Conquest c-3

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘With this marriage, the Guiscard becomes your ally against Capua and perhaps, in time, one who will help you recover the lands that robber upstart has stolen from you since the death of your father.’

  Watching Gisulf think was like watching an infant pile wooden bricks, a slow deliberate affair that took no cognisance of the instability of the final result. In private discussions he had posited the notion of several alliances, not just with the papacy — with Byzantium or the Saracens of Sicily, as well — all to rid himself of the Normans, each idea foundering on the fact that once on his soil these putative allies would, like those very same Normans who had come as mercenaries, never leave without being forced to.

  As he had listened to these fantasies he had been privy to Gisulf’s imaginings. The Jew suspected, at this moment, the prince was conjuring up great armies, with this time Robert de Hauteville bowing to him as the superior general, astounded by his skill in routing his enemies. That gleam in his eye was one Ephraim recognised — he had seen the same look in the eye of the prince’s father as he contemplated the chance of becoming the ruler of the whole of South Italy: that the son of Guaimar should harbour such dreams was not a surprise; that he thought them achievable bordered on madness.

  ‘You think the Guiscard would march against a fellow Norman?’

  ‘Sire, at some time they must either come into conflict or one must bow the knee to the other. Such a thing is inevitable.’

  Richard of Capua and the Count of Apulia had a relationship that waxed and waned as circumstances demanded. But two such powerful patrimonies could not forever stay at peace — it could happen tomorrow or it might be decades distant. For now it was a telling carrot to a vacillating prince.

  ‘The Guiscard will demand a dowry.’

  ‘You surely intend that your sister should be married, sire. Whoever she weds would seek a dowry.’

  ‘I shall demand of him that he puts his brother of Scalea in his place. Do you think he will agree to that?’

  ‘He was willing to gift you a free hand before, sire. There is no love lost between those two brothers and the Count of Apulia lost as much from his raids as you did.’

  ‘Then why, if he does not love him,’ Gisulf demanded, ‘does he just not kill Mauger?’

  It would do no good to explain the vow each of the brothers had taken with their father: a man like Gisulf would not understand.

  ‘He will not do that, sire, but he will, I am sure, oblige you by curtailing him.’

  That Robert did, and swiftly, but not just for Gisulf: Mauger had led Roger astray and it was therefore a pleasure to descend on Scalea and accept his surrender, for he could not stand out against the massive force Robert brought to bear. He and his men were stripped of their gains, the gold they had acquired shipped to Salerno, with Robert insisting on an increase in the dowry so that it stayed there for no time at all.

  Mauger was obliged to swear allegiance to his brother and to keep the peace, to cease his raiding and be satisfied with the revenues of the fief he was allowed to keep. A promise he swore in Holy Church and one he had no intention of keeping: let Robert depart, let things settle down, and he could go back to his old ways. The suggestion that he might attend the wedding was brushed aside with contempt.

  Roger had to attend — the siege of Reggio, now that the other bastions like Cariati had surrendered, would have to wait, and if he felt Alberada, a lady he had come to like, had been treated badly he could also see the future needs of his brother demanded it be done. At some time he too must marry, and like Robert the notion of attraction would have nothing to do with the choice: he would seek a bride who enhanced his position, probably one of his brother’s wealthier vassals. Sichelgaita was coming with a huge dowry, not that such a thing stopped him and Ralph de Boeuf amusing themselves with the notion of the two giants coupling.

  ‘It’s like two ends of the gamut,’ Ralph said as they rode into the still-growing town of Melfi. ‘First a mouse to be crushed and ripped by childbearing, and now a wife bigger than his destrier.’

  ‘And as fearless, Ralph. Their wedding night will draw blood lest we pad the walls of the bedchamber.’

  ‘You have sat close to her, Roger, is she actually bigger than Robert?’

  ‘Nearly, and she’s as broad in the shoulder. All I can say is there is no dowry large enough to persuade me that the risk of deflowering her is worth it.’

