Warriors (23 page)

‘And the men here do not?’

‘Captains like Turmod have served my uncle for decades, have lived here for all that time, and there are others of the same mould.’

For all this fencing, both men knew what Guaimar wanted: a guaranteed commitment from Rainulf’s nephew to take his side against Pandulf. Richard knew, regardless of his wishes, the Normans of Aversa would be caught in the middle of any Lombard dispute, and right at this moment he was unwilling to pledge to anyone, not prepared to place any faith in the promises he would receive from both Salerno and Capua. If Rainulf had gone, he had not done so
without making sure his nephew understood his task was to protect that which the Normans had gained.

Yet he had died still not married to Hermann’s mother, still waiting for a papal dispensation, although the new Pope Clement had promised it would be forthcoming at Capua, which left Richard in the same position as Drogo de Hauteville: for all that a goodly number of the men he now led were loyal to Rainulf’s memory, just as many would not bow the knee to a child, and a bastard one at that.

Good sense dictated he put the boy aside and assume the title of count in his own name, yet Guaimar, who wanted him to take that route, also had to consider what he was being told: such an open declaration might split the men of Aversa asunder, which would leave the whole of Campania, and Salerno in particular, with the worst of both worlds, having to treat with multiple Norman leaders instead of one.

‘I was Rainulf’s suzerain, so it falls to me to confirm the title of whosoever succeeds him.’

Ultimately it was up to the emperor, but he was far away in Germany; Guaimar was sitting opposite. ‘True, as long as it is accepted.’

Ever wily, Guaimar saw the solution clearly. ‘It is also my right, should an acceptable heir to a title be in his minority, as Hermann is, to appoint his legal guardian. I take it if you were granted that office it would be accepted by all?’

‘I think it would.’

‘Then we require that the men Rainulf led be gathered, along with Hermann and his mother, so that I can promulgate such a dispensation.’

Guaimar was smiling at Richard Drengot, not just because matters had been satisfactorily concluded. He was wondering if, having had power and having to exercise it for at least a decade, his honour to his uncle’s memory would stay so strong he would be able to give it up.

No man, unless his election was mired in corruption, came to the papacy in the first flush of youth, and Clement was no exception: the one-time Bishop of Bamberg had been in his sixties when Henry brought him south, and travelling for nearly a year had taken its toll on a man more accustomed to a cloistered life. Few popes reigned for long periods, and that did nothing for the stability by which the Holy See was governed. Nor was any deposed pope, still living, free from a desire to resume a position which brought with it great wealth and the ability to dispense much munificence in both money and lucrative offices.

When Clement passed on there was much talk of his being poisoned, an accusation which attended the death of any man who had been pontiff. That was added to by the way the once deposed Benedict resumed his occupation of St Peter’s until a newly elected pope
arrived from the north. Clement’s successor, again sent by the Emperor Henry from Bamberg, lasted no more than twenty-three days before he too went to meet his Maker, both events stirring the endemic and centuries-old dispute between the convocation of cardinals and the emperor about who had the right to choose the next incumbent.

Yet both wanted a strong pope, albeit Henry did not desire one who would challenge his authority, and for once, when they were called together to elect a successor, they were in utter agreement about the next candidate. Bruno, the Bishop of Toul, was not only a divine, he was also a soldier who had led part of an imperial army under Conrad. Tall, strong of limb and with russet hair, the Alsatian-born Bruno was imposing in person as well as piety, but he was also a man known for his steely determination.

While he was happy to accept the nomination from the bishops and abbots of Germany and Italy, as well as the emperor, Bruno, like Clement before him, insisted he would not take up the office unless the people of Rome accepted him also. Thus, dressed in simple pilgrim garb, he made his way to the Eternal City and by this straightforward approach won the hearts and affections of the most cynical populace in Europe, and was thus consecrated to universal acclaim as Pope Leo IX.

The office he came to still had all the problems
faced by his predecessors: endemic simony, where rich benefices were traded for money payments to candidates who cared not for their flocks but for the profit of the place. Indulgences sold to forgive the most heinous sins and tithes that should have been commuted to Rome for the upkeep of the church spent, instead, by those who collected them, on personal luxury.

