Mercenaries (5 page)

His shirt was open, and so were his breeches; the man was obviously aroused, it was in his eyes as well, and it took him a moment to come out of that state and realise that whatever he had intended was not now possible. Caught in the act of seeking to deflower Berengara he yet had about him the wits, or was it the ready ability to tell a barefaced lie, which had served him so well.

‘I came to bid your sister a good night’s sleep before going to my wife.’

‘As did I,’ Guaimar snapped.

There was a moment when the youngster wondered what Pandulf would do. He had the power to call armed men to remove Guaimar, the power to do with Berengara this night as he pleased. The youngster never knew what it was that persuaded him to snatch up his jacket from the floor and leave. Was it that he needed the boy as an ally? Was it the proximity of his wife; she would be disturbed by any commotion? The one thing it would not be was remorse at having been discovered, of that he was sure.

‘Then that is a duty I leave to you,’ Pandulf said.

‘I would like that we return to Salerno tomorrow,’ Guaimar said as Pandulf came abreast of him. The Wolf paused for a moment, flashed that engaging smile as though nothing suspect was happening, and nodded.

As soon as he was gone he had Berengara weeping in his arms. Having got her into the large bed, settled her down and waited till she went to sleep, he spent an uncomfortable night lying across the now closed door.

Guaimar was once more in the company of the Archbishop of Salerno, this time in his episcopal palace, set in the hills above and away from the filth
and stink of the city. From the balcony, across his manicured gardens, they could see the wide sweep of the Bay of Salerno shimmering in the summer heat, set off by the sparkling blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea. In the harbour lay the ships that brought so much wealth from the Levant to Italy; to the boy it was like looking at a constant stream of gold, the river of wealth that had, over five centuries of Lombard rule, raised his family to magnificence. He was not here for the view, but for enough of that commodity to make a journey, from one of the few sources of funds he could, with some safety, tap.

Not utterly disposed to refuse to part with money, this high cleric had to go through the ritual insistence on poverty, the diocese being much put upon by those seeking charity. ‘The church of Salerno is not wealthy, my son. Our new overlord has set a high tariff on our coffers.’

‘I doubt you gifted Pandulf all the plate my father gave you.’

There was hesitation before the truthful reply. ‘We preserved some, with difficulty.’

The archbishop, as he said those words, could not help but look like a thief and it was an unchristian thought in the boy to think him that. The man was bent in the back from age and some affliction of the bones, while his head was permanently tilted to one side, the whole subject to some slight palsy. That did
not explain a certain shiftiness in his eyes, which with his broad nose, flabby cheeks and loose lips created an impression of a man naturally given to larceny.

‘It is the use of that which I seek from you.’

‘The gifts your father gave to us were made to Holy Church, my son. They are not my personal possessions of which to dispose.’

‘I must ask you, Your Eminence, how you think the church of Salerno will fare under the thumb of Prince Pandulf, especially if he discovers what you have withheld from him?’

That got Guaimar a sharp look; was this boy threatening to reveal what had been withheld? ‘I fear we will not prosper. He is rapacious, as you know, and we have our garrison of Normans in your old home to enforce that which he wishes. They too prey on the tithes we receive, money which should be transmitted to Rome.’

‘And how would that same church, as well as Rome, fare under my family restored?’

The head, already wobbly, shook with firm resolve. ‘A speculation, my son, for which I might pray, but I dare not hope.’

‘A speculation that might be worth investment.’ The old man did not reply. ‘There are powers greater than those of Pandulf.’

‘You refer to Bamberg and Constantinople?’ Guaimar nodded. ‘They are distant, my son.’

‘If they could be persuaded to take up our cause…’

The interjection was quite sharp. ‘Our cause, Guaimar? I cannot see the Emperor Michael or his wrinkled harlot, Zöe, taking up our cause.’

The nuances of that remark were profound: Michael was Byzantine Emperor by marriage, a young husband, risen from the position of secret lover to an empress in her sixth decade who had already exhausted one spouse. It was a liaison seen as typical of the corrupt court over which they held sway. Yet it was the other point that was significant to this cleric: Constantinople was the seat of the Orthodox Church.

To seek redress there for the depredations of Pandulf of Capua would not sit well with a representative of the Vicar of Rome. The two versions of the faith might coexist and espouse harmony a thousand years after the Crucifixion, but neither welcomed encroachment. With troops from the east would come their faith, and this priest had enough trouble with the Orthodox religion as it was; a great number of the citizens of Salerno still practised in that discipline, a hangover from direct Byzantine rule.

