Son of Blood (9 page)

In a ceremony that would last half the day there was no sign of impatience; the congregations of Rome were accustomed to lengthy Masses as well as the stifling heat of packed humanity; there was no room for a communion wafer between the shoulders of the crowd. It was only when the final prayers were said over the coffin that the murmuring started, a beehive-like noise that made bile rise in Hildebrand’s throat and his blood begin to surge, for it showed a lack of respect to the man being interred.

Then he recognised his name, first being whispered, then called, to be finally shouted, and he felt a frisson of fear. It had not happened for a long time, but it was not unknown for a Roman mob to string up someone they blamed for a real or perceived sin, and Alexander had been a much loved pontiff, added to which no pope died without rumours spreading through the seven hills and foul-smelling slums of rank deeds being involved in his passing. The
noise grew, becoming universal, and it was only then he understood what it was they were yelling and that induced in his heart a feeling of cold fear.

Those close by, all clerics, parted to let through to him the poorer members of the laity, and it was their hands that took him and lifted him bodily to bear him out of the church where he was greeted by a screaming and packed mob. From being hustled along Hildebrand was suddenly lying flat on his back being passed over a sea of hands, he saying as he was transported a loudly expressed prayer to God that was drowned out by the cacophony all around him. They bore him to the Church of St Peter Viniculus, where Alexander had been crowned, the only pope to use that church, and still the cry went up to rebound off a second set of church rafters and, even if he did not know it, throughout the crammed streets and squares until it seemed the whole of the Eternal City spoke with one voice and the cry was: ‘Hildebrand for Pope! Hildebrand for Pope!’

All those chosen to elect Alexander’s successor had followed and were now in conclave, which gave Hildebrand some hope, for canonical elections in their progress were long, drawn-out affairs; opinions were canvassed, names put forward and rejected – sometimes days, even weeks went by before consensus was arrived at and a candidate accepted. The Curia elected Hildebrand in less time than it took to consume a full flagon of wine and such was the cheering that no one could hear him protest that he could not be pontiff, for he was only a monk in lesser orders, not a fully consecrated priest, even less a bishop, which the Pope must be.

That too fell on deaf ears; in the millennium since its foundation the Catholic faith had been proscribed and provided martyrs in the thousands, risen to a state religion and been overawed by emperors,
seen its possessions, even its spiritual home, sacked and destroyed, and had brought it back to life and prominence. In that time it had become accustomed to both the necessity of compromise and need for expediency; when this objection finally got through to those who had elected him the solution was simple: Hildebrand was immediately ordained to be fully a priest and so entitled to hold the pontificate – his consecration as a bishop could wait.

‘Your election was popular,’ Desiderius insisted, to a collective and murmured assent as he chose to speak for the High Church dignitaries assembled inside what was now Hildebrand’s Lateran Palace. ‘Every voice in Rome from high to low is raised in acclamation.’

Seated by the desk at which he had worked for decades and slumped from exhaustion, Hildebrand replied with resignation, an unusual tone for such a passionate man. ‘I never sought this.’

‘Which makes you more suitable than most.’

‘It should be you.’

‘And if it was,’ the Abbot of Monte Cassino replied, ‘I would do no more, and pursue no policies other than those you advised. Better you do command yourself and are known to, than disburse the proclamations under another name.’

‘What will Bamberg say?’

‘They will fight you as Pope or whosoever we had chosen, for it would not be the Emperor’s nominee, but your own.’

‘Henry would have accepted you, Desiderius.’

The abbot wore a thin smile as he responded. ‘Which surely makes me a very unsuitable candidate.’

As they had been talking, a clutch of clerks had entered carrying folders relating to those things which Hildebrand had been dealing
with before his elevation, a list of appointments to the various offices of the Europe-wide Church, or at least approval or denial of same – William of England was being particularly difficult regarding the See of Canterbury. There were sheaves of letters, reports on everything, from what was happening in Constantinople to clerical malfeasance in selling benefices – neither encouraging – instructions to bishops to enforce celibacy or to defrock forthwith the deniers, and this applied especially in the regions ruled by the Duke of Apulia.

‘Which reminds me,’ Hildebrand said, as he beckoned one fellow forward, taking from him his folder and opening it to reveal on the top a finished letter, requiring only that it be signed. ‘This I penned last night, a message of condolence to the Duchess Sichelgaita on the loss of her husband. Hypocrisy, of course, God forgive me.’

‘If God will not forgive his Vicar on Earth, then who?’

Hildebrand looked hard at Desiderius then, for the abbot, despite all his apparent saintliness, was not beyond mockery. Speedily he read his letter again before reaching forward to extract a quill, which he dipped in his inkwell. Then he hesitated and looked up at Desiderius.

‘How shall I sign it, for I have not yet decided how I will be named?’

‘Now, Your Holiness, is as good a time as any.’

