Mercenaries

CHAPTER THREE

The summons for Guaimar and Berengara to attend upon the Prince of Capua was delivered at dawn and without much in the way of grace. Osmond de Vertin had turned up outside the small gatehouse lodge they now occupied in the heart of Salerno, banging on the door with the same impatience he had shown at the abbey church. He had brought along two spare horses, one with a saddle suitable for a young woman, and he was in no mood to wait for their — particularly her — need to properly prepare themselves.

It was a measure of how unthreatened these Normans felt that, on this undertaking, not one was wearing mail, a helmet or carrying a lance. They were dressed in soft hats and surcoats over leather jerkins, slashed on the sleeve to allow the breeze to cool their bodies. Both the youngsters, with the prospect of facing the Wolf in his own lair, had donned elegant court clothes and covered them with cloaks, guaranteeing a warm and uncomfortable journey.

So hurried was the rousing out and departure that it took time for Guaimar to realise the different colours these men wore, no longer the red and black of Rainulf Drengot, but the yellow and green of the Prince of Capua, an indication that Osmond and this band of Normans who garrisoned Salerno must have changed their allegiance. What this portended he could not tell.

It was a journey undertaken at speed, a steady canter, with frequent changes of mounts every two leagues and a strong party sent ahead to clear the road, and God assist any peasant who got in the way. Those walking were forced into the storm ditches while anyone driving a cart was as likely to find it tipped on its side, and fear made sure they hid well their deep resentment, some even bowing to the passing horsemen. Nothing was allowed to interfere with the passage of this band, with the chief escort proud of the way his power was so decidedly demonstrated. Many a glance was directed at Berengara, in the hope of observing she was impressed.

A journey of twenty leagues took all day, even across a flat, featureless plain on a well-maintained Roman road, and they had little chance to snatch food and drink at the infrequent stops. It was telling that Osmond bypassed the home and camp of Rainulf Drengot near Aversa, which was on the direct route to Capua, underlining that he no longer served the mercenary leader.

It was a weary and dust-covered party that, in the gathering evening gloom, rode through the Norman guarded gates and into the courtyard of Pandulf’s palace-cum-fortress, tucked in a bend of the River Volturno inside the walled city. As soon as they were dismounted, before even they had a chance to ease their aching limbs, Guaimar and Berengara were ordered into the great hall in which Pandulf was wont to receive visitors.

‘Bring them forward.’

The voice called from the end of the hall, which, though lit, was too dim to distinguish the speaker at such a distance, but it was one known to them. Guaimar felt himself pushed in the back and as he advanced his sister did likewise. Closer to the raised dais at the end of the great hall, Pandulf was sitting in a throne-like chair, with one leg casually thrown across the arm.

Dark of colour, and with swarthy skin — which hinted at Saracen blood — Pandulf was a handsome man who prided himself on those looks. Guaimar had only met him on two occasions prior to the day he usurped his father’s place, but he could clearly recall the easy charm, the deep and attractive voice, as well as the ready smile and the twinkle in the eyes that engendered trust in those who had not before dealt with him. Anyone who had experience of his true nature did not trust Pandulf at all.

Yet no one could deny that he had luck, or was it that easy manner, smile and magnetism which so blinded people to his true character. The citizens of Capua were not fooled: the whole of Campania knew how much they hated him, knew how they had rejoiced when he had been deposed himself for earlier acts of chicanery as he played Byzantium off against the power of the Western Emperor, always for his own gain.

Yet somehow, having been taken to Germany as a prisoner by the previous emperor, he had thrown himself on the mercy of Conrad Augustus upon his election and had succeeded in convincing that newly crowned overlord of his good intentions. Conrad had set him loose and he had returned to claim his fief. The same citizens who had rejoiced to see him go had paid a heavy price for their hate: many had died, burnt at stakes or strung on ropes hanging from the walls of this very castle. So had Guaimar’s father!

‘You’ve grown, you pups of Salerno,’ he called, as though he was greeting old friends. ‘Pray take off those cloaks so I can get a good look at you.’

He sounds just like a benign and favourite uncle, Guaimar thought, as he undid his clasp, the cloak being taken from him by a silent retainer who appeared from the gloom at his side. That’s the way he talks: jocular and friendly. It made him think of the Garden of Eden snake.

Pandulf was on his feet, and coming down to meet them, his smile wide, his eyes fixed more on Berengara than her brother. ‘Grown did I say? Blossomed more like.’

Berengara had dropped her head, but close to, Pandulf lifted her chin. Then he took her hand and led her to a pool of stronger light, forcing Guaimar to follow. ‘You have turned into a beauty.’

