Conquest

CHAPTER FOUR

The route to Rome was busy with pilgrims and high clerics, the latter not of the type to suffer discomfort in the hospices and the fabulously wealthy great abbeys. Where previous de Hautevilles were obliged to take accommodation in crowded dormitories, Roger was given an apartment of his own and treated as a valued guest. It was not forgotten that his family had humbled Pope Leo after the Battle of Civitate, nor that they had held him prisoner until they had bled him of favours, but his hosts were men who took a long view: Leo was gone now, Pope Victor was in place and life must continue.

Endowments were sought, which amused Roger given he was a near-penniless knight, but he was treated as a young fellow who might have wealth of his own one day. God’s work did not come free, nor could a place in heaven be assured, however well a man thought he had lived. No mere mortal was prepared for the examination of his deeds in a world where death stalked silently and suddenly. Masses must be said for the deceased in case they lingered in Purgatory, unable to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Thus, a wise man made bequests for the sake of his eternal soul.

Nothing demonstrated Roger’s unearned stature, upon his arrival in Rome, more than his invitation to meet the reigning pope. Guards manned the bridge leading to the gates of the Castel St Angelo, for no pontiff was truly safe in the riotous city of Rome. Whoever held the office presided over a fount of wealth and patronage that made it one sought after by a mass of competing interests. Money flowed in to Rome from all over the Christian world and where there were bulging coffers there were those who would do anything to gain control of the keys, so Victor’s election had been attended by the usual upheavals.

Invited to sit, Roger did so, seeking to size up his host, reputed to be pious by the standard of the office. ‘Your cousin, the Bishop of Coutances, writes to me of events in Normandy and here you are, yet another brother.’ The eyes met, with both Pope and visitor maintaining bland expressions as their thoughts ranged over the recent past: there was no love lost between the papacy and the Normans. ‘And the Lady Fressenda is married to Richard of Aversa. I take it you will be calling on your sister?’

Roger nodded. ‘If there is a message you wish me to take I will happily deliver it.’

‘Did you know that Richard has taken upon himself the title of Prince of Capua?’

‘No.’

‘Deposed the legitimate heir with no reference to Rome, the Western Emperor, or, from what I can gather, the people of the city.’

Robert was a problem to this pope, but Richard of Aversa was a close and permanent nightmare, forever pushing up against the lands that marked the border between the Papal States and Campania.

‘Your brother has done nothing to help me curb Richard’s excesses. I think Leo, having conferred legitimate nobility on your family, felt he was owed at least that obligation. Who better to contain a Norman than one of his own kind?’

Norman fight Norman? How that would suit you. ‘I will happily deliver any written messages you care to write, Your Holiness.’

‘And perhaps some verbal warnings, gently couched, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ Roger lied, sure he would do no such thing. ‘I am your servant.’

‘Then it only remains for me to bless you, my son. I pray to you to kneel.’

Head bowed and listening to the incantation being uttered above him, Roger wondered at the depth of hypocrisy it took to hold papal office. The man now anointing him would probably have happily seen him hanging from his walls rather than let another de Hauteville pass on to the south.

Roger could not avoid Capua. It lay on the Via Appia, still busy with much traffic, the ancient Roman road from the Eternal City to the great port of Brindisi, down which the legions had marched, but it was an accident that, having passed the great monastery of Monte Cassino, he ran into, heading north, half a day later, the impressive retinue of his brother-in-law. Never having met the newly styled Prince of Capua, he would not have known him from Adam, merely standing aside to let pass an important person. But his own sister, every inch the Norman chatelaine and not one to travel by litter, was riding alongside her husband and recognised her little brother immediately.

There were tears, of course, but of joy and surprise, this while Roger’s companions eyed those of the prince, much more numerous and well equipped, with suspicion: being of Norman blood did not induce immediate mutual affection. The introduction, too, was required to be handled with care: Richard of Aversa was a squat fellow, too easy to tower over and he had, in his expression, a guarded look that implied he was unsure if he should be pleased by this sudden addition to the family of which he was part by marriage.

‘So you are the last of Tancred’s sons?’

‘And the most handsome,’ Fressenda insisted, which reddened Roger’s cheeks.