‘I would, of course, prefer to seek help from the Western Emperor.’

‘Conrad Augustus is a good son of the Church.’

A good son of the right church, Guaimar thought. Personally he did not care from where help came. Even as a Lombard, and the scion of a line that had
tried to rid themselves of Byzantium for a century, he would accept armed assistance from there if it could be had. Any eastern emperor might be seen as anathema to the Church of Rome, but he was less of a Satan than Pandulf. Yet what the archbishop was saying seemed plain: funds for a trip to Bamberg and the Emperor Conrad might be possible; money to seek aid in Constantinople was out of the question.

Time was also of the essence; as children he and his sister, if they had been left in straightened circumstances, had also been left in peace. That could not last; being dragged to Capua proved that and Berengara was clearly at risk from Pandulf’s unbridled lust, which could descend upon her at any time. As Guaimar grew to full manhood Pandulf, who would see the youth was popular while he was not, would also see him increasingly as a threat. The archbishop must act, he must do so now, and the youngster could think of only one lever he could apply.

‘I would, of course, should I make my way north, pass through Rome to seek the blessing of Pope Benedict.’

That made the old cleric look even more devious; the boy had named possibly the most tumultuous city in the whole of Christendom, east and west, yet it was a place where intercession could be sought. Not much in the way of armed help, but spiritual assistance. If this boy could get the Pope’s blessing on his endeavour,
that would weigh heavily with the Emperor Conrad. It would also be possible to send to Rome with Guaimar news of how difficult life had become in Salerno, which might still the constant demand from the Pontiff for tithe money.

Moving indoors, the archbishop sat down, and put his conjoined hands before his face, as if in prayer; in truth he was examining Guaimar. Could this slip of a boy, with no experience, achieve that which he sought? Certainly he was a comely youth, with dark straight hair, even features in a sallow complexion and a pleasant disposition, so like his late father in his lack of martial bearing. Yet he also seemed to have on his shoulders a head older than his years, and in those almond eyes a hint of intelligence, so he might impress the Pontiff with his air of guileless simplicity.

‘You would travel alone?’

‘No, Your Eminence, I would ask my sister to accompany me.’ The raised eyebrow was question enough. ‘I would not expect her presence to aid me much in Rome, but should I be able to continue to Bamberg I have heard that beauty can melt hearts in a secular court. Perhaps, even if she is not yet mature, she can do that to a Holy Roman Emperor.’

‘And you will ask for?’

‘My title to be confirmed and for an imperial host to come south so Conrad can enforce his rights as the heir to Charlemagne.’

The cleric was a Lombard, as was this boy; the notion of seeking aid from any imperial court was not natural to a race that hankered after independence. That they should invite into their region either power showed just how much Pandulf had set matters on edge. The Dukedom of Naples, sandwiched between Salerno and Capua, would be next if the Wolf was not checked, the Lord of that valuable fief being fearful enough to seek to appease the Wolf, rather than antagonise him, with constant gifts of gold. He too, in such times, would accept help from wherever it could be found.

‘The Charlemagne claim is one that Constantinople has never accepted,’ intoned the archbishop, leaving Guaimar to wonder if a reprise of the obvious was a clerical trait. ‘They insist they have the rights of a suzerain in South Italy.’

Faced with that evident truth, the young man could only reply in kind. ‘They have not sought rights on the western side of the Apennines for a hundred years.’

‘But they respect no other claim. It would not do us good to have both emperors fighting over us, as they have in the past, like a dog bone.’

‘Would Byzantium send a host to contest that claim if Conrad was beyond Rome with an army?’

‘Unlikely, I grant you. But could even Conrad defeat Rainulf Drengot and his Normans? No one here has done so.’

‘I do not wish to defeat the Normans.’

‘Forgive me…’ the Archbishop protested.

Guaimar was fired up with the idea he had, and that made him cut across a man unused to such behaviour from a greybeard parishioner, let alone a callow youth. ‘They are mercenaries. We must find the means to purchase their support.’

‘Your father…’

The old man was interrupted once more.

‘Is dead! I am his heir, and it is my right to decide policy and it cannot be the same as that which brought him to an early grave.’

The priest was quite sharp; not even in rule did dukes talk over him. ‘You are heir to a patrimony in which you have no power, my son. You lack warlike qualities, so I do not see you as some great military captain scattering your enemies before you. Need I remind you that your father trusted Rainulf Drengot only to be betrayed? He gifted him a great deal for his loyalty, but that was not enough.’

‘I shall have to find something to give Rainulf which will bind him to my cause.’

