Son of Blood (15 page)

The tang of the sea was strong in Bohemund’s nostrils, his knees bending alternately as he rode easily the pitch and roll of the deck. The sky was blue and the surrounding sea, save from his own vessels, was empty, with the black ravens in their coops cawing now, aware by some divine gift that the sight of land was diminishing. He was thinking this was how his Viking ancestors had terrorised the world, pagan warriors sailing or rowing to destinations sometimes a year
away – the cities of the eastern Mediterranean had not been spared – over endless seas out of sight of land, even up rivers to great inland cities like Paris and Tours, to steal, burn and destroy, and if that failed, to extract tribute for the mere act of withdrawal. As of this moment he felt at one with them.

If it was a mystery how the sailing master knew the direction in which to go in daylight; that was multiplied when darkness fell and the only sight of the fleet was the myriad flickering stern lanterns. The sky was filled with a million stars, numerous and strong enough to make up for the paucity of a moon, and by now Lamissio had realised that this commander was a different kind of Norman, with an even temper and a genuine desire to be instructed, amazed that to sail at night was easy for a man who had been at his trade from the age of five. Lamissio knew his constellations and the stars within them, and where they would be at any given time of year.

‘Why, sir, it is as easy as walking an old Roman road.’

‘When will we raise Valona?’ Bohemund asked, in order to avoid agreement; he was far from sure he could ever learn to do that which Lamissio did quite naturally.

There was a pause while a concentrated examination was made of the heavens, Bohemund in the darkness having no difficulty in hiding a smile, for he guessed this was play-acting. ‘We will be off the town before first light.’

‘Could we sail directly in?’

The sucking of teeth was just as overdone. ‘Depends, Your Honour. If the great lanterns are lit on the end of the moles, maybe, and even then we would have to risk them sealing off the harbour.’

‘Chains and logs?’

The nod was imperceptible. ‘Which would rip the bottom off any galley that tried to enter.’

‘If the chain could be broken?’

‘Don’t see how, sir.’

Bohemund laughed, for a plan was forming in his mind. ‘That is because you are a seafarer.’

There was no overnight rest. It took five turns of the glass to relay Bohemund’s instructions, which saw the fleet of galleys drop their sails and close with great care till there was little space between the oars of those sailing abreast and even less between the bow and stern of the vessels following, a point from which orders to the fighting men could be relayed by shouts. Then they had to douse their lights, the only one visible that of Lamissio’s ship, out ahead of the rest, where a bit of thick canvas had been rigged to cut off the light from the approaching shore, while beside it rested the sailing master’s hourglass, the sand slowly dribbling through. Still too far off to be visible, it was the hankering caw of the ravens that told Lamissio they were as close to land as Bohemund needed to be.

An order was relayed to the ship of Reynard of Eu, who would take over command if what Bohemund was about to attempt failed and, satisfied that all was understood, the command was given to Lamissio’s oarsmen to bend their backs and head for shore, their course made easier by the twin pinpricks of light that marked the harbour entrance to Valona, one of which they trended left and away from. Looking back, Bohemund could see the phosphorescent spill of the trailing galleys as they came on at a lesser and he hoped controlled speed.

Having been a sailor man and boy, there was scarcely a port on the inland sea that Lamissio had not visited at some time or other;
he knew them from the outer mole to the most deeply embedded tavern-cum-whorehouse and everything in between. He had been to Valona more times than he could count and he knew to the width of his own hand where the barrier that blocked off the harbour at night was fixed. Would they have armed men on that mole? There was no way of being sure but the possibility had to be accepted. The Duke of Apulia’s intentions, a great fleet refitted for aggression and a huge army waiting to embark across a narrow stretch of sea, could not be hidden and the coastal towns of Illyria must be on alert.

Valona had been selected because it had an anchorage large enough to provide the
Guiscard
with a base for his fleet and it would not require too wise a head for the Byzantine governor to be aware of this, just as he would know that if his town walls were sound and would require a fully enforced siege to break, his Achilles heel was the harbour mole. Lamissio outlined the way they acted to protect that: apart from bowmen and pots of catapulted fire, sharp iron-tipped stakes were set into the stonework which protruded out far enough to snare any vessel at a distance from which they could not do harm.