  They rode into the keep of Melfi to find a beaming Robert awaiting them. The ribbing, which always attended a bridegroom, began almost as soon as the two brothers had embraced, yet Roger was surprised by Robert’s reaction: while the words he used were sharp, the grin on his face as he led him into the great chamber took any sting out of them.

  ‘I will make you laugh on the other side of your face, brother.’

  ‘It’s your bride you have to pleasure, not me. I take it she is here?’

  ‘She is, and so is the Norman divine who will carry out the ceremony. Someone very special has come to do the honours.’

  ‘And who would that be?’

  ‘I hope you may recognise him.’ Robert pointed straight ahead. ‘There he is.’

  Looking towards the end of the semi-crowded hall and following the pointed finger, Roger could make out a dim figure, for there were no candles lit at this time of day and the embrasures, meant to be defended, were narrow. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but it was not so obvious that Roger could name him.

  ‘Have you fetched from Normandy our cousin of Montbray?’

  ‘It is not Bishop Geoffrey, yet it is a fellow I hazard you will greet with greater joy.’

  ‘There would be few men who could claim that,’ Roger insisted.

  ‘My dear Abbot, pray let my brother see you more clearly,’ Robert called, his voice echoing and turning other heads.

  The figure moved closer and Roger could see his clerical garments, as befitted the title his brother had just used, but it was only when he got really close that he was recognised, for it was a face Roger had not seen since that fateful trip to Falaise many years previously.

  ‘Grantmesnil?’

  The head before him bowed in acknowledgement and Roger’s heart skipped a beat as he posed the obvious question. ‘Judith?’

  ‘Is with your brother’s future wife.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  It was a lame question and one which, whatever the answer, did not signify: the only thing that mattered was the proximity of Judith of Evreux, if you put aside Roger’s pounding heart.

  ‘He has fallen foul of the Bastard,’ Robert boomed, ‘just as we de Hautevilles have in the past, which would make him a friend if he was not a blessed addition to our estates in any case.’

  ‘Do I have your permission to talk with her?’ Roger asked.

  He was moving before Grantmesnil could finish saying yes, with a very amused Robert shouting after him that he should behave himself.

  ‘I’ll get no more jests about my nuptials from him, will I, de Boeuf?’

  Courtesy demanded that Roger greet Sichelgaita first, and also that he ask after her brother, the Prince of Salerno, but his eyes were not on her as she replied and nor did he hear the words in which she dismissed the polite enquiry: she and Gisulf did not have much in common, in fact it was doubtful if they had anything shared.

  ‘Would it be permitted for me to greet the other lady present?’

  ‘Sweet Judith,’ Sichelgaita responded, in her slightly braying way, her eyebrows knotted on her rather unbecoming face. ‘You know of each other?’

  ‘I had the good fortune to make the lady’s acquaintance in Normandy.’

  The look on his face must have made obvious the undercurrents of that, for Sichelgaita gave a hoot that was more guffaw than laugh and one in its tenor that would not have shamed her husband-to-be. Her whole frame, and it was a big one, shook with amusement and she looked at Judith, demure, with her head bowed.

  ‘You wish to take her away from me
?’

  ‘For a short while, yes.’

  Roger stepped forward and took the end of Judith’s fingers, feeling a sensation run up his arm, one he likened to that which he occasionally got from a touched piece of rubbed velvet, though in this instance he had no desire to snatch his hand away and shake it. She raised her head to look at him and he saw that if she was older there was no diminution in her beauty, quite the reverse: where there had been some puppy fat there were now clean and definite lines, while the eyes, blue and direct, were as becoming as ever.

  ‘You are more lovely to look at than even my memory allowed me.’ The maidenly blush was entrancing. ‘I hope, battle scarred as I now am, I do not displease you?’

  That had Judith looking keenly at his face, which was in truth bearing marks that had not been there at St Evroul. The way she suddenly touched one, where a sword tip had very slightly sliced his cheek, was like being fingered by something divine and the spell it created was only broken by the booming laugh that came from behind him.

