Had Sergius learnt his lesson? Would he have proved, in the long run, a faithful vassal at last ? There is no telling, for within a month he was dead. In the third week of October he accompanied the King to Apulia where Rainulf, determined to defend his new Dukedom, was busy forging an army. With the eight hundred German knights left him by Lothair, almost as many again culled from various local militias and with infantry in proportion, this amounted to quite a formidable force; Roger might have been better advised to avoid a head-on confrontation. Perhaps his successes in Campania had made him headstrong; possibly his anxiety to have done with this interminable rebellion may have clouded his judgment. His, however, and not Rainulf 's, was the decision to do battle —just outside the village of Rignano, at the south-western edge of Monte Gargano where it drops away two thousand feet to the Apulian plain.1
His, too, was the responsibility for the defeat that followed. His young son Roger, whom he had invested with the Duchy of Apulia two years previously and who was now fighting his first major action in an effort to regain it, showed himself a worthy scion of the Hautevilles, charging fearlessly into his adversaries and driving one section right back along the road to Siponto. The King, however, had meanwhile decided to lead a second charge. Just what happened we shall never know, but he was utterly routed. Falco gleefully records—though his account is nowhere corroborated —that King Roger himself was the first to flee. He made straight for Salerno, leaving Sergius, thirty-ninth and last Duke of Naples, dead on the battlefield.
At the time of the disaster of Rignano—-30 October 1137—the Emperor Lothair had still five weeks to live. We must hope that news of it reached him before he died; it would have given him comfort. And yet, surprisingly, even Rignano did Roger little lasting harm. A few cities of Campania took advantage of his defeat to claim certain concessions which they might not otherwise have been granted, but all stayed loyal; and a day or two after the King's return to Salerno news was brought to him that Abbot Wibald of Monte Cassino, after just a month and a day in office, had fled in
1 The view from Rignano southward over Apulia long ago earned the village its title of Balcone delle Puglie. The mediaeval castle into whose ruins many of the houses have been built is more or less contemporary with the events here described.
terror across the Alps. He had paused, it appeared, only long enough to emphasise to his monks that he was leaving for their sake rather than his own—a protestation which they might have been readier to believe had it not been for the King's well-publicised threats to hang him if he remained. From the safety of Corbie, his next abbacy, Wibald was to keep up a steady flow of invective against Roger for the rest of his life; but he never ventured into Italy again. In his place the monks wisely elected one of their own number, a man of staunch pro-Sicilian and Anacletan sympathies; and thenceforth the great abbey, while preserving its technical independence, became to all intents and purposes a part of the Kingdom.
Back once again in Salerno, Roger was able to take stock of the situation. All in all, he was not dissatisfied. His policy of non-involvement, of allowing the German momentum to burn itself out, had been triumphantly vindicated. The Emperor had come and gone; on his arrival he had seemed to carry all before him, but within two months of his departure there was little left to show for his efforts but an Apulian insurrection—of that old, dreary, endemic kind which Roger, his father and his uncles had all had to deal with countless times over the past century and which could, doubtless, be dealt with again. The Kingdom itself was no longer in peril. The toll in money and lives—apar: from the losses at Rignano, which need never have happened—had been minimal. Pope Anacletus was still lording it at St Peter's. Yet again, peaceful statesmanship had carried the day over brute force.
On the debit side, however, there was no denying that Roger's prestige had suffered a grave setback. Many of his less far-sighted adherents had been shocked by his passivity, which they had taken for cowardice; and his showing at Rignano, where he had probably hoped to redeem his reputation, had served only to confirm their suspicions. Moreover, though immediate danger had been averted, the undeniable fact remained that none of Roger's basic problems had been solved. The Sicilian crown was still recognised by no one but Anacletus; Robert and Rainulf, those two inveterate rebels, were still at large; while down at the very bed-rock of all the trouble, the Papacy remained divided.