It was the thought of his Viking heritage that had brought a solution to Bohemund and because of that, lying on a long plank protruding from the bows, he was the sharpest pair of eyes in the ship. The galley, propelled by a half-reefed dark-red sail, was approaching at a snail’s pace, the oars used more to slow progress than propel, what the man in the bows could see passed back in whispers.

‘My Lord, your surcoat will catch the starlight.’

Looking down, Bohemund realised that Lamissio was right; half of his family colour was a stark white and having already unstrapped
his sword belt – the weapon for the coming task was an axe – it was flapping too, thus more likely to catch the eye. He whipped the garment off and rolled it so only the blue was showing, then tied it round his waist, eager to wear it into the coming contest. Just then a low call came back that they were approaching the first of the wooden barbs, its sharp point visible only because the metal tip reflected a small amount of the light. The call to his knights, who had been crouching in the bulwarks, was just as soft, though there was, he thought, an excess of carrying noise from knocked weapons as they stood to prepare.

Bohemund reasoned, and knew he would pay a high price if he was mistaken, that any guard detachment would not be stationed overnight out on the mole and neither would they be wide awake; they would have a shelter somewhere close to the quay and sleep in their mail and with their weapons beside them. That would mean a lookout, possibly only one on each side of the harbour entrance, and they would have been staring out at a silvery seascape for a long time, tiring to the eyes and inclined to induce slumber. He had used the lanterns to stay well away from the mouth, and the sailing master had also kept them out of the stronger streak of light provided by a sliver of moon now high in the sky. Could they get ashore unseen?

‘Back the oars,’ Lamissio called, bringing on a splash, thankfully covered by the sea slapping against the base of the mole. There was a thud as contact was made and so sharp were those metal ends that the galley shuddered to a halt as it embedded itself in the timbers. Bohemund had to admire the man in charge of sailing the vessel, for without being told Lamissio had got ready a grappling iron which was cast the short distance to another barb where one of the prongs got enough purchase to pull in the stern, and
Bohemund gave quiet orders to proceed when contact was made with the side of the ship.

To say that those he led had doubts was an understatement; not all of them so readily harked back to a Viking inheritance and one of his lances had made a very valid point when he suggested the barbs might be greased. The sailing master solved that by bringing up from below sacks of ballast, which contained grainy sand and, before the first Norman foot hit the protruding wooden poles, a pair of ship’s boys went first, barefooted, nimble and who could both swim, spilling sand ahead of them on which they got their own purchase.

Now sure they could keep their feet, Bohemund led his knights in file along the same wide tree trunks – gingerly, for they were less sure of foot than the youngsters. If it was not an example of the old Viking game of walking the oars, it was close enough for the man in command and he was tall enough, when he got to the end, to hoist himself onto the wall that lined the mole, as well as strong enough once he was on it to reach down and help up his confrères. Within what seemed like a blink Bohemund had twenty fully armed knights ready to do battle.

That was not the aim; the target was the log and chain barrier and that was close by the nearest harbour-mouth lantern. Two men were there as guards and lookouts, though they failed in both respects, for they had seen nothing and were so surprised at the sudden appearance of an enemy that they could not even get their swords out in time. Both were clubbed to the ground while Bohemund used his axe to cut, with six powerful and noisy blows, the thick cable that secured the barrier.

There was no need for silence now. Bohemund shouted for the
covered stern lantern of his galley to be shown, that being the signal to those following that the harbour mouth was open and they were safe to point their prows at those twin lights and sail between them. A clever brain would have doused one – what was coming must have been obvious – but that too was lacking. All that could be heard were panicked shouts, but that was fading as the Normans made their way towards the point where the mole joined the quay.

Fighting men, roused from their slumbers, faced them, but they were Greeks who had never come up against Normans and very likely not of the highest calibre anyway. As soon as the front rank of three were despatched, a pair being cut at so hard they ended up in the water, the rest fled, this while behind them Bohemund’s galleys were entering the harbour, making a hellish racket as instructed to strike terror into what defence could be quickly mustered. Chasing the mole defenders, the party of land-bound knights found themselves on the quay without an enemy, this as the first hint of light began to tinge the sky above the harbourside buildings.