‘We came as quick as was possible, sire.’

The hard voice of Osmond de Vertin, seeking praise for the speed with which he had carried out his orders, changed Pandulf’s face, making the eyes less twinkling and the mouth harder, but that slight change of expression was reversed as he faced his new Norman recruit.

‘You have done well, Osmond. You and your men must be weary. Take them to the guard quarters and give instructions that, while we dine, you too are to be fed.’

Guaimar was looking at Osmond as Pandulf spoke, and he sensed the man’s disappointment, not hard given it was written on his features. Did he feel he was elevated enough, now he served Pandulf directly, to remain in their company? Had he expected to dine at the princely table? Osmond stiffened in a sort of salutation, then spun on his heel and stalked off, his boots stamping hard to demonstrate his displeasure. It was doubtful if Pandulf noticed; he was back staring into Berengara’s upheld face.

‘We too must dine, but first I think you, young lady, should be granted some attention from the maidservants of my wife, to ease the strains of the journey. I have words to say to your brother.’

‘I have no objection to Berengara hearing anything you have to say.’

‘But I have, Guaimar,’ Pandulf replied in a sharp aside, before making a gesture with his hand that summoned one of his retainers. ‘Take the young lady to my wife’s private chambers. Ask that she be looked after and made more becoming, if that is possible.’

Berengara looked at Guaimar, who nodded. If he intended them harm, there was nothing he or she could do about it. If he did not, it would make no difference. As soon as she was gone, Pandulf returned to his chair, and, throwing himself into it once more, looked at Guaimar with an amused expression.

‘You too have grown, boy.’

‘It is, I believe, normal to do so.’

‘The question is, having done so, what have you grown into? A paragon or a nuisance?’

‘It might be possible to be both.’

Pandulf laughed. ‘Take the word of one who knows, Guaimar: it is not.’

‘Your superior knowledge, so painfully gained, humbles me.’

‘Are you clever, Guaimar?’

‘Modesty forbids an answer.’

‘Then you think you are, and your modesty is false. If you were truly self-effacing you would have given a different response. So let us assume you are clever and you are aware of that gift. What do you think opposing me will gain you?’

‘Have I opposed you?’

‘I do not know and for me that is not comfortable.’

The desire to tell this man how much he hated him was strong, but it had to be kept in check. Pandulf was not a person to challenge when you were entirely in his power, he being famously capricious, and all this polite banter could be a blind: the dungeon might be waiting, indeed his sister might have already been taken there. If the Wolf saw him as a threat, he would not hesitate to take steps to neutralise him. Guaimar thought he only had one asset: his own youth and lack of experience.

‘You do not answer?’

‘In truth, Prince Pandulf, I do not know what to answer. I am but a boy, in the presence of a man too well versed in the byways of discourse to challenge.’

He knew Pandulf was vain, just as he knew, with his dark and handsome looks, added to that insincere, friendly manner, he had the right to be. Right now, that insincerity had him adopting a look of confusion.

‘I wonder, Guaimar, if you understand me, or my purpose?’

‘As to the first, I would not presume. To the second, I plead ignorance.’

Pandulf was on his feet again, and coming close. ‘You bear yourself well, boy. No doubt you think I have brought you to Capua to harm you.’ The dark brown eyes, big pools of deep enquiry, bored into those of Guaimar. ‘Again you do not answer.’

Suddenly Pandulf was pacing up and down in front of him, speaking in a rapid voice. ‘I prayed for the soul of your father as you did, and I beg you to believe that I intended him no harm. Things were done that had to be done!’

That produced a pause in both talk and walk, accompanied by a hard look, a challenge to call him a liar. The response being a bland expression he was off again. ‘People talk ill of me, I know that, but in my heart I alone know that what I have done has been for the greater good of the Lombard cause. I do not act to benefit Pandulf, but to benefit the whole of the region of Campania and, after that, all of Southern Italy.’

Staying silent and controlled at that piece of mendacity tested Guaimar’s self-control to the limit.

‘What have we Lombards tried to do these last hundred years?’ It was not a question that sought an answer. ‘We have tried to rid ourselves of the yoke of Byzantium. And have we succeeded?’ Pandulf bellowed, before again answering his own question. ‘No!’

Guaimar could feel his nails digging into his palms; how could this walking paradigm of treachery talk so when he had aided Byzantium in the crushing of the last Lombard revolt. That was what had cost him Capua and made him a prisoner in Germany!

‘We have not succeeded,’ Pandulf continued, ‘because we have not been united under the right leader.’

The boy could see where this was going and decided he had to cut off the flow of lies and self-justification to which he knew he was about to be exposed.

