Son of Blood c-1 Read online

  Behind him, strung out over a line several leagues in length, came the rest of his force: first the Norman lances, then the Lombard and Greek levies on foot, each one conscripted to fight but usually content to be fed and paid, then finally in terms of warriors, the cohort of crossbowmen. The approach of the host was announced well in advance by the great cloud of dust that their marching raised above the tops of the trees through which they had progressed. To their rear would come the sutlers, the men who looked after hundreds of spare horses, the sturdy fighting destriers and broad-backed pack animals, for each mounted Norman required those as well as a cavalry horse, while their lord was obliged to provide replacements for any lost in battle while in his service.

  The host travelled farriers, armourers, leatherworkers to see to saddles and harness, carpenters skilled in making siege towers, lesser woodcutters to erect shelters of framed animal skins, labourers who would dig the latrine pits, the concubines of the fighting men along to cook and wash for them, as well as the usual flotsam of urchins and layabouts that attended every army on the move regardless of their country of origin. The difference with the Normans was their ability to detach themselves from this trailing mass of humanity and become a highly mobile and self-sustaining fighting force; in short, they could maintain themselves in the field, move quickly and use surprise as well as ability to confound their enemies.

  Ademar, standing with and dwarfed by Bohemund, executed a half bow as his liege lord approached, though he examined him carefully for signs of wear; the Guiscard was in his late fifties and had been at war now for close to thirty years, from his days as a near-bandit chief living from hand to mouth in the wilds of Calabria to the man who headed armies that dwarfed the one he now led. Yet apart from some grey in his long, red-gold hair and an increase in the lines on his cheeks there seemed little evidence of him being in any way diminished.

  Tall and burly, his eyes still had a twinkle that hinted at his mischievous nature, for he was always game for a jest and a bout of good-humoured wrestling, which stood in contrast to a fearsome temper to which he could switch in a blink of an eye. Robert de Hauteville was mercurial, not much given to open disclosure of his thinking, and as brave as a lion, a man to inspire love in many and loathing in others, generous one second and as mean as the most grasping miser the next.

  Now they were close, Ademar could see in the midst of the familia knights a fellow in a scuffed leather jerkin and woollen leggings, bareheaded, filthy and chained to the pommel on his saddle and his stirrups. To Ademar’s mind Peter of Trani, who also held the title of Lord of Corato, deserved to be strung up to the nearest tree for his betrayal of his liege lord. It was Robert who had granted him every one of his possessions — the captaincy and high revenues of the important pilgrim port of Trani, as well as the demesne before which they were now assembled.

  It was Robert who had shown Peter favour, raised him from one of his body of personal knights to a level to which all of his close followers aspired. The reward was to be betrayed while his liege lord was occupied in Sicily; Peter, in concert with other barons, raising their standards in revolt. Naturally, there were disgruntled Lombards, like those at Noci, who had taken advantage of that to launch their own bid for autonomy and paid a high price for their lack of fealty.

  The look of disgust aimed at the prisoner was broken by the Guiscard’s gruff voice. ‘I had hoped to see you inside those walls, Ademar.’

  Was that a jest or a gripe? Ademar could not tell, yet the Duke could not fail to notice his diminished numbers. ‘I prefer my head on my shoulders, not raised on an enemy spear.’

  The Guiscard’s eyes flicked to the firepits where several carcasses were being roasted on spits — wild boar and deer — filling the air with their sizzling juices, and his tone was not benign. ‘Yet I see you have attempted nothing but to fill your belly.’

  ‘It was your belly I intended to fill, My Lord. We hunted hard so you would be fed on arrival.’

  ‘Noci you have secured?’

  ‘I presume my messenger informed you of that.’ The Duke nodded and slid easily out of his saddle, one of his knights having dismounted himself to hold the bridle. ‘He will also have told you of the bravery of your son, given I instructed him to do so.’

  The ducal eyes moved to Bohemund and the leonine head nodded, though not with much fervour. ‘A veritable Achilles, your man said.’

