Son of Blood

CHAPTER TEN

Having rescued his captured lances — they too had been in ignorance of the rumours — the party set off immediately for the borderlands with Apulia, their destination the ducal capital of Melfi, where Bohemund would find out the truth about the Guiscard. But there were other reasons to go there: that castle was one of the few places in his father’s domains from which, in his possession, he could not be easily dislodged, while it was also the centre of the administration of the whole domain and in its vaults were the staggering revenues accumulated by Robert’s tax gatherers, including those remitted from Calabria and the Norman parts of Sicily.

Naturally, on the way there was time to ask how his men had been so easily rounded up. The truth was sobering, for it transpired that Prince Richard — or was it Jordan? — had so covered the ground with their own conroys that escape became impossible. Reynard had jinked from one direction to another, taken refuge in a forest, which avoided capture on four or five occasions, only to find that whatever way he subsequently rode, there before him was an enemy, always Normans, more powerful in numbers, that could not be swept aside. In the end, in trying to break out of the encirclement, he had led the Apulian lances into a well-laid trap in which there were only two alternatives: to surrender or die.

‘Which would have been foolish given we were offered safe conduct back to the River Ufita and that included what plunder we had on our packhorses.’

‘To so box you in must have taken hundreds of lances.’

‘Agreed, which means that Richard of Capua knows full well of your father’s intention to invade and has moved his forces up early to meet him. Given the numbers we encountered, he was planning to cross the Ufita first.’

‘You are sure it was not just me that brought them out in such numbers?’

‘The river,’ Reynard replied.

He said this pointing ahead and that hid the look on his face, a mixture of curiosity and a degree of concern; the one matter not discussed since they had come together had been what had been offered to Bohemund while he was a guest of the Capuans and what, if anything, he had agreed to. The familia knight had not asked and this stripling son of the Duke had shown no desire to enlighten him, while it was obvious that, should the rumour of the Guiscard’s demise prove true, they were riding into a situation in which Reynard himself would be required to make a decision about where his own allegiance lay.

The older man could not know the reason for Bohemund’s silence, which was, quite simply, the need to seek some kind of reason for what had occurred at Montesarchio, and that included the Capuan leniency with his men, who at the very least should have been deprived of both their plunder and the means to ride — proper retribution might have seen them hanging from the trees. In that short talk with Jordan much had been implied that was left unsaid and that too had to be picked at for meaning; that no conclusion was possible nagged at him all the way to his destination.

Two days hard riding, in which no equine care at all was lavished on their mounts, brought them into distant sight of Melfi. As soon as the castle was visible Bohemund called a halt so that when they did arrive their horses would not be utterly blown — not a wise thing to do when he had no idea what he might face. They were unharnessed and allowed to graze while his men, tired as he was himself, were adjured to rest. Not that he himself could do so; there were still too many teeming thoughts in his head, and he walked a little away to examine a town and stronghold he had not seen for several years and to reflect on the fact that it was where he had spent his early childhood, before he and his sister had been packed off elsewhere.

Before him was one of the great seats of Norman power in the southern half of the Italian Peninsula, a de Hauteville possession ever since the days of William Iron Arm. His scrutiny was carried out, as at Montesarchio, with a professional eye as well as a sentimental one, for there was much to admire about both the location and the structure. Melfi had withstood every attempt to take it by main force ever since it had been built by the Byzantines, one of two unassailable bastions designed to hold the western border of Langobardia against incursions by Lombards, their Norman mercenaries and, should he venture so far south, the Western Emperor.

Melfi itself had expanded since William’s day from a tiny and poor settlement to a vibrant and substantial town; how could it not with so much power close by? But it was the dominating fortress that mattered, standing on a high elevation and controlling the central route through the mountains from the east of Italy to the once powerful coastal cities of the west: Salerno, Naples and Amalfi. In a country dominated by defensive towers and fortified, walled towns, only one other location, also built by the Byzantines, could match Melfi for its ability to accommodate a force of mounted knights numbered in the hundreds and strong enough to be described as a host.

