Son of Blood c-1

by Jack Ludlow

  The leave-taking at Montesarchio, to where the conroys had moved prior to the incursion into Apulia, was attended by much ceremony: the castle itself bedecked with wind-whipped banners, the presence of Jordan and his court dressed in all their finery, the Archbishop of Capua along to say the required Mass and give the expedition his blessing, each lance, near three hundred in number, first confessing before lining up to receive the wafer that represented the body of Christ, and finally an array of trumpeters to attend the actual departure, this after their prince had made a rousing speech.

  It was as if Bohemund was the rightful Duke of Apulia going off on campaign, yet not holding that title required a gesture to acknowledge his benefactor. Prince Jordan would have, no doubt, liked Bohemund to kneel before him and seek his blessing too, as a vassal does to his suzerain and as he had done to the high cleric. It was evident, his disappointment, when all he received from the mounted leader was an across the chest salute, that followed by a wave of the arm as he led his knights out of the small town, heading east.

  The squires had taken the packhorses, destriers and spare mounts out beforehand and were waiting for their warriors. Bohemund had been strict on other things: there were to be no women and none of the usual artisans. His column was designed to move at speed and Reynard had mapped out the route to be taken, not only for where they could plunder meat for their bellies and oats for their mounts, but also the places where they would find both water and pasture and, hopefully, no serious enemies.

  The route initially took them to Grottaminarda, where a pre-warned lord of the castle entertained and fed them, consuming copious amounts of wine while talking eagerly of how it would be pleasant to follow in their wake with his own band of knights to plunder the borderlands through which they would pass. Such sentiments were heartily endorsed by an ever-abstemious Bohemund, ready to agree that it was possible that his line of march must tempt him to look into Melfi, to see if that great fortress might declare for his banner without a fight.

  ‘Will it, My Lord?’ asked an eager Tancred, when he raised a subject he had overheard at a table to which he had been admitted by his family name and rank, not his present position. Most squires ate outside the kitchens.

  ‘Outside Salerno, Tancred, it is Borsa’s most important possession. It will therefore be manned by someone he trusts absolutely.’

  ‘William Iron Arm took it by a trick, did he not?’

  ‘He took it because a Lombard betrayed his Byzantine master. I do not have either of those.’

  ‘It would be a fine feat all the same.’

  ‘It would be a distraction, boy — now go to your bed and allow that I can go to mine.’

  The Lord of Grottaminarda was as wedded to ritual as his prince, so it took another Mass and another blessing before they could ride on, trailed by everyone in the town who was so idle they had nothing to keep them inside the walls — the sons of knights and their squires mainly. Bohemund had to wait until they tired and turned for home, indeed well beyond that so he was out of their sight before he could, at a necessary halt to rest the horses, consult a man even more frustrated than he. Reynard produced his jottings, made on the first of another map from the days of the Roman Empire, and laid out the route they must follow as well as the demesne they must first raid.

  ‘It is still on Capuan soil,’ he said, ‘and so owes fealty to Jordan.’

  ‘Then,’ Bohemund replied, with a grin, ‘he will be happy to surrender the supplies we need just to please his prince.’

  Waiting till his lances had mounted and knowing they would follow his lead, Bohemund rode due south. Behind him men were looking at the sun, wondering why they were heading right into its high and glaring orb rather than having it warm their right shoulder. No one asked until finally Tancred could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Where are we going, My Lord?’

  ‘To my castle of Taranto, Tancred.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There was no possibility of Bohemund cutting a swathe through Borsa’s domain without that being drawn to the attention of Count Radulf, the man who had been sent to the borderlands to either prevent him crossing or so inflict on him a defeat that the only option for the rebellious claimant was to retire. Given the nature of that border it could only be looked after by small pockets of knights dotted at intervals who would observe in their own locality, and once they had hard information regarding the route of the incursion, report back to the hill town of Candela around which Count Radulf had his main encampment.