  Robert de Hauteville was a giant in his own right, not accustomed to have to look up to anyone, but as he approached Bohemund he was obliged to do just that: he could not fail to be impressed by his build. Yet there was no way he was going to let that show and, given the youngster was not about to throw his arms around a father he was not sure had regard for him, that led to an awkward interlude.

  As their eyes locked Ademar knew there had to be a whole host of thoughts chasing through both minds, for Bohemund was not a bastard by birth; he had been made so by a decision of his father to set aside and declare annulled his marriage to the boy’s mother. The Guiscard would claim it was brought on by consanguinity — Bohemund’s Norman mother Alberada had been too close in cousinage to her husband, and his father had sought intercession from a compliant pope to set her aside. The young man, as well as his elder sister Emma, would always harbour the suspicion that the marriage had been annulled for political concerns, not for any perceived sin against the strictures of Holy Church, for the gap between the annulment being granted and their father’s marriage to a new Lombard wife had not been long in gestation.

  ‘You’ve raised him well, Ademar.’

  ‘I doubt I could have done otherwise, My Lord.’

  ‘I have heard, Bohemund, that you are a paragon, that you do not act as do those of your age: light in the article of wine, not one to carouse and not yet taken up with women? If that is true I wonder if you can truly be of my bloodline.’

  ‘I have never had cause to doubt I am your firstborn son.’

  The words ‘but not your acknowledged heir’ hung unsaid. Robert had two other sons from his second marriage, as well as a wife who was determined that their firstborn child, not Bohemund, should succeed to the dukedom.

  ‘Then it pleases me that you do not disgrace me,’ the Guiscard replied, before spinning on his heels to look at the walls of Corato. Bohemund, about to speak, felt his brother-in-law’s hand on his arm and glancing sideways observed an imperceptible shake of the head. Robert having walked away to examine the defences more closely, Ademar could whisper for restraint.

  ‘What you want to say should not be aired in public.’

  ‘But it must be spoken of.’

  ‘In private, Bohemund,’ Ademar hissed. ‘Your father is not a man much given to taking pleasure in public humiliation.’

  ‘Have you demanded they submit, Ademar?’ Duke Robert called over his shoulder.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And their response?’

  ‘They told me where I could stick the shaft of my lance; far enough, they suggested, so I could taste wood in my gullet.’

  That engendered a booming laugh, one that would plainly be heard inside those walls, this before the Duke called to one of his knights.

  ‘Reynard, tell the Master of the Host to make camp, though I doubt he needs to be so informed. It seems we must prepare for a siege. Bohemund, when my tent is erected I require you to attend upon me so we can talk. Ademar, we will ride round the walls and when that food is ready my son and I will dine alone.’

  ‘What about your prisoner?’

  ‘Lash him to a tree, facing the sun, with no food and no water.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Peter of Trani protested.

  That got him a hard look. ‘Think yourself lucky I do not strap you to an anthill and leave you to rot, which is what you deserve.’

  The ride around Corato was made to the accompaniment of endless jeers from the battlements, the usual insults heaped upon the supposed attributes of Robert’s mother and the various creatures she had lain with to
produce him, that added to imperfections of his own being, not one of which he had not heard flung in his direction time and again from stouter walls than these. Compared to some of the fortified places he had captured — Bari, Brindisi, Palermo and just a week previously Trani — Corato amounted to no more than a nuisance, yet it was an irritant that could keep his army here for an age.

  The Guiscard had no doubt he could take the place, but the building of siege towers took time, ladders less, but they were not likely to be as quickly successful. This revolt by a number of his own barons had cost him too much time and money already and added to that high summer was coming, which in this part of the world meant a dangerous time to be campaigning, for nothing sapped an army like debilitating heat and the diseases that went with it. They would not come out to face him and Robert knew and told Ademar he needed a quick way to get them to surrender.

  ‘Though I am damned if I can think of one.’

  Ademar could only agree, though he did have a suggestion. ‘Peter is their suzerain — perhaps he can persuade them to open the gates.’

