Son of Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

While Borsa had the support of his mother, he also had the backing of the latest pope, none other than the Abbot Desiderius, who had, after much wavering and indecision, and under relentless pressure from his fellow divines, taken up holy office as Victor III. Not that he was going to enjoy a comfortable pontificate, for the imperial antipope Clement was still alive and contesting Victor’s right to the Lateran, albeit from a distance. Rome itself was split, which meant Victor was not in possession of much more than the Castel St Angelo and the Vatican Hill, so much of his rule was carried out from his monastery at Monte Cassino. He was better off than Clement: the Romans had chased him out of the city altogether and that sent him north to Milan.

So, thunderous bolts pronouncing anathema sped south with every advance Bohemund made, papal demands that he desist from his actions and bow the knee to his half-brother. The backing of Borsa had many strands, which dovetailed into papal policy. When Victor was appealed to — and he was almost weekly — he supported Borsa, first of all because he was his vassal and the legitimate heir to the Guiscard; secondly, he was known to be pious and, lacking his father’s strong personality, would be less inclined to question what edicts were handed down to him from on high.

More importantly the papacy still needed a strong Norman bulwark against imperial pretensions and Jordan was, for Pope Victor, too unreliable, blowing supportive one minute then flirting with Henry IV the next, while Bohemund represented a return to the old days of the Guiscard, the man who had sacked and burnt Rome when he had supposedly come to rescue it. Yet even with all of his threats of excommunication the one-time Abbot of Monte Cassino was a peacemaker by nature, and pleading letters also came to Bohemund with threats of excommunication, begging him to desist, for his actions could do naught but destroy the fertile lands of Apulia.

Despite his best efforts it was not papal intervention that brought an uneasy peace to Apulia, but the pleas to the Great Count of Sicily to intervene on behalf of his titular suzerain — requests which long went unanswered, given he was occupied in finally securing Syracuse. After Palermo and Messina it was the most important seat of Saracen power on the island, and more than that to many; it had been said since the time of Ancient Greece that he who held Syracuse held Sicily. Despite Bohemund’s continued success over the space of a year — he had advanced past Brindisi to take the hilltop town of Ostuni, then ejected his own two cousins from Conversano and was about to target the rich prize of Bari — Roger would not depart until his goal had been secured.

Being asked to act as mediator between these two warring half-brothers, he had much to consider, not that Borsa was doing much in the way of fighting; every time his forces — and he declined to lead them personally — came up against Bohemund’s men they were soundly beaten and forced into an ignominious retreat. The only brake on Bohemund’s advance and his eventual takeover of the duchy was the disinclination of many of Borsa’s vassals to switch their support to him — they were tardy in support for their liege lord also — added to the weathervane actions of Jordan of Capua, who could withdraw his knights at will and did so if his aggressive cousin seemed to be doing too well, too quickly.

None of this boded well for Borsa’s future as the Duke of Apulia; he could not win, and in time and by attrition, for all his power and wealth, he might well lose. Yet to abandon him to a slow erosion of his power was not an option that held much joy for his uncle; for many years a near-autonomous ruler in Sicily, Roger de Hauteville had concerns in case a problem he thought solved repeated itself, and that not just the line of his communications to Italy. It was the constant demands he had received to come to his late brother’s aid, for he had always been much troubled by Robert’s ambitions, which were never seemingly satisfied — one conquest always led to an attempt at another — while at home the Guiscard had never had control of his unruly barons. Too many times, and at an important moment in the subjugation of the island, Roger had been dragged away from his own concerns in Sicily because Robert needed his aid. He had no desire to see in possession of those same titles a warrior who sought to match and possibly surpass his father.

He had, of course, his vow of allegiance, made at Bari and repeated at Salerno, yet on a personal plane he could not but admire Bohemund while at the same time view his titular overlord in a different light. Even if he thought himself more free than his confreres of the normal Norman prejudice, he still thought Lombards to be inferior to his own kind in every way. Both nephews bore the de Hauteville name, but only one had a pure bloodline and represented what it had come to stand for in Southern Italy. Roger was no more prepared to become the nemesis to one than the other.