  When the information came to him that the invaders were heading due south he had no choice, having sent word back to Salerno and Melfi, but to set off in pursuit, seeking to cut an angle and so intercept Bohemund, which he would succeed in doing if his quarry was moving slowly. Radulf soon discovered his foe was not dawdling, found that he was well behind and that he would struggle to close the gap even if he pushed his men and mounts beyond what was judicious.

  Farmhouses and small outlying castles that had already been plundered once found Radulf and another large force of knights on their land demanding that they and their mounts be fed — a hard request to fulfil, for where the owners and lords of the manor had been unwilling, Bohemund had ordered everything they possessed to be either taken or destroyed; those who opened their granaries and wine cellars were spared once, but not twice, for if they had been seen to indulge one party, they were at the mercy of the other.

  ‘He should have torched everything,’ Radulf growled, as he watched burn the barns and outbuildings of a villein who had clearly been welcoming to those he was in pursuit of; the main house was already a cinder, its floors dug up in the search for hidden possessions and the family that had provided sustenance hanging from the trees that had been used to shade it from the sun. ‘As an invader Bohemund de Hauteville is too soft.’

  ‘If he had, My Lord,’ asked one of his knights, ‘what would we eat?’

  Radulf grinned but it was a look to chill, not cheer. ‘We could roast their children, could we not, instead of stringing them up?’

  His man crossed himself.

  Ten leagues a day was considered the maximum at which armed knights could move and that often had to be tempered by the terrain; to exceed such a distance was to risk the horses breaking down. Bohemund was glad he had insisted on no tail of camp followers to slow him down, especially as he was much of the time moving through the high, rolling country that rose from the eastern coastal plain to create valleys and hills that took time to traverse, and which only eased when they reached the River Gravina and were able to follow it for a long way as it flowed towards the Ionian Sea.

  Yet that left men without women, which was dangerous, and he had already hanged from the rafters of a barn two of his Apulians for the rape of the daughters of a farmer who had declined to aid him; burning his field crops, cutting down his vines and olive trees, as well as smashing what could not be carried was acceptable; the carnal abuse was not. That such an act led to their confreres being disgruntled — it was a blessing they were not Capuans he had strung up — was something he just had to accept, working on the hope that the prospect of months of plunder would outweigh any loyalty or feelings they had to their dead companions.

  It was not morality that made him act in that way; every army on the march committed such offences and when a town or city was sacked, rape and pillage was part of the reward taken by the successful besiegers. But such events were a distraction and a continual temptation that could slow him down; the last thing he wanted was men dropping back to sate their carnal needs when he was intent on making, every day, the locations on Reynard’s Roman maps that had been designated as stopping points.

  It was at a hamlet surrounded by fertile farms, ten leagues short of the well-defended town of Matera, that Tancred went missing in an area where the locals had shown no desire to do anything but feed and water these mail-clad knights for fear of what they might do if they were denied. But Bohemund, noting his absence at f
irst light, was concerned, as was Ademar, for the boy had been faithful in pursuance of his duties; if anything he had dogged the footsteps of his uncle as if seeking to have some of Bohemund’s martial ability rub off on him. He would not be missing unless something untoward had happened to him.

  ‘Can we delay for one squire?’ Reynard loudly demanded as the order to break camp was delayed.

  Indicating he should keep his voice down Bohemund answered him softly. ‘He is not just any boy, Reynard, he is my sister’s son.’

  ‘Who must take the same risks as his fellows and we have to make our next stop while there is still daylight.’

  ‘I cannot leave without knowing what has become of him.’

  ‘And if those pursuing us catch up?’

  ‘We do not know we are being chased,’ Bohemund replied, not looking at a man he considered a true friend as well as a source of wise counsel.

  ‘If we are not,’ Reynard spat, ‘I will eat my gauntlet.’

  ‘Bohemund,’ said Ademar, approaching the pair. ‘Move on as you must, but I will delay and see if I can find him.’

  ‘No, many men searching will make light work of such a task and I owe you that for so readily coming to my aid.’