  ‘And what would he demand in return, Ademar? He would not do it without naming a price, which I would be honour-bound, once promised, to meet.’

  The way Robert de Hauteville suddenly pulled up his horse surprised Ademar, who, looking at him, saw a twinkle in those bright-blue eyes, as well as the smile playing around the Guiscard’s lips. It was a look he had seen before, the point at which some stratagem occurred to his duke that would hasten him to the result he desired. That it was quickly and wholly formed was made obvious by the way Robert spun his mount and began to canter back to where his tent was being erected, the shouted commands to desist called out well before he made his ground.

  ‘Gather the woodcutters and have them bring every animal skin that they have on their carts.’

  Another known trait of the Guiscard was that he never explained his trickeries before they were employed, so all his fighting followers watched with deep curiosity as those woodcutters constructed, with saplings and lashings, throughout the morning and into the heat of midday, a long and wide frame, which they then covered with dried animal skins. Robert was in his element, overseeing the design, which he insisted required a strong central panel as well as grips at the rear so it could be lifted and borne forward. Completed, it lay on the ground, looking as flimsy as it undoubtedly was.

  If he was happy, not many of those he led shared his joy, for it seemed obvious that their duke was constructing an object behind which he expected them to advance on the walls of Corato. It was true that animal skins, at the point where an arrow was losing its forward force, would stop the point penetrating to wound or kill those behind it, but that was a diminishing protection. Close to and just released from their bows, the arrows had such a high velocity they would punch through the hides, with those to the rear, unable to see them coming, in no position to take action with their shields to deflect them.

  Duke Robert’s whole army was not happy and that was only assuaged when he called forward his familia knights to tell them they would have the honour of carrying out the assault. There were no leaders as such in this group of elite warriors, but some had the ability to voice an objection, chief amongst them Reynard of Eu.

  ‘As you know, My Lord, it is our duty to follow you wherever you go.’

  Robert knew the meaning behind those words, which made his grinning response all the more worrying. ‘And so you shall, Reynard, for I shall lead you from the very epicentre of the line we shall form up behind our wall of skins.’

  That set up a murmur of doubt amongst them all, but again it was Reynard who articulated their concern. ‘How can we protect you?’

  ‘You will not be required to, Reynard, for I can call upon a much better safeguard than your swords and shields.’ The Guiscard was in high spirits, amused, and he called to Bohemund, his tone larded with humour. ‘Perhaps my son would care to join with me?’

  Bohemund doubted the wisdom of doing so and it was evident from his expression; that he had no choice, that he knew he was being challenged to risk his body, was made plain by the way he stepped forward with purpose. ‘I am at your command.’

  ‘As is everyone here present,’ Robert replied. ‘But your first task, Bohemund, is to go to yonder tree, untie that wretch Peter who once had Trani, and bring him to me.’

  The young man was confused, which altered his countenance, not that anyone else was much wiser. As he went to carry out his father’s bidding he could hear him chuckling and, far from finding that annoying, he for some reason felt reassurance. He was not descended from a fool, not the offspring of a man given to uselessly sacrifice his person or the blood of others, but from someone famed for his guile, so it was with less concern he untied the prisoner and brought him to where his father stood.

  ‘Those walls yonder are your walls, Peter, are they not, granted to you by me?’ Peter nodded, unsure of what was coming. ‘And those holding them are loyal to your title, for if they were not they would scarce hold them against me?’ Another nod. ‘Then I require you, in duty to me, to order the defenders, your men, to open the gates.’

  That allowed the one-time Lord of Trani, whose face had been concerned, a hint of a relaxation. ‘You think they would obey me?’

  ‘Have they not sworn an oath to do just that?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘Then, of course,’ said Robert in a jocular tone. ‘You did the same to me and yet you broke it. Perhaps you feel your knights will treat you in the same manner.’

  ‘They will not just yield to my entreaty, unless, My Lord, you offer them something in return.’

  ‘Your body in freedom?’

