Son of Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

There was no possibility of Bohemund cutting a swathe through Borsa’s domain without that being drawn to the attention of Count Radulf, the man who had been sent to the borderlands to either prevent him crossing or so inflict on him a defeat that the only option for the rebellious claimant was to retire. Given the nature of that border it could only be looked after by small pockets of knights dotted at intervals who would observe in their own locality, and once they had hard information regarding the route of the incursion, report back to the hill town of Candela around which Count Radulf had his main encampment.

When the information came to him that the invaders were heading due south he had no choice, having sent word back to Salerno and Melfi, but to set off in pursuit, seeking to cut an angle and so intercept Bohemund, which he would succeed in doing if his quarry was moving slowly. Radulf soon discovered his foe was not dawdling, found that he was well behind and that he would struggle to close the gap even if he pushed his men and mounts beyond what was judicious.

Farmhouses and small outlying castles that had already been plundered once found Radulf and another large force of knights on their land demanding that they and their mounts be fed — a hard request to fulfil, for where the owners and lords of the manor had been unwilling, Bohemund had ordered everything they possessed to be either taken or destroyed; those who opened their granaries and wine cellars were spared once, but not twice, for if they had been seen to indulge one party, they were at the mercy of the other.

‘He should have torched everything,’ Radulf growled, as he watched burn the barns and outbuildings of a villein who had clearly been welcoming to those he was in pursuit of; the main house was already a cinder, its floors dug up in the search for hidden possessions and the family that had provided sustenance hanging from the trees that had been used to shade it from the sun. ‘As an invader Bohemund de Hauteville is too soft.’

‘If he had, My Lord,’ asked one of his knights, ‘what would we eat?’

Radulf grinned but it was a look to chill, not cheer. ‘We could roast their children, could we not, instead of stringing them up?’

His man crossed himself.

Ten leagues a day was considered the maximum at which armed knights could move and that often had to be tempered by the terrain; to exceed such a distance was to risk the horses breaking down. Bohemund was glad he had insisted on no tail of camp followers to slow him down, especially as he was much of the time moving through the high, rolling country that rose from the eastern coastal plain to create valleys and hills that took time to traverse, and which only eased when they reached the River Gravina and were able to follow it for a long way as it flowed towards the Ionian Sea.

Yet that left men without women, which was dangerous, and he had already hanged from the rafters of a barn two of his Apulians for the rape of the daughters of a farmer who had declined to aid him; burning his field crops, cutting down his vines and olive trees, as well as smashing what could not be carried was acceptable; the carnal abuse was not. That such an act led to their confreres being disgruntled — it was a blessing they were not Capuans he had strung up — was something he just had to accept, working on the hope that the prospect of months of plunder would outweigh any loyalty or feelings they had to their dead companions.

It was not morality that made him act in that way; every army on the march committed such offences and when a town or city was sacked, rape and pillage was part of the reward taken by the successful besiegers. But such events were a distraction and a continual temptation that could slow him down; the last thing he wanted was men dropping back to sate their carnal needs when he was intent on making, every day, the locations on Reynard’s Roman maps that had been designated as stopping points.

It was at a hamlet surrounded by fertile farms, ten leagues short of the well-defended town of Matera, that Tancred went missing in an area where the locals had shown no desire to do anything but feed and water these mail-clad knights for fear of what they might do if they were denied. But Bohemund, noting his absence at first light, was concerned, as was Ademar, for the boy had been faithful in pursuance of his duties; if anything he had dogged the footsteps of his uncle as if seeking to have some of Bohemund’s martial ability rub off on him. He would not be missing unless something untoward had happened to him.

‘Can we delay for one squire?’ Reynard loudly demanded as the order to break camp was delayed.

Indicating he should keep his voice down Bohemund answered him softly. ‘He is not just any boy, Reynard, he is my sister’s son.’

‘Who must take the same risks as his fellows and we have to make our next stop while there is still daylight.’

‘I cannot leave without knowing what has become of him.’

‘And if those pursuing us catch up?’

‘We do not know we are being chased,’ Bohemund replied, not looking at a man he considered a true friend as well as a source of wise counsel.

‘If we are not,’ Reynard spat, ‘I will eat my gauntlet.’

‘Bohemund,’ said Ademar, approaching the pair. ‘Move on as you must, but I will delay and see if I can find him.’

‘No, many men searching will make light work of such a task and I owe you that for so readily coming to my aid.’

‘We are far ahead of anything on our trail, Reynard, and can spare a glass of sand to find him.’ Then Bohemund dropped his voice to a whisper so Ademar could not hear. ‘And let us hope it is not with a knife in his back.’

His father’s one-time familia knight had to acknowledge the possibility; not everyone would be happy to give up their oats or their grain and an easy way to make that known would be to attack the people least able to defend themselves, vulnerable when, without properly dug latrines, they would wander off to relieve themselves.

