by Jack Ludlow
‘We have yet to discuss a new campaign in Sicily, Robert.’
‘As I have yet to decide what to do. I cannot move lest Apulia is at peace.’
‘Will it ever be that?’
‘If you have a plan that will give me Bari then tell me, brother, for outside a ten-year siege I have none.’
Robert was still smarting from what he saw as a rebuff, a hard thing to take for a warrior accustomed to, when it came to major combats, unbridled success in the field. Roger was aware that what advice he had proffered — not a great deal, but mostly to say they could not take Enna — being proved right in the end, was not a thing of fond memory.
‘Perhaps when I come to Melfi we can talk of it then?’
‘In the spring,’ Robert barked, as he swung his leg over his mount. With a nod he was gone, his familia knights following in his wake, the banner of his dukedom flying stiff in the wind.
‘He is a fine child, Judith,’ Roger said, taking her hand and looking into the crib containing his newly born son. His other hand was in that crib, a finger strongly gripped by the gurgling infant.
‘He is your heir.’
That obliged him to look at Judith, on his face a wry smile. ‘I must speak with Jordan.’
‘He requires that you do.’
‘He has spoken with you?’
‘He has been sullen with me, which is not in his nature.’
‘It may be in his age, Judith. Manhood is not far off, as you can see in the eruptions on his face.’
‘Given the way he lusts after the serving wenches he might make you a grandfather before they disappear.’
‘I never thought to come to this, to be like my own father, dispensing advice.’
‘With Jordan you need to show love.’
‘Surely he knows how much of that I have for him.’
‘No, Roger, he does not.’
Being awkward with a growing son is a rite of passage for all fathers, and it is only when facing it themselves they realise the misery through which they put their own sires. Showing affection to a girl child was easy, only made awkward by signs of womanhood. With a son it was not possible to easily be tactile. To treat Jordan like a man would sound false, to act as if he were still a child would cause anger. Roger took refuge in that parental standby, an enquiry about progress in something the boy cared about.
‘Let me show you,’ Jordan said, ‘for to boast of prowess is immodest.’
That was a pleasing response, from a spot-covered youth, gangly in his frame now, but ready to fill out and become a man of the formidable proportions that were part of his bloodline. They made their way to the paddocks to fetch out his horses, then to the manege where he could demonstrate his prowess with both mounts and weapons. Roger had been proud of many things in his life, sometimes he had checked in himself the sin of excess, but watching his bastard boy perform those manoeuvres he knew so well, and seeing the accomplishment with which he carried them out, his heart swelled.
‘Acceptable, no more,’ he said, holding the head of a sweating destrier. Jordan looked crestfallen to receive no more than those three words; that made Roger laugh, which in turn made Jordan angry. ‘Do not seek praise, my boy, for I have learnt that those who give it too freely are rarely sincere.’
‘I want to come with you next year.’
‘With me?’
‘On campaign.’
‘You are sure there will be one?’
‘There is always a campaign,’ Jordan insisted.
Thinking back to his own youth, when, due to Tancred’s determination to stand aside from the turmoil of Duke William’s succession, there had been no such thing as a campaign, only neighbourly quarrels, it caused Roger to wonder at the life he and his kind now led. There was no pessimistic direction to that thought, he had been raised to be a warrior and was happy in the role. Yet there was just a hint of a hankering for a more peaceful life, one in which he could watch his children grow and see to the husbandry of his fiefs that soon followed by the thought that he would go mad in such an existence.
What to say to Jordan, who was, at thirteen summers, really too young for war? He should say no, say that he must wait, but here was a chance to show him how much regard he had, show him that the arrival of Geoffrey, which would deprive him of any chance of inheritance, did nothing to dent his father’s feelings.
‘I had a mind to suggest it, Jordan; after all, the sooner you set about carving out your own patrimony the better.’
‘For which I had looked to you, Father.’
‘Never fear, Jordan. If you are half the de Hauteville my brothers were you will end up a duke.’
‘Is that what you will be?’
‘Perhaps,’ Roger replied, but he did not elaborate, given the question took him back to his relations with Robert. ‘But I have a charge for you. Geoffrey is your brother, he will need your hand to guide him. Swear to me now that in all things you will be his friend and guardian.’
Christmastide was hardly over when he felt that such a piece of advice would have been welcome to Robert, who was, once more, holding back on the monies promised to meet Roger’s responsibilities in Calabria, added to a demand that he remit even more. It was not one that Roger could accept and, added to previous frustrations, it brought about a sharp response.
He reminded his brother of the services he had rendered, of the promises he had received, as yet unfulfilled, as well as the fact that he was now not some bare-arsed bachelor but a married man, a father with a household to support and a wife who deserved to live in a manner befitting her station. The closing words were a warning of the risk of a final breech, that if Robert did not meet his legitimate claims, he would have no recourse but to resort to a decision by arms; the reply was not long in coming.
‘No mention of all those titles and fiefs I was to be granted, plus a threat that should I fail to comply he will come personally to chastise me.’
