Jack Ludlow: Conquest

By the time the party set off, the buildings above them had picked up the rising sun, looking pink and majestic, yet when they came close it was possible to see what looked magnificent at a distance bore the ravages of much destruction, albeit there was much reconstruction going on and the number of Benedictine monks who lined the approaches to the monastery entrance indicated that whatever it had suffered in the past, it was well on the way back to prosperity.

Of all the stories that had come back to Normandy there was one that pertained to this place and it was bloody. A party of Norman knights stopped to pray in the abbey church, leaving outside, as piety demanded, their swords, this at a time when men of their stripe had been ravaging the lands of Monte Cassino. Seeing them vulnerable, the monks and the monastery servants had shut the great doors and locked them inside, ringing the bells to summon from the fields the equally put-upon peasants. Finally allowed out, those knights faced a mob with nothing but knives and died under the blows from their own weapons, an act which triggered a major revolt that took a year to put down.

Yet it was peaceful now: the abbot was there to greet Richard and Roger, who rarely allowed the monkish tribe much credit, had to acknowledge he looked as spiritual as such a person should. His skin had that translucent quality that hints at self-denial and his frame, under simple garments, looked spare, which was telling, given his blood was noble: Abbot Desiderius was a scion of the one-time ruling Lombard house of Benevento. It was Roger’s family, specifically Humphrey, who had deposed them.

‘My Lord and Lady,’ Desiderius cried, coming to stand by Richard’s palfrey. ‘It is my great honour to welcome you to our simple establishment.’

That word ‘simple’ jarred: never mind the dimensions of the buildings, the monastery held lands enough to make jealous many a prince, the place had been decorated as if for Easter, with floral chains winding round the wooden scaffolding and the pathway to the abbey church strewn with petals, all clearly designed to impress, that underlined by the raised chair on which Richard was invited to sit. A bowl of warm, scented water was brought forth and the abbot knelt before his guest, removing his soft leather boots so that he could, in an act of humility, wash his noble visitor’s feet.

That symbolic act completed and Richard re-shod, Desiderius led the way into the church, followed by both monks and the retinue of Norman knights, there to say Mass, accompanied by chanted plainsong. The interior, too, was decorated, with special stalls set up for their principal guests to pray. Behind them Roger took part with solemn attendance to the ceremony: this was the house of his god, the deity to which he would have to answer for his actions in life when the time came, as it surely would, for death.

They emerged near to noon, for it was a long Mass, to find the courtyard in which they had been received now laid with tables, the numerous servants of the monastery present to feed the famished incumbents and their guests, for they had fasted prior to the Mass. Sat close to the abbot, who ate sparsely, surrounded by men who did not, Roger was finally introduced to Desiderius and it was plain his name registered, for, practised as this divine must be at masking his feelings, his eyebrows were raised appreciably.

From then on he strained to hear what it was Richard of Aversa and Desiderius discussed, catching only snatches: ‘Rome must be made to see where its interests lie,’ this from the abbot; and Richard intimating more than once that ‘Monte Cassino has much to gain if the wise and correct dispensations are made.’ Not that Roger could hear what the interests were any more than the dispensations: heads got too close and voices dropped too low to be overheard.

Eventually the abbot rose to speak and reiterate his gratitude that such a noble prince should come to their humble dwelling; it was telling he titled him ‘prince’, which was responded to with much murmuring and head shaking given it was a purloined title. Richard followed from that, and once he had mouthed the necessary platitudes in praise of God and this house of piety, he came to the true purpose of his presence.

‘This blessed endowment, the home of St Benedict, has seen much in the way of hardship. Many times it has been despoiled by the greed of the laity. I, Richard of Capua…’ He paused to let that appellation register — not Aversa but Capua — and Roger noticed Desiderius nodding. ‘…am now the protector of this most holy site. No one will lay a foot upon the soil of this great foundation, uninvited, that does not face my wrath. I pledge that I, and the men I lead, will place their lances, their swords and their lives as a shield to you who have dedicated your lives to God.’

There was a moment while this was digested: was this self-styled prince really saying that the Normans he led, hitherto amongst the worst offenders when it came to ravaging monastery property, were not only to cease to be brigands but, under Richard, to act to protect them against others?

‘This I vow!’ Richard shouted.

That was answered with immediate acclamation from the throats of over a hundred monks, and with bemused silence from his own followers. Roger could only guess what bargain had been struck, albeit he was sure there was one. When the feasting broke up he took the chance to wander the monastery buildings. He was in the scriptorium, watching the monks work on the illuminated manuscripts for which the abbey was famous, when another approached, and did so in such silence he was momentarily startled when the fellow spoke.

‘Sire-’

‘Not yet that,’ Roger interrupted, ‘you give a respect I do not warrant.’

The monk looked peeved, as if the man before him was indulging in unnecessary sophistry. ‘The Abbot Desiderius desires to speak with you before you depart.’

‘Then why send a messenger? Here I am and he can speak with me as and when he wishes.’

‘He would like to speak with you in private. He asks that when his principal guests depart, you remain behind.’

They met in a candlelit chamber, bare of furniture, more a monkish cell than the room of a senior cleric, one of the most important in the Christian hierarchy, for Desiderius, in terms of influence, could outrank a cardinal, given his predecessors had helped to make and unmake popes. Yet Roger was struck by the lack of arrogance in this man: it was rare in the presence of a high cleric to feel any sense of simplicity.

‘My son, I am grateful to you. Please be seated.’ Once Roger had obliged he found himself fixed by a steady gaze from a pair of grey eyes, the long-fingered hands of the abbot clasped to form a pinnacle before his lips. ‘There are certain facts I think it would be of moment to pass on to your brother, the Count of Apulia.’

Roger did not speak: to do so would have been superfluous.

‘I think you can advise him that the recent alliance between the papacy and Byzantium, which led to the unfortunate calamity at Civitate, is unlikely to be renewed in the foreseeable future.’

‘I would have thought it dead anyway, if what I have been told is true. Brindisi has fallen and only Bari remains, Byzantium is near to being crushed.’

Desiderius’ hands went to his lap and he smiled, a thin affair. ‘Then you would be wrong and perhaps disappointed, for there are still siren voices pushing that the alliance be renewed on both sides.’

‘My fellow Normans have beaten such a combination once and we can do so again.’

‘Such confidence and you not yet blooded.’ Roger held his tongue, not sure if he was being guyed. ‘It has been the attitude of the Holy See to find the presence of you Normans something they cannot abide, and it must be said you have done nothing to endear yourself to Rome. It is scarce possible for pilgrims to travel in many parts of Benevento without being robbed and left without so much as their garments. The Pope is not alone in seeing you as a pestilence that must be eradicated.’