Warriors

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After a whole year, Robert de Hauteville was sick to death of Calabria and he put the blame fairly and squarely on his brother Drogo, who had sent him to this godforsaken part of the world where more men died of disease than combat, to his younger sibling’s mind, just to get rid of him: he had hoped with William gone that Drogo would give him a chance to distinguish himself. What he had given him instead was a thankless task.

Nominally part of the Byzantine Empire, it was a province for which they cared little. If Campania and Apulia were fantastically fertile, capable of producing two harvests a year, this was the opposite, with mostly poor soil, and hilly and rocky where it was not covered in tangled woodland. There were fertile pockets, but the inhabitants suffered from exploitation, as well as constant incursions, from an enemy the people of this part of the world had lived with all their lives, and their grandfathers before them: ship-borne Saracen raiders.

Sailing from North Africa and Sicily, they could land anywhere on a hundred leagues of coast to rob and despoil at will, usually long gone with whatever treasure and slaves they had acquired by the time any distant Byzantine forces even heard of their incursion, and such forces were rare: mostly the Calabrians were left to defend themselves. Likewise they were left alone to rebuild their shattered communities, but as soon as they were perceived to be of worth the raiders would descend once more to wipe out any progress in both population and prosperity.

Having done their worst they would retire to their safe harbours. As a result of these raids, every place of value, mostly scattered along the coast, was well fortified and stocked for a siege, so Robert, with his limited numbers, found it difficult to gain entry to any of the towns that might benefit from the presence of a Norman overlord, which the Italian inhabitants were determined to repulse anyway.

Yet they needed protection, for they lacked the one thing that would guarantee that any Saracen raid could be repulsed, for their walls were not sufficient to repel such a determined enemy if they pressed the seige. They needed the help of proper fighting men, not only as a garrison but also as a mobile force that, alerted in time, could descend on the raiders and annihilate them. The only way to make safe the whole region was to inflict such reverses on the Saracens that they sought their gains elsewhere.

Constantly rebuffed, the Normans found themselves raiding isolated farmhouses and villages just to survive, and that provided a diet insufficient for the needs of big-boned men who were accustomed to eating well and often, as well as the numerous horses they needed to maintain their fitness to do battle. Such raiding created resentment and made matters worse, till the locals would have been hard put to distinguish between a Norman and a Saracen.

The only people in Calabria who seemed to have full bellies were the Basilian monks, who, like their Church of Rome brethren, had expropriated the best land for the cultivation of both vines and crops, all worked by put-upon peasants. One monastery in particular attracted the attention of Robert de Hauteville: Fagnano was walled enough to repel all but the most determined assault and covered a large area on a high and easily defended hill. This overlooked a fertile, well-watered valley and constituted a perfect site for a castle that could dominate not only the immediate neighbourhood but the entire country for leagues in all directions.

From such a bastion, impregnable if properly constructed, and with small garrisons dotted around the coastal towns, he could create the security the region required, and with that would come control. Fagnano had been raided more than once by Saracens, and reduced to a ruin many times for lack of external support. Robert had offered the monks protection, only to be rudely informed, as they barred their gates in his face, that they looked to God for that, not ruffians from a land of barbarians. Little did they know with whom they were dealing!

‘They are monks, Robert, it would be a sacrilege to force entry.’

Robert looked down at the speaker — he looked down on most people — and scowled. For all his natural good humour, he had been sorely challenged by the task in these parts. Also, he did not like to be argued with any more than he enjoyed being rebuffed by well-fed monks when he was hungry: stripped, he could see too clearly his own ribs.

The man who had said those words, Gartmod, his second in command, was a pious warrior indeed. He came from the Norman town of Eu: at one time, in the first days of Norse occupation, the capital of the whole Normandy province. He had been brought up in the cloisters of the monastery there as an orphan, which had deeply affected him. Robert knew him to be a man who prayed to God more times a day than any Saracen, but he also esteemed him when it came to combat: he was a doughty fellow with both lance and sword, and a dependable subordinate.

‘Do you see anyone around these parts whose spines are not visible on their bellies? Do you see a dwelling that does not let in rain when it pours?’

There was truth in that: the abodes that dotted the landscape, homes to those who worked the land which surrounded the monastery, were modest indeed: there was not a single stone dwelling of any size.

‘If God has chosen to grant prosperity to those who do his work, who are we to see fault?’

‘I love our God as much as you do, Gartmod, but he did not grant them the land they live off, they took it by telling the peasants hereabouts that they would show them the way to eternal salvation. What they have done is condemn them to starvation instead. Every one of them looked well fed, but did you see how fat was that abbot, the one who refused me entry? He had a belly like a pregnant sow and that face tells me he takes wine so copiously you could get drunk on his piss.’

‘I still say-’

‘Shall we put it to the vote?’ Robert demanded.

‘I know which way that would go.’

‘Because your confreres have more sense than you.’

‘They are less godly.’

‘Tell me, Gartmod, anyone who isn’t.’