  ‘We are far ahead of anything on our trail, Reynard, and can spare a glass of sand to find him.’ Then Bohemund dropped his voice to a whisper so Ademar could not hear. ‘And let us hope it is not with a knife in his back.’

  His father’s one-time familia knight had to acknowledge the possibility; not everyone would be happy to give up their oats or their grain and an easy way to make that known would be to attack the people least able to defend themselves, vulnerable when, without properly dug latrines, they would wander off to relieve themselves.

  Reynard’s expression softened, for he liked Tancred — most men did. ‘He would be hard to kill, your nephew. I would pit him even at his age against half the lances we lead.’

  ‘Then let us get searching, for the sooner we know the truth the sooner we can depart.’

  The man who found Tancred called to Bohemund and waved, his face grim, that look shared by the half-conroy of his companions with whom he had been searching the western woods, which induced a grip that the leader felt on his heart. The boy was the apple of his sister’s eye, and even if she had his younger brother William, the loss would be keenly felt. He joined the man who had gestured, following him and his confreres into the woods, aware that in his footsteps were coming others, Ademar included.

  The man, still dour-faced, led him to a woodcutter’s lean-to in which were stacked high piles of logs from several seasons, gaps in between them, a perfect place to conceal a body. Standing back, he indicated Bohemund should enter, but their leader knew that to do so on his own exceeded his rights, so he waited for Tancred’s father to join him, then made his way between two stacks, one green and recently cut, the other dry and well seasoned.

  When he and Ademar stopped, they could not, after a pause, avoid looking at each other, for on the ground lay Tancred, his arm round a young girl, both of them sound asleep. She was on her back, her skirts so raised as to leave no doubt about what they had been doing, and beside her, face down, lay their son and nephew, while beside them, upended and obviously empty, was a wine gourd. Behind them gales of laughter erupted as the men who had guyed a worried Bohemund let their pleasure be known. The noise made Tancred raise a groggy head to look at the two adults framed by daylight.

  ‘Shall I kick your squire, Bohemund,’ said Ademar, ‘or does that right fall to you?’

  ‘One each I should think.’

  The yells of Tancred as the boots went home added greatly to the mirth and that rose even higher as, clutching his unfastened breeches, he staggered out into the open.

  The great twin bays of Taranto, really a deep outer cove masking, with a wide island, an inland saltwater lake, were visible from a long distance, for they lay on a flat coastal plain, while the approach from both north and east was from a high elevation. The city was Greek and had been since the Ancient Dorians founded it, part of that one-time Magna Graecia which comprised so much of the Norman possessions in Italy. Ruled by the Lombards, it had not been colonised much and for all it was an attractive port it had suffered since Roman times, given they had laid the Via Appia to Brindisi and directed what trade they had with the East through that port.

  Rendered something of a backwater, it had been given to Bohemund by the Guiscard because he felt required to present his bastard son with some title, yet he was cautious of appearances to a wider world as well as his wife’s sensitivities. By allotting to him such a lordship he gave him recognition without much in the way of power; the true strength of Apulia lay further north in Bari and Melfi. Yet the surrounding plain was fertile and with good husbandry could produce two crops a year, the sea was abundant with fish to salt, while the pans on the shore produced an endless supply of that commodity, so the revenues were far from meagre. It had too, as did all Greek ports, a castle that protected the basin, albeit one in great need of repair.

  Being given overlordship of such a place did not oblige the person holding it to reside in his possessions, so Bohemund had made only two fleeting visits since it had been granted: the first was to appoint a steward to look after and if possible grow his revenues, and to ensure that the stud was not only working but that breeding of foals should be increased; the second, when he had been close by in his sister’s castle, to see how the improvements he had ordered made to the castle were progressing. This stood on the southern tip of the island and blocked access to the inland lake by the only route that had a depth of water to allow entry and egress by ships of any size.

  ‘What Taranto has, you young degenerate, is people and supplies.’

  ‘Not lances,’ Tancred replied, smarting from the pointed allusion to his nocturnal misdemeanour, which he had been ribbed about for days.