  ‘I pray God my husband does not behave like this. What a couple of milksops.’ The shove in Roger’s back was close, in force, to the last time a horse had head butted him. ‘Go on, you fool, kiss the woman.’

  Having had to grab Judith to prevent knocking her over, complying with that demand was almost a requirement. They got some time alone eventually, when Roger could listen to what had brought her to Italy, nothing less, as described, than the tyranny of William the Bastard, who now ruled Normandy with a rod of iron and was as rapacious as any despot could be. He had demanded Judith marry one of his followers, a man her brother thought unsuitable. That refusal was followed by an order to hand over the portable treasures of St Evroul, and Grantmesnil had rejected that too, which was tantamount to his asking to be slung into a dungeon for life. The only option was to flee.

  ‘All the musicians the abbots had gathered over many years and those sweet-voiced monks were scattered.’

  ‘I cannot believe you stayed unwed.’

  The answer was delivered from under lowered eyebrows. ‘I hope it makes you happy.’

  ‘It makes me delirious, Judith, but, of course, I must speak with your brother and guardian.’

  ‘Would it please you if I say I hope he consents?’

  Roger laughed out loud. ‘I cannot see how he can disagree. I am no bare-buttocked knight now, Judith, I am lord of many fiefs and I say to you I will be more than just Roger de Hauteville very soon, as soon as I can get my brother to keep some of his promises.’

  ‘Your station matters not, Roger.’

  ‘Not to you, but your brother, the abbot, will take a different view.’

  Which he did, but all was well: Abbot de Grantmesnil had just been told by Count Robert of Apulia that he was to be endowed with the means to found a new Benedictine abbey, along with extensive lands, near Nicastro in Calabria, where he was charged with recreating the traditions of St Evroul in both music and singing. To refuse to allow Judith to marry his brother would have been ingratitude indeed, especially when Robert boomed his reasons.

  ‘That’s one in the eye for the Bastard of Falaise! Get me a scribe now, I want to write to the swine.’

  That the permission to marry immediately was withheld by his own brother mattered not: Robert wanted nothing to overshadow his wedding to Sichelgaita and what a sight they created entering the rebuilt church in Venosa, where, passing the bones of his late brothers, Robert led his bride-to-be to the altar. Matching his height and so fair as to be near white-haired, a looming Amazon even in fine silks, they took their vows with due solemnity before emerging to partake of an openair feast, surrounded by thousands of Robert’s knights, many themselves with wives of Lombard descent.

  The time came for the newly-weds to retire, accompanied by much behind-the-hand sniggering, ribald joking and predictions of imminent bloodshed, for many thought Robert, lusty and strong as he was, would meet his match in Sichelgaita. They were, of course, followed and eavesdropped upon, the listeners gratified to hear much shouting and screaming, though even the most malicious had to admit they appeared to be sounds of deep pleasure, not conflict.

  Roger, in the company of Judith and her half-brother, departed the next day, to journey back to Calabria, and he and Judith, with Jordan in attendance, were married in the church of Mileto, the town Roger had chosen as his future residence, the ceremony accompanied by music and singing arranged by his new brother-in-law, who had decided that he would henceforth be the abbot of a Benedictine monastery dedicated to the memory of St Eufemia.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Pope Nicholas is coming south to hold a synod at your castle at Melfi and he asks, most humbly, that you attend.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ demanded a bemused Robert Guiscard.

  The envoy was surprised to be so questioned. ‘I cannot read the mind of the pontiff.’

  Now outside the walls of Reggio, the last Byzantine bastion in Western Calabria, Robert was reluctant to once more be dragged away from campaigning. That Roger was competent to press home the siege was not in doubt, but following on from Robert’s wedding and, on his previous return to the region, the mere sight of his banner had brought about the surrender of the last three inland bastions held by the Greeks. Yet Reggio, the old Roman city and a capital to Byzantine Calabria, was proving a tough nut to crack, for to lose this was, to the Eastern Empire, to lose their last foothold in this part of Italy.

  ‘You cannot refuse such a summons,’ Roger suggested.