‘And you wish to unite us?’

Pandulf was clearly animated, as he rattled off an incoherent plan to bring together all the Lombard magnates of South Italy, into a great confederation; of course, under his banner. He would unite all the Normans as well: he had the means to buy the service of every band in the region and that would deprive the enemy of their prowess. With a mighty host he would throw Constantinople out of the whole of their Italian fiefs.

‘And then, Guaimar, we can tell Conrad Augustus to go hang as well, to stay in Germany and out of our affairs. Finally, we will be free.’

‘Do you not owe Conrad a great deal? Did he not free you?’

That earned Guaimar a pout. ‘I, boy, owe nothing to anyone.’

Guaimar was no stranger to the notion of Lombard independence, of a great kingdom that would embrace the southern half of Italy; he had heard it from his father all his growing years. It was a dream constantly alluded to and never realised because unity amongst the various rulers was impossible. Even with his stiffening of the Normans he had engaged as mercenaries, Melus, the last leader to try had been badly defeated, as much by internal squabbling and treachery as the army sent by the Eastern Emperor. Even the Normans had been chastened by that lost battle.

‘And Guaimar,’ Pandulf continued, in a silky voice, ‘do not doubt there will be rewards for those who aid me, great rewards. Pandulf knows how to be a prince, and one day, we must hope, a king.’

Was it possible? Guaimar did not know, though on balance he saw it as doubtful. There was only one thing of which he was sure: he would not ever follow this man, who now held him with both hands on his shoulders, beaming into his face. Then one arm was thrown round his waist and he felt himself propelled forward.

‘Come, let us eat. Your sister and my wife will be waiting.’

The dinner had been a trial. Both youngsters were exhausted by the travel, and even more so by the endless stream of Pandulf’s grand designs, the flow of which was as ceaseless as the rich food and fine wines. Eventually even a man as insensitive as their host realised they were falling asleep at his board, and he called for candle bearers to light them to their chambers.

Guaimar, tired as he was, still felt it necessary to ensure his sister was safe and comfortable, and so went to her chamber. About to gently knock, he saw that the door was very slightly ajar, and he pushed with outstretched fingers, swinging it open silently. Berengara was standing with her back to the far wall, her hair loose and in a shift, her hands pressed against the stones and clearly, by her expression, deeply distressed. He knew it was Pandulf, with his back to him, even although he was partly disrobed. Seeing her saviour, his sister’s eye swung to meet his, and that forced Pandulf to turn round at speed.

His shirt was open, and so were his breeches; the man was obviously aroused, it was in his eyes as well, and it took him a moment to come out of that state and realise that whatever he had intended was not now possible. Caught in the act of seeking to deflower Berengara he yet had about him the wits, or was it the ready ability to tell a barefaced lie, which had served him so well.

‘I came to bid your sister a good night’s sleep before going to my wife.’

‘As did I,’ Guaimar snapped.

There was a moment when the youngster wondered what Pandulf would do. He had the power to call armed men to remove Guaimar, the power to do with Berengara this night as he pleased. The youngster never knew what it was that persuaded him to snatch up his jacket from the floor and leave. Was it that he needed the boy as an ally? Was it the proximity of his wife; she would be disturbed by any commotion? The one thing it would not be was remorse at having been discovered, of that he was sure.

‘Then that is a duty I leave to you,’ Pandulf said.

‘I would like that we return to Salerno tomorrow,’ Guaimar said as Pandulf came abreast of him. The Wolf paused for a moment, flashed that engaging smile as though nothing suspect was happening, and nodded.

As soon as he was gone he had Berengara weeping in his arms. Having got her into the large bed, settled her down and waited till she went to sleep, he spent an uncomfortable night lying across the now closed door.

Guaimar was once more in the company of the Archbishop of Salerno, this time in his episcopal palace, set in the hills above and away from the filth and stink of the city. From the balcony, across his manicured gardens, they could see the wide sweep of the Bay of Salerno shimmering in the summer heat, set off by the sparkling blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea. In the harbour lay the ships that brought so much wealth from the Levant to Italy; to the boy it was like looking at a constant stream of gold, the river of wealth that had, over five centuries of Lombard rule, raised his family to magnificence. He was not here for the view, but for enough of that commodity to make a journey, from one of the few sources of funds he could, with some safety, tap.

Not utterly disposed to refuse to part with money, this high cleric had to go through the ritual insistence on poverty, the diocese being much put upon by those seeking charity. ‘The church of Salerno is not wealthy, my son. Our new overlord has set a high tariff on our coffers.’