But this last consideration was less disturbing to Roger than to his enemies—a fact which explains why, some time at the beginning of November, the hitherto most redoubtable of all those enemies came personally to call on the King in Salerno. Like all the other members of Pope Innocent's entourage, St Bernard of Clairvaux had had a disagreeable summer. His health had long since been shattered, and seven months spent trailing round the peninsula in the imperial wake had left him in a state bordering on collapse. He and Lothair had never liked each other. It was he, far more than the mild-mannered Innocent, who had been disgusted by the proprietorial attitude shown by both the Emperor and Duke Henry towards South Italy—which even the 'Sicilian tyrant' knew was a papal fief; and it was he, almost certainly, who had persuaded and encouraged his master to stand firm—at Lagopesole, Monte Cassino and elsewhere—against imperial pretensions.
When Emperor and Pope had finally parted company at Farfa, Bernard had hoped to return to Clairvaux for rest. Instead, they had sent him back to Apulia in the hopes that his prestige might succeed where their force had failed and that he might be able to bring Roger to terms. With a reluctance that he did nothing to conceal, he had turned back, and had actually been present at Rignano, where he had met Roger for the first time and had tried, unsuccessfully, to dissuade him from doing battle.1 After the debacle, however, Bernard rightly counted on finding the King in a more amenable mood. Roger had no desire to perpetuate the schism. His support of Anacletus, having originally won him his throne, had very nearly lost it for him again. The situation was very different from what it had been seven years ago. At that time it had seemed likely that Anacletus might win an all-out victory; now it was plain that he could hope for nothing more than to retain the opprobrious title of anti-Pope, while living for the rest of his life a virtual prisoner in the Vatican. For as long as Roger continued to support him in his pigheadedness the Emperor would continue to encourage the South Italian rebels; and peace would never return to the land. Naturally the King, to whom the disloyalty of his own vassals was so constant a preoccupation, felt reluctant to betray his own suzerain; but there might be other possibilities besides betrayal. At
1 Vita Prima, II, vii.
all events Bernard's visit provided a welcome opportunity for him to pause in the righting and to talk instead. He badly needed a little time for recovery, and he knew that as a diplomatist he was more than a match for any of his adversaries. He gave the abbot a cordial welcome and readily agreed to look into the whole question of the Papacy again.
His proposal was that the rival Popes should each send three representatives to Salerno to plead their case; and Bernard accepted it. Poor Anacletus must have been horrified at this sign of vacillation on the part of his only ally, but he could hardly refuse. His choice fell on his papal chancellor, Peter of Pisa, and two of his Cardinals, Matthew and Gregory. Innocent also sent his chancellor— that same Cardinal Aimeri who had been largely responsible for the schism in the first place—together with Cardinals Guido of Castello and Gerard of Bologna, later respectively to become Popes Celestine II and Lucius II. The six arrived in Salerno at the end of November.
It was inevitable that Bernard, though technically not even a member of Innocent's delegation, should have done most of the talking. Once again, as at Etampes, he seems to have deliberately ignored the only legitimate subject for discussion—the canonicity of the original elections. This time, however, he did not fall back on invective; the Anacletans present could have defended their master too well and Roger would have been antagonised. Instead, he based his case on strength of numbers. In
nocent enjoyed more present support than Anacletus; Innocent, therefore, must be the rightful Pope. It was a shaky thesis by any standards, but such was the fervour with which it was developed that its deficiencies in logic were largely overlooked.
The robe of Christ, which at the time of the Passion neither heathen nor Jew dared to tear, Peter Leoni now rends asunder. There is but one Faith, one Lord, one Baptism. At the time of the Flood there was but one ark. In this eight souls were saved, the rest perished. The Church is a kind of ark. . . . Lately another ark has been built, and as there are two, one must of necessity be false and will surely sink beneath the sea. If Peter Leoni's ark comes from God, then will Innocent's ark be destroyed and with it the Church of the East and the West. France and Germany will perish, the Spaniards and the English and the lands of the barbarians, all will be lost in the depths of the Ocean. The monks of Camaldoli, the Carthusians, the Cluniacs, those of Grandmont and Citeaux and Premontre and innumerable others, monks and nuns, all must be drowned in one great whirlpool, down into the deep. The hungry ocean will consume bishops, abbots and other princes of the Church, with millstones tied about their necks.
