Warriors (19 page)

For the tenth time he unfolded the note which had been pressed into his hand as he made his way through the bustling town on his return, an act carried out with such speed and in such a crowd that all he had seen of the deliverer was the disappearing back of the cowl on his head. The words he read only underlined the thoughts on which he had been ruminating, as he wondered if the people who had sent this to him had also fomented that suspicion he had felt in the looks aimed at his back, from the same eyes that would not engage with his own.

It was impossible to put out of his mind the meeting Guaimar had held at Montecchio, to forget how the delegates who had come from the port cities and inland towns had made it plain that they had no real regard for him; that they saw him as no more than an instrument of Norman ambition and would certainly not now wish to see him elevated to a position of any authority. Was he that, a dupe? Was such a role all he could claim? Had he been a tool not only of Norman aspirations but also those of Guaimar, who had
done nothing to raise him in the eyes of the Apulian Lombards?

And what would happen if that were true? If he could not command his own levies – and he certainly would never command the likes of William de Hauteville or the Normans he led, if he was not trusted by Guaimar or his fellow Lombards – for what was he working, what ambition of his own was going to be fulfilled? The other objects on the table were his personal possessions: a bundle of clothing, including a heavy purse of gold, the contents of his now empty strongbox, the rewards he had garnered from his campaigning. Clothes he did not need, his new masters would see to that.

With a heavy heart, Arduin of Fassano stood up, picked up the leather purse and exited the villa through the terrace and gardens that led down to the harbour. The note lay still on the table, and that would tell all who wanted to know where he had gone, though he did wonder if they would reason out why. The boat he had been told to expect was waiting for him, and as soon as he climbed aboard the sail was lifted aloft on the mast and he headed out to sea, ready to accept from Byzantium the same kind of offer which had suborned Argyrus.

The news was not slow in coming to William, for the villa he occupied was only a stone’s throw from that
of Arduin, and while his brothers were loud in their condemnation he was less so. Firstly, he felt unwell and lacked the energy to fulminate. But there was another reason: he alone had some inkling of what had prompted the Lombard’s flight. The question which occupied him was not that it had happened but what to do about it.

‘Find the trumpeter,’ he commanded, ‘and call an assembly. The men must be told.’

Hurriedly obeyed, the whole host, Norman and Lombard, was gathered by the time he exited the city gate, and he knew by the buzz of talk that news of Arduin’s betrayal had spread. There was no platform from which to address them so he clambered with some difficulty onto the embers of that siege tower, from where he could be seen by all, wondering, as he began to speak, if his voice would carry.

‘I do not have the silver tongue of Arduin—’ He had to stop then, the name made them react with boos, cries of shame and whistles and he had to wait some time till it died down. ‘But I do have one virtue: there is no chance that I will ever take Byzantine gold.’

‘That would depend on how much they were offering,’ he heard Humphrey, who was just below him, say.

‘I come here not to address the men I lead but to talk to you all. You have been thrice betrayed.’ More braying greeted that, and another pause was
necessary, besides which he needed to take a firm grip on a protruding bit of burnt timber to steady himself. ‘So the time has come to find a leader who will never desert you.’

Drogo, as usual, was quicker to pick up what was needed than the others, and he stepped out and pulled out his sword, raising it in the air as he cried, ‘I follow William de Hauteville, my brother. Who will join with me?’

That the Normans reacted positively to that was only to be expected, and their yells, as well as their swords or lances, rent the air. What was less expected was the reaction of the men Arduin had recruited, and it was an indication of how far their leaders had fallen in their eyes that they, too, loudly acclaimed William as their leader, and in amongst the shouting he could hear there were voices vowing to follow no other.

‘There you are, Gill,’ Drogo shouted into his ear. ‘You have an army. All you need now is an enemy.’

‘Never fear, Drogo,’ William replied, his fist raised to accept the continuing acclamation. ‘There are many out there, and not just from the east.’

The meeting Guaimar called at the castle of Melfi had nothing in common with that which he had held before at Montecchio in the previous year: that had been a muted affair. Now he was in Apulia in all his pomp, bringing along with him not only his court, but his wife and children, as well as his sister, an imposing caravanserai, and the summons for all the powerful people of the province to attend on him was just that: not couched as a request, but as an instruction they would disobey at their peril.

Rainulf, still troubled by the rebellion around Montecassino, had been summoned too, but the one person not asked to attend was the Prince of Benevento, who was brusquely informed that should he or his brother show themselves they risked both life
and limb from their fellow Lombards, still incensed by the way the captured catapan, Basil Boioannes, had been sold back to Byzantium. Cunningly, Guaimar went out of his way to plant in men’s minds that he was responsible, too, for the defection of Arduin and Argyrus.

So they came again, the leading citizens of the towns and cities of Apulia, some travelling through lands still suffering the devastation visited upon it by George Maniakes, which stood as a reminder that caution was a policy best kept in reserve, and if they travelled knowing that Guaimar was intent on asserting some kind of authority, they also did so with the certainty of the need for their own independence.