‘I doubt you gifted Pandulf all the plate my father gave you.’

There was hesitation before the truthful reply. ‘We preserved some, with difficulty.’

The archbishop, as he said those words, could not help but look like a thief and it was an unchristian thought in the boy to think him that. The man was bent in the back from age and some affliction of the bones, while his head was permanently tilted to one side, the whole subject to some slight palsy. That did not explain a certain shiftiness in his eyes, which with his broad nose, flabby cheeks and loose lips created an impression of a man naturally given to larceny.

‘It is the use of that which I seek from you.’

‘The gifts your father gave to us were made to Holy Church, my son. They are not my personal possessions of which to dispose.’

‘I must ask you, Your Eminence, how you think the church of Salerno will fare under the thumb of Prince Pandulf, especially if he discovers what you have withheld from him?’

That got Guaimar a sharp look; was this boy threatening to reveal what had been withheld? ‘I fear we will not prosper. He is rapacious, as you know, and we have our garrison of Normans in your old home to enforce that which he wishes. They too prey on the tithes we receive, money which should be transmitted to Rome.’

‘And how would that same church, as well as Rome, fare under my family restored?’

The head, already wobbly, shook with firm resolve. ‘A speculation, my son, for which I might pray, but I dare not hope.’

‘A speculation that might be worth investment.’ The old man did not reply. ‘There are powers greater than those of Pandulf.’

‘You refer to Bamberg and Constantinople?’ Guaimar nodded. ‘They are distant, my son.’

‘If they could be persuaded to take up our cause…’

The interjection was quite sharp. ‘Our cause, Guaimar? I cannot see the Emperor Michael or his wrinkled harlot, Zoe, taking up our cause.’

The nuances of that remark were profound: Michael was Byzantine Emperor by marriage, a young husband, risen from the position of secret lover to an empress in her sixth decade who had already exhausted one spouse. It was a liaison seen as typical of the corrupt court over which they held sway. Yet it was the other point that was significant to this cleric: Constantinople was the seat of the Orthodox Church.

To seek redress there for the depredations of Pandulf of Capua would not sit well with a representative of the Vicar of Rome. The two versions of the faith might coexist and espouse harmony a thousand years after the Crucifixion, but neither welcomed encroachment. With troops from the east would come their faith, and this priest had enough trouble with the Orthodox religion as it was; a great number of the citizens of Salerno still practised in that discipline, a hangover from direct Byzantine rule.

‘I would, of course, prefer to seek help from the Western Emperor.’

‘Conrad Augustus is a good son of the Church.’

A good son of the right church, Guaimar thought. Personally he did not care from where help came. Even as a Lombard, and the scion of a line that had tried to rid themselves of Byzantium for a century, he would accept armed assistance from there if it could be had. Any eastern emperor might be seen as anathema to the Church of Rome, but he was less of a Satan than Pandulf. Yet what the archbishop was saying seemed plain: funds for a trip to Bamberg and the Emperor Conrad might be possible; money to seek aid in Constantinople was out of the question.

Time was also of the essence; as children he and his sister, if they had been left in straightened circumstances, had also been left in peace. That could not last; being dragged to Capua proved that and Berengara was clearly at risk from Pandulf’s unbridled lust, which could descend upon her at any time. As Guaimar grew to full manhood Pandulf, who would see the youth was popular while he was not, would also see him increasingly as a threat. The archbishop must act, he must do so now, and the youngster could think of only one lever he could apply.

‘I would, of course, should I make my way north, pass through Rome to seek the blessing of Pope Benedict.’

That made the old cleric look even more devious; the boy had named possibly the most tumultuous city in the whole of Christendom, east and west, yet it was a place where intercession could be sought. Not much in the way of armed help, but spiritual assistance. If this boy could get the Pope’s blessing on his endeavour, that would weigh heavily with the Emperor Conrad. It would also be possible to send to Rome with Guaimar news of how difficult life had become in Salerno, which might still the constant demand from the Pontiff for tithe money.

Moving indoors, the archbishop sat down, and put his conjoined hands before his face, as if in prayer; in truth he was examining Guaimar. Could this slip of a boy, with no experience, achieve that which he sought? Certainly he was a comely youth, with dark straight hair, even features in a sallow complexion and a pleasant disposition, so like his late father in his lack of martial bearing. Yet he also seemed to have on his shoulders a head older than his years, and in those almond eyes a hint of intelligence, so he might impress the Pontiff with his air of guileless simplicity.

‘You would travel alone?’

