Conquest

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘It is an impasse and one only Roger can resolve.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ more than one voice demanded.

  ‘I am saying that Roger is much loved in Gerace. I am saying if he asks for Robert’s freedom, and assures them there will be no reprisals for his confinement, they will let him go.’

  ‘The Guiscard will flay us alive if we beg his brother.’

  ‘His brother will roast you over a spit if you don’t,’ Odo barked. ‘Who do you think will be Duke of Apulia if Robert dies?’

  There was no need to elaborate: on coming into his title of Count of Apulia, Robert had put aside any claim by Abelard, the young son of Humphrey, just as Richard of Aversa had ignored any claim by his Uncle Rainulf’s bastard child, Hermann. Roger would do the same to his baby namesake – he would have no choice: to avoid doing so would fracture the Norman presence in Italy, which depended on strong leaders in both Apulia and Campania.

  ‘Will you tell us where he is camped?’ one fellow said finally.

  ‘Better than that, I will take you there.’

  Sichelgaita turned up outside Mileto to find her husband gone, though tents had been sent ahead to accommodate her and her son in great comfort. On learning of how Robert had been rebuffed and by whom, she fell into gales of laughter, so loud, that baby Roger cried with fear and had to be calmed by a nurse. Once she had regained some composure she called for her horse, while that same nurse was told to make little Roger ready.

  ‘Where are you planning to go, Lady?’ asked the man Robert had left in command.

  ‘I am going to call upon Judith of Evreux.’

  ‘Lady, Mileto is under siege.’

  That got the fellow a cold stare. Certainly Sichelgaita had observed much marching to and fro when she arrived, had watched the lances at their practice, had seen the ladders ready for an assault as well as woodcutters working on the baulks that would make up the base of a siege tower. But Sichelgaita was far from a fool, she was clear-headed and mightily interested in military matters; in fact, it was one of the bonds that united her and Robert: he could discuss with her things he normally kept to himself.

  ‘Get a pannier for my child and when my sister-in-law admits me to Mileto, which she will certainly do, no one of you is to take advantage of my entry.’

  Few people had the commanding presence of the Guiscard: Sichelgaita was one of them. Within a short time she was trotting towards the gates, baby Roger in one pannier at her side, the other filled with fruits and sweetmeats. She stopped before the drawbridge to find Judith already on the walls.

  ‘I have come to show you my baby, Judith.’

  ‘It would give me great pleasure to see him, sister.’

  ‘Then let me enter.’ Judith hesitated, as was proper. ‘Under flag of parley.’

  The creaking sound began as the double defence of the gates was removed, continuing as one great oak door swung open, allowing Sichelgaita to enter – the postern was too small. Judith was there to greet her, standing on her toes to peer into the pannier at the now sleeping child.

  ‘Take him, Judith, I sense you are more gentle with children than I.’

  Not long after, they were inside Judith’s private apartments, chatting away like old friends while Roger’s daughters billed and cooed over their cousin. Judith, cradling baby Roger, was decorous both in appearance and manner; not even the kindest observer would gift that to Sichelgaita: she was loud, clumsy and raucous in her humour, roaring with mirth when her sister-in-law repeated the words she had used to her husband, even more tickled by the notion of him being covered in shit.

  ‘They are both fools, Judith,’ Sichelgaita said. ‘Too proud to admit they are wrong.’

  ‘I am bound to say, and not just in support of my spouse, that Robert is most at fault.’

  Sichelgaita frowned, as if not in full agreement. ‘You do not see him as he truly is, Judith, you only see the bellowing man who gives of no doubts. But those he has, I assure you, and you are holding one that troubles him. What if he falls when his heir is of such tender years?’

  ‘Bohemund?’

  ‘Has been made bastard, Judith! Roger is Robert’s true son. I daresay Bohemund’s father will care for him, but my child, if the Good Lord spares him and his sire, will live to one day be Duke of Apulia.’

  ‘Why have you come, Sichelgaita?’