These were the thoughts he ruminated on as his single galley entered the harbour at Salerno, his personal standard at the masthead so they knew who was on board. His first task was to convince his relatives — Borsa himself, Guy, now Duke of Amalfi, and his sister-in-law — that what they were bound to propose was something impossible to implement: namely, that he should go to Bohemund and threaten to take the field against him unless he desisted from his incursions and handed back the rightful Duke those possessions he had usurped. It proved to be, as he had anticipated, an uncomfortable meeting.

‘Surely, Roger,’ Sichelgaita insisted, ‘you do not dispute that Robert’s bastard is in revolt?’

‘You cannot do him the honour of using his name?’

‘Should I do so, I would require immediate communion for the utterance of a blasphemy.’

‘Bohemund seeks what he thinks is rightfully his.’

‘Which,’ Borsa responded, ‘we know not to be the case.’

‘But it is not as simple as just saying that he should bend the knee and give up his gains, which is what you wish me to propose to him.’

‘Why not?’ Guy demanded.

‘Because he would say to me what I would say to him if the positions were reversed — he would tell me where to stick my lance.’ The disappointment at his attitude was very evident in their expressions, but Roger was not about to be swayed. ‘How did our family gain Apulia? Was it gifted to us?’ No one cared to answer, only to look away as Roger added, ‘We won it by force of arms.’

‘And had our title recognised by the Pope,’ Borsa interrupted.

‘I am sure your father told you how much love was in the granting of that.’

‘Times have changed, Uncle. Pope Victor writes to me kindly and will be happy, should I journey to Rome, to lay hands upon my head and confirm me to the triple dukedom. He is also close to excommunicating Bohemund.’

Sichelgaita went straight to the nub of the quandary, in truth why he had been summoned to Salerno, not that Roger would have accepted anything other than he had come of his own volition.

‘You have the ability to force him to cease his depredations.’

‘And what do you offer him in return?’

‘His life,’ Guy spat.

That angered Roger — if Borsa was no warrior, his brother was even less of one. ‘Boast of that when you can take it, and if you wish, Guy, I will arrange for you to meet him in single combat.’

‘He must be stopped,’ Borsa said, in an almost pleading tone, this as Guy sought to look martial and ready, so easy at a distance from Bohemund.

‘He has Taranto from my husband,’ Sichelgaita snapped. ‘Let him be content with that.’

‘It may be best,’ Roger sighed, ‘to find out what he will accept.’ The way the three of them looked at him then made Roger wonder if they were beginning to see him as an enemy, and that was not comfortable. ‘I will travel to see him on the morrow.’

‘You will need a strong escort, Uncle.’

‘No, Borsa, I need only the half-dozen familia knights I have brought with me from Sicily.’

That did not endear him either, underlining as it did that he, unlike them, had naught to fear from Bohemund.

‘I know why you have come, Uncle, but I would say to you now, to avoid that I must dispute with you, that I will have my father’s title.’

‘Which one, Bohemund? He had several.’

‘Duke of Apulia I will settle for.’

If Bohemund had the ability to read another man’s mind, and it did not take too much to read Roger’s, he would have seen in the eyes that such a statement was not to be given credence. In any case, his uncle added words that underlined his disbelief and not without irony. One thing the Guiscard never did was settle for what he already had.

‘And I thought you might be my brother’s son.’

At least Bohemund smiled; he did not try to dissemble. ‘Join me and I will give you Sicily.’

‘Bohemund, I already have Sicily.’

‘Not in your own right.’

‘Next you will try to tell me that Borsa will take it from me, and if you do I will be tempted to ask you how.’

‘And what else will you ask of me?’

They were sat in the round bastion of the castle of Conversano, which had been the seat of Bohemund’s cousin, and Roger made much of looking around the walls hung with fine tapestries to break up the stark stone blocks.

‘I would ask that you hand this back to Geoffrey.’

‘He rebelled several times against my father and supported my half-brother. That cost him his fief.’

‘Geoffrey swore an oath to Borsa, as did I, at Bari and Salerno.’ All that got was a shrug. ‘I have not come here to ask but to enquire, but I will say this: whatever it is you ask me to take back to Salerno, do not ask for the Duchy of Apulia, for you cannot have it.’