‘And what could that possibly be?’

‘The answer to that lies elsewhere.’

‘Why do I have the impression that you are keeping something back?’

Guaimar was being evasive; he had an idea but it was one he did not want to openly espouse. He also
knew he was in danger of alienating this man, and that he could not afford. ‘I am, but I do so in concern for you.’

‘Explain.’

‘What if you were to share the fate of Pandulf’s own archbishop?’

Even sitting, such a notion made the bent old man shiver, for it was the stuff of his nightmares. He had heard of the treatment meted out to those in the Wolf’s dungeons, the priestly eminence and the bishop’s mitre no protection, and was aware that the Prince of Capua was as arbitrary as he was cruel. No crime need be perceived or committed to render him that fate; he could be taken to the oubliette at any moment for merely holding his office.

‘What if you had all the aims of my mission and Pandulf sought them from you? He would apply hot irons to your body and rack you to get them, would he not?’ That got a slow nod. ‘So I will keep to myself what I plan, then you cannot be tortured to reveal it.’

That sent the archbishop back into a reverie behind his seemingly praying hands. There he was weighing up doing what had been asked or doing nothing. Both were fraught with risk, but this boy surely proposed the lesser of two evils, the possibility of a return to the peace and prosperity he had once enjoyed under his father. Imperial armies had come before, but
always they had gone home again having ensured their rights.

‘Very well, my son, I see it is the duty of the church to support you in this.’

‘Your Grace will not regret it.’

‘There is a Jew just off the marketplace who will advance sums against plate I have hidden in his vaults. I cannot give you enough to have you journey as you should, like a prince, but journey you must. Only I beg of you, even if you plan to do so in disguise, do not pass through Capua.’

‘The Volturno near the sea is low at this time of year. We do not need the bridge in Capua to follow the road to Rome. We and our animals can wade the river.’

‘Then I ask you to pray with me, my son, for the success of your endeavour. May God protect you and keep you safe on your journey.’

The archbishop, with some difficulty, dipped to kneel on a hassock by his feet and began to murmur a prayer, one in which Guaimar joined him. He thought this young man without guile, but it was he who was the fool. Guaimar had not pointed out to him that if Pandulf found out about his mission and guessed how it had been funded, he would rack and sear this priest regardless of ignorance or knowledge.

CHAPTER FOUR

A week of manoeuvre had come to an end; the field of battle had been set. The Norman host rose stiff from their slumbers to a damp, grey dawn mist, and before they fed themselves, on a morning of expected conflict, more prayers were said, each fighting man using his sword to represent the Cross on which their Lord Jesus had died so that they may be saved. Murmuring the Stations of that Cross they entreated the Almighty that their sins might be forgiven, their fears evaporate, their deeds be courageous and if they should fall that their souls be granted entry into paradise.

Prayers done, their fast could be broken; some, as they ate, made loud jokes to hide their concerns, others laughed at those sallies with too much mirth, but most were silent, concentrating on being sure
that everything about their equipment was in perfect order: that their sword could not be sharper, nor less so the blades of their knives and the points of their lance. Many spoke to their horses as if they were still speaking to God, for in battle, their mounts would be as great an aid to survival as their faith.

The destriers they would ride – tough horses bred not for speed but for steadiness and fearlessness – picked up the mood and those inclined to be restless anyway became hard to control as they were saddled and caparisoned, with many a knight or squire required to be swift on his feet to avoid a flashing hoof or a quick nervous bite.

For the first time, the de Hautevilles unpacked their surcoats, new and bright, woven, sown and dyed especially for this day, bearing the same blue and white chequer as their painted shields. Each knight attended upon another, making sure that belts and straps on waist, knee and forehead were tight, that the girths on the horses were not frayed or loose, that the stirrups were of the right length to bear easily the weight of a standing rider.

If Tancred de Hauteville was fussier than most, intent on ensuring that his whole convoy was in perfect condition, that was part habit, but more that he was leading his sons into battle for the first time. It never occurred to him that they would disgrace
him, or fail to fight as hard as any man in the duke’s army, but over and over again he repeated the mantras that they had heard from his lips all their lives about how to handle their mounts, how to pay attention to commands, which way to hold and use their lance while ensuring that their shields protected them from the counter-thrusts of those they would be attacking. If he noticed that the murmured agreement from the lips of his sons and their like-age companions sounded bored, it did nothing to dent his insistence.