Leo had forced from the Emperor Henry a reaffirmation of his temporal rights in the Papal States, as well as an imperial admission that Benevento was a fief of St Peter’s and his responsibility. Hearing this, the people of Benevento, having found the Normans to be unpleasant masters, sent envoys to plead for mercy, and they also wished for protection from increasing pressure on their entire principality from the Normans. Leo lifted the excommunication and promised to visit their city to ascertain for himself the extent of Norman depredations.

Added to that problem were the ongoing conflicts to the south of his territories: as Guaimar fought with Pandulf, Naples played both off against each other, the people of Amalfi rose in revolt, to be severely crushed, this while the Normans of Aversa increasingly encroached on the lands of Montecassino, while their counterparts in Apulia seemed to have lost all cohesion and turned from war to outright banditry.

An active fellow, Leo set off south himself, to find
out what could be done to both protect his own states and bring some order to those between them and the toe of Italy. Once in the Principality of Benevento, and seeing for himself how it was being ravaged, he set out for Salerno, summoning Drogo de Hauteville to meet him there. To both he and Guaimar, he would bring to bear the entire authority of this new and muscular papacy. 

William de Hauteville had been right to consider Argyrus, on first acquaintance, to be somewhat callow, if far from stupid. What he had failed to discern in the young man was an ability to learn and to do so quickly. In deserting the Lombard cause his sole prompt had been the certain conviction that their whole stated dream was based on either hypocrisy or personal ambition of such a high order, from the likes of Guaimar of Salerno, as to render that dream unattainable. He was also aware that for all the mouthed platitudes about his father Melus, he, as his son, was a tool to be used, not a person to be elevated.

To get himself appointed by Constantinople as catapan was remarkable: no Lombard had ever held such an office, yet he had managed to convince the
Emperor Constantine that only one of his race stood any chance of regaining for Byzantium control of its South Italian provinces. It was not only in Apulia they had lost ground: Normans had moved into Calabria as well over the previous decade, building castles like the great edifice of Squillace, which was as potent a defensive bastion as Melfi.

What he could not persuade them to do was to provide him with the kind of force denied to his predecessors, so on arrival in Bari, Argyrus knew he was in for a long campaign in which his best weapon would be guile, not strength. Handsome, personable and not by nature cruel, he had won over much of the population of Bari and he had intimidated the rest. So he had, with the port city’s formidable defences, a place of refuge. The burning question was how to expand out from that in the face of the military superiority of the Normans. Lombards worried him less, they could be bought or overawed, but as long as the likes of William de Hauteville had ambitions in Apulia he would never gain victory.

The near assassination of William had not brought with it the hoped-for break-up of cohesion. A new strategy was required and his original attempt to construct an alliance which would overcome the Normans fell at the first hurdle: he sought to engage Prince Pandulf of Capua in a joint conspiracy against them, and the early results were promising from a
man who lived for intrigue. But Pandulf let him down, as he had done most people in his life, though Argyrus found it difficult to curse him for the mere fact of dying.

It was odd, following on from that disappointment, that in re-examining his options a clearer strategy emerged, one which seemed to have with it a greater chance of success. First, he must use what weapons he had, but his greatest asset in forming a body of opposition large enough to triumph was being brought about by the very people he wished to remove. The Normans were their own worst enemies, creating adversaries amongst the very people they needed to win over.

‘How can I prosecute a war, when I cannot even be sure that the men I command to assemble will come?’

If it was worded differently, it was in essence a complaint that Drogo de Hauteville had been making for two years now. The men his brother had led might have acclaimed him, but he lacked the authority which William had exercised with such ease, given the composition of the men he led had changed and he lacked, due to the cunning of Argyrus, an enemy in the field to fight and defeat. Staying close to Bari, Argyrus was like an itch Drogo could not scratch, but he had made life more difficult merely by being, then doubled that by inactivity.

Certainly the number of lances Drogo commanded had increased substantially from the day when he and William had first arrived in Melfi, but so had the problem of keeping them content: they had come for land and plunder and Apulia was not a place where ground was freely available to give away. Drogo could not just dispossess the local Italians and Lombards to facilitate the elevation of his confrères without creating an uprising. But lacking that and the plunder that came from successful war, they were inclined to outright banditry, giving that precedence over service to him as their titular leader, and ignoring any strictures he tried to impose.

