Son of Blood

EPILOGUE

Amalfi never fell, for as news came of the great host forming from all over Europe, intent on sailing to Constantinople, many minds were concentrated. For some it was the prospect of absolution from sins, for amongst Normans, regardless of how many times they confessed their sins, there were those who could recall deeds of a very black nature indeed — transgressions against God, such as the defiling of churches and the torturing of monks, that might stand outside the writ of a priest to pardon. They might burn in hell!

More potent, as Roger had indicated, was the prospect not just of wealth, but of land; a high number of the mercenaries who had come to Italy were younger sons of large families full of sibling brothers — their sires of Normandy bred well — and they had seen the demesnes on which they had been raised go to the elder of the family while they got nothing, hence the need to come south; that was what had brought the de Hautevilles and most, if not all, of their confreres.

The hankering for a landed possession of one’s own was strong in them, yet as they looked around the prospect of gaining any where they now resided was slight — it was in the hands of others. The final strand was plunder, which was becoming harder to find in a terrain ceasing to be the troubled polity of years past; it now had an air, the present upheavals notwithstanding, that denoted a country in the process of settling. Judgements bounced off fantasies, but there was no doubting that in the East there was fabulous wealth to be gained for those lucky enough to be in place to grab it.

Added to that they were warriors, highly trained, and they knew if they were fighting now and had many times previously it was a diminishing role; much more time was spent in the manege than the field. And so grew a groundswell of belief that it was time to move on, to look for pastures rich and new; all that was missing was the spark and the leader. Not the least of the lances who thought that was Tancred, who had the ability to work on Bohemund.

‘What more can you gain in Italy? You have all that you can take and your uncle stands between you and any further advance.’

Tancred asked that time and again; indeed it became a refrain, this while he made no secret that he had ambitions of his own. Heir to Monteroni and Lecce and also a vassal of Taranto, he was in line for a truncated inheritance, and while he admired Bohemund and would always put his lance at his disposal, he knew that for him there would be no great conquests lest they crossed to Illyria, and his suzerain lacked the means to either cross the Adriatic or remain there.

‘Do you recall what Count Roger said? There are conquests to be made in the East, lands to be taken back from the Turks and the Holy Places to liberate, and Pope Urban has promised absolution of sin for those who take a vow to do that on the cross.’

Bohemund was tempted, but before him was a city ever more close to capitulation or sack and it was hard to turn his back on that, for to do so would imply that Amalfi had defeated him. Yet as word came of those who were, as of this very moment, marching towards his own Adriatic ports, as well as the numbers and titles, it was just as difficult not to admit to temptation. Loyalty to Roger held him back, but it was Borsa who provided the proverbial straw, for the Duke of Apulia was never comfortable with his giant of a half-brother around; indeed it was rare for them to speak and even more so that they should dine together.

To sit young Richard of Capua at his right hand was an insult to his uncle, the Great Count; to fawn over the boy drove that home and had Bohemund glaring at him, for the intention was as clear as a pikestaff. If it was only rumour it was one easy to give credence: Borsa, once the city had fallen, was lining up this army he had before Amalfi to turn to retaking Capua, where he would reinstate Richard, albeit as his vassal; the drip of the words of Tancred, sitting nearby, suddenly had more and deeper resonance. Where now could he ply his lance? Only, it seemed, in the service of a man he despised! For once less abstemious than was customary — the thoughts he was having preyed on his mind and resolution — he decided to speak where normally he would have remained silent.

‘I am obliged to ask if it is true, Borsa, that you intend to give young Richard back Capua?’

‘I am minded to listen to his pleas that I should, yes.’

Bohemund fixed the youngster with a glare. ‘I hope you do not expect it to be easy if my half-brother leads.’

‘Nephew,’ Roger interrupted, ‘this is not fitting.’

‘Perhaps, Richard, I should gift you Capua, for I am sure to be able to do that while-?’

‘Not many would have you as suzerain!’ Borsa shouted, for once stung out of his usual complacency.

‘Whereas,’ Tancred piped up, ‘none would choose you.’

‘Remember who is vassal to whom.’

‘A convenience, Borsa,’ Bohemund responded, ‘and one that will need perhaps to be corrected.’ His half-brother gave Roger a meaningful look, which irritated Bohemund. ‘You cannot hide behind an uncle all your days, like our father, and much as I do not wish it to pass, he will not always be there to protect you.’

‘I can hold my own.’

‘If you mean your pizzle, well all men can do that, but a sword is another matter.’