‘I dare say the locals round these parts must thank God that your father has gone to meet his Maker. There’s no more room in Italy for his bloodline, it is groaning with his offspring already.’

If that got a terse frown from his sister, Roger felt he did not much like this brother-in-law. The attempt at a jest, accompanied by a crooked smile, was heavy-handed, but it was more than that — almost something in his gut rather than any rational thought. He had to be polite for his sister’s sake, but that did not debar a somewhat pointed rejoinder.

‘I was privileged to meet the Pope in Rome. At this moment I fear he sees you as more of a cause for divine intervention than me or my brothers.’

‘They will elect women to the papal office.’

‘They should do that,’ Fressenda retorted, with a rather coarse laugh, ‘for we would not stand to be troubled by impious creatures like you.’

‘You would make a good pope,’ her husband said with a wry smile, which did something to soften his battle-scarred face.

Fressenda had aged well, no doubt aided by her position, which kept her from anything menial. A younger version of his mother, she had dark-brown hair dressed with tight curls at the edges, fair unblemished skin, merry eyes and, Roger recalled, a very pointed tongue when aroused.

‘It would be a comfortable office to hold, husband, would it not? But I fear I would not pass the ceremony of being carried aloft and exposed.’

Both men smiled at the allusion: every pope since Joan, the only female to hold the post, had been carried bare-arsed over the heads of the cardinals, bishops and abbots to ensure an office the Almighty had reserved for men was never again occupied by a woman, the inspection an obvious indication of gender.

‘The sight of your hairy parts would make the cardinals and bishops faint.’

‘Only the celibate, of which there are few.’

Roger was not by nature fastidious but reckoned what he was hearing to be coarse, yet he discerned it over the rest of the day was the way these two spoke to each other, a constant spicy banter that carried undertones of endemic dispute. His progress south had been halted: his brother-in-law insisted he and his men travel back to Monte Cassino to witness an amazing event, the nature of which he was not going to divulge — it was to be a surprise. They stopped for the night before ascending to the heights of Monte Cassino, within sight of the white walls and towering buildings of the great monastery on its high hilltop, one of the most holy and famous in Christendom.

It had the misfortune to also be one of the wealthiest, which had made it a prime target for every kind of raid over many hundreds of years. The Saracens had, more than once, burnt parts of buildings and slaughtered those monks who failed to flee, while the Lombards who had ruled Campania, though Christian, were not much better. If the brothers had seen salvation in the arrival of the Normans they had been sadly disappointed there too, something Roger alluded to when he was alone with his sister for the first time.

‘If Holy Church will gather to themselves so much wealth they must not be surprised that others wish to take it from them.’

‘At the risk of their immortal soul,’ Fressenda replied.

‘Do monks not risk eternal damnation for taking vows of poverty, while living lives of luxury?’

‘Some are true to their vow.’

‘Too many are not.’

‘Monte Cassino, at least, may have a secure future.’

‘How so?’

‘You must wait to find that out, little brother. I have been sworn to secrecy.’

‘By your husband?’

‘Who else?’

‘Are you happy, sister?’

‘Content, Roger, and who could not be that when you know how far I have come?’

That was undeniable: the feisty girl who had run around barefoot, had fought her brothers of equal age, foaled horses and delivered lambs and calves while helping to mother him, was now a great lady.

‘Your husband seems full of himself.’

‘Oh, he is immensely proud,’ she hissed. ‘Too proud sometimes, but I have given him a son and that child makes me satisfied. One day, God willing, he will succeed to his father’s titles with our family’s blood in his veins.’

‘I sense you do not entirely approve of this pride.’

‘What I approve and disapprove of Roger is of no moment.’ She stopped and looked at the sky, fading to dark with the first sign of stars appearing, now sounding wistful. ‘I am but a woman. How many times do I wish I had been born a man?’

‘There are enough of us, sister, don’t you think, and our father did dote on his daughters.’

‘Not as much as he did on you, little brother.’

With that she took his arm and they were into reminiscence, back in the Normandy, with its green, well-watered fields and the high trees they used to climb, barefoot and muddy then, slow to wash and dressed in rough and common wool. Now the cloth on Roger’s arm was fine linen and the smell on the air was of the finest perfume.