Added to that it was a place impossible to take by a coup de main, overlooked as it was by the even higher peak of Monte Vulture, the mountain topped by a watchtower. That too formed part of its defence; no substantial force could hope to approach from any direction without being seen a whole day’s march distant, which gave the defenders the chance to both prepare their resistance as well as to send out a mobile raiding force that, using the surrounding mountains as a refuge, would render any siege a nightmare by the cutting off of communications with the coast, the interdiction of supplies and reinforcements, plus the fact that they could raid the siege lines in force at will.

Few men were needed to secure the walls and it was no easy task to even get close to them. A wide, winding causeway led up to the great gates, itself with a defensible wall. Imposing from a distance, with its great square keep and hexagonal corner towers, Bohemund knew from childhood memory how much more redoubtable it became at close quarters. A stone bridge spanned the moat to the twin curtain walls that contained a deathtrap between them, one that an attacker must cross to even attempt to take the main outer wall, this overlooked by a pair of tall, castellated barbicans manned by archers. Having done that they must somehow get open a double gate, only to be faced by yet another ditch with a raised drawbridge. Caught between the two they would be at the mercy of the defending bowmen and they would suffer greatly as they tried to subdue the defence.

Those walls and towers were made from the stone of the mountains in which the castle sat, rock so hard the walls could not be undermined, and they were well buttressed to withstand assault by ballista, while being tall enough to make firing anything over the parapet near impossible. On three sides lay steep escarpments that reduced the options for any attacker to a frontal assault up the causeway. The interior was spacious, with well-constructed accommodation that could house large numbers of knights, sufficient stabling for their mounts, with vaults below and lofts above that could store a quantity of supplies to sustain them for an eternity, added to which it had a water supply that could not be stopped: several deep cisterns in what was well-watered and fertile country.

Unbeknown to Bohemund the same examination was being carried out by his father, though he was riding, not stationary, and at the head of a long train of knights and all the paraphernalia that accompanied a great magnate on his travels, including, right behind him and also mounted, his wife and two sons. Also different was the emotion, for underlying Robert’s examination was a sense of melancholy; he had inherited Melfi from his elder brother Humphrey and had no love of the location, unlike for example Bari, a place that had once thought itself impregnable until he proved the inhabitants wrong.

Melfi was not a place he had himself captured and neither had the two eldest de Hautevilles who had bequeathed it previously. A Lombard, Arduin of Fassano, given the captaincy by a foolish Byzantine catapan, had taken the castle in an act of betrayal thirty years before, bringing into its walls a force of Normans led by William. It had withstood any attempt at recapture, becoming a base for their expansion, originally in the cause of Lombard independence, ultimately on their own behalf, and it had served the family well as a place from which they could not be ejected.

Yet now there was the question of its continued suitability: was it still an appropriate location to oversee an extended fiefdom that included the whole of Apulia and Calabria as well as, since the capture of Palermo, a good third of the island of Sicily, which would increase with time and his brother’s efforts? In reality, Robert thought the centre of his administration, to be truly effective, needed to be on the west coast of Italy, not the east or even in the mountainous middle.

As against that Melfi was perfect as a place from which to launch any proposed campaign against Capua, for in this location he could gather his entire force and sustain them without, he hoped, it being obvious what he was planning. It was simple to cut any links to the west and keep his preparations hidden, as well as to disguise his route of attack. As these thoughts surfaced he wondered about Bohemund and how his raiding had progressed; he also wondered what he had heard, if anything, about his illness and supposed demise. He knew from his own experience, when plundering, that staying out of contact with the kind of people who might pass on such information was essential; they tended be those trying to stop you.

Robert craned his neck to look to the top of the high peak and to the banner on the flagpole. For several hours it had been a fluttering ochre, a sign to the garrison of Melfi alerting them to the approach of an armed party of unknown provenance; nonsense, of course, since messengers had arrived days before to alert them to the movements of their suzerain. Now the men that manned it could see his lance pennants they could confirm his arrival and replace the ochre with a long stream of blue and white, as if to say not even Duke Robert was permitted to approach his foremost castle without he must identify himself.