Of the princes of the world only Roger has entered the ark of Peter; with all the others perished, shall he only be saved ? Can it be that the religion of the whole world should perish, and the ambition of Peter Leoni, whose life is so plain to us, should gain for him the Kingdom of Heaven ?1
As always, the abbot's rhetoric had its effect. It is given to few advocates, in the course of legal proceedings, to win over opposing counsel; and yet, as Bernard rounded off his tirade, it was not the King but Peter of Pisa who advanced towards him to confess his past errors and implore pardon. This public defection of his own chancellor dealt Anacletus a blow only fractionally less severe than if he had been denounced by the King himself; and as the Abbot of Clairvaux stretched out his hand towards the apostate and led him gently but triumphantly away, there can have been few present at the tribunal who did not believe Pope Innocent's cause as good as won.
Roger, by contrast, was unmoved. The longer he could delay his decision, the better; besides, it was not his practice to make concessions without gaining some commensurate advantage in return. Anacletus was, after all, the only authority for his kingship; this would have to be confirmed by Innocent before there could be any question of a change in his allegiance. So too would his son's title to the Duchy of Apulia, of which Rainulf, as Innocent's appointee, would first have to be formally divested. But a public tribunal was no place for negotiations of this sort. On the ninth day the King gave out that he found the issue too complex for him to be able to decide on the spot. He would need to consult his Curia. He therefore proposed that one cardinal from each side should return to Sicily with him. On Christmas Day he would announce his decision.
Bernard did not accompany Roger to Sicily. Instead he returned to Rome with Peter of Pisa. Probably he suspected by now that his attempts to influence the King had failed. Had he still entertained
1 Vita Prima, II, vii.
any serious hopes, it is hard to believe that he would not have followed up what he had begun and pursued his quarry to Palermo. Certainly it seems to have surprised no one when, as he had promised, Roger announced on Christmas Day that he saw no reason to change his previous opinions. He had upheld Anacletus as the true Pope in the past; he would continue to do so in the future.
If, as seems most likely, Roger's answer was prompted by the refusal of Pope Innocent to accept his conditions, Innocent's own attitude was probably governed by developments in Rome. Anacletus never recovered from the loss of Peter of Pisa. As the tormented year of 1137 drew to its close he appeared to be losing his grip on the city, and from November of that year we find Innocent heading his letters with the word Romae, in place of his earlier formula in territorio Romano. By now the anti-Pope held little more than St Peter's, the Vatican and the Castel S. Angelo, and it was perhaps just as well for him that, on 25 January 1138, he died.1 His life, at first so promising, had been a sad one. Throughout the eight years that he had occupied the throne of St Peter to which, rightly or wrongly, he believed himself to be entitled, he had suffered—for the most part in silence-—the campaign of invective and abuse that his enemies, led by the Abbot of Clairvaux, had ceaselessly waged against him. This campaign, nurtured down the centuries by Catholic apologists and St Bernard's biographers, still persists; in several modern works of reference the name of Anacletus is either vilified or omitted altogether. He deserved better than this. If his early career was stained with simony, it still remains clearer than that of most other pontiffs of his time. If he must take his share of the blame for splitting the Church in two, Pope Innocent and Chancellor Aimeri must each bear at least as large a part. Had events taken a different turn, or had St Bernard been content to occupy himself with the affairs of his abbey and his Order, then Anacletus, with his wisdom, his genuine piety and his diplomatic experience,
1 Whether the location of his grave was deliberately kept secret by his supporters or whether it was immediately desecrated by those of Innocent we do not know. It has never been found
might have proved himself an excellent Pope. As things turned out, he maintained an impossibly invidious position with dignity and restraint.