The Normans of Troia had agreed to actively participate in the revolt, greeted, as they joined, by a less-than-fit William – his journey from Trani had been made in a litter. He had spent much time welcoming like-minded bands from all over South Italy, lances who had become aware that prosperity, if it were to be had, was to be found in Apulia. Given there had, over the course of the campaign, been a steady increase in the numbers of men William commanded, the Normans had grown to constitute a far more formidable and numerous force than that which had originally arrived in Melfi. More importantly, these warriors owed no allegiance to Rainulf Drengot and now outnumbered the men he had brought from Aversa.

After much feasting and talking over several days, which William pushed himself through on willpower, with the various delegates seeking allies or common positions, everyone who mattered was gathered in the great hall of the castle, the babble of noise deafening as it echoed off the bare stone walls. Guaimar had overseen the making of a high dais on which he could disport himself, dressed in silken garments with more than a hint of purple, a signal to all that he now saw himself as the overlord of all who had obeyed his ordinance. He wanted to look majestic, and he did, but when he finally imposed silence and sought to issue various edicts, he found he lacked the power to command: not one of the constituent bodies in the hall were prepared to just stand and allow themselves to be dictated to.

One by one they stated their objection to that which Guaimar was obviously seeking to impose: his own regal ambitions. Again the first to baulk were the port cities, with their mixed populations, who had no intention, individually or collectively, of dipping the knee to the Prince of Salerno, however he chose to style himself, nor did they wish to pay for Norman support.

They would look to their own walled defences to maintain themselves, and hire their own mercenaries, if need be, to protect their newly gained freedoms. Had one of their number not just seen off George
Maniakes? It seemed pointless to seek to get them to agree that it had been the man’s ambition, not their efforts, which had sent him east.

Next came hostility from the Lombards of the inland towns and cities, where if they were not in a majority they formed the leading citizenry. Though the word ‘king’ was never mentioned, it was made plain by allusion that they had no desire to accept as sovereign a man who had stood aside from the fighting and all the losses of wealth and people that had entailed – an impostor, who had now come to claim the rewards.

William de Hauteville, the single most powerful person present, said nothing, and merely kept his own counsel, partly through a feeling of lassitude, but also from policy. Eventually, after much rancorous debate, Guaimar called for the meeting to be adjourned until the following day, and, plainly unhappy, stormed off to the part of the castle set aside for his use.

‘They must have an overlord,’ Guaimar shouted, vehemently yet safely, given he was in the company of his sister and the man he trusted most to advise him.

‘I suggest,’ said Kasa Ephraim, in his habitually calm manner, ‘they will not have anyone who styles themselves king.’

‘Is that not what we fought for?’ the prince replied, which led the Jew to wonder if he knew the meaning of the word ‘hypocrisy’. Not that he was troubled by the notion – it was the habit of princes – but if Guaimar
thought in those terms, and worse still, spoke like that, he would only alienate those he was trying to persuade. ‘Do they not realise what we all have to gain by being united?’

‘Men see things from their own standpoint, honourable one.’

‘The Normans are behind this,’ Berengara claimed. ‘None of these cockroaches would dare gainsay you if they knew the Normans would back your claim, but did we hear any of them speak?’

‘Do you see a Norman hand in this, Ephraim?’ demanded Guaimar.

‘No. I doubt they care what title you adopt. They care more about what rewards are bestowed on them.’

‘Reward is all they care about,’ Berengara spat.

‘It is they who have fought, Lady Berengara, and it is their skill at arms which has brought such victories…’

‘Don’t forget the Lombards who fought as well.’

Kasa Ephraim merely nodded at her, and addressed his next words to her brother. ‘Only one question matters, honourable one: can Lombards, by themselves, hold Apulia if Byzantium sends a new catapan with an army at his heels to retake it? There is no certainty the Italians will fight to preserve a Lombard state. Who then will ensure security?’

The question that hung in the air was just as potent. Could the Prince of Salerno stand against such a force
without the aid of Norman mercenaries? Only they could prevent a reverse, and it had not escaped notice that even the Lombard levies now accepted William de Hauteville as their leader. Guaimar could style himself by whatever appellation he desired; without men to sustain it, a title was worthless.

‘I would also suggest, my Prince, that given the numbers to which they have now risen, to have them back in Campania would be troublesome. Best they are kept away from your domains.’

The Jew did not add what he knew and had discerned in his conversation with William de Hauteville the previous year: the Normans were not going anywhere, they were in Apulia to stay.

‘I must speak with Rainulf. He must bring his men to heel.’

At that moment, it was William who was speaking with Rainulf, and the words he was using were not being well received by the elderly Count of Aversa, who had sought to berate him for his refusal to answer his previous appeals.

‘You stood by while your fellow Normans were massacred by peasants.’

A weary William replied, ‘I was otherwise occupied.’

‘You should be occupied as I direct.’