Hildebrand was startled to be so addressed. He sat for several moments in contemplation, then quickly bent and signed the letter. As soon as he did so another one of his clerks came to the desk and produced a stick of wax, which was held to a candle to melt. Then he put a red ribbon on the bottom of the missive, dripped the runny wax onto it and watched as the new Pope pressed home the ring with the papal seal that only he had the right to use. As he finished, Desiderius
held out a hand, took it from him and looked at the name scrawled across the bottom, nodding slowly.

‘Let us hope, Your Holiness, that Gregory is a name you can live up to.’

In Bari, the day before, the bells pealed out to announce that their liege lord had fully recovered, and to prove it to even the most sceptical and ill-disposed of his subjects he walked through the streets, on his wife’s arm and trailed by his sons. Behind them came Count Roger and the leading men of his court and the garrison, heading to the cathedral where a Mass was said to thank the Lord for his deliverance. He was, of course, examined closely; was it truly the
Guiscard
and not some cunning ploy of a lookalike? But even the most doubtful had to accept the truth, for if his appearance could possibly be faked, his irrepressible manner and sheer presence could not.

Naturally the priests claimed it was their prayers that had saved him, the physicians equally certain their ministrations had brought about the recovery. Robert himself put it down to his own robust spirit, though he was careful to assuage the Almighty with several Masses performed in gratitude for his deliverance over the coming week. That was when the letter of condolence arrived from Rome, along with news of the election of a new pope and who had been elevated. Yet that was not what set him off; it had to wait till the seal of the office of the new papal chancellor was broken. When he opened and read it the
Guiscard
laughed so hard he nearly suffered a relapse.

The letter was full of duplicity; he was not an excommunicate, but
a dear son of the Holy Church
. The cardinals and the Roman Senate were grieving at his passing; indeed
they had been brought low by
 
the news
. It said that Sichelgaita
in order that she should know of the perfect love we bore your husband
could take comfort from their permission for his son to succeed to those titles
which his father held from the Pope, our predecessor
. In other words, much as it pleased his wife when he read those words, remember he is our vassal!

‘Gregory the Seventh, by damn!’ Robert spat when he read the signature. ‘You can’t fault Hildebrand for ambition.’

‘He may live up to the name,’ Roger replied.

‘I hope not, brother; the last thing we need is a pope who earns the right to be called Gregory the Great. Hildebrand was enough of a damned nuisance as an archdeacon.’ Another of Robert’s huge belly laughs followed that. ‘Who knows, he might not last – he might go the way of Alexander when he hears I am still alive, which he will do from the messenger that will depart this very hour.’

W
ith extensive possessions to control and the news circulating of the elevation of Hildebrand to become Pope Gregory VII, it was not surprising that Richard of Capua, having seen to the greeting and engaged in just enough conversation to be polite, had excused himself and his son, for he had much business to which he had to attend. Locally this meant a line of supplicants taking advantage of their lord’s close presence, while mounted messengers came and went with noticeable frequency, carrying messages to and from the whole of Campania and very likely many places beyond.

In this industry he was aided by his son, Jordan, who gave an impression of taking a full part in ruling his father’s holdings, and given the princess had retired from the midday heat, Bohemund was left to his own devices. If he was a prisoner not a guest – yet to be proven despite what that herald had said – then he was bound by silken cords, free to move around at will, both inside the castle and
the immediate surroundings, but never out of sight of a watchful gaze from the many who attended upon his relatives.

He had grown up with people staring at him because of his height, but even taking that into account, the amount of attention he received from the Capuans amounted to an unusual degree of scrutiny and after a while he realised that one or a pair of them were observing his meanderings, if not always closely so. It was as if in his movement and actions they had been tasked to discern the very workings of his mind, while in conversation, when they did engage him, he was subjected to an unaccustomed amount of flattery. To hear them talk it was as if the prince’s nephew had plundered the possession of some sworn enemy rather than that of their lord and master, for they were full of praise for his sagacity and his actions; no mention was made of those Lombard lances who had died in that narrow, tree-lined valley.

There was not much to Montesárchio, either in the way of extensive fortifications or the town itself, yet it had all those attributes that marked it out as a Norman outpost, not least a large training manège by which he stopped, with a battered false shield wall occupying one whole end, stout wooden stakes marked by the deep cuts from wielded broadswords, posts set in a zigzag pattern that required good horsemanship through which to manoeuvre at a decent pace, much of the guiding having to be done by the pressure of thighs and knees alone, for the hands would be occupied with weapons. There were straw-stuffed sacks set on swinging uprights to test a man’s skill with the lance. It was empty now, being raked to remove all trace of what had taken place in the cool, early hours of the morning.

‘You will join us on the morrow, I hope,’ said one of the knights who kept popping up to converse with him. ‘We will all wish to observe your obvious prowess.’