Half the shouting now was from the inhabitants hurriedly fleeing their houses, shouting that the Saracens had come, a cry that did more to aid Bohemund than any sword or axe. The infidels who worshipped Mohammed had come many times over the centuries and they did not just come to plunder; they came to rape both women and men, to roast their captives over open fires and to destroy every Christian church they came across – the Saracens, in this part of the world, were the dread in the dreams of adults and children alike.

What soldiers the governor of Valona possessed made for the citadel, surrounded by fleeing locals. Meeting up with Reynard on
the now dimly lit quay, Bohemund cautioned his men not to engage but to merely chase them into that defence. The citadel he did not need – that could wait, especially if those who might contest with him were locked up inside. It was the waters of the anchorage he wanted, as well as the long, low shoreline and the town. A fast-rowing galley was sent back to Brindisi to tell the
Guiscard
that he had a base for both his fleet and his army.

‘D
amn the Pope!’ The messenger from Rome, a priest, was shocked at such blasphemy and it showed on his face, but the force with which the Duke of Apulia expounded his curse made him take a step backwards too. ‘First he encourages me to invade Illyria, then he gets cold feet and demands of me that I desist.’

‘He does not ask for that, My Lord,’ the priest replied, in the kind of stammering tone that indicated he was in terror of the reaction. ‘He fears that with you and your entire host absent from Italy, there is nothing to prevent King Henry from descending on Rome to force an election – that it is only the threat of your intervention that prevents such a calamity. He feels a substantial body of your lances on the edge of papal territory will act as a deterrent.’

‘Benevento, you mean?’ Robert asked, enjoying the discomfort it caused; that was a territory three popes had been trying to throw
de Hautevilles out of for years. ‘I thought Pope Gregory had excommunicated him again?’

‘He has, My Lord, but it has not had the same effect as hitherto.’

‘Then he’s learnt something, perhaps from me.’

‘A contingent of lances?’ the priest asked, with the air of a man desperate to get back on to the subject of his journey.

‘That won’t stop Henry if he is serious.’

‘That is not what His Holiness believes. He is of the opinion that such a thing will induce caution, for Bamberg knows that to harm one of your race is to raise anger in them all.’

With Jordan ruling Capua, Robert wondered if that was now something of a myth, but it was one he would still propagate. Yet it left him on the horns of a dilemma, for he suspected that in Illyria he would need every fighting man he could muster. Against that he was in vassalage duty-bound to come to the aid of his suzerain if the Pope required it, and at the risk of falling out with Rome at a time when it would be unwise to do so.

‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘Return to the Lateran and inform Pope Gregory that I will do my duty by him.’

‘Did you mean that, husband?’ Sichelgaita asked when the priest had departed.

‘I will give him a small detachment only and by the time he finds out I have only half fulfilled my duty I might have beaten whatever force Byzantium sends against me.’ Seeing the look his son was giving him, one of deep disapproval, Robert snapped at him. ‘When you come to rule my domains,
Borsa
, you will find that the truth is a movable commodity, especially when dealing with a man like Gregory.’

‘I cannot but see it as a grave sin to lie to a pope.’

‘You see sin everywhere.’

‘For which I thank the Lord.’

Robert poked his own chest as his chamberlain entered. ‘This is the lord you have to thank!’ Then he turned and barked at the man, ‘What do you want?’

‘My Lord, a galley has just arrived from Valona, which is in the hands of the advance party.’

‘What!’

About to say Bohemund had taken it, the chamberlain hesitated; the presence of Sichelgaita made that unwise. ‘The force you sent has control of the anchorage and the town. Reynard of Eu is waiting to report to you on how it was taken.’

‘Let him enter!’ Robert whooped.

Then he looked at his wife and son as if to challenge them to say something. Sichelgaita, without a word, swept out of the chamber with
Borsa
at her heels, she having silently indicated that he must follow. His wife had no desire to hear how his bastard had taken in the blink of an eye a port that had not been expected to fall for at least a month and quite possibly not without his own presence as well as that of his army. Once he had heard the tale of Bohemund’s exploits he was quick to command that both the Master of the Host and the Fleet be sent for; Robert needed to get both his vessels and his men over the water quickly to take advantage of this.

‘Will you come too, My Lord?’ his familia knight asked, for he had heard a rumour that, for the sake of the Pope, his leader might be delayed.

‘Reynard,’ the Duke responded. ‘How can I wait?’