‘No, Rainulf, you no longer command me or the
men I brought to Melfi –
I
do, for they have been with me too long, both here and in Sicily. As for those who have come of their own free choice…’

‘Many of those men you brought to Melfi are mine and I need them with me north of Capua.’

‘Perhaps some will agree, Rainulf, not many, and I grant you permission to seek them out.’

The explosion was immediate. ‘You grant me—’

‘Yes,’ William replied, in a soft tone. ‘Perhaps the notion of slaughtering poor peasants will appeal to them more than plundering Byzantine treasure.’

That calm interjection was like throwing turpentine on flames: Rainulf was so incensed he could barely breathe and his words were far from easily comprehensible. ‘You swine…you nobody… I raised you up and I can cast you down… I—’

William’s shout stopped him dead. ‘Enough!’

‘You owe me allegiance.’

‘I owe you nothing,’ William replied, with equal force, an act which required much effort. ‘I have seen you in private to do to you that which you would not have afforded me. If you want to be humiliated I will have the horns sounded and every Norman in Melfi gathered for you to address, and they can do so in full sight of everyone else present, Guaimar included. Then you can tell them they are yours to command, Rainulf, which if you are lucky will only gain you a sight of their bared arses. If not, you might pay with blood.’

Rainulf’s hand went deliberately to the hilt of his sword, which got him an icy response.

‘Draw it if you must, Rainulf, and though it will give me no pleasure to kill you, kill you I will.’ There was a moment then when pride fought with good sense, until William, too powerful even in the grip of a fever for the older man to challenge, gave him a reason to concentrate on the latter. ‘If you care nothing for your own life, think of your woman and her child.’

‘You owe me everything.’

‘I did owe you, Rainulf, for you trusted me once, you raised me and named me as your heir. But you took something away from me and I have now taken it back. You have your county of Aversa, you have many lances, if not as many as I, rest content with that, and whatever crumb Prince Guaimar is prepared to throw you in Apulia. I’m sure he will give you something.’

‘You will fly too close to the sun, William de Hauteville.’

‘Better that, Rainulf, than to grovel in the mud for what you would grant me. I will put out word that anyone who wishes to return with you to Aversa is free to depart. I will do no more than that.’

Once Rainulf had departed, William had to sit down: he was weak and he could feel himself shaking, cold even as he could feel the sweat on his brow and in the crook of his back. It was Tirena who led him to his cot, laid him to rest and fetched cold water to mop him
down, listening as, in a fever, he went forwards and backwards in his life, cursing sometimes, at others weeping for the sins he had committed. It was near dawn before he fell into a troubled slumber.

Still weak in the late morning, William nevertheless dragged himself to where he needed to be, fully dressed and armed, so that those he led could see their general parade along the battlements of Melfi. Every time a group spotted him he was cheered. If they saw behind him the boy Listo, they knew him now to be a squire. If they also observed Tirena, who was much concerned for her lord and master, that had them nudging each other in the ribs, for it was no secret what she had become.

Beneath and below, Guaimar was struggling with a dilemma. In trying to make the best of bad circumstances, Rainulf could not avoid letting slip how much he had lost control of the mercenary force he had once led, one now massively more powerful, and, in doing so, he forced upon Guaimar a complete change of approach.

The prince had hoped Rainulf, for all the problems he had left behind, still had some authority: he now knew without doubt that he had to deal with William de Hauteville, and that whatever he was to achieve here in Apulia could only be attained by his good grace. Allied to William, he could overawe the
others; without his aid, all he had was bluster.

‘I cannot think you could delude yourself into expecting more. The Normans have never done anything else but betray our house.’

‘Berengara, please,’ Guaimar pleaded.

He pointed to the others in the room, not just his courtiers, his wife and children, but Rainulf Drengot as well. She was, as usual, saying things in public best aired in private, yet his sister was seen by those who advised him as more than her station implied. They had been through much together: he had said many times, and in public, that without her by his side in his youth he would not hold his title. She had suffered with him and travelled with him, and used her wiles to charm the emperor who had restored him to Salerno. In short, she was seen to stand so high in his esteem that to command her silence in such a gathering was difficult.

‘Why should I hold my tongue, brother?’

Guaimar nodded towards Rainulf. ‘For propriety if for no other reason.’

‘We are talking of Normans. Surely I do not need to remind you of what they are capable.’

‘Am I to be publicly insulted for my loyalty—?’

There was a sudden wail to break Rainulf’s response, as Sichelgaita, Guaimar’s baby daughter, let everyone know she was unhappy. Looking at her, and not for the first time, her father was given to wonder
at her: from where had the girl sprung? Younger than her brother, she already outdid Gisulf in height; her hair was, unlike his own dark locks, the flaxen colour of her mother, her eyes a startling blue, and she was growing at a rate. Her throat was not left behind in this, and her cries, as she struggled with his wife, filled the room.

‘I think my niece wails for our impotence, brother,’ said Berengara maliciously, looking at Rainulf. ‘When a treacherous slug can prate about loyalty…’