‘Bohemund,’ Reynard called, his arm outstretched towards the top of the mountain.

There was a long pause while Bohemund examined that long pennant bearing his family colours, wondering who did it signify, for it could mean that Borsa was approaching, not the Guiscard. If it was his half-brother, no doubt in the company of his fat sow of a mother, then he needed to get there before them, though the notion that he could then seek to hold it and keep them out was unlikely. What mattered more was that he was not barred from entry, so it was necessary to saddle up and move out quickly.

If Melfi was well defended from the east, the west was not ignored, and they were only halfway to the castle when a strong party of mounted men, fully mailed, closed at a rapid pace. Discretion demanded that Bohemund show no aggression towards them; he needed to halt and wait, which was frustrating, but he was not held up for long. If sometimes his height and build could be a burden, this was not one of those occasions; as soon as he put forward his identity it was accepted by men who very likely had never seen him before, so much had his proportions become the stuff of tales — he did, of course, look like a de Hauteville.

That was the first good thing; the second was the news that his father was alive and close by, less cheering that Sichelgaita and his half-brothers were with him.

Since Robert was in no hurry, Bohemund got there ahead of him and had time to join the knights lined up at the base of the sloping causeway to receive their master, a welcome carried out with some ceremony. He was obvious not just by being head and shoulders above the rest but by the filth of both his clothing and accoutrements, added to the ungroomed state of his horse, in contrast to the men of the garrison who had been busy with polish and oil to glitter and glow before their liege lord. A flourish of trumpets accompanied him as he rode along the line, greeting each man he recognised, for there were many in the garrison who had fought with him in years gone by and would do battle under his banner in the future. He must have spotted his son well before he came abreast — how could he not? — which must have given him time to wonder at his presence. Face to face he hauled on his reins and brought his magnificently caparisoned mount to a halt.

‘I did not expect to set eyes on you this day.’

Partly it was the peremptory tone that made Bohemund respond the way he did — it was not a greeting with any degree of warmth — yet it was much more the glare he was getting from Sichelgaita that irked him, she having reined in behind his father.

‘Nor me you, I was told you were dead.’

‘Which you can see is not the case.’

‘I wonder how such news was received?’ Sichelgaita demanded, with a scowl.

‘With sorrow, what else?’

‘I can think of a dozen other emotions that might surface.’

‘Where is Reynard?’ his father asked, still without anything approaching a smile.

‘Inside the castle with my conroys.’

Robert just nodded, kicked with his heels and that moved his mount on, which was as good a way as any of saying that he would talk to his familia knight before he ever spoke with his son. That thought was wiped out as Sichelgaita came closer, angling her mount, he thought, so her sons could get a good look at him. Borsa tried to both appear taller and hold a cold stare, but he blinked, which spoilt the effect. Guy was too young to do anything other than be amazed at his size, actually gaping, which brought from Bohemund a slight smile, given it was a look to which he was well accustomed, the cheering reaction the fact that it clearly annoyed his mother.

‘Move on,’ she hissed, spurring her horse more than was necessary and making its head rear back, a loud snort coming out of its nostrils. As his half-brothers moved away, he heard her say over her shoulder, ‘Mark that man well, my sons, for one day he will serve to feed your dogs for a month.’

Not being called into his father’s presence until the next day, plus knowing that Reynard had been summoned, caused frustration; it made him feel of no account, but there was one blessing: Sichelgaita had not come to Melfi to stay — she departed with a substantial train at dawn on the second day, on the way, he was told, to her prenuptial home of Salerno. It was later, well into the afternoon, when Bohemund was sent for, entering his father’s privy quarters to another less than glowing welcome.

‘So, are you going to tell me what you failed to pass onto Reynard?’ Robert demanded. ‘Did you commit yourself to Capua, did they even seek to detach you from my service?’

‘There is nothing I can say in that regard that you will not guess.’ The look he got in response was designed to show much doubt. ‘But I think I have learnt much that might be of use to you.’