  ‘We have lances, what we need are milities. Those we pass working the fields will soon be bearing arms.’

  ‘My father says they are often of little use.’

  ‘Well led they can set up a battle so the mounted men can decide it. Even of little merit, they cannot be ignored.’

  Word having gone ahead that a large party of knights was approaching, news was, as always, sent to the city by the fastest runners the outlying settlements could despatch. This set off a general alarm in Taranto and led to the hurried closing of the gates. They stayed that way when Bohemund sent his own herald to announce his arrival, for these were folk well accustomed to trickery from the kind of men approaching — even in mail they could be Saracens — so it nearly fell to their liege lord himself to command them to be opened. Yet such was his remarkable appearance that as soon as the citizens saw it was truly him word was sent to unbolt them so he could enter.

  Count Radulf, who overlooked Taranto three days later, was obliged to accept that he had failed; there was no point in pursuing his quarry to the walls, he lacked the means to even contemplate a raid, never mind a siege, and besides, having pushed his force hard in an attempt to catch up, his horses were in danger of being blown, while his lances were worn out. The thought of sending a messenger to challenge Bohemund he dismissed, for the giant would likely suggest single combat; having seen him in action on the field of battle that was not a contest in which he had any desire to engage.

  Despite what he had said to Tancred, Bohemund reposed little faith in those he caused to be conscripted, for he had too little time to train them. What he needed most were fresh cavalry mounts and packhorses — the destriers had not been ridden or carried any load since Capua — as well as a body of milities who looked threatening without actually being of much use in battle. His strategy was speed, for there was no chance of his defeating Borsa if his half-brother brought the whole might of his dominions to bear.

  So, once he had raided the castle armoury and denuded his domain of suitable horses — the locals could have those mounts he had brought from Capua — he set o
ff for Gallipoli, the southernmost port on the Ionian Sea, which had little heart for a fight and fell to him as soon as he demanded that the citizenry do so; they did not even flee to the fortified island. Next he crossed the Salento Peninsula to Otranto, which, being the major port on the Adriatic heel of Italy, was of strategic value, it being the only haven south of Brindisi into which Borsa could land an army.

  It was there Bohemund found out how feeble was his relation: Borsa had done nothing to reinforce it, or to put in command of its large fortress a man he could both trust and who would never, for the sake of his pride, surrender — a mistake his father would never have made. Certainly they resisted, but Otranto was taken by a coup de main when Bohemund led a party of his knights against a weak part of the walls. Having passed through Monteroni and Lecce on the way from Gallipoli he had not only visited his sister but had raised a fresh supply of both lances and milities, and those, mixed with the conscripts he had been training on the march, added up to a force he thought he could trust in battle, provided the odds were not too great. More encouraging was what success brought: more lances came from the Apulian ranks to swell his force of mounted warriors.

  ‘Where are they?’ Reynard asked, looking all around him as if there were foes hidden in the ground.

  ‘Never fear, friend, we must meet a real enemy soon.’

  At the head of what was now five hundred knights and a thousand foot soldiers, as well as the carpenters, woodcutters, cooks and camp followers of a proper army, Bohemund marched north, heading for Brindisi, and with him he had the means to contemplate a siege. Yet he knew, as did Reynard and everyone else he had designated as a lieutenant, that they would surely never get there without they met a host determined to prevent them from even reaching the outer walls of such an important goal.

  On a flat and seemingly endless coastal plain it was impossible to see any more than the horizon would allow; there were few to no hills and Ademar was of the opinion, given that this was a part of Apulia he knew well, that the only way they would see any force that lay ahead of them was by the light of their night-time campfires. For that purpose Bohemund sent ahead a number of squires, Tancred amongst them, who, innocent-looking, could act as his eyes and ears. In his desire to impress, Tancred spread his reconnaissance further than intended and by luck found that Count Radulf was concentring a mounted force at a small town called Squinzano to hit Bohemund as he marched.