Reynard’s expression softened, for he liked Tancred — most men did. ‘He would be hard to kill, your nephew. I would pit him even at his age against half the lances we lead.’

‘Then let us get searching, for the sooner we know the truth the sooner we can depart.’

The man who found Tancred called to Bohemund and waved, his face grim, that look shared by the half-conroy of his companions with whom he had been searching the western woods, which induced a grip that the leader felt on his heart. The boy was the apple of his sister’s eye, and even if she had his younger brother William, the loss would be keenly felt. He joined the man who had gestured, following him and his confreres into the woods, aware that in his footsteps were coming others, Ademar included.

The man, still dour-faced, led him to a woodcutter’s lean-to in which were stacked high piles of logs from several seasons, gaps in between them, a perfect place to conceal a body. Standing back, he indicated Bohemund should enter, but their leader knew that to do so on his own exceeded his rights, so he waited for Tancred’s father to join him, then made his way between two stacks, one green and recently cut, the other dry and well seasoned.

When he and Ademar stopped, they could not, after a pause, avoid looking at each other, for on the ground lay Tancred, his arm round a young girl, both of them sound asleep. She was on her back, her skirts so raised as to leave no doubt about what they had been doing, and beside her, face down, lay their son and nephew, while beside them, upended and obviously empty, was a wine gourd. Behind them gales of laughter erupted as the men who had guyed a worried Bohemund let their pleasure be known. The noise made Tancred raise a groggy head to look at the two adults framed by daylight.

‘Shall I kick your squire, Bohemund,’ said Ademar, ‘or does that right fall to you?’

‘One each I should think.’

The yells of Tancred as the boots went home added greatly to the mirth and that rose even higher as, clutching his unfastened breeches, he staggered out into the open.

The great twin bays of Taranto, really a deep outer cove masking, with a wide island, an inland saltwater lake, were visible from a long distance, for they lay on a flat coastal plain, while the approach from both north and east was from a high elevation. The city was Greek and had been since the Ancient Dorians founded it, part of that one-time Magna Graecia which comprised so much of the Norman possessions in Italy. Ruled by the Lombards, it had not been colonised much and for all it was an attractive port it had suffered since Roman times, given they had laid the Via Appia to Brindisi and directed what trade they had with the East through that port.

Rendered something of a backwater, it had been given to Bohemund by the Guiscard because he felt required to present his bastard son with some title, yet he was cautious of appearances to a wider world as well as his wife’s sensitivities. By allotting to him such a lordship he gave him recognition without much in the way of power; the true strength of Apulia lay further north in Bari and Melfi. Yet the surrounding plain was fertile and with good husbandry could produce two crops a year, the sea was abundant with fish to salt, while the pans on the shore produced an endless supply of that commodity, so the revenues were far from meagre. It had too, as did all Greek ports, a castle that protected the basin, albeit one in great need of repair.

Being given overlordship of such a place did not oblige the person holding it to reside in his possessions, so Bohemund had made only two fleeting visits since it had been granted: the first was to appoint a steward to look after and if possible grow his revenues, and to ensure that the stud was not only working but that breeding of foals should be increased; the second, when he had been close by in his sister’s castle, to see how the improvements he had ordered made to the castle were progressing. This stood on the southern tip of the island and blocked access to the inland lake by the only route that had a depth of water to allow entry and egress by ships of any size.

‘What Taranto has, you young degenerate, is people and supplies.’

‘Not lances,’ Tancred replied, smarting from the pointed allusion to his nocturnal misdemeanour, which he had been ribbed about for days.

‘We have lances, what we need are milities. Those we pass working the fields will soon be bearing arms.’

‘My father says they are often of little use.’

‘Well led they can set up a battle so the mounted men can decide it. Even of little merit, they cannot be ignored.’

Word having gone ahead that a large party of knights was approaching, news was, as always, sent to the city by the fastest runners the outlying settlements could despatch. This set off a general alarm in Taranto and led to the hurried closing of the gates. They stayed that way when Bohemund sent his own herald to announce his arrival, for these were folk well accustomed to trickery from the kind of men approaching — even in mail they could be Saracens — so it nearly fell to their liege lord himself to command them to be opened. Yet such was his remarkable appearance that as soon as the citizens saw it was truly him word was sent to unbolt them so he could enter.

Count Radulf, who overlooked Taranto three days later, was obliged to accept that he had failed; there was no point in pursuing his quarry to the walls, he lacked the means to even contemplate a raid, never mind a siege, and besides, having pushed his force hard in an attempt to catch up, his horses were in danger of being blown, while his lances were worn out. The thought of sending a messenger to challenge Bohemund he dismissed, for the giant would likely suggest single combat; having seen him in action on the field of battle that was not a contest in which he had any desire to engage.