  The blond eyebrows on her wide face lifted in surprise. ‘Why, to see you, Judith, to talk to you of this nonsense between our husbands.’

  ‘You feel they should be at peace with each other?’

  ‘You, surely, do not believe they are at war?’

  Looking down at the slumbering child in her lap, Judith was aware of the true reason Sichelgaita had come. She wanted harmony between the husbands for the sake of the child and she wanted from Roger an assurance that, should the Guiscard expire, he would act as true guardian to his namesake and not as a usurper. Odd: she had thought of her sister-in-law as more manly than was proper, but the birth of her child had brought to the fore the true nature of her gender and such a thought was touching.

  ‘I am sure you have nothing to fear, Sichelgaita. The Good Lord will surely bless such a comely infant with a long and happy life.’

  Their smiling eyes locked: Sichelgaita could not bring herself to ask for that which she had come, Judith’s help in gaining an assurance from Roger, and besides, much as Judith loved her husband and was sure he loved her, no words of hers would alter what he felt he needed to do in the event of his brother being killed or dying.

  ‘It may be a good notion, Judith, to go now and pray for such an outcome.’

  ‘Let us do that.’

  ‘If you were to ask me, Father, I would suggest that what the people of Gerace did to that woman would be best visited on your brother.’

  Roger did not lose his temper, nor did he look Ralph de Boeuf or any of Robert’s men in the eye. Instead he beckoned to Jordan and led him outside the manor house he was using as his temporary home. Only then did his anger show, though he took care not to raise his voice as he admonished him.

  ‘Never say that about one of your name, Jordan. If your grandfather were here and heard you he would have booted you round the encampment. You are a de Hauteville, think and act like one. Never even dream of spilling the blood of your family. Now return with me inside, and make out what you said was a jest.’

  Back inside, he looked at the fellow come to plead. ‘You want me to rescue him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I doubt the folk of Gerace will harm him.’

  ‘There are those who might, Roger, young firebrands and the like, as well as those who lost their fathers to him years ago.’

  ‘Am I permitted to speak?’ asked Ralph de Boeuf. ‘You cannot even contemplate leaving him in their hands, Roger, and you know it.’

  Roger smiled. ‘A period of confinement might temper his pride.’

  ‘It is more likely to fire his irritation, and having been on the end of that only God knows where it will lead.’

  In truth, much as he was deriving great pleasure from what had occurred, Roger knew he had no alternative; he would have laughed out loud if it had not been so unseemly. To leave Robert was too risky: if Jordan in his youth could be so foolish so could his contemporaries in Gerace. Good sense was not often gifted to the young, nor any thought for consequence.

  ‘Odo, go ahead. Ask the elders of Gerace to meet me outside the town under my personal safe conduct.’

  ‘Shall I tell them anything?’

  ‘Yes, tell them I am far from pleased. No, tell them you could not face any more of my fury.’

  Robert, confined to a small chamber, was chafing at the bit, wondering what the hell was going on: surely these peasants could not be foolish enough to keep him confined? Not that he was in discomfort: he had been well fed, had slept on a decent bed and looked hard at anyone who entered, they being terrified before doing so and more so when they departed. If he had been told that hi
s was a name they used to frighten their children, he would have been pleased.

  ‘Terrified’ was the word that would have equally applied to those on the way to meet with Roger, given Odo had not been gentle in his delivery. Much as they respected the younger brother, there was not one among them inclined to repose unbridled faith in a barbarian Norman, a race given to much passion, and bloody-minded with it, even if some lived amongst them. Greeks regarded such people as ruffians, with none of the subtle philosophy of their betters: they acted like spoilt brats instead of mature adults.

  Roger’s hard look when they came before him did nothing to soften their anxieties and that deepened when he tongue-lashed them for holding his brother captive, though they were pleased that none of the Guiscard’s own lances appeared to be present. ‘Did you send to me to tell me, as it was your duty to do? No, one of your number with more sense, he being a Norman, was the one who saw what must be done.’

  ‘We were troubled as to what course to take, Lord Roger.’