That got the kind of raised eyebrows that acted as an invitation to continue. Bohemund briefly reprised his conversation with Fressenda, but laid much more emphasis on the exchange with Jordan, seeking to skip over his offer of aid while underlining the disagreement with his father Richard about how to deal with the supposed death of his great rival. He did not leave out his impression of a one-time warrior prince going to seed through overindulgence, or the advice that a deeper investigation of who stirred up the recent uprisings might point to a different culprit.

‘Richard must trust him, since Jordan had no fear of his anger in letting me depart — either that or it was prearranged. I have had time to think since then and I cannot believe that what was said to me was anything other than a policy to which Jordan would hold. He claims to be continually prodded by Gisulf to bring you down.’

‘You trust his word on my dolt of a brother-in-law?’

‘I do,’ Bohemund replied, with real feeling. ‘As I do on many things.’

‘This son of Capua has clearly captured your heart.’

‘You mock me for believing him?’

‘You talked to him but once and you trust him. You claim he has the confidence of Richard without proof. I like to see into a man’s eyes myself and even then I look for duplicity, for the very good reason it is there more often than honesty.’

‘What if he really does believe that a bloody contest between Capua and Apulia will only advantage others and will do all in his power to avoid it? And if Jordan is speaking with sincerity and Capua did nothing to stir up and sustain the revolt of your vassals, who, then, was behind the likes of Peter and Abelard?’

It was pleasing that his impassioned statement did not draw ridicule; instead his father looked thoughtful, though he remained silent for a long time, even holding up his hand when it looked as if his son was about to speak. Eventually the silence became too much.

‘It could be Gisulf,’ Bohemund said quietly.

‘That fool! Even with the proceeds of his nautical larceny he lacks the means. The rebels had funds to pay their soldiers and that could not have come from their own money chests. And who armed those Lombards you slaughtered at Noci?’

‘Gisulf is a Lombard.’

‘So is my wife,’ Robert barked. ‘Leave me, I need to think.’

It was not often that Robert de Hauteville considered that he might have been duped, but he was thinking that now and in the background he saw the hand of the one-time Hildebrand. If Bohemund was right and Jordan was telling the truth, then there were only two other places the funds to feed the rebellion could have come from and he had already discounted Byzantium, while Bamberg was too distant and too disinterested. But if the cunning archdeacon were the gremlin he would work to keep his hand well hidden, so it was very possible that he had used Gisulf as a proxy. If that was the case, how much more trouble would Hildebrand cause now he was Pope Gregory; there was no comfort in thinking he might desist — the man was not like that.

Odd that in ruminating on such a conundrum, the thoughts he had mulled over the day before should resurface, melding into a set of possibilities that might solve several problems in one fell swoop. What emerged was the kind of tangled solution that the Guiscard loved, and in truth it had all the hallmarks of the combination of cunning and clear-sightedness for which he was famous; no one could pull the strings of the tangled skein like him. The call for messengers, when he had reached his conclusion, was as loud as that to which his clerks were accustomed.

‘Messengers and scribes!’

For Reynard the notion of being a messenger was not one to make him feel elevated, but Robert had insisted that the message he was sending had to go with someone known to be close to him, so that its importance could not be doubted, and to assuage his pride the Guiscard had gone as far as to appraise him of the contents. This saw him heading back from Melfi in the direction in which he and Bohemund had so recently ridden, though at a less furious pace and on a constant change of horses.

There was no sneaking into Capuan territory this time; he went straight to the old Roman bridge and settlement by the Ponte Ufita where there was a contingent of soldiers to back up Prince Richard’s toll collectors, stating his business and demanding free passage. Naturally, such a crossing was home to a hostelry where he could get food, drink and negotiate for a change of horses, his to be stabled until he came through on his return. It was while he was arranging this, as well as bespeaking a bed, that a knight of Capua, a tall, burly fellow in a red and black surcoat, came to talk to the innkeeper on exactly the same subject and since they were both Norman it was natural that they should fall into conversation over a flagon of wine.