  ‘Would suffice if I would agree, but I do not.’ Peter paused, as if what he was about to say had just occurred, which it had not; the thought had come to his mind almost on the first words spoken. ‘Restored to my possessions once more, I might be able to persuade them.’

  ‘Oh, Peter, I think you do not do yourself justice. Reynard, Bohemund, lash this wretch to the front of the frame, right in the centre where I have made it strong enough to bear the weight of a man.’

  The laughter broke out as this command was obeyed, to reach a gale of amusement by the time Peter was tied hand and foot, spreadeagled over the front of the now raised frame like the blessed St Andrew on his singular cross. He was bleating before they even moved, but that turned to screams for mercy as the whole frame was lifted to progress towards the gates. The defenders, confused at first by the apparition, fired off arrows at long range, which landed in the ground before the lashed victim, to whom it was very obvious that they would soon be hitting the screen, and naturally his unprotected body.

  His pleas for mercy from Robert turned to loud entreaties, and he ordered in increasing panic that those on the walls should desist and open the gates to the Duke of Apulia. The men carrying the frame walked right up to those gates and, crouching down, laid Peter at an angle from which he could look skywards and address his followers. They had only two choices, to kill him in seeking to force his enemies to retreat, or to open the gates and throw themselves and him on the Duke’s mercy.

  ‘You see, Bohemund,’ Robert said, as the creaking sound announced that the gates were being opened, ‘there is always more than one way to skin a cat, so that when we dine, it will be in Peter’s great hall and in company.’

  ‘But we will speak in private?’

  ‘Later, yes,’ his father replied. ‘But for now I command you to go back and bring forward enough men to secure Corato.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The need to examine the state of the defences in the company of Ademar of Monteroni was an excuse; Peter had spent his revenues wisely, the walls were in decent repair and Corato was not a really strategic and important location, more a secure castle with a small garrison to keep the local Greeks and Lombards in check and ensure no trouble when it came time to collect the taxes that filled the ducal coffers. It was also a fortress i
n which to store the things an army on the march might require to speed their progress on campaign. Robert wanted, before his private meeting, to ask Ademar about his son, to fill out in person those things regarding his upbringing he had received by written communication from the man in whose home Bohemund had spent his formative years.

  ‘I have often wondered if he hates the very mention of my name,’ he said eventually.

  With the sun slowly setting, they walked the battlements. Ademar, smaller than Robert by two hands, had to lengthen his stride to keep pace with him, and with the night being warm and humid, felt his skin leak. Yet he replied with confidence.

  ‘Not so, My Lord; if you were to question him about your exploits you would find he knows of your actions in detail and also that he recounts them to others with pride.’

  ‘Your wife has not turned him against me, then?’

  That induced a temptation to smile, which Ademar took care to hide, for it was a question he was disinclined to respond to; if anyone fulminated against the way she had been rendered illegitimate by annulment it was the Lady Emma of Monteroni. She was a woman who wore every opinion on her sleeve added to a disinclination to hold them to herself. Every time she encountered her father Emma would remind him, without anything in the way of grace, of the way he had abandoned her and her younger brother. Hence she was not called into his presence very often and invitations to visit his capital of Melfi were even more rare.

  Robert pushed hard with both hands, feet splayed, at a stone block to check the strength of the mortar, satisfied that it did not yield. ‘Yet I hope she allows that I found her a good husband.’

  Ademar was known throughout Apulia as the ‘Good Marquis’; a sturdy warrior, a captain careful with those he led, uxorious in regard to his wife and just as faithful to his liege lord in a world where the Guiscard’s vassals were endemic in complaint about anything they saw as a slight to their prerogatives, not least the need to pay him the assessments rightly levied on their lands. Too many were like Peter of Trani, now locked up in his own Corato dungeon, prepared to engage in outright insurrection rather than cough up their dues in either goods or gold. Ademar was the opposite: a steady fellow, content with that which he held and always quick to answer the call to aid his father-in-law and to put his possessions at his disposal.