‘Why are you smiling?’ asked Ralph de Boeuf.
‘What else would you have me do?’ Roger replied, waving the parchment on which Robert had written his demand. ‘I have no intention of giving in to this.’
‘You think he does not mean it?’
‘No, he will mean it, but it is the why that interests me, given I am the only brother Robert treats in this way. Geoffrey he indulges and Mauger he ignores.’
‘He has no fear of either of them.’
‘What has he got to fear from me?’
Roger was being disingenuous, yet Ralph de Boeuf tapped his forehead anyway. ‘You are at least his equal up here. Was it not the Jew who said he saw William in you? Well, Robert may see that too.’
‘I would never challenge him.’
‘You don’t have to, given he is challenging you! You were right at Enna and he was wrong, something known to every lance he leads. The Guiscard wants you to acknowledge he is your superior in every way, he wants you tugging your forelock like some peasant, and he would truly be happy if you did it in front of his entire army.’
‘That I will never do.’
‘Then you must dispute with him.’
‘Should blood be spilt for a brotherly squabble?’
‘There’s not a man you lead, and I am one of them, who would respect you if you did as Robert wants. So I suggest that word be sent out for every lance we command to gather here.’
‘Will that be enough?’
‘Roger, you have no notion of how much you are loved in Calabria since the famine. There is not a town that will open its gates to the Guiscard without he has to use force, unless you command they do so. You may move around at will and our men will be welcomed and fed. You can attack your brother wherever he is and wound him, even if he has superior force; you do not have to do battle with him but to wear him down. His numbers will be a burden to him, not an asset, for he must forage where you have no need.’
De Boeuf sat back from the table at which they sat. ‘I do not know why I am telling you all this, given you a
lready know it better than me.’
‘Knowing it does not make it palatable,’ Roger replied grimly. ‘He will besiege Mileto, for certain.’
‘Then it is best we are not here when he does so.’
‘Robert will not harm me, or our children,’ Judith insisted. ‘He is not some beast.’
‘I know, but I have no idea how far he might go in his jealousies. If he storms Mileto all of you are at risk, not from Robert but the men he leads, who will be drunk with the passion of combat, as well as too much wine. It is a thing I have seen often and it is not pleasant.’
‘You forget I am a Norman.’
Roger grinned. ‘How could I, Judith?’
‘Then as a Norman I will hold our castle of Mileto.’
‘You’re asking me to desert you?’
‘No. I am saying you should do as you intend, stay outside the walls where you are too great a threat to ignore. Is that not what William did at Melfi?’
‘You are the second person to mention William this day, and the same person gave me similar advice regarding not being trapped here.’
‘Then he is a wise judge.’
Roger laughed. ‘Whatever happened to that sweet girl I knew in Normandy?’
Judith came close, stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. ‘She grew up to become an Amazon. I will send the children to my brother at St Eufemia. Robert will respect a foundation he himself funded, but when he comes outside these walls of ours he will be obliged to parley with me, and when he demands surrender, if you leave me enough lances, I will refuse him.’
Deep in his heart, Roger felt it would be impossible for Robert to harm Judith, for all his irascibility he was not like that and, even if he growled about his bloodline he had respect for his siblings and their offspring.
‘Very well, Judith, you will be the Chatelaine of Mileto, and no doubt troubadours will compose songs of praise to you. I must take Jordan with me — I promised.’
‘He is too young, Roger, and he will seek to prove he is not.’
‘I will look after him, never fear.’
‘Can you win against Robert?’
‘No, but I can make him pay too high a price for what is, after all, nothing but his pride.’
‘When will you leave?’ Judith asked.
‘On the morrow. Robert is no fool, he will suspect I will not give in to his demands so he will already be on the way. I doubt his message was sent before he was ready to depart.’
‘One more night, then?’ she said, an unmistakable timbre in her voice.
Roger grinned as he held her close. ‘No warrior should go into combat unshriven, it is seen as impious.’
‘If you are not impious this night, husband, it is not Robert you will have to answer to, but me!’
Roger, at the head of his personal knights, plus those who had already responded to his call to arms, rode out of Mileto the next morning, with Jordan at his side. Behind him other lances lined the parapets as the gate swung shut, the portcullis came down and the drawbridge over the moat was lifted. This being a fortress designed and built by the man now departing, it would not be easy to take.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Robert was outside Mileto within ten days, proving that Roger had been right — he had departed Melfi at the same time as his message, looking a proud figure as he rode up to the gates to demand both entry and submission, genuinely surprised when Judith of Evreux was the person who answered him, his first reaction a declaration that he did not parley with women. That rebounded on him as Judith nodded and disappeared, leaving him fuming with impatience until he had his herald call her back.
‘Where is my rebellious brother?’
‘Raising lances to fight his duplicitous one, among folk who love him and despise you.’
‘I demand he appears before me and recants.’
‘Demand away, Robert,’ Judith replied, ‘but you are not talking to your lackeys now.’
‘He owes me fealty.’
‘You owe him gratitude and more besides.’