  ‘Your course was simple,’ he yelled. ‘Your duty was to hand the Duke of Apulia over to me.’

  ‘Which we will happily do now,’ cried one elder, relieved to be shot of a burden with which he did not want to have to deal.

  ‘Then take me to him now.’

  Roger deliberately set a firm pace, obliging these elders to move faster than their natural gait, so they were breathless and stumbling by the time they made the main square before the now open church. No evidence of the previous bloody murder was apparent – that had been washed clean – but a messenger of more puff had rushed ahead so that Robert was on one side of the square when Roger entered from the other, followed by Jordan and Ralph de Boeuf. The youngster glared at Robert; Ralph could not help but smile.

  ‘Well, Robert, I see you have made a fool of yourself.’

  ‘It gives me pleasure to greet a brother who has outshone me in that. I need hardly mention your first incursion into Sicily.’

  ‘Then it is a family trait as I told you at Enna.’

  All around them stood the citizens of Gerace, wondering what was going to happen. Would the Lord Roger take this opportunity to slay his brother and if he did, how would that rebound on their town? That it made sense did not make it welcome: they were in dispute and even in such a backwater it was known what the younger of the brothers would stand to inherit – the whole of the Guiscard’s holdings.

  ‘What a family we are, brother.’

  ‘There is not a soul in Christendom who does not rate us remarkable for what we have gained, given what we had, which was nothing when we started out from the Contentin.’

  ‘And here I have you in my power, not something to which I’m accustomed. What would Tancred say I should do?’

  ‘I think Tancred would remind you of a vow I took and you did not.’

  ‘And what would you do if the positions were reversed?’

  Robert actually laughed. ‘Why, Sprat, I’d box your ears.’

  With the exception of Ralph de Boeuf, who was sure he knew what was coming, not a jaw was not dropped by what happened next. Without another word the two de Hautevilles moved towards each other and, gleefully, they threw their arms around each other in an embrace later described as like that between Benjamin and Joseph of biblical fame.

  ‘Don’t call me Sprat,’ Roger said.

  ‘What in God’s name am I to call you if not that?’

  Robert had pushed his brother back to arm’s length before Roger replied, still in high humour. ‘I can think of one or two titles that might suit.’

  Robert responded with the kind of laugh that shook rafters. ‘Come to think of it, Sprat, so can I.’

  ‘No harm to come to Gerace?’

  ‘None, Roger, they have not harmed anything bar my conceit.’

  ‘Which would not suffer from the odd wound.’ The pause was short before Roger asked, ‘And me?’

  ‘Everything you are owed, I give you my word.’

  ‘There is a church there,’ Roger said, jerking his head. ‘Would it trouble you to know I would be happier to hear you swear that before God?’

  ‘Lead on.’

  Arm in arm, the pair walked towards the church, disappearing into its cool interior where, kneeling Robert de Hauteville swore to respect every promise he had ever made his brother.

  ‘And now, Robert, I invite you back to my castle of Mileto, where we will have a feast of celebration and talk of future matters, not least how we are going to divide the revenues of Calabria, so that when the Devil visits your bedchamber, you are not tempted to renege.’

  Sichelgaita was back in her tent when the horns blew to signal the return of her husband. As soon as she was outside it was obvious that Roger was with him and, given he was riding by his side, no captive. Close to the castle Roger peeled off with his knights and rode to the rapidly opening gates, there to be welcomed by a beaming Judith. Given the numbers to be entertained, the feast had to be held in the open and since it took time to prepare, Judith had the chance to send for musicians and singers from her half-brother’s Abbey of St Eufemia.

  That time also allowed her to talk to Roger about Sichelgaita’s unspoken anxieties, and if she was troubled by his silence in response, at least she had a good idea of what prompted it. Naturally Robert and his wife had forsaken their tents and moved into Mileto, so the uncle had an opportunity to gaze into the crib of his nephew. Anyone watching would have worried at the way he failed to smile, indeed what they saw was a frown, for Roger de Hauteville was thinking that, should this dilemma ever be faced, he could not do that which he knew he was about to be asked.