William was doing much the same as an elder brother, acting as if he had battle experience when he had only participated in local skirmishes, and annoying his siblings mightily. But they no more rejected advice from him than they did from their father, for in truth they knew the elder brother to be using his concern to allay his own nervous anticipation. And all were prey to the same thought: they had sought this day since they were children contesting with wooden swords, dreamt of it when as youths they first rode and sought to control, with nothing but their knees, a fighting horse. Now it was upon them, it did not seem so splendid as it had in anticipation.

The anxious tics evaporated when the horns blew to assemble. It was like a signal, for the mist lifted as the rising sun began to burn it off, and the men of
the Norman cavalry were greeted with the first sight of the Franks they would fight alongside, a footborne host marching in its own cloud of dust, heading in straggling columns towards the nearby field of combat, men whose heads seemed to be bowed already with weariness. The sound of a beating drum drifted on the air, the steady beat in time with those hundreds of silent feet.

‘They look sapped already,’ said William.

‘Beaten,’ Drogo added, ‘though they’re not yet running.’

‘Then be glad you have a horse to carry you,’ growled Tancred. ‘Now get your helmets on and mount up.’

The move to do so was carried out with a degree of inflexibility, for even young and strong as his boys were they were hampered in their movement by the weight of their mail hauberks, indeed Geoffrey de Montbray, a small cross of the crucified Christ swinging on his chest, had to have a leg-up to mount, which earned him a few remarks about the diminishing power of the deity he represented.

‘As long as I feel his power in my sword arm, cousins, that will suffice, though I will pray for the souls of those I smite.’

They were horsed by the time the duke rode round the camp to take a salute from his troops. Mounted on a magnificent grey animal and wearing mail finer than those of his vassals, he exuded confidence and
William de Hauteville, for one, wondered if he felt as he did: that whatever rank they held, whatever other matters impinged on their lives, this was the high point of their existence. Nothing mattered more to a Norman of noble birth than the ability and willingness to engage in battle; nothing had greater importance in their society than the ability to wield a sword and win a fight. Let others till the soil and harvest the crops, let others tend the sheep, the cattle, the chickens and the goats. A knight had but one true purpose.

Behind Robert rode the Constable of the host and the Master Marshall, as well as that high-ranking prelate William had seen in the ducal pavilion. He was not in clerical garb now: like cousin Geoffrey he was equipped for battle, albeit his mail was covered by a more priestly surplice, for he alone had the right to wear proud on his breast the sign of the Cross. Before each assembled battaile he stopped, bowed his head, uttered a short prayer, then blessed them with two swift strokes of his right hand.

Inspection complete, Robert, Duke of Normandy, stood in his stirrups and addressed his knights, his voice strong and carrying. ‘This day, we must help the Lord to whom I am a vassal, the King of the Franks, assert his right. Base is the brother that seeks to usurp the power of a rightful king.’

The slight ripple of noise that ran through the army was quickly suppressed; how many listening wondered
at their duke’s use of those words?

‘My Lord of France has an army, but he does not have what I can bring to him, which is the best and most puissant mounted host in Christendom. You are Normans!’ They jabbed their lances and cheered, which Duke Robert killed off with a raised hand. ‘I have no doubt today will bring victory to our arms, and I have sworn before my Lord Bishop of Fécamp that in thanks for this I will undertake a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. My life and soul I commend to God this day, as I commend yours, and since my being is in his hands, I will not shrink from the loss of it, if the Almighty so wills it.’

That brought forth a cry of emotion, a denial of the obvious fact that no man in a fight could say what his fate would be.

‘I ask only the same of you all. Should I fall…’

That needed another ducal hand to silence disagreement. As that was imposed, a gap opened behind Duke Robert, to admit a small boy, perhaps no more than five years old, sat on a white palfrey; dark haired, pale of complexion and slight of build he came to take station beside the duke, significantly by his right hand.

‘Should I fall, I commend to you my son, William of Falaise, may God preserve and keep him. He is my true heir, and you, my vassals, must serve him as you would serve me.’

With that Robert bent from his mount, low, to kiss his son. He indicated that his ducal gonfalon was to be brought forward, and the boy was obliged to kiss that, and loud was the subsequent cheer for the universal sign of inheritance. It would have taken a keen eye and ear to note that not all were joining in the acclaim, to note that in some quarters there was not only silence, but a look of doubt, if not anger. If they had been close enough to Tancred de Hauteville, as his eldest son was, they would have heard him grinding his teeth.

The horns blew on the Constable’s signal and Robert swung his horse to lead his men to the field of battle under the fluttering banner of those two recumbent golden lions on a bright-red background that was the standard of his house.