‘Bohemund,’ Roger interjected. ‘These are words better left unsaid.’

‘Until when, Uncle?’

‘Till the time, perhaps,’ said Tancred with a meaningful look, ‘when words turn into deeds?’

‘You talk of deeds, do you? One day I have a deed that requires to be performed-’

‘Borsa!’

Roger barked this, and if he did not say it, in his eyes he was advising restraint, for words once uttered could not be withdrawn. He had overseen an uneasy peace between his two nephews and sometimes had been forced to tell one or the other they had to accept things they would rather deny; it had ever been fragile, too easy to spin into a fight to the finish.

‘No, Uncle,’ Borsa said in a silky voice. ‘Let it be known that yes, I, the Duke of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily, will put Richard back on his Capuan seat.’

If he had been looking at his uncle instead of Richard, Borsa would have seen that Roger was displeased at the mention of his being Duke of Sicily. It was true that the title belonged to him; Roger had never denied it and had even had him as a guest to tour an island that was, in theory, his domain. But he did not rule, nor could he, and if he tried it would mean war; the fact that Roger was his vassal was one rarely mentioned in public, for the very good reason that he only held his ducal title because his uncle supported him. It was the message sent at Bari and it still held.

‘From which I might choose to dislodge him.’

‘You will suffer if you do, Bohemund, as you should have suffered many times before.’

‘When you have the means I invite you to try.’

‘I have them all around this tent,’ Borsa growled.

Bohemund drained his cup of wine and stood up. ‘Do you? You think them loyal, when they are here for their purse. If they had a better prospect, they would desert you in a blink. It is sad that you do not know how much you are despised.’

‘Do not put it to the test,’ Roger asked, though without much passion.

‘I must,’ Bohemund replied, his face sorrowful. Then he looked at Tancred, who stood immediately. ‘And let me say, it is your continued good health that obliges that I should.’

No one disputed that Bohemund had the right to call for the horns to be blown and the only one who might have stopped him from addressing the host once assembled was Roger, and he was sick to the back teeth of what he had been obliged to do these last ten years, well aware that if he possessed a still-living son of his own instead of daughters, matters might have been very different. Borsa’s raising of his ducal title rankled, and when he was asked to intervene, that was his demand. That his nephew give up the title and free him from vassalage. Roger had always suspected that Borsa saw him as a less than stalwart friend and perhaps even as an enemy; that was what he called the Great Count now.

‘If you see me so, then I leave it to you to contest with Bohemund.’

‘Do not seek to fool me. I know why you do what you do and it is all in your own interest, not mine.’ With that, Roger walked out, to find Bohemund standing on the back of a cart, as if he needed to, beginning to address the assembled Normans.

‘Our Heavenly Father on Earth has called upon all good Christian knights to lay aside their differences and set out to reclaim for God the Holy Places of the birth, death and resurrection of Jesus our Saviour.’

Every man present crossed himself and what followed was a list of crimes committed against the thousands of good pilgrims who had made their way to Palestine for the glory of Our Lord, and horrible they were, even if Roger, listening, suspected them to be untrue: robbery, blinding, rape, crucifixion, limbs cut off, forced conversions — all the litany that had circulated for years and grown in the telling until they had become, amongst the ignorant, suspected truth, while amongst the pious who sought a crusade, Urban included, a means to generate hatred for the adherents of the Prophet.

‘I, with my nephew Tancred, am resolved to join that host, not to seek absolution for my soul, but to serve the God who sees all in our hearts and minds. You, the men of Normandy, know my worth, know that if I go there to do battle with the infidel only doom and hellfire awaits them. I would ask who would join with me.’

The cry that went up was huge and so all-consuming it seemed every one of those lances had resolved to join him. In the end it was not them all; and if proof were needed that the restless were right about the settled, what kept many of their confreres where they were was their wives and children.

‘Gather your mounts and your weapons, pack your goods, for we leave tomorrow.’

If Borsa wept as half his lances departed to the incantations and blessing of the priests in which he stored so much of his faith, no one saw it, for he sulked in his tent. It was the Great Count Roger of Sicily who watched them depart and indeed, given his religious faith, silently prayed for them to both live and prosper. When they had gone, a very long line of the best men, he looked at what was left, and then made for the tent of his nominal suzerain.

‘The siege is over, Borsa. With those that have gone with Bohemund we lack the means to maintain it. And cease to weep, you are supposed to be a Norman.’