Conquest

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘You would make our children bastards, Robert?’

Alberada’s voice was low and bitter. In her lap she had the reply from Rome, granting her husband that which he had requested, a papal bull annulling their union, one of the first acts committed by the new Pope Nicholas on the advice of Hildebrand, who saw, like Desiderius, that a counterbalance was needed against Richard of Capua.

‘There is no answer to this, is there?’

He could not look at her. ‘It is final.’

‘Your son will want for an inheritance.’

That stung enough to make Robert turn round and glare. ‘Do you think I would abandon Bohemund? I do this so he will have more, not less.’

Alberada had known this might be coming, even if she had not been asked to agree: you could not send such a communication to Rome without word of its contents leaking out and that had induced mixed feelings. If she had hated Robert it would have come as a blessing, her children’s future apart. Did she esteem him enough to fight for her place? Over the months in which it had taken the Pope to decide, Alberada had thought not, and while she was saddened by the way this had come about, she was of Norman blood and knew the reasons why: if her marriage had not been dynastic, this manoeuvre of her husband’s was wholly so.

‘You will be free to marry again, woman.’

That protestation almost implied she was being unreasonable, that she was failing to see the needs of his title. Never discussed with her, that too was no secret: Robert was not content with what he now held, nor was he happy with the need to continually put down rebellion. He wanted to extend his domains and for that he needed an army drawn from the entire population of Apulia, and given the Lombards were the most fractious, the obvious answer was an alliance which would allow him to demand their loyalty.

‘Who is to be my unfortunate replacement?’

‘Unfortunate!’ he bellowed.

That engendered a mischievous smile. ‘It pleases me that I can still make you angry.’

The response to that was gentle. ‘Alberada, it is not dislike that prompts this.’

‘No, but I would like to know who it is to be.’

‘I have decided on Sichelgaita of Salerno. No Lombard family has a lineage to match hers.’

‘Never!’

Stomping around his council chamber, Gisulf of Salerno was near to foaming at the mouth. The notion that his sister should wed Robert Guiscard had sent him into a frenzy: if he hated Normans, Richard of Capua most of all, Robert de Hauteville came a close second. Yet he dared not look into the faces of those who were gathered to advise him, for in their eyes he would have seen that they thought he had no choice. To refuse was to threaten his very existence: that they did not speak said more about the capricious nature of their prince than it did about their intelligence.

Under pressure from the Normans for years, there had been a small flicker of hope that Gisulf’s fortunes might improve during the brief papal tenure of Ascletin. They had engaged in correspondence about ways to rid Italy of what both saw as a plague. That had gone into reverse with the election of Nicholas — things were even worse now that his greatest enemy had become the main support of the new pontiff.

Kasa Ephraim rarely spoke at such gatherings, preferring to give his advice in private, a privilege he was granted on a regular basis given he had discreet business to transact. Part of his task as controller of the port was the management of smuggling and, being a pragmatic fellow who knew it could not be stopped, he sought to keep it in check and profit from it. He allowed himself to be bribed by those seeking to avoid the mandatory custom dues, threw to the mob those who sought to cheat him and through this provided for Gisulf, as he had for his late father, a source of secret revenue that never showed up in the tally books of the official treasurer.

Neither parent or successor had ever discovered how much the Jew made from the arrangement, but that which he provided was sufficient to endow them with that most necessary thing for a ruler, secret funds he could use for his own purposes: private reward for those close to him, the ability to pay spies to report on those he doubted he could trust, both Lombard and Norman. Given such sources, surely he must have had wind of the coming of this proposal, or was he wasting his monies on nothing but secret pleasure?

‘Sire,’ Ephraim said. ‘You must see there is advantage in accepting this application and much danger in refusal.’

That got him a suspicious look: the Jew transacted business with the Normans, indeed he had done so before the arrival of William de Hauteville: if it was not common knowledge that he had aided Roger in the Calabrian famine it was suspected. For all that, Ephraim had a sound reputation: he might transact business for many but he held to his bond with each. What was told to him by those he dealt with in secret stayed locked in his bosom and any advice he gave was likewise held in trust.

As a man engaged in trade, in a febrile world where the fortunes of any ruler could change overnight, and likewise that of any merchant, knowledge was the key to both security and success. The Jew, through his many contacts and business dealings, knew more than most, indeed had knowledge of what was happening outside the confines of the part of the world in which he lived. His confreres, thanks to the great diaspora, resided in many places and they, like he, were eager correspondents.

‘Is there advantage for you?’ Gisulf demanded.

‘Have no doubt, sire, when I offer you a view it is your interests I hold close and those of Salerno, which is my home. A marital alliance with the Count of Apulia will deal a blow to the increased influence of Capua.’

‘There is no guarantee of that.’

‘There will be if you make it a condition of the marriage.’

Gisulf’s father would have needed no telling, but then Guaimar would never have allowed Salerno to sink so low that protection would be needed. If he had been a far-from-perfect prince he had at least always seen ways to protect himself, never falling in to the trap of trusting anyone with the future of his patrimony. He had played Rainulf off against William de Hauteville; here was a chance to do the same with the successors to those two Normans.

Aware he was being eyed by the other courtiers with some mistrust, and not least by Gisulf himself, he was tempted to tell them of his motives. At the centre of the Jew’s concerns lay the security of himself and his family, and if that was common then few faced so many threats as those of his race. He had been loyal to Salerno in the past and would continue to be so: he would not betray his prince as long as his prince did not betray him.

He had discerned before others, long before they held their present land and titles, the Normans were likely to become the dominant power in South Italy and that the Lombards were too fractious to contain them, while both the Eastern and Western Empires were too distant to put a brake on their expansion. He had watched the increasing impotence of all three as the fortunes of the Normans rose. The crisis had come at the Battle of Civitate: that was the moment when the pendulum swung decisively, when the Pope’s massive host, supported by levies from Germany and allied to Byzantium, had been soundly beaten and the pontiff made a virtual prisoner. If that combination could not stop the Normans, no one could.

In a world where authority relied on military ability and racial cohesion, the Lombards, unsupported by outside assistance, could not stand against the likes of the Guiscard or Richard of Capua; the question for Salerno was not how to avoid being swallowed up by one or the other, but the need to find a way to choose who would, in the future, be the most benign conqueror.

Richard of Capua would swallow Salerno and, of necessity, to assert his legitimacy, he would need to snuff out Gisulf’s line. With the men under his command given to rapine, the level of destruction could be total. Robert de Hauteville as a brother-in-law might also seek to take over the port city, but with a Lombard wife and perhaps children with the blood of Salerno in their veins, the likelihood of the city being razed to the ground, of the gutters running with the blood of the inhabitants, was lessened. Quite possibly he would leave Gisulf or his heirs in place, asking only to be acknowledged as suzerain. Yet how do you tell a prince, and a purblind one, he is doomed, that he must choose the lesser of two evils? Kasa Ephraim suspected only a false promise would serve.

‘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.