‘The peasants you talk about will not thank you for destroying their monastery.’

‘Who said anything about destroying it?’

‘If not that, then what?’

Robert put aside his slightly belligerent tone, to adopt one more companionable, though even then his voice was gruff. ‘We’ve been here in Calabria a year, my friend, and what have we accomplished? Nothing is the answer. Am I to go back to Melfi and say that we had to abandon all hope of adding this to the territories we Normans control? Every town has denied us entry and we have wandered around looking for a place to settle.’

‘And you want that to be here?’

‘Look at it, Gartmod, it’s perfect. The monastery itself is already formidable, but imagine a castle at the top of that hill with storerooms full of food. We can build quarters to support the kind of force that will make the Calabrians see sense. Look around you at the hills in the distance and imagine beacons atop them. We are no more than ten leagues from the sea in four directions, so we would know of a Saracen raid before they beached their ships.’

‘Then let me speak with them.’

‘You think to succeed where I have failed?’

‘I shall seek to convince them it is the will of God that we have come here.’

‘Very well, try.’

While their mounts grazed contentedly on the rich grass of the valley floor, Gartmod made his way up the hill to attempt at friendly persuasion. When he returned covered in the content of the monks’ privy, which had been dumped on him from atop the walls, even his Christian forbearance was overstrained. He was just as keen as Robert de Hauteville to teach the monks a lesson, but at a loss to know how to do it without an assault and the inevitable violence.

‘If we spill blood the whole countryside will rebel against us.’

‘Fear not, my friend, I have a plan.’

And Robert did, the first part of which involved he and his men riding away as if they accepted they could not have their wish, but that was only to get out of sight and to find a place to camp overnight. Then, choosing the least tall and the darkest of hair, he had them use the juice of tree bark to darken their skins, this while those who were good with wood fashioned a makeshift coffin. That done, they were told to don the hooded cloaks that every man had in his pannier.

What the monks saw from their elevated position at dawn the next day was a body of mourners bearing and trailing that coffin. Mourners in such numbers denoted someone of means had expired and needed to be buried in consecrated ground, a service for which the monks could charge a decent fee either in produce or, if it was truly a wealthy individual, in coin. Slowly the party, heads covered and bowed, wended their way up the road that led to the heavily barred gates, with much wailing rising and falling from their throats. One of the Normans who had originally come from Aversa, and had been in Italy for many years, went ahead to seek entry in Greek.

The gates swung open and the mourners bore the coffin into the large open and paved courtyard, with a well-stocked fishpond in the centre, the whole surrounded by solid-stone double-doored buildings. Further on there were some stables and a mill, well tiled and weatherproof, the whole assembly of buildings buttressing the outer wall, with what looked like dormitories flanking the church at the furthest point from the gate. The place reeked of prosperity and it was full of monks seemingly in prayer for the departed soul, but they were cautious folk, for those same gates were being quickly closed behind them.

As soon as they heard the wooden bar drop to secure them, the mourners let go of the coffin, which falling to the ground and far from well built, fell apart, spewing out the swords and shields with which it had been weighted. At the same moment the heads of the faux mourners were uncovered, the hooded cloaks were thrown back and the monks of Fagnano found themselves facing fully armed Norman warriors who looked intent on killing each and every one of them.

Men who give their lives to God in poverty and true righteousness are brave, and would probably have stood their ground, willing to meet their Maker if that was his will. Those who use piety as an excuse for avarice and a life of comfort lived off the backs of a put-upon peasantry are not. The wailing now was coming from the monks as, to a man, they dropped to their knees, hands clasped in front of them in supplication.

One fellow was not cowed, for the bells at the top of a tower were ringing furiously, summoning the people of the valleys, who looked to the monastery for eternal deliverance, to defend their place of worship, which set off the animals penned and cooped; so as well as the ringing and wailing the air was full of bleating, mooing, screeching geese, braying from the donkeys and alarmed clucking from the ducks and chickens.

Robert sent men to check the storerooms and brusquely ordered that the fat abbot be fetched. In his less-than-perfect Greek, once the man was kneeling before him, he gave the bloated divine a choice: the monks could stay and help the Normans build a castle, or they could be cast out to sustain themselves in the same manner as the peasants they exploited, while he and his men destroyed every building in sight.

‘I would roast you over a spit, myself,’ he barked, jabbing his blade gently into the unresisting fat of the abbot’s huge belly. ‘Though God knows how much wood I’d need to cook you right through.’

‘Robert, there is a mob of peasants coming up from the valley.’

‘The storerooms?’

‘Near to full,’ replied one of the men he had sent to check, who was now slicing and distributing bits of a smoked leg of ham. ‘Sacks of corn, hams and cheeses, enough to feed us for a year, and wine — flagons full of it.’

‘Open them up and somebody get up the bell tower and stop that ringing.’