Bohemund had not waited either; his confidence was so high he felt he could conquer anything and anywhere merely by showing intent, so
he sailed down to Corfu with a small portion of his force. Possession of the island was a necessary precursor to any invasion of Illyria, this to protect the southern flank from an incursion by what remained of the Byzantine navy, once powerful, now, due to neglect, a shadow of its former self. Yet any naval force, even a small and badly equipped one, could distract from the main purpose, and should they appear in Corfu they would have an anchorage too close for comfort to the rear of the Apulian operations, able to emerge at will from the narrows of the channel between the island and mainland to raid the
Guiscard
’s supply lines.

The initial target was the Castle of Kassiopi, one of the three Byzantine fortresses on Corfu, which covered the northern exit from the narrows. Bohemund knew the total island garrison to be tiny and poorly equipped – this information supplied to his father by Greek traders – which would mean insufficient men at Kassiopi to even hold all of its walls. The
Guiscard
’s plan envisaged securing the island by bringing his whole fleet to its shores as if that was where they meant to land, an armada against which the Byzantines could offer no meaningful resistance; faced with overwhelming numbers no blame would attach to the governor if he surrendered, but to take it without that would be a feat to equal or even surpass Valona. Bohemund wanted to gift his sire Corfu as a prize before he even set sail from Brindisi.

Without those numbers, the notion of taking any of the fortresses was based on bluff, it being more a case of asking them to surrender rather than threatening any action other than burning boats and parts of the towns over which they presided. Much bluster was employed to persuade the garrison of Kassiopi to open the gates; the Greeks just laughed at his threats, being behind stout walls, now crammed with
the population of the town, who had fled to join them as soon as the Norman galleys were sighted. Somewhat disheartened, Bohemund was forced to withdraw and anchor his ships off Butrinto, across the Corfu Channel on the mainland, there to wait for the Duke and his armada.

It took days to get the army in its entirety into and through Brindisi, down to the quays and onto the ships, which included every trading vessel Geoffrey Ridel, his Master of the Fleet, could commandeer, and they were sent to the outer anchorage as soon as they had sorted out the mayhem and got men loaded. The less than perfectly trained
milities
were bad enough, the Saracen levies Roger had sent from Sicily much better, but that was as nothing to the bugbear that attended every Norman army making a sea crossing.

There would be horses in Illyria; Bohemund would have sent out parties from Valona to acquire as many as he could, but that would be nothing like the number the Apulian host would require. Roger first, then Robert and he in company, had experienced the problem in crossing to Sicily, an operation in which they had learnt a great deal from their Byzantine opponents, who were much more practised in the art of moving a mounted host. Also, despite his aversion to the Duke of Normandy, Norman solidarity, added to a close-to-pleading request, had obliged him to advise William regarding the transport of his horses over to England using the same methods and specially adapted vessels as were being applied now.

‘And what did I get for it?’ he would demand when the subject came up, which it did when his knights wanted to amuse themselves by goading him. ‘Nothing, not even a brass groat, and this while he was handing out land to all and sundry, even his damned squires. If he had not had his destriers at Senlac, he would not have the crown
of England and he would not have got them there without we told him how!’

He came down to the quay himself to watch the loading and to add his towering voice to the confusion, which was not always an aid. Horses had a terror of anything with which they were not familiar and that included moving ramps, and however generous, ships that were not steady either, even in harbour – broad-bottomed sailing vessels onto which they had to be loaded in their thousands, enough mounts for fifteen hundred Norman lances as well as the lighter Lombard and Saracen cavalry.

The destriers, bred for and trained in battle tactics, were the easiest to load, for they had been, through long training, brought to a pitch of fearlessness necessary to carry their rider straight at a shield wall of yelling adversaries waving swords and spears. The cavalry mounts were more skittish, and a stiff wind blowing sails and ropes about, as well as any loose bits of canvas, made it hard to get them to voluntarily walk up the gangways to the deck, which was as nothing to getting them down another narrow ramp into the dark hold and into the constricted stalls set up to keep them safe on the swell, each with strapping to run under their bellies in case their legs gave way.

In this they would kick and bite, as well as splay their legs to become immovable even with ropes round their flanks, which is when an equine found out just how much a Norman loved his horse, for many got a hard buffet on the snout from a less than contented knight. The packhorses, many of them mares, were the worst, neighing and rearing in panic, a goodly number only happy when hooded and rendered blind, others requiring a mix of herbs that Count Roger had learnt how to mix from Calabrian monks, a potion which sedated
them enough to allow them to be led aboard. Then came the donkeys and those who looked after them, that great trail of bodies of various trades and none that would bring up the rear of the host when it marched.

