Warriors (24 page)

‘The one called Robert I know least well.’

‘He is stuck in deepest Calabria, my Lord, and though he is hated we have not yet managed to get anyone to accept the task of killing him.’

‘Yet all the others are ready?’

‘They are. They await only a day on which to strike.’

Argyrus had before him a list of Roman saints’ days and he calculated how long it would take to send messages to those recruited and awaiting the sign to act. He could not risk a lost opportunity: conspiracies were fragile things, and they became even more so the longer they went without execution. Looking a month in advance he put a finger on the Feast Day of St Laurence and deciding said, firmly, ‘That is the day I have chosen. See to it.’

Drogo, accompanied by his wife and a newly born son, saw Listo, dressed in his black Benedictine habit, and scowled, as it was not a sight that pleased him. In truth he felt slightly guilty at having sent him and his sister away, given it was not an action of which William would have approved, but then his elder brother had been a bit soft in that way. Drogo would not harm a peasant for no reason, but he had no love for the breed, seeing them as impenetrable and stupid in the main, and when occasion demanded that they suffer he had never been one to hold back. Their crops and vines he would destroy and the Good Lord help any of them who tried to resist.

To him St Laurence was a martyr especially to be venerated, not least because his saint’s day was always the occasion of a great banquet, and Drogo
loved feasting and drinking, which always led to carousing. Also, since the same saint was the patron of prostitutes, there was no disgrace in having a few along to entertain him and his companions afterward, once he had sent his wife off to her nursing and her bed.

Gaitelgrima had gone ahead into the church, and he was waiting until all his companions were present, some ten in number, those Normans he counted as close friends, slightly put out that two of his brothers, Geoffrey and Mauger, whom he had summoned, had yet to arrive. Humphrey had got the backwash of the papal strictures on the way back from Salerno; the other two were going to get a lecture too, and be told to keep their men in check. When he had dealt with them he intended to call in all the Norman captains for the same purpose.

Unbeknown to Drogo, at that very moment seven of the captains he was going to berate were dead, all of them caught overnight, in their beds, by assassins, all Lombards or Italians who had infiltrated their castles and donjons in the disguise of servants. Where there were women or wives present they died too, and any children young enough to be slumbering in close proximity to parents. Those given the task of killing Geoffrey and Mauger failed – they had been unable to penetrate their too well-established households – and had decided to follow them as they set off in the
predawn to attend upon the summons from Drogo.

The Norman captains who died, including Hugo de Boeuf, were unarmed, or their weapons were too far away from them to be of any use. The de Hauteville brothers had theirs and were mounted, so when a dozen assailants tried to ambush them on the road they found out to their cost just how much these sons of Tancred had learnt from their warrior father. Not one of the assassins survived as the two brothers swung their swords and manoeuvred their mounts, the horses taking most of the knife wounds, necessary to fix the men wielding them so they could be cleaved in half by a single mighty blow.

Drogo was unarmed and no one saw Listo draw a weapon from under his habit, the sign for the men he had recruited to aid him, all dressed as Benedictines, to do likewise. Ready to enter the church, Drogo and his companions had laid aside their swords, and crowded into the narrow church doorway they had little room for movement as the two dozen men struck with knives, clubs and swords from both within and without the building. Drogo was a hard man to kill: even with several wounds he fought on with fist and boot trying to break through to where his weapon lay.

It was Listo who struck the fatal blow, taking a sword and slicing through Drogo’s shoulder, covered with a blue and white surcoat but with no protective mail, the blow cutting down and smashing bone as
well. Drogo fell to his knees but yet struggled to arise again as several men dressed as monks went for him with knives, stabbing him repeatedly, shredding his now blood-covered garment; the last sight he had as he spun from them was of his companions lying dead in a heap, crowded in the doorway of the church.

Listo’s mission was to kill the boy-child as well, and his mother, if she resisted, but the pile of bodies, some still twitching, blocked the entrance and he knew that if he stayed too long retribution would be swift. As soon as he had struck the first blow women had screamed and men had rushed for help, and this in a place full of warriors who would tear him limb from limb for what he had done.

‘The horses,’ he shouted, throwing off his habit, no more a monk now but instead, as he saw it, a soldier in the service of the enemies of the Normans. The mounts belonged to the men the party of assassins had killed, not enough, for they were too numerous. But they were not hulking Normans, they were, even doubled up, a load the animals could bear and they rode out and south, heading for distant Bari and safety.

Geoffrey and Mauger, bearing wounds of their own, and with only one horse between them, arrived to find Drogo laid out on a slab of church marble, the wounds on his body now dark gashes edged with black congealing blood, with his young wife kneeling by, keening in sorrow while a nurse sought to calm her baby.

‘Take them home,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and call upon the monks to come and prepare the body.’

‘My Lord,’ said one fellow, ‘it was monks who did this.’

‘No,’ Mauger replied, ‘no man of God committed an act like this.’

Over the next days they found the extent of this plot, as news came in of deaths all over the lands the Normans held. Humphrey had survived by a stroke of luck, having decided to spend a night away from his own castle, but when he heard of what had happened he dismissed every servant he had, not knowing which ones might be traitors. His next act was to call to Melfi all those who had acclaimed Drogo and he successfully called upon them to elevate him: he had no trouble at all in seeing the need for the succession to the title to devolve upon a grown man. 

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 confrères 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.