‘A messenger you say?’ Reynard asked, for the fellow, who went by the name of Odo, had about him the air, as well as the build — not to say the scars — of a fighting man.

‘To the Prince of Capua,’ Odo replied.

‘Can I say you do not look to be a mere messenger?’

That puffed his chest. ‘I am one of the senior familia knights to Prince Richard of Capua, but it was felt that a communication of such importance required that it be carried by someone of my rank.’

‘On what purpose, friend?’

From being affable, the look on the fellow’s face made the appellation ‘friend’ seem out of place. He positively growled. ‘I am not at liberty to share the thoughts of my prince.’

‘What if I were to tell you that I too am a messenger, that I too am a familia knight, to the Duke of Apulia, and that he prevailed on me to carry a very important communication to Prince Richard for the very same reasons of standing?’

‘Yet you will not know its contents?’

‘Not the words, but I do the sentiments.’

There had to be something in the way Reynard said that, for Odo’s eyes narrowed and he whispered, ‘Peace?’

‘And harmony between Capua and Apulia.’

‘There’s devil’s work here, Reynard, for my message is the same.’

‘Not the work of the Devil, friend,’ Reynard replied, filling both their goblets then raising his. ‘Maybe God’s?’

Bohemund was allowed to accompany his father to the meeting with Richard of Capua at the Castle of Grottaminarda, but required to be discreet in his presence, for Borsa was there too and it would have been unseemly for him to seek to stand as the acknowledged heir’s equal, added to which Sichelgaita was on her way from Salerno. Naturally, he and Jordan exchanged meaningful looks but to avoid suspicion they did not seek each other out for a private discourse. The two rulers greeted each other with a warm embrace; they had, after all, fought as allies against Pope Leo at Civitate many years before and if they had been very deeply suspicious of each other’s motives since, and no doubt still were, they understood the demands of diplomacy and conversed as friends, while Robert graciously kissed his sister Fressenda’s hand.

The arrival of Sichelgaita allowed for the very necessary great feast in which the followers of both magnates sought to outshine each other, while their wives sought, with less success, to disguise their mutual loathing, for Sichelgaita knew exactly what Fressenda thought of the annulment and her subsequent marriage. But important as both the spouses were, such dislike was not allowed to cloud the masculine bonhomie.

Richard, as was his habit, drank too much and had to be led off to bed, and a keen eye might have spotted the look from the Guiscard that followed him as he departed at a stagger; Jordan certainly did, and Bohemund, observing his father, saw that he was far from pleased, for it was not a benign gaze, rather one of pity mixed with calculation — the look of a plotter, not a companion. To Bohemund it only showed that his father too had drunk too much; he suspected he was normally more careful to disguise his feelings.

The outline of their discussions the next morning was perfectly simple: they would not fight each other but cooperate in those areas of mutual advantage, and part of that related to Robert’s wayward brother-in-law, for Gisulf was as much if not more of a thorn in the flesh to Richard as he was to the Guiscard. The Prince of Capua’s land bordered what little Gisulf still retained and if he had the power of a flea, they still nip and leave a mark, so when the suggestion was put forward by the Duke that both men should gain from the meeting it was warmly received.

‘I sent my wife to warn him to behave and he laughed in her face, Richard, and swore to bring me down. Even now I think him still in league with Rome, so I will countenance that no more. I intend, when the time is right, to chase Gisulf out of Salerno and make it my capital.’

There was a pause then, a look exchanged between Jordan and his father, which was held until the Guiscard added, ‘And I will make no move to interfere should you wish to take Naples and I will also come to your aid with my fleet to enforce a blockade.’

Richard of Capua nodded; to take Salerno the Guiscard would wish passage for part of his forces across Capuan lands — he lacked ships to lay siege to a port like Naples. That was all that was needed, there being nothing put in writing: an air of amity they could show to the world, as well as an embrace made in public. Such secret arrangements had to remain that, so as not to forewarn their numerous enemies, while beneath the bonhomie, the mutual suspicion and distrust had not dissipated one jot.