Despite what he had said to Tancred, Bohemund reposed little faith in those he caused to be conscripted, for he had too little time to train them. What he needed most were fresh cavalry mounts and packhorses — the destriers had not been ridden or carried any load since Capua — as well as a body of milities who looked threatening without actually being of much use in battle. His strategy was speed, for there was no chance of his defeating Borsa if his half-brother brought the whole might of his dominions to bear.

So, once he had raided the castle armoury and denuded his domain of suitable horses — the locals could have those mounts he had brought from Capua — he set off for Gallipoli, the southernmost port on the Ionian Sea, which had little heart for a fight and fell to him as soon as he demanded that the citizenry do so; they did not even flee to the fortified island. Next he crossed the Salento Peninsula to Otranto, which, being the major port on the Adriatic heel of Italy, was of strategic value, it being the only haven south of Brindisi into which Borsa could land an army.

It was there Bohemund found out how feeble was his relation: Borsa had done nothing to reinforce it, or to put in command of its large fortress a man he could both trust and who would never, for the sake of his pride, surrender — a mistake his father would never have made. Certainly they resisted, but Otranto was taken by a coup de main when Bohemund led a party of his knights against a weak part of the walls. Having passed through Monteroni and Lecce on the way from Gallipoli he had not only visited his sister but had raised a fresh supply of both lances and milities, and those, mixed with the conscripts he had been training on the march, added up to a force he thought he could trust in battle, provided the odds were not too great. More encouraging was what success brought: more lances came from the Apulian ranks to swell his force of mounted warriors.

‘Where are they?’ Reynard asked, looking all around him as if there were foes hidden in the ground.

‘Never fear, friend, we must meet a real enemy soon.’

At the head of what was now five hundred knights and a thousand foot soldiers, as well as the carpenters, woodcutters, cooks and camp followers of a proper army, Bohemund marched north, heading for Brindisi, and with him he had the means to contemplate a siege. Yet he knew, as did Reynard and everyone else he had designated as a lieutenant, that they would surely never get there without they met a host determined to prevent them from even reaching the outer walls of such an important goal.

On a flat and seemingly endless coastal plain it was impossible to see any more than the horizon would allow; there were few to no hills and Ademar was of the opinion, given that this was a part of Apulia he knew well, that the only way they would see any force that lay ahead of them was by the light of their night-time campfires. For that purpose Bohemund sent ahead a number of squires, Tancred amongst them, who, innocent-looking, could act as his eyes and ears. In his desire to impress, Tancred spread his reconnaissance further than intended and by luck found that Count Radulf was concentring a mounted force at a small town called Squinzano to hit Bohemund as he marched.

‘Who told you to look in that direction?’ his father demanded.

Like all boys of his years, Tancred had a scowl that was too often present, but was now deeper given he felt he had good cause to feel aggrieved. ‘No one, Father, but it seemed to me that a couple of my confreres riding north were sufficient and that for all of us to head in one direction was a waste.’

‘How many lances?’ Bohemund asked.

‘Eighty conroys under Count Radulf.’

‘That seems precise, and anyway, how do you know it is him?’

‘I went into Squinzano to ask and to count.’

‘Tancred, you are a fool,’ Ademar growled. ‘What would have happened to you if you had been caught?’

‘I have de Hauteville blood, Father,’ Tancred replied, with utter assurance. ‘I would have been spared and ransomed.’

‘Or drawn and quartered,’ Reynard opined. ‘And no bad thing unless we want to increase the birth rate.’

‘Did you observe their readiness?’

‘They were sharpening their swords with the smith’s wheel, Uncle, so it may be they are ready to move.’

‘He will know how we march,’ Ademar said, ‘lances to the fore, so he means to let us proceed and come up on our rear and surprise us, attack our milities with we having to get through them to do battle.’

‘And on the wrong kind of mount,’ added Reynard. ‘Against near twice our number.’

Those thoughts got a nod as well as an appreciation of what it portended: there was no way in such a situation his lances would be anything but disorganised, whereas Radulf would be prepared and that would hand him a great advantage, to be doubled or even trebled by the fact that his men would be on destriers and Bohemund’s on their riding horses. Only now Radulf’s aim was obvious and the trick was to play him false for, given the numbers, it was risky to turn to face him.

‘Then it is as well we surprise him,’ Bohemund declared.

It was not a road on which they were travelling; there was a sort of wide track made by traders and their donkeys, but that was insufficient for the number of men seeking to march along it and they had thus spread out over a wide area, one which Bohemund expanded, for in doing so they sent up a great cloud of obscuring dust. He had to hope that Radulf was unaware that his aim had been discovered, yet as in all war situations many things had to be left to develop. But he had one advantage and that was the terrain, especially a flank protected by the almost endless sandy beach, on the shore of the shallow water, occasionally interspersed with rocky promontories.