‘Let down the portcullis, drop the drawbridge and open the gates, Judith, to my castle of Mileto.’
‘The gates to MY husband’s castle will remain closed to you until you repent.’
The yell that engendered was loud enough to make stone tremble. ‘Repent! I am the Duke of Apulia.’
‘And you are a mean-spirited scoundrel.’
‘If you were a man, Judith-’
‘How I wish to God I was, Robert, to knock you off that magnificent horse you are riding. You’re so puffed up with pride I would need no more than a feather.’
‘You know the price of a refusal?’
‘I do. Your men will die trying to overcome these walls.’
‘Judith,’ Robert said, sounding emollient, ‘I know you to be brave as you are beautiful, but I sense that if you are speaking to me Roger is not within the walls. I think I know my brother well enough to be sure he would not hide behind your shift. Very well, he has gone elsewhere and, rest assured, I will find him. So what you are about is an empty gesture. Open the gates and allow me entry. No harm will come to you or yours, I give you my word.’
‘Is that the same word that promised my husband the revenues of Calabria for ten years, promised him titles, or is it the word of a man so consumed with jealousy for a wiser head and stronger arm, a man who does not have to bribe his lances to be loved?’
‘You’re trying my patience, Judith.’
‘How can that be, Robert, you have none.’
‘Open the damn gates,’ he bellowed.
The barrel that appeared over the walls must have been thrown by two very sturdy fellows, for it cleared the moat to land in front of Robert’s mount, which reared in fright. It burst open, spewing a foul-smelling eruption of brown liquid, which managed to spatter both the Duke of Apulia and the chequered caparison on his horse.
‘That, Robert, is the night soil of Mileto, the piss and shit of the town. Rank as it is, it smells sweeter than your blandishments.’
Furious, Robert pulled on his reins and swung round his horse, departing with no dignity at all, a furious pace he maintained until he got to his tent, jumping off to enter, demanding to be brought hot water and fresh garments, not that such needs stopped him from shouting commands.
‘Send men out to find my brother, scour the land. By God I’ll dip his head in a bucket of shit for what his wife just did.’
‘The siege, sire?’
‘Siege!’ he yelled, as he tore off his surcoat and his fine cambric shirt, showing a body of rippling muscles and numerous deep scars. ‘You want me to make war on my brother’s wife?’
Two servants brought in a large tub of water, warm enough to produce wisps of steam. Robert’s head went straight in and stayed there, while those he trusted to lead his men stood and watched. Eventually the great leonine head came out again, dripping water, his hair turned a flaming red by being soaked.
‘Set up the siege lines and make it look as if we plan an assault. If Roger intends to fight me that will draw him to us.’ Looking into the blank faces before him, he was moved to shout once more. ‘What are you waiting for?’
One captain was braver than the rest, Grenel, the Greek from Brindisi, who had taken wholeheartedly to service, trusted to lead a bataille of Robert’s pikemen.
‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘it would help us to know your purpose.’
The look that got was enough to freeze Etna, yet it took no genius to see the same question was in every mind, for none of the others would look at him. He had come here to make his brother grovel, not to draw de Hauteville blood. That others might die to achieve that was, to Robert, a price worth paying, yet to be open about that would not elevate him in the eyes of these men and he needed their respect. Besides, the Guiscard was never too open about his thinking.
‘It is enough that you do as I bid you to do.’
‘Of course, My Lord.’
‘Then do so, all of you.’
&nbs
p; Unbeknown to Robert, the sortie had already been discussed by his Norman captains, who knew they were on was an errand driven by conceit rather than good sense. These men knew his brother as well as they knew their duke and had fought alongside him, not that such a thing alone would have stopped them from killing him if so ordered: their loyalty and any hope of advancement, to a castle or even a fief, lay with the man who led them. Yet they knew Robert would never harm Roger, so if they were to risk death or injury, and to be asked to inflict the same on their conroys, it had to be in a cause in which they believed and this one was not.
‘Best find him,’ Grenel said forcibly. He might be Greek but he shared the same thoughts as his Norman contemporaries. ‘And make a dumb show of preparing to attack. The sooner the two of them are face to face and Roger bows the knee the sooner we can go home.’
‘Perhaps, when Sichelgaita arrives, she will be able to talk some sense into him,’ said one captain.
Robert had his wife and child on the way, though not obliging them to keep to the furious pace he had set in the hope of trapping Roger.
‘Are you mad?’ another captain replied. ‘She’s more of a warrior than he is!’
Throughout the day, riders were sent out in all directions, watched from the battlements by Judith. Likewise she saw the preparations for an assault on the walls where she stood: ladders being cut and assembled, the sound of the stone wheel sharpening swords, axes and lance points. Roger would come as soon as he heard his brother was outside Mileto: he was not a man to see others die to save his pride and that was doubly the case when it came to her. That she wished he would desist, that it was not expected by the men he had left behind, who would face what was to come with their accustomed equanimity, counted for nothing.
She turned to face those lances, who were awaiting her orders, as well as the men stood around the great metal cauldron with a pile of faggots at its base.