That done he ordered the gate unbarred and partially opened, then went to stand in the gap, sword in hand, as the mob approached, carrying with them the implements they used to reap, sow and harvest, which could be just as deadly as any weapon wielded by a warrior. It would have taken more than a man of his height and presence to stop them, and Robert knew that what slowed their approach was not the threat he presented but the curious fact that he was facing them alone.

He searched for a leader, there was always one or more in a situation like this, a person the others would look to for guidance, and the fellows were not hard to spot, they being the ones who were shouting and gesticulating the most. So intent were they on their purpose they did not look behind them, for if they had they would have dispersed. Having a voice that went with his stature, Robert yelled that they should do so now.

At first they ignored him and he had to repeat the call twice, preparing himself to step back behind the line of the gate, which would be slammed shut; he was as brave as they come but not fool enough, with only his sword as defence, to die under a hail of blows from hoes and scythes if the people he confronted were too stupid to listen.

The change in the shouting was enough to tell him that someone had cast a backwards glance, and that was enough to alter the tone from belligerence to apprehension. From the bottom of the hill came a line of fully armed and mailed Normans, a hundred in number, lances at the ready, more than enough to massacre, at will, the mob Robert faced. This time, when he shouted that they should stop, they obeyed. His next shout brought his lances to a halt as well.

There was a risk in him stepping forward, right up to the front line, for all their fury had not abated, but Robert sheathed his sword and dropped his voice to disperse any sense of threat, asking in a level voice for whoever led this rabble to show themselves. That led to much shuffling: vocal and brave before, those who had been the most vociferous now did not want to be identified, but their even more fearful compatriots pushed them to the fore. Speaking even more softly, and having to repeat himself so they could comprehend his accent, Robert invited them in Greek to follow him, so that they could see for themselves the monks were unharmed.

Still reluctant to follow, he had to take one by the arm, a quite sturdy and stocky fellow of half his own height, to lead him through the gate. Trying not to tremble, for he thought he might be about to die, the peasant followed reluctantly and Robert took him across the paved compound of the monastery, past the kneeling but unharmed monks, to the first of the storerooms, standing back to let him enter.

He was guessing that whatever produce the peasants of the valleys delivered to their monkish masters they never saw it in its full measure, and judging by the look of wonder on the fellow’s face he was right. Calling forward the man who spoke better Greek, he had him explain that the peasants outside could come in twos and threes to be given some of this largesse.

‘Tell him we are here to stay, but we will not harm their monks, but protect them. We will also protect the valleys that lead to Fagnano as well as all the land around, so that no Saracen dare ever again trouble the province.’

Robert doubted the word province would make much sense, but the word Saracen did, for without a force to deter them they had come here enough times to make their name a potent and fearful one. But it was what he said next that really hit home.

‘The abbot and monks of this monastery will, in future, work alongside you to seed, plough and grow, and in doing so they will render better service to God than they do now. That will be needed, for the able-bodied men hereabouts must help us quarry stone to build a fortress into which you may flee and be secure should anyone come to despoil your lands. Now go back through the gate and tell that to the others.’

Just about to do as he was bid, Robert spoke again, and these words were chilling. ‘But know this, we can make war on you as easily as we can make war on those who would ravage your lands. You will show us the kind of respect you show these monks, or those lances and swords you see will be used against you.’

In twos and threes the peasants came through the gate, many looking fearful still, and most reluctant to take from the monks they revered or feared that which they had grown to keep them portly. There was no mystery to their caution: simple folk with simple needs, their dreams tended to be fixed on the next life, not this one, and the men from whom they were taking this food had convinced them they had the path to salvation, a message much repeated in the services held in the nearby church which they were obliged to enter through a separate outer door.

Though God-fearing, Robert was of a mind to think otherwise: that if God needed slugs like these to carry his message — and he had met too many well-fed monks in his life not to think of them as such — then he was not the Saviour of Holy Scripture.

‘I think it would be good to have a Mass said for our souls,’ said Gartmod.

Robert burst out laughing, his booming mirth bouncing off the surrounding walls. ‘I think the roasting of some of that beef and pork which is yet on the hoof would do more for our souls than prayer. We have fasted long enough, brother.’

The soubriquet given to Robert, who was busy laying out plans for his castle walls, following on from taking over the monastery, became common amongst the Normans, and was repeated often enough to make those monks who accepted the new dispensation curious. They tended to be young as well as inquisitive, less resentful and, in truth, still retained some of the devoutness that had brought them to Fagnano in the first place. Eventually one of them plucked up the courage to ask Gartmod, who had shown himself to be a pious fellow and less likely to take offence.

‘Guiscard?’

‘It is a word I do not know,’ the monk said.

‘Neither would you, for it is Norman French.’

‘But what does it mean?’

‘It means cunning, which our leader most certainly is.’

When Robert heard it he wondered if he might not be known by a more suitable soubriquet, like that of his eldest half-brother, William. Bras de Fer sounded better than Guiscard, which could also mean weasel-like. Yet he knew no man would dare to use it in that sense and let him know they were doing so. In time he became comfortable with it, even to the point where some of his lances dropped his given name completely.