  Most of the time was spent with Robert, haggling over how to divide the revenues of the province, no easy matter since each fief had a different value and trading them off to find a balance was a nightmare. Finally they compromised by dividing every one equally: each would hold half the land and each would collect and keep half the revenues. Neither thought it anything other than a dog’s breakfast, but it answered what was quite obvious: their continuing and deep mutual suspicion.

  More harmonious were their discussions of what to do about the future, with Roger persuading a not-too-hard-to-sway Robert that Sicily should be a priority and that their next campaign was one which must be properly plotted to not only invade but hold whatever they conquered.

  ‘And then,’ Robert said, ‘there is Bari.’

  ‘I will not begin to advise you on that, brother, my priority is Sicily.’

  ‘There is something I must ask of you, Roger, Sichelgaita insists on it.’

  Knowing what was coming, Roger’s reply was guarded. ‘And you do not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘You guessed.’

  ‘That would not be difficult.’

  ‘I must tell you that in marrying Sichelgaita I have gained a great deal.’ Seeing Roger begin to smile, he snapped, ‘No jests about her size, please! I would also say that her having given birth to what is seen as a Lombard prince has eased my life.’

  ‘I cannot give you or Sichelgaita a guarantee, Robert, you know that.’

  ‘Sadly, I do, but I would ask you to give me your solemn oath to do your best for the boy. If we Normans stand to lose everything we have gained in Italy, no child, even my son, is worth such a price.’

  ‘I would never harm him.’

  ‘That I take for granted. He might be seen as a Lombard prince but his name is the same as yours, but if you can allow him to inherit, I would ask that you do so and guard against others who might challenge his right.’

  From what Roger knew, if his namesake had anything to fear it was from Bohemund, who, if reports had any truth, looked likely to grow up the image in size of his father. The same might apply to his Geoffrey and Jordan. Inheritance was fraught with peril regardless of the level of power; was it not an oft-told tale that one Duke of Normandy had murdered his own brother to gain the title? The future could not be seen, but an answer was requ
ired and he gave the only one he could.

  ‘If I live, brother, which is in God’s hands.’

  ‘Are we not all in that?’ Robert sighed. ‘Do I have your word?’

  ‘If I can, I will.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That, Robert, is the first time I think you have ever said those words to me.’

  ‘Cherish them,’ Robert barked, ‘it could be the last. Now to the great hall where your wife is waiting, as is mine, along with all your knights and the Abbot of St Eufemia, to bless what I am about to do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To give you that title you so hanker after, brother.’

  ‘Which will be?’

  ‘Count of Sicily, Roger, what else?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  To Roger the time spent arguing with Robert was time wasted and nothing proved such a truth more than the news that the Ibn-al-Tinnah had been ambushed, his forces soundly beaten and he himself assassinated. Worse, the Norman garrison of Troina, which, like Rometta barred the route to Messina, had abandoned the castle for fear of what would come next. The Saracens loyal to al-Tinnah had fled the town in their entirety.

  Within days Roger was on his way with three hundred knights, this time taking not only Jordan but also Judith – Geoffrey, now weaned, being left with a nurse. Judith was happy to go whatever the reason, much preferring to be with her husband than to be stuck in Mileto; Roger wanted her not just for her company, which he missed when they were parted, but to show the Sicilians he was committed enough to the conquest of the island to settle there.

  There was no delay at Messina: Roger and his lances rode straight to the stout fortress right in the shadow of Mount Etna, the most forward stronghold of the late al-Tinnah, surprised and delighted to find that no attempt had been made to take what was a castle devoid of a proper defence, proof that Ibn-al-Hawas had not yet recovered from the drubbing Robert had inflicted upon his army below Enna. Slowly he rode into the lower part of Troina, which rose through narrow streets to the upper town and the castle, expecting to be greeted as a saviour, nonplussed by the lack of zeal shown by the locals: indeed they seemed sullen.