  ‘Yes I can,’ Robert growled, his brow furrowed. ‘I cannot leave here now.’

  ‘Before you do something foolish, brother, I think there is someone you should meet.’

  Roger asked that one of his brother’s attendants take care of the papal envoy, to get him out of the way, then sent another to his own tent to fetch his visitor, refusing to respond to Robert’s querulous enquiries as to what he was about. When Kasa Ephraim entered his tent he looked even more confused, doubly so when introduced.

  ‘What can a Jew tell me that I do not already know?’

  ‘There is not enough time in my life to allow for an answer,’ Roger replied, a remark which earned him a jaundiced look.

  ‘I have heard of you, Ephraim.’

  That barked greeting from the Guiscard had no effect on Kasa Ephraim, who had on his face a bland look: if asked, he would have replied he had been insulted too many times, from his childhood to the present, for the perceived failings of his race, to ever feel the need to respond to irate behaviour.

  ‘I was an admirer of your brother William,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it was mutual, Jew,’ Robert replied. ‘He mentioned you to me more than once and said you gave him sage counsel. Is that what you have come here to do for me?’

  ‘He came at my invitation,’ Roger interrupted, ‘and I would be obliged if you would treat him as you would any invited guest.’

  ‘I suspect he came in the hope of profiting from our seizure of Reggio.’

  ‘If my presence offends you then I will leave,’ Ephraim replied.

  ‘No, stay,’ Roger insisted. ‘Tell my brother what has happened in Rome.’

  Ephraim nodded before looking directly at his brother. ‘You will know of Richard of Capua’s intervention in the deposing of the false pope?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Yet you will not know that the new Pope Nicholas, urged on by Archdeacon Hildebrand-’

  ‘Archdeacon?’

  ‘He has been elevated to that rank.’

  ‘Why not make him a cardinal?’

  ‘Hildebrand runs the papal office, if not the Pope himself. He is more powerful than any cardinal.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Pope Nicholas, no doubt at Hildebrand’s bidding, called a synod at the Lateran and promulgated a bull on future papal elections, which takes scant notice of the privileges of either the Roman aristocracy or of the imperial claim of approval, though the emperor is to be consulted.’

 
‘Does that mean anything?’ demanded Robert. ‘“Consulted”.’

  ‘A courtesy is what it means, a piece of verbal flummery to sow confusion and buy time.’

  ‘Time to…?’

  ‘From now on it is intended that it should be the sole right of the leading dignitaries of the Church to elect a pope.’

  Robert rounded on his brother. ‘You must have known of this, so why did you not tell me?’

  ‘I only found out before you summoned me to hear that papal envoy.’

  ‘I came from Capua, where the news of this was received just before my departure. It surprises me, yet it shows how important the needs of the pontiff are, that this envoy of his has arrived here so swiftly.’

  ‘You can fathom what this means, Robert.’

  The answer was so obvious it did not need to be spoken: with a child on the throne in Bamberg, thus lessening the chance of an army imposing his will, a chance had come to detach the papacy from imperial control. Richard of Capua had so recently, with a fraction of his lances, helped depose the papal choice of the Roman aristocracy. The decision of that synod at the Lateran could only hold if Rome could count on the same armed force and someone, probably Hildebrand, was shrewd enough to see that to solely rely on the Prince of Capua was unsound. To be truly secure they needed the Guiscard as well. No wonder his annulment had come through with such alacrity following on from the elevation of Nicholas: he was being wooed.

  ‘And what, Jew, is this pope prepared to offer me?’

  ‘More than you could possibly ask for.’

  And so it proved: Pope Nicholas invested not only Richard of Capua with a legitimate title of prince, he created Robert Guiscard Duke of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily. That his right to do so was very dubious — the two mainland provinces were Byzantine and Capua was held to be an imperial fief, while Sicily was Saracen — was not allowed to interfere with the ceremony, nor with the aim, articulated by Archdeacon Hildebrand rather than the Pope himself, that it was now the duty of these newly elevated magnates to spread the faith as practised by Rome.