The same scene was being played out in the port of Otranto, lower down the Apulian coast. When the ships bearing both the knights and their mounts had departed for the outer roads it was time to load the supply vessels with everything the army needed, from bales of hay down to cooking pots, farrier’s nails and shoes, hoof oil, curry combs, spare weapons, mail, bolts of canvas to make tents and salted fish and meat. That was a supply that might need to be maintained as long as the host was in Illyria; the Normans lived off the land where they could, but that was not always possible, especially when the force was numbered in the thousands.

The return of Count Radulf from Constantinople brought Robert back from overseeing the loading to his castle, but it did not bring to his master any joy or the information he sought – quite the opposite; what he was told sent him into a towering rage. In the first place the usurping Emperor Botaneiates, who was so unpopular Robert saw him as easy meat in any coming battle, had himself been overthrown, replaced by a claimant to the purple called Alexius Comnenus.

He was, according to Radulf, the nephew of a previous emperor and so had the right to the diadem. He was also a talented general, popular with the Byzantine mob and a soldier who could command respect in the imperial provinces. None of this came as music to Robert’s ears, but what pricked Robert’s anger most was the calm way his envoy informed him that Alexius was strong for peace. He was prepared to return the Duke’s daughter or even allow a marriage
to Constantine, to whom he had acted as guardian, his envoy adding that that young man’s father, the deposed Michael Dukas, was still alive, happy making his way as an Orthodox priest, and that Radulf had even spoken with him.

Pope Gregory had sent Robert a fellow who claimed to be that self-same deposed emperor, a wretched-looking creature in a monk’s garb who certainly did not convince many, and certainly not a sly judge of character like the
Guiscard
; his son and heir,
Borsa
, had openly scoffed at the notion that this might be the true Michael Dukas, and he was far from alone – not surprisingly, for Dukas had been, prior to taking the purple, a successful general and man of some standing, an able courtier to boot, who had all the attributes to go with his position. Gregory’s false Michael was not quite an oaf, but he leant closer to that estate than towards the kind of grandeur of a man who had ruled Byzantium.

To Robert anyone would do, even if he was utterly unconvincing; in the tangled skein of imperial politics there would be those who still professed allegiance to Michael Dukas, and if he could claim that he was acting with and on the deposed emperor’s behalf, how many men could be detached from their present loyalty and thus reduce the number of his foes? Gregory’s man was a weapon, not a very good one but an asset nevertheless. The last thing the Duke of Apulia wanted publicly spoken about was that he was definitely an impostor, which was what Count Radulf was keen to prove.

‘The coup had not taken place when I departed,’ Radulf continued, his voice full of confidence. ‘I heard it as I crossed Romania, but I suspected it was coming and spent time with Alexius Comnenus as though he had already assumed the throne. He speaks of harmony between Apulia and the Empire and would welcome the opportunity
to talk with you in person and in friendship.’ In making his report, Count Radulf had failed to see the effect his words were having on his master: the
Guiscard
’s already florid face had gone bright red, not least because it seemed his envoy had utterly failed in what was his true mission.

‘Did you speak with those Normans who have taken service with Byzantium?’

Radulf responded with an airy wave. ‘I did, but not to press them to come to join you, My Lord, since it seems we are to be at peace with the new dispensation.’

‘So you have not brought back with you a single lance?’

Radulf finally began to realise his account of his embassy was not being well received. His voice lost its air of self-assurance and he began to stammer. ‘A-as I s-said …’

He got no further, and if his master stared low in his rebuke, the voice rose inexorably to a pitch of saliva-spitting rage. ‘You are a dolt, Count Radulf …’

‘I—’

‘Silence! A fool who has not for a second even begun to obey the instructions with which I despatched you to Constantinople. I sent you on the pretext of my daughter, not on an errand to see she was being well cared for. I sent you to get some sense of the forces Botaneiates could put in the field and to attract to my banner those Norman lances that, due to your stupidity, I might now face in the field, and then you come back singing the praises of another damned usurper, talking of him as though he is a companion of your bosom.’