‘Who will stop me?’

‘If you leave me no choice, nephew, I will.’

Roger liked and admired Bohemund and he had cause to feel at that moment such sentiments were not misplaced. There was no expostulation, no attempt to bluff and call upon his uncle to tell him he thought he could achieve such a thing. Whereas Borsa would have blustered, Bohemund just held his gaze, his face showing no expression, an indication that he knew what had just been said was no idle boast. Whereas Borsa would struggle to raise lances against him, Roger would not; men would flock to him. Where Jordan of Capua might continue his tepid support, the advent of a host led by the Great Count would see all his lances withdrawn back to his own domains; he would not risk a battle with such an opponent.

‘I am trying to think, Uncle, what you will gain from that.’

‘Best you think, nephew, what I will lose for the want of it.’

‘Do you fear me?’

There was no threat in the enquiry and Roger did not take it as such, answering in an even tone. ‘I fear the turmoil you may bring, Bohemund, that I must confess.’

‘Turmoil that would impact on Sicily?’

Roger held up his hand, index finger and thumb near to touching. ‘I am that close to having the whole island under my control. I will have Syracuse next and then only the southern port of Agrigento and the central bastion of Enna are of importance and hold out against me.’

‘I have heard Enna is a harder nut to crack than Melfi.’

The response was a sardonic smile. ‘It is, and if you were not so determined here in Apulia I would be inviting you to join me in the siege.’

Bohemund did not smile; he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Grant me the title Borsa holds and I will come readily. To fight alongside you, Uncle, I would consider an honour.’

Roger did not laugh. ‘Sadly, Bohemund, it is not mine to give, only mine to withhold.’

‘When I asked if you feared me a moment ago, I did so because I suspect that being a vassal of my father troubled you.’

‘On more than one occasion.’

‘So it might not please you to have me if I were Lord of Calabria as well. I daresay you would not willingly admit me as your suzerain in place of Borsa, but if I held Calabria I would have you by the throat, for nothing could get you in Sicily that I did not sanction and you would, for the sake of survival, be forced to acknowledge me. That was a power my father held over you, even if he did not exercise it.’

‘How little you know my brother,’ Roger sighed. ‘He knew it to be so true it never had to be stated.’

‘Which is why you seek to rein me in.’

‘I admit that there is motive in what you say, but there is also one thing you are not considering, Bohemund, and it is something you should. I swore an oath to your father to look after his son and heir-’

‘But not to me!’

Roger held up a hand; the anger had justification. ‘I feel the same bond towards you, Bohemund, even if it was never asked of me.’

‘So you would not fight me to the death?’

‘I would grieve if you fell in battle and be mortified if that was in a fight against me. Rest assured, if it ever came to a contest, I would hope you would order that I be spared, for I would certainly issue such a command to those I led to show mercy to you.’

Bohemund nodded; it was nearly a bow, which led Roger to suspect it was time to say what had only been in the back of the younger man’s mind.

‘But you know as well as I do it will not come to a contest. The force I would lead against you is one you could not challenge. I would have all of Borsa’s vassals as part of my host, as well as what I could bring from Sicily, while I doubt even those Apulian lances you lead would stay true and the enterprise would have papal blessing.’

‘Popes die.’

‘True, but do not assume that anyone who is elected pontiff will happily lay hands on you and grant you a title. If it borders on flattery to say so, you are too dangerous.’

‘While you are not?’

Roger, leaning forward in his chair, replied with arms as wide as his smile. ‘Do you not know I am a good son of the Church? Is it not I who is busy making Sicily a part of Christendom and subject to the Roman rite?’

‘So even if the Pope did not bless Borsa in a campaign against me, he would bless you.’

‘I am seen as a crusader for the faith.’

‘That is not how I see you.’

‘And you would be right not to do so; but it is time to seek a solution, for I must tell you I have no desire to render you a pauper any more than I have a desire to see your half-brother puffed up with the kind of pride I fear he will succumb to once he feels secure.’

‘Much as I dislike him, I do know he will not fall in to the sin of pride.’