‘Is it so apparent?’

‘How could it not be when you have so recently run rings round we poor Capuans? We were given to wonder if the name Bohemund was another appellation for a chimera.’

The gap between flattery and falsehood is wafer thin; that sounded more like the latter to Bohemund, making him consider a less than encouraging thought. Had he been allowed to raid at will, had they let him plunder in order to aid the seduction to which he was bound to be subjected? If he hoped not, still he felt it best to at least consider it possible, given it is better to dent your pride than burnish it.

Walking on, he cast a professional eye over the quality of the extensive stud, many areas full of mares and foals – they kept well away from their sires – until he found the paddock with his own mount, who was grazing so contentedly that it ignored his calls. Still it had been well groomed and looked sleek, crest and tail well combed and the hooves shiny with oil. He would have liked to find his saddle and harness but that was not possible, given he was still under observation, and the thought occurred that if he needed to make a break he might have to do so riding bareback.

Lest they work out his thinking he moved away, examining the castle and its defences from every angle, until he came full circle to a point where the small town of Montesárchio abutted the bottom of the causeway that led to the main gate. He made to enter the first of the narrow streets, only to find his way blocked by a pair of fellows who by their gentle gestures – a hand on their sword hilts added to a minimal shake – made it plain that such a course was not open to him. Tempted to brush them aside and go his own way, he was stopped by the sound of the running footsteps of a servant; the message had been sent that the princess, now the sun was past its zenith, was eager to receive him.

Not doubting that her husband was keen that she should test the waters of potential disloyalty, Bohemund turned and made his way back up the steep causeway, realising as he entered the cool stone interior that, still fully dressed in his mail, he was sweating from even those less than exacting perambulations. Even if the sun had dipped, it was still baking, which made him long for one of those naked dips in a cool river which he had enjoyed in the company of his conroys when they were sure no danger was at hand – the last occasion had been many days past. No doubt for the same reasons of temperature, Fressenda, attended by a pair of ladies in waiting, sat in near darkness, the small east-facing room she occupied heavily shuttered to keep out the sunlight.

‘Please sit, nephew, and tell me all about yourself.’

‘What is to tell that you do not already know?’

‘Much, I suspect, for if we are family we are not of the close kind. I have not seen you since you were a bouncing child and an appealing one at that, with your curls. You were of a size even then and restless, never still. Now, on the cusp of manhood you have your passions in check, but I wonder if there is anything of that boisterous babe still present?’

‘I have not lost my love of mischief.’

That, an obvious allusion to his recent actions, made her laugh, and it had about it something of the
Guiscard
, though without the booming level of noise. Bohemund was frustrated by the gloom; he wanted to see her face, not just hear her voice. It is easy to dissemble when your features are hidden, much harder to be evasive when every word is accompanied by a facial expression, and, he thought, since she shared features and certain gestures with his sister Emma, Fressenda might give away more to him than she knew.

‘Your father sent you to our lands?’

‘No, I am here against his wishes.’

‘His wishes, Bohemund? Are you defying him?’

‘Word was sent that I was to desist and I was reminded that the Duke is your brother.’

‘My much-beloved brother,’ Fressenda replied, and it was not necessary to see her face to note the tone of irony. ‘If you wish to defy him, would it not be best to plunder in his lands, not ours?’

‘As a knight and a leader of men I must make my way, though I cannot ride alone and I must in all conscience have a care for those who attach themselves to my banner, all of whom are knights in his service. What chance of advancement if all my father knows of them is what they stole from him?’

‘So you think that even in defying him, you personally will not be subjected to any retribution? It sounds more like an enterprise blessed than forbidden.’ That was a suggestion best not replied to. ‘When did you see your father last?’

‘At the castle of Corato; he returned to Trani, I rode west.’

‘And was he in good health?’

‘“Robust” would better describe him.’ Fressenda did not respond to that, and since she did not speak and he did not know what to say, a long silence followed, before his aunt added, forcefully, ‘I am glad to hear it, but perhaps you are less inclined to feel happy that he is, as you term it, “robust”.’

As an invitation to damn him it was obvious and given he had no intention of doing so, it led to another extended silence.

‘You do not respond, Bohemund. Can you forget that he made a bastard of you?’

‘No.’

‘You, your mother and sister cast aside just so Robert could wed a Lombard and add to his riches?’

‘That was not the reason given. He claimed to fear eternal damnation.’

‘It does not occur to you that instead of asking the Pope for a dispensation of annulment, which was accompanied by several talents of gold to oil the wheels, that same bribe could have been put to the purpose of overcoming the consanguinity of his marriage to your mother? Why did he not choose that? It was driven by ambition, not fear, and if he can put aside the mother of his two children who will he not betray to gain his ends?’

His aunt’s voice was irked, but was she really angry or just trying to manipulate his emotions? Without he could clearly see her eyes he could not tell.