Naturally, being cavalry the duke sought the high ground, an aid to any mounted attack. On this elevated position the sun-dappled battlefield lay before the men in the front rank, which included the de Hautevilles, like some kind of yet-to-be-sewn tapestry. The king’s rebellious brother had drawn up his army with its left fixed on a river, with a force of cavalry on a mound to his right, protecting the mass of his infantry and ensuring they could not be outflanked there. The ground, from the river, rose to where the cavalry sat, not much, but it indicated to at least one
keen eye that the line of attack for the king’s infantry was on the flatter ground, where the river would offer protection to their right as well.

‘I wonder if that river is fordable?’ William asked.

‘You think to surprise them, brother?’ asked Drogo, sat on William’s right.

‘I fear more they may surprise us. Those horsemen on the right might not be the whole force pitted against us. What if they have pushed another battaile to cross further downstream and come upon us behind this position?’

‘We would see them.’

William pointed to the rolling hills on the opposite bank. ‘Not if they are in the folds of those.’

‘The duke would turn and destroy them,’ insisted Tancred. ‘Man for man we are ten times any Frank, be he horsed or not.’

‘Which would,’ William responded, ‘draw us off and if that happened at the right time…’

‘You’re imagining things,’ his brother insisted.

‘Probably, but they hold the ground, Drogo, forcing us to come to them and our friend yonder is definitely intent on a defensive battle…’

‘How can you know that?’

‘He is standing his ground, which means he is waiting to be attacked.’

‘Though you forget to add it matters not what he does,’ his father said.

‘I’m just speculating.’

‘Anyone would think you were in command.’

There was no rancour in that remark, more a touch of humour.

‘I’m just thinking what I would do if I was, or even more, what I would do if I was the enemy, which I cannot but believe is a good notion.’

‘Can’t you see it?’ Tancred interrupted. ‘The King of the Franks hopes to do this without help. The last thing he wants is for Duke Robert to win his battle. If he did he would have used us first to seek to break the enemy line. But he has not, and I can tell you if he can win on his own, with just his milites, he will do so, which might just allow him to repudiate whatever promises he had made for our support.’

‘So we could have come all this way for no purpose, money service aside.’

The eyes on either side of his father’s nose guard were not pleased at that reference, so William decided on silence, but he could not help but let his mind speculate on all the possible ways in which this battle could be played out. The king’s foot soldiers would, even if they tried to attack across the whole front of the enemy line, naturally trend towards the flat ground and once they were engaged the enemy cavalry, using the slope before them, might try to drive them towards the river.

It was not necessary to beat them, merely to crowd
them into a smaller frontage and so reduce the power of the assault. Draw off the Normans then, and their allies would be in trouble, but such a tactic only worked if the rebellious brother had enough mounted men to split his force, and Drogo was right; there was no evidence of that.

Henry Capet had started his attack. Pikemen at the front, they were moving forward in a line getting more ragged as the uneven ground broke the cohesion of their formation. William could see his notion had been right; the men on the far left were veering right towards the river, they could not help it: the slope dictated they do so. Whoever led them had seen the problem and called a halt to redress the line.

‘Crossbowmen,’ said Drogo.

‘He is using them to keep his enemy in place,’ said Tancred.

‘His enemy, Father, is happy to stay where he is. Those bolts are doing little damage at the range they’re firing. They would be better kept until the range is right.’

‘God in heaven, I have bred a Caesar?’

William threw back his head and laughed, loud enough to make his horse skittish. ‘You might have, Father, but it is as likely to be a Nero as a Julius.’

Silence descended, apart from the snorting of the horses, a thudding hoof and the occasional loud
fart before they voided their bowels. Redressed, the attacking line began to move again, but the one thing the commanders had not done was to rectify the way the force was still compacting. There was an ethereal quality to what they were observing. Barring the occasional trumpet, no sound could be heard, though there must have been a mass of shouting as the leaders exhorted their men and those men yelled to give themselves courage.

The two lines converged until they were only twenty paces apart and suddenly that silence was ruptured, as the attackers broke into a charge, the yelling that came in one bellow from several thousand throats rolling up the hill, the clash of metal on metal added to that as the armies clashed. To William what happened next was like watching the tide, a gentle one that lapped the sandy beaches not far from home. The join where men were fighting, being pressed to stay engaged by the masses behind them, wavered this way and that, like wavelets running up and receding on a beach, and for an age it seemed there was no advantage either way. Then the defenders slowly but surely seemed to give, and William noticed the enemy cavalry stirring.