‘Aye, he is too saintly.’

‘But not too much so to be a duke?’

The talk that followed was long and occasionally heated, as maps were produced, even if they were unnecessary — both men knew the lands of which they spoke too well to need them, Roger seeking to curb Bohemund’s appetites, his nephew aiming to secure for himself a fief in which he could feel safe. Thus any hope of being given Bari was denied; he had to settle for his present fief of Taranto, with the addition of all the lands between there and Brindisi, which included Otranto, Gallipoli and Lecce, which left the final disputes that lay to the south of Conversano.

‘I will not let you take this castle and the county off your relatives and my own, Bohemund, and you cannot use the excuse of past betrayals to enforce it. This was home to my eldest brother and he was a gentle and good man.’

That made the younger man want to stick; the land around Conversano was extremely fertile and the revenues were substantial, but Roger would not budge and finally, after much discussion, a line was drawn south of one de Hauteville family fief to the border of another, added to another to the west, as well as a promise extracted to apply no pressure to his Conversano cousins to cede him any land, and certainly not an agreement that they should be his vassals. The final hurdle was an obvious one.

‘You must do duty to Borsa for that which you hold.’ Seeing Bohemund about to object, Roger, for almost the first time, was brusque. ‘If I find no difficulty in doing so, do not say to me you are too proud to act likewise.’

‘And what will be my title?’

The reply was given in an exasperated tone. ‘You are Lord of Taranto, is that not enough?’

Bohemund responded with a sly grin. ‘You are not content to be a mere count, you are the Great Count.’

‘So, tell me, nephew,’ Roger sighed, ‘how in the sight of God do you wish to be known?’

‘Prince of Taranto!’ Sichelgaita shouted. ‘Does the wretch have no shame?’

‘That is his final request,’ Roger replied.

He had been through hoops and spent a whole day arguing that they should accede to Bohemund’s demands, and had endured the unspoken accusation that he was acting for one nephew too much and for the true heir too little, suspecting it would have been thrown in his face if he was not so vital to their cause. It had been difficult too, having to make plain without it being stated that he was not going to support them without an agreement, and if they demurred then he would wash his hands of the whole business. That it was a bluff, only he knew, but the one thing he determined upon was that the matter should be settled so that, if one was not satisfied, neither side would want to contest it; he had his mind on Syracuse, Enna and Agrigento.

‘And you support him in this, Uncle?’ asked Borsa in a quieter voice, when all the arguments had been, several times, exhausted.

‘It matters not what title he has, all will know he is your vassal.’

‘Count should suffice,’ opined Guy of Amalfi, who was, after all, a duke in his own right.

‘Is Jordan of Capua greater than the Duke of Apulia, Guy? It is more vital that the world knows who is suzerain and who is vassal than what they are termed.’

‘And for this he will swear fealty?’

Again it was Borsa asking and, just as many times before, he could not look his irate mother in the eye.

‘Do not grant this,’ she hissed.

‘For peace, Mother, it is a small thing.’

Roger had to bite his tongue then; whatever Bohemund swore, whatever he had said to him in Conversano, his uncle knew his nature would never allow him to cling to peace. Bohemund was a warrior and through his veins coursed the blood of two Norman parents, one of them the Guiscard. The Duke of Apulia would be troubled again by his half-brother and it might be that he would have to come to his aid and enforce reconciliation more than once. The thought did not trouble him greatly; he was, after all, a man well aware of the world in which he lived, one where the only hold a magnate had on his possessions was that which he could enforce. Nothing was granted to anyone to embrace as of right; it had to be won and maintained by the same method: the sword.

Attending the ceremony in which Bohemund did duty for his fiefs was to see open and raw hatred, mixed with enough insincere platitudes as to make a sane man vomit. Borsa might stand above his kneeling brother, but it had to be remarked that even then he barely outdid him in height. The Archbishop of Salerno was there to witness what was bound to be hypocrisy as Bohemund swore an oath that no one present had any faith he would keep, and if they wondered at his duplicity, well had they not all at one time made vows that had been subsequently broken? How that would be judged was not in their hands, but in those of God.