‘Salerno,’ said Humphrey, as they crested a rise to see the whole bay and city laid out before them. ‘You can smell the wealth from here.’

‘And I can smell trouble,’ Drogo replied.

‘This Pope Leo has been a soldier, Drogo. He will know that fighting men are hard to control.’

‘Our own are worse.’

‘You would be the same if you had no other choice.’

‘Are you going to argue with me again?’

The mutual glares which followed that snapped response underlined that these two brothers had never been bosom companions, indeed Drogo often found the company of the one he liked most, Mauger, just as hard to take, given all of them were inclined to dispute any decision he made. Now, instead of being together
continuously, as they had under William, they saw each other rarely, tending to remain in their own fiefs when not called upon to combine for some military venture.

That applied especially to brother number four, Robert, who Drogo had come to actively loathe, but he had got rid of him by some distance, having sent him to a particularly unrewarding part of Calabria, where, when he was not fighting malaria, he did battle with the intransigent locals.

Spurring his horse, still scowling, Drogo led his men down into the natural amphitheatre that was Salerno.

The summons from Pope Leo was one he could have ignored: this was not a man he feared outside his ability to deny him the sacrament by excommunication, but it was politic to obey. Guaimar would be present too and, like Drogo, would mouth platitudes to the Pope about future behaviour, because with Pandulf gone to meet Satan – Heaven for such a man was out of the question regardless of how many indulgences he had bought – the Prince of Salerno, now related to Drogo by marriage, was once more eyeing the vacant fief of Capua.

Meeting Berengara again was as unpleasant as it had always been: having a half-Norman daughter had done nothing for her hatred of the race, but Guaimar was fulsome in his greetings, eager to engage Drogo in schemes of infiltration and conquest of Byzantine
territory, but he made no mention to Drogo of Capua: for that he would rely on the man who now styled himself Richard of Aversa.

‘And how is Rainulf’s boy, Hermann?’ Drogo enquired, when that name cropped up.

Guaimar knew he was being mischievous, but he could not let that show. ‘I have no idea. He is, I suppose, as well as can be expected.’

Drogo doubted Richard would actually kill the boy, but he was sure that he had been put aside. Guaimar knew that for certain: as he had suspected, Richard had come to be at ease with his command. The prospect of relinquishing it had no doubt preyed on him before he had been officially appointed as guardian, and that would not have eased with power. There was some admiration for the way Richard had gone about things: he had quietly removed the child from view while he was too young to do anything about it, an act which would have become increasingly difficult as the boy grew to manhood.

‘All I know is that Richard has proved to be a most loyal vassal.’

‘And we both know how difficult it is to be that,’ Drogo growled.

‘Time to meet our spiritual overlord,’ Guaimar said, as he led the way into the chamber where Pope Leo awaited them.

‘This letter is from one of your fellow Normans, Count Drogo,’ said Leo, waving a piece of heavy parchment. ‘No less a person than the Abbot of Fécamp.’

‘I fought alongside a bishop of that diocese once. He was a doughty warrior, as, I am told, Your Holiness, are you.’

Leo knew when he was being flattered, and his freckle-covered face showed it, not that he much liked it. ‘Let me read to you what he says.’

‘If you wish, I can read it myself.’ That surprised the Pope: few men of Drogo’s stamp were lettered. ‘I was taught by the priest of our family church, my cousin, who has recently been appointed, as you will know, to the See of Coutances.’

‘Geoffrey of Montbray is your cousin?’

‘He is, and no doubt the Duke of Normandy had some say in his elevation, since he looks to him often for counsel.’

‘The Duke did request he be given Coutances, it is true, and I was happy to oblige him. But this is wandering away from that which we are here to discuss, which is the sheer outlaw nature of the behaviour of the men you are supposed to lead. Listen!’

Leo started to read, looking at Drogo as each point was made. The abbot had been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and like many travellers to the Holy Land he had taken in many a shrine en route. One such was the cave of St Michael on Monte Gargano, which
was in the province of Benevento. The land around the shrine was overrun with Normans, and though they had respected the abbot as coming from their homeland, what had happened to him and what he had been told by the local Italian and Lombard population had made him seethe with anger and disgust.