‘No, Your Eminence, I would ask my sister to accompany me.’ The raised eyebrow was question enough. ‘I would not expect her presence to aid me much in Rome, but should I be able to continue to Bamberg I have heard that beauty can melt hearts in a secular court. Perhaps, even if she is not yet mature, she can do that to a Holy Roman Emperor.’

‘And you will ask for?’

‘My title to be confirmed and for an imperial host to come south so Conrad can enforce his rights as the heir to Charlemagne.’

The cleric was a Lombard, as was this boy; the notion of seeking aid from any imperial court was not natural to a race that hankered after independence. That they should invite into their region either power showed just how much Pandulf had set matters on edge. The Dukedom of Naples, sandwiched between Salerno and Capua, would be next if the Wolf was not checked, the Lord of that valuable fief being fearful enough to seek to appease the Wolf, rather than antagonise him, with constant gifts of gold. He too, in such times, would accept help from wherever it could be found.

‘The Charlemagne claim is one that Constantinople has never accepted,’ intoned the archbishop, leaving Guaimar to wonder if a reprise of the obvious was a clerical trait. ‘They insist they have the rights of a suzerain in South Italy.’

Faced with that evident truth, the young man could only reply in kind. ‘They have not sought rights on the western side of the Apennines for a hundred years.’

‘But they respect no other claim. It would not do us good to have both emperors fighting over us, as they have in the past, like a dog bone.’

‘Would Byzantium send a host to contest that claim if Conrad was beyond Rome with an army?’

‘Unlikely, I grant you. But could even Conrad defeat Rainulf Drengot and his Normans? No one here has done so.’

‘I do not wish to defeat the Normans.’

‘Forgive me…’ the Archbishop protested.

Guaimar was fired up with the idea he had, and that made him cut across a man unused to such behaviour from a greybeard parishioner, let alone a callow youth. ‘They are mercenaries. We must find the means to purchase their support.’

‘Your father…’

The old man was interrupted once more.

‘Is dead! I am his heir, and it is my right to decide policy and it cannot be the same as that which brought him to an early grave.’

The priest was quite sharp; not even in rule did dukes talk over him. ‘You are heir to a patrimony in which you have no power, my son. You lack warlike qualities, so I do not see you as some great military captain scattering your enemies before you. Need I remind you that your father trusted Rainulf Drengot only to be betrayed? He gifted him a great deal for his loyalty, but that was not enough.’

‘I shall have to find something to give Rainulf which will bind him to my cause.’

‘And what could that possibly be?’

‘The answer to that lies elsewhere.’

‘Why do I have the impression that you are keeping something back?’

Guaimar was being evasive; he had an idea but it was one he did not want to openly espouse. He also knew he was in danger of alienating this man, and that he could not afford. ‘I am, but I do so in concern for you.’

‘Explain.’

‘What if you were to share the fate of Pandulf’s own archbishop?’

Even sitting, such a notion made the bent old man shiver, for it was the stuff of his nightmares. He had heard of the treatment meted out to those in the Wolf’s dungeons, the priestly eminence and the bishop’s mitre no protection, and was aware that the Prince of Capua was as arbitrary as he was cruel. No crime need be perceived or committed to render him that fate; he could be taken to the oubliette at any moment for merely holding his office.

‘What if you had all the aims of my mission and Pandulf sought them from you? He would apply hot irons to your body and rack you to get them, would he not?’ That got a slow nod. ‘So I will keep to myself what I plan, then you cannot be tortured to reveal it.’

That sent the archbishop back into a reverie behind his seemingly praying hands. There he was weighing up doing what had been asked or doing nothing. Both were fraught with risk, but this boy surely proposed the lesser of two evils, the possibility of a return to the peace and prosperity he had once enjoyed under his father. Imperial armies had come before, but always they had gone home again having ensured their rights.

‘Very well, my son, I see it is the duty of the church to support you in this.’

‘Your Grace will not regret it.’

‘There is a Jew just off the marketplace who will advance sums against plate I have hidden in his vaults. I cannot give you enough to have you journey as you should, like a prince, but journey you must. Only I beg of you, even if you plan to do so in disguise, do not pass through Capua.’

‘The Volturno near the sea is low at this time of year. We do not need the bridge in Capua to follow the road to Rome. We and our animals can wade the river.’

‘Then I ask you to pray with me, my son, for the success of your endeavour. May God protect you and keep you safe on your journey.’

The archbishop, with some difficulty, dipped to kneel on a hassock by his feet and began to murmur a prayer, one in which Guaimar joined him. He thought this young man without guile, but it was he who was the fool. Guaimar had not pointed out to him that if Pandulf found out about his mission and guessed how it had been funded, he would rack and sear this priest regardless of ignorance or knowledge.