrub and rocks, it was a place into which the Normans could crawl, on a cloudy night, without being seen, the only sound a hissed curse or two as skin was rasped or bruised by passage through unseen obstacles. That died down as they got into the places they had sought out in daylight, and there they lay, waiting in utter silence, listening. The soft sounds of movement were not long in coming and glimmers of light would illuminate a small area of ground as a shaded lantern was uncovered, while, if the man holding it was careless, they would see what it was he had come out to find, a pike or a lance thrown from too much excitement.
‘Now!’
The single cry was followed by a mass of yelling as the Normans raced towards where they had seen those pinpricks of light, swords now ready for battle, seeking out those lantern-holders who panicked enough to show where they were located. It was never going to be conclusive, Roger had never intended it should be, but it had the virtue of showing the defenders the determination their attackers intended to employ to subdue them. At the cost of a succession of cuts and abrasions they managed to kill half a dozen of those who had come out to retrieve their weaponry — their bodies were obvious as soon as the sun rose — and to prevent the rest from succeeding in their task of recovery.
At first light, those Normans not employed in the dark launched a proper attack on a section of the walls, lopping off the ends of the defenders’ pikes while avoiding being impaled on the points, while the shields they bore were used to deflect heavy rocks big enough to break a bone. That, too, was only partially successful — in fact it cost Roger more in wounded than it caused harm to the defence, but it had been deliberately targeted at the place where the defence was strongest, on either side of the entry gate.
‘They’ll think us fools,’ de Boeuf said, watching as the attack was repelled.
‘I hope so,’ Roger replied. ‘Sound the recall.’
The horn blew, the Normans fell back as ordered and the garrison cheered.
They hit the walls again that evening, lances probing at the fools who, so eager for success, tried too hard to push the Normans back, then again as soon as the sun rose the next morning, never once at the point Roger had selected for an assault he thought might succeed — part of the defence on the eastern side where the land was reasonably flat. The ladders they would need were taken to that section at night, with torch-bearing Normans haranguing the defenders, while just out of the arc of light they created, their confreres laid the climbing frames in place for the morrow.
It was mid-morning before they moved and much play was made of a third of the Normans marching to the chosen spot, while the stronger contingent once more attempted the gate, this to pin the defence. What could not be seen were the preparations until the attackers lifted up their ladders and ran to the walls, this while the lances at the gate pressed home their assault to keep occupied those with whom they were contesting.
The defences were not high, not more than twice the height of a man, so the ladders were short. But they were also numerous and a surprise, creating a degree of confusion which got many of the Normans, personally led by Roger de Hauteville, onto the walls, there to fight the Greeks on more equal terms. Now defenders began to die, the difference soon apparent between men who lived and trained for war and those forced to partake of it. Yet the Greeks were stalwart and fought back with gusto: ladders were cast down along with the men climbing them. The point of maximum exposure came when any Norman tried to transfer from ladder to wall, at the point when his weapon and shield were not covering his body. Mail was armour against a cutting blow, less so against a determined thrust by a sharp-pointed pike, and good as Roger’s men were, several paid the price of the assault with wounds that were deadly.
Standing atop the wall, feet apart but precariously balanced, Roger swung his sword with all his might, the blue and white surcoat now massively stained with blood of those into whose flesh he had cut. Finally he got onto the wooden parapet, to the right and left of him, protecting his flank, two of the young men he had brought from Normandy, all fighting to create a space that would allow their fellow warriors to join them. Once an unbroken line could be formed they would overwhelm the defence by sheer weight of weaponry.
The defence hardened as defenders were brought from other, less threatened parts to hold the endangered section, but that had been anticipated, for behind Roger the men who had been assaulting the gate would be thinning out as instructed to make their way to join him. He needed to get off the parapet and down to ground level, where superior close-battle control would really count and all their numbers could be brought to bear. The fighting became lethal on both sides, narrowed down to what was right in front of each man, whatever side he was on. The Normans had skill and determination, the defenders desperation, but in the end it came down to faith in leadership. Roger led men who knew he would die as readily as they; it was only to be discovered later that those who held the town lacked that vital ingredient. A rumour circulated that their lord was preparing to flee and the defence began to crumble with a suddenness that surprised every Norman, Roger included.
Weapons were cast aside, while men fell to their knees pleading to be spared, those at the very
front in vain. The defence was about to disintegrate, but then the leader they thought about to desert them appeared, dressed in a fine helmet, good mail and wearing a multicoloured surcoat. Voice raised, he rallied his broken ranks in a way that, even engaged, Roger found time to admire, and the fighting resumed its deadly pace.
Much as he needed to share his men’s travails, Roger was also required to direct the battle. Trust had to be placed in Ralph de Boeuf and his other conroy leaders to carry on the command at the very front, while he himself withdrew to seek an overall view of where the enemy weaknesses might lie. Dry-mouthed and with sweat running down his face — the cloth band he wore under his helmet was drenched — Roger tried to assess each part of the enemy line and he thought he spotted a weak spot right by the walls, where the defenders lacked firm leadership. Pulling back some of his knights he formed a phalanx and struck hard at the very edge of the wall, driving forward with mighty sword blows and equally heavy thrusts with his shield. His opponent was no fool: he saw the increasing danger and led at a rush a portion of his men to defend it.
Thus the two leaders found themselves face to face. The Greek Count of Montenero was not gorgeous now, he had been in close combat and was as bloodily stained as the Norman, and if he was fresher, he lacked Roger de Hauteville’s height and reach: the Norman sword swung in a wider arc than his, making it hard for him to get close to landing a blow, and by engaging as he did he had created a situation he would have been well advised to avoid. The men knew their leaders: the contest had become personal, lessening the general melee, and the count was no match for the man he faced.
He fought valiantly, even as it became clear he was outmatched, his sword taking blow after ringing blow as he put up a stout defence, never letting it show that, barring a shock, there could be only one outcome. Swinging hard and continually, his arms and shoulders aching from the continued effort, Roger beat down the man’s every effort to best him, wondering why he did not drop back, let fall his sword and beg for succour.