‘“No Norman traveller is safe in that part of Italy, so much did the locals hate them, and passing through was no protection from reprisals. He had been threatened personally, had nearly lost his possessions, only saved by his clerical office, but had since met many who had indeed been robbed even of the clothes in which they stood, this after their horses had been stolen. Some had even been whipped by angry locals as retribution for the losses they had suffered in destroyed crops and torn-out vines…”

‘Need I go on, Count Drogo?’ There was not much to do but answer with a shake of the head. ‘But I shall, and I will enumerate the complaints I have had from Benevento, which might I remind you is my own fief. Homes and fields of corn burnt to a cinder, women raped and tiny children hoisted on the points of Norman lances…’

‘Your Holiness, you know that people exaggerate.’

‘Exaggerate!’ Leo shouted, in a voice more suitable to a soldier than a cleric. ‘I have seen these things for myself. It must cease and I will hold you, and you alone, responsible for seeing that it does.’

Drogo, who had been submissive, felt his gorge rise. Who did this ginger-haired sod think he was? He might be Pope but he was talking to a de Hauteville, one who was not, and never had allowed himself to be, browbeaten by anyone, especially in the company of not only Guaimar but also the whole papal entourage. He was about to shout back, he even had a notion of clouting the Pope round the ear, when a vision of his elder brother swam before him. William would have known how to deal with this, would have had the words to turn away the papal wrath while giving nothing in return. The Pope was asking for the impossible: the men he was talking about were warriors. What did he want them to do, take up the plough?

It took great effort to control his voice, but he did manage it. ‘I will do as you ask, Your Holiness.’

‘You swear on the Blood of Christ?’

‘I do,’ Drogo replied, crossing himself, as much from fear as from piety: that was not an oath to be taken lightly.

‘So be it, Count Drogo, but be assured I will hold you to that. Now, Prince Guaimar…’

Drogo listened and determined to learn. Guaimar deflected every complaint directed at him with consummate ease and silken replies, showing such ability that Drogo was jealous, something he related to Kasa Ephraim when he called upon him later that day.

‘Our prince has now had much practice at dissimulation, Count Drogo.’

‘I think he might have learnt from you.’

The Jew smiled, and even if he had aged, it was a pleasing thing. ‘You flatter me, Count Drogo, but you have come here to transact business, I think.’

It was Drogo’s turn to smile. ‘I think your ventures are safer than my coffers.’

Ephraim now transacted commercial undertakings for the de Hautevilles, trading in commodities on their behalf and increasing a wealth that was fed by land income and the tribute from the Lombard and Italian nobles of Apulia who looked to Melfi for protection: odd that some of that security had to be provided against men to whom he was titular overlord.

‘All business has its risks, Count Drogo.’

Thinking of his soul, Drogo replied, ‘None, my Jewish friend, compared to the risks of being in my position.’

Argyrus had worked hard to ensure that, when he struck, it had the desired effect. Money was his weapon, the means to pay for betrayal, but that was not the only tool in his armoury. Unaware that the newly elected Pope had left Rome for Campania, he had sent an embassy to the Holy City, to the Duke of Spoleto, whose lands lay to the north of Benevento, as well as selected people in that province, his aim
to build a coalition against their common enemy. But first he had to decapitate the monster.

Drogo, not long returned from Salerno, was to be taken when he was at his most vulnerable, on a Sunday when he attended church on a saint’s feast day, the means of his assassination a disgruntled monk, found by Argyrus’s agents, who knew how to handle a sword. He assured those who recruited him that not only could he get close to Drogo de Hauteville, there were many men locally who would aid him, but the spider at the centre of the web made an impatient man wait until all else was in place.

Having served with the Norman-Lombard army outside the walls of Trani he knew the names of the most important leaders, not just the de Hautevilles. Humphrey, Geoffrey and Mauger had their own castles ands fiefs, and attended their own churches to hear Mass, but there were others capable of taking over from them, so men had to be put in place, reliable men who were not only willing to strike but able to recruit fellow assassins, for Argyrus was insistent that no one killer, acting alone, would succeed: look what had happened with William.