Once more the squires were employed to be his eyes, this time at the rear of the marching host, set there to warn of the enemy approach and, being mounted on swift ponies, able to tell their commander when he must react. Given the low state of training of his foot soldiers Bohemund stiffened them with extra commanders and gave them a simple instruction to carry out when the horns blew. Had he been at the rear of the host Bohemund would have laughed to see what Tancred had contrived: he had got all his confreres to sit facing backwards on their mounts, wearing cowls in which they had cut eyeholes, so that from afar it looked as if they were facing the right way — forward. There was thus no need to look over their shoulders, an act anyone observing them might have seen as odd and caused them to be more cautious.

Count Radulf saw the cloud of dust long before Tancred and his like saw his men, and such was the dun-coloured clothing of the lookouts they did not show up against it. Thus, having slipped in behind Bohemund, he brought his speed up to a steady canter, though not pushing too hard to keep fit his mounts. It was the dust that set up which caused the alert and the first of Tancred’s squires was sent to both inform the men commanding the milities and then ride on to warn Bohemund.

To canter half a league, on a destrier carrying a mailed knight, exceeded that for which they had been trained; these sturdy animals were designed for short rides into a fierce battle and if Radulf wondered how fit they would be on contact it was a concern that quickly faded. Horses like to run — they do not have to be taught how do so, only when — and his mounts seemed, as he looked along the front line, to be enjoying themselves, heads up and jerking, nostrils flaring and hooves pounding rhythmically, with no sign of impending fatigue. The time came to put them into a faster pace, which he calculated as the point where those foot soldiers would hear the noise of hooves over that of their own numerous feet.

The blowing of the horns did not come as a surprise; what did was the way these men, who had to be barely trained, spun as one and took up a position to defend themselves, shields up and lance points at the ready in an unbroken line. Being committed, Radulf could not let this deter him and he made no attempt to stop his men, which he could have done with a horn blast of his own. Thus the first line hit the shield wall, then on the requisite command split left and right so the second wave could engage, with Radulf now taking up a position from which he could direct matters.

He was not downhearted; the men he was hoping to meet were behind that shield wall and so solid was it they had no chance of breaking through unless the milities opened up to let them pass in file, in which case he would have the fight he wanted: his solid conroys on horses trained to fight, against men yet to form up and very likely on skittish and fearful cavalry mounts. That Bohemund’s foot soldiers held their line began to make Radulf curious and then to frustrate him to the point where he began to curse their stupidity; they could not beat his conroys, just delay them, and so, instead of beating against them for his original purpose, he ordered his lances to break their line, for if they did, Bohemund would be obliged to then commit what he was obviously holding back, his own knights, who, even if they had remounted, he knew he outnumbered.

The milities having ceased to march, the dust they had been sending up was now settling and the corresponding amount produced by his horses was much less. Because of that the air began to clear, and if it was a ghostly chimera at first, it rapidly began to take form, which led Count Radulf, not an especially religious man, to wonder if God had decided to send his celestial legions to participate in the fight. All along the shoreline, several ranks deep, with some lances up to their thighs in seawater, the first rank on the sand, sat outlines of the disciplined ranks of Bohemund de Hauteville’s conroys, all on short and solid destriers, their teardrop shields and lance points catching the sun.

It was their horns that blew now, their destriers that came forward at a proper canter, and they hit his men as they sought to wheel to face them, yet unable to do so in the required orderly way. Count Radulf had the battle he had envisaged, except that the positions were reversed and his numbers counted for less, very obviously so when his lances began to go down to sword and axe blows, more to couched lances which unseated them. Worse, those stubborn foot soldiers now rushed forward to employ their lances on what was now a flank, then to use sharp blades on the throats of the fallen. He watched as their helmets were pulled back hard to expose soft flesh, and he could even see the founts of bright blood that erupted and rose half the height of a man into the air.

He had ordered the horns to blow the retreat and they soared above the cacophony of noise that came from thousands of men fighting, only to find he faced another predicament: his horses had run a long way, and if they were not blown they were tired, too much so to outrun the fresh mounts now chasing his conroys. They had broken up, there was no discipline, and knowing that he was about to be in receipt of a defeat that might be so total few of his lances would survive, Count Radulf spun his horse round to face his enemies, lowered his own lance and charged with utter disregard into the midst of them.

They found his much-punctured body when the fighting died down, while the milities were going around cutting the throats of men not yet dead, as well as horses that would never be fit to use all four legs again. There were some of the enemy still breathing and when questioned they readily told Bohemund that Count Radulf had denuded Brindisi to make up the force that had just been utterly destroyed. With no time to waste, Bohemund set off north at a forced-march pace and that brought the result he desired. With too few men to defend its walls, the captain of the castle of Brindisi surrendered as soon as he was sure his honour had been satisfied.