With his death, the schism was effectively at an end. The cardinals who had remained loyal to him did not immediately give up the struggle; in March, possibly with Roger's approval, they elected Cardinal Gregory as his successor under the name of Victor IV.1 But Gregory's heart was not in it. He had none of the popularity of his predecessor, and the few Romans who at first undertook to give him their support were soon bribed away by Innocent. After a few weeks he could bear the situation no longer. One night in May he slipped out of the Vatican and across the Tiber to St Bernard's lodgings, where he gave himself up; and on 29 May, the Octave of Pentecost, Bernard was able to report to the prior of Clairvaux:
God has given unity to the Church, and peace to the City. . . . The people of Peter Leoni have humbled themselves at the feet of our lord the Pope, and have sworn him faithful homage as his liegemen. So too have those schismatic priests, together with the idol which they set up . . . and there is great gladness among the people.
Neither the death of Anacletus nor the collapse of his faintly ridiculous successor seems to have worried Roger unduly. His continued support for the anti-Pope had not proved the successful bargaining counter for which he had hoped, and the end of the schism certainly cleared the air. Freed now of the commitments that had cast such a blight on the first seven years of his kingship, he saw no point in continuing hostilities with the Holy See. He made public recognition of Innocent as the lawful pontiff, and sent orders to all his subjects to do likewise. Then, his army behind him, he headed for Apulia.
All through the summer and autumn the campaign went on. It must have been a demoralising time for Roger. Once again he swept through the peninsula, sacking and burning wherever he met any
1 We have only Falco's authority for the suggestion that the King was consulted about this election and approved it. Whatever may be thought about the election of Anacletus, no one could defend the legality of Victor's, based as it was on the vote of a mere handful of schismatic cardinals. And by now Roger had everything to gain from ending the split in the Church.
opposition; yet somehow he could not achieve any real breakthrough. When he returned to Palermo at the end of the year the greater part of Apulia was still in rebel hands. Meanwhile there had been no word of any kind from Rome—nothing to suggest that Innocent was prepared to contemplate a reconciliation; and the following spring, as Roger was preparing for yet another year of struggle, the Pope showed just how far he was from any such idea. At a Lateran Council on 8 April 1139 he pronounced a renewed sentence of excommunication on the King of Sicily, his sons, and all those of his bishops whom Anacletus had consecrated.
But the end of Roger's nine-year calvary was fast approaching; indeed, it was
nearer than any of the protagonists knew. The inconclusiveness of the 1138 campaign had suggested that Rainulf would be able to maintain his position indefinitely in Apulia, and the aggressiveness of the Lateran Council indicated that this confidence was shared in Rome. It was misplaced. Within three weeks of the Council he had fallen sick of a fever at Troia; he was bled unsuccessfully; and on 30 April he died. They buried him in Troia Cathedral.
Falco of Benevento has left us a poignant account of the consternation that spread through all rebel-held Apulia at the news of Rainulf's death: of the wailing of virgins and widows, of old men and children, of the tearing of hair, the lacerations of breasts and cheeks. It all sounds rather exaggerated; and yet we cannot avoid the impression that Rainulf was genuinely loved. For all his faithlessness he was an attractive, quixotic figure, with a charm that neither his friends nor his enemies were ever quite able to resist; in his short rule as Duke he seems to have governed wisely and well. He was a brilliant soldier and a brave one—a good deal braver than Roger, whom he twice defeated on the battlefield. A Norman through and through, in the popular imagination of his compatriots he embodied the knightly ideal in a way that his oriental, devious-minded brother-in-law could never hope to emulate. His weakness lay in his statesmanship; he simply did not see that Roger could never be beaten without long-term support, both political and military, from abroad. It was this blindness that led him—in defiance of his solemn oath, and after the King had shown him a rare degree of mercy—into an enterprise that brought misery and suffering to the South and laid it open to acts of cruelty by Roger of the kind which he never committed except when desperate. In short, the harm that Rainulf did his country was incalculable, and the sorrow that attended his death was greater than he deserved.
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