‘Do you hate him, Bohemund?’

‘To do so would be a sin.’

‘You are so deeply religious?’

‘As I am sure are you.’

That held her in check for a moment; people with power tended to pay lip service to the Ten Commandments, relying on occasional and public acts of piety to ensure salvation, this while loudly exhorting those over whom they hold sway to trust everything to God. There were exceptions, his half-brother
Borsa
by repute being one, but nothing he had seen of his aunt, admittedly not much, made him suspect she was overly devout.

‘Do you sin when you think of Sichelgaita and
Borsa
?’

‘I rarely allow either of them to intrude upon my thoughts.’

That brought forth a low chuckle. ‘If you wield your sword with the same skill as you do your tongue, nephew, you will go far.’

‘I hope to do so.’

‘Do you aspire to be Duke of Apulia, Bohemund?’

‘If I did, it is not something I would openly admit to while my father is still alive.’

‘It would be treason?’

‘Foolish, more like, if he is as you say he is.’

‘You can voice thoughts here that you cannot be open about in your father’s domains.’

‘Just as I can keep them to myself, wherever I am.’

‘Even when help may be at hand?’

‘You alluded to our family not being close, but you are of an age to have known all of my uncles, those who served with Rainulf Drengot. I would be eager to hear of their exploits and what kind of men they were; even more how they rose from humble knights to become great lords.’

‘They were all de Hautevilles, is that not enough?’ Again he did not need to see her eyes; the impatience at the deliberate change of subject was obvious in that reply. There was a rustle of clothing and enough light to see she had stood. ‘Forgive me, nephew, I must prepare for our coming feast and so, I suspect, must you.’

‘Meaning I smell like a horse?’ Bohemund joked.

That brought forth another burst of real laughter. ‘Not any horse I have ever owned; you’re as rank as a pig.’

Like any great magnate, Richard and his wife ate in public, surrounded by a large number of their vassals, with, in this setting, the addition of jesters and musicians, which imposed as much strain on the limitations of Montesárchio as the Duke of Apulia had on Corato, while the knights that lined either side of the great hall were equally
eager in their imbibing. There the similarities ended; there were no shouts of acclamation hailing their leader and victory, for there had been none, while Richard showed by his consumption of both food and wine why he had such a puffy face and a paunch; he overate voraciously and never let the wine servant go by without he drained his cup and had it refilled.

His conversation was stuttering because of that, though interesting originally as he told the youth rambling tales of his Uncle William’s service with Rainulf Drengot, the very thing his wife had declined to do. These became progressively less controlled as the wine took hold and the number of de Hauteville brothers rose from two to five. It got to the point of nearly naming them, William Iron Arm most of all, as ingrates who had enjoyed Rainulf’s kindness, then with Lombard help betrayed him.

‘I would hope that you will hunt with us, Bohemund,’ Jordan called, as the thoughts his father was harbouring made him look sulky and kept his face in his wine cup.

‘That I would like, cousin.’

Bohemund responded as was required, but in truth he was thinking that this fellow, some ten or more years his senior, was the person who should be seeking to detach him from loyalty to his father. He was Richard’s heir and time’s arrow was more likely to find him holding Capua when the moment came to contest his inheritance, which he would most certainly do, even if he was not prepared to be open about it with those hinting they might help. Against that, Jordan had married a sister of Sichelgaita, making him also a brother-in-law to Gisulf of Salerno, a known hater of de Hautevilles, so his allegiance might lie in the wrong direction.

A good-looking fellow, with an intelligent cast to his eye, Jordan
looked more the prince than his sire. The smile he was aiming at his guest seemed slightly enigmatic, though Bohemund had to accept that the impression was possibly brought about by heightened imagination and not judgement. Because he was abstemious, he had, while talking to the hard-drinking prince, been able to observe much and one thing had been obvious: Jordan had watched him the way a falcon observes an unsuspecting field mouse and the look had carried with it a hint of private knowledge, for he had also seemed, in some way, amused.

Both were then distracted by Prince Richard’s fool, dressed in ludicrous layers of multicoloured rags, who was now bouncing around and jabbering in front of the high table. He had been making jests aimed at Hildebrand and Gregorian popes, but his tune had altered; now he was crying out that time had seen weasels and stoats back where they belonged, deep in the ground, with God to do the burrowing all the way to the anguish such creatures were entitled to get in the netherworld, for that was what they deserved.

Lords of the undergrowth one day, gobbling up mice and voles with low cunning in their supple hunt, meat for maggots the next. Beside him, Richard had begun to laugh in an inebriated way but his son was clearly less pleased. Yet it was not he who acted; it was Fressenda who threw the goblet that struck the poor idiot on the face, and with such force that it cut him. He staggered away from her and closer to Bohemund, his hand going to the point of contact and coming away with a trace of blood.