Jack Ludlow - Conquest

‘Give me a hundred lances and I will clear these Norman barbarians out of Italy.’

Ascletin, vain in both appearance and manner, matched those words with a sweeping gesture, as if he were indeed smiting his foes. It was an assertion he had made before, just as he had, many times, cursed the very name of the Normans, never mind their proximity.

‘What a pity, Cardinal Ascletin,’ Hildebrand replied, ‘that you were not at Civitate with Pope Leo and I, to make good on such a boast.’

That these two did not like each other was a given: Ascletin was the scion of a wealthy family and, if he spread enough in bribes one day he might well be pontiff. Hildebrand had started poor and risen in the Church by sheer ability, albeit he had been an aide to Pope Leo; he was clever and far-seeing where Ascletin was narrow-minded and soured by his own ambition. Hildebrand was saved from being tarred with that brush by his own conviction that he was unfit for the highest office.

‘Such a boast flies in the face of what is before us,’ Desiderius insisted. ‘The time when we could easily remove the Normans is long past.’

‘If the right combination of force is brought to bear-’

‘It never will be, Cardinal Ascletin,’ said the Pope, asserting himself for once. ‘And do we want to forever depend on an emperor to sort out our inconveniences?’

‘Better that than the Normans, Your Holiness. They are more than an inconvenience, they are a plague.’

Hildebrand scoffed. ‘They have done no more than others before them. Did not the Ostrogoths conquer Italy and the Lombards in their turn? We must obey Bamberg, for the risk of an imperial army is great, yet we cannot muster a force to defeat anyone, Normans included.’

‘Then let the emperor do his duty,’ Ascletin insisted.

‘Why should he? The empire suffers no ravages from these barbarians, it is us who stands between them who suffer.’

‘The Normans do our work,’ said Desiderius. ‘Every church in every place they conquer is obliged to say Mass by the tenets of Rome, not Constantinople.’

‘For which we are much abused,’ Victor responded, looking gloomy.

That had been another bone of contention with the patriarch, the way the Normans insisted on such a thing as communion being taken with unleavened bread. It seemed such a small matter here in Rome: in Constantinople it had assumed such great significance it had helped to wreck the embassy sent to seek agreement on matters of more vital import.

‘It is not up to Rome to apologise to the Greek Church,’ Ascletin barked. ‘You, Holy Father, are supreme in matters of doctrine.’

The Pope nodded, though not with much conviction.

Desiderius spoke again. ‘I gave my word I would press that Richard of Aversa be elevated to the Principality of Capua. Let us offer the de Hautevilles something similar, the bargain being that they become the protectors of the Holy See and the agents of the Latin Church in an area where the congregations are Greek.’

‘A great step fraught with danger.’

‘Progress, Your Holiness, demands risk.’

‘Well, I for one,’ Ascletin barked, ‘will never agree to such a course.’

‘Then find us protection elsewhere,’ Hildebrand replied.

‘Capua?’ Desiderius demanded.

Victor had to respond: only he could make such a decision. ‘Let him style himself prince, and let us see if the emperor responds.’

‘Which,’ Hildebrand persisted, ‘is the last thing we want.’

‘Perhaps,’ Desiderius suggested, ‘an embassy to explain our difficulties and the need to compromise.’

‘Who would we send?’

Pope Victor was quick to clutch at that straw, while at the same time ruling himself out. Desiderius, in his turn, reasoned that when the only lifeline was a dead stalk of wheat, it made sense to grasp it.

‘Only Hildebrand and Ascletin have the stature,’ he said, well aware of the direction in which it would lead.

‘They will never listen to me,’ Hildebrand replied, in confirmation. ‘His council see me as a sworn enemy of his inherited prerogatives.’

‘Then it must be I,’ boomed Ascletin, with all the pomposity of which he was more than capable. ‘And I shall not fear to remind him that he too answers to God!’

‘So be it,’ concluded a relieved Pope Victor. The problem was far from solved, but it had been put off, which much suited him.

The great castle of Melfi, on the border with Campania, was the spiritual home of the Normans of Apulia: this had been their first domicile, taken by subterfuge from Byzantium, a near-impregnable fortress standing on a prominent hill overlooked by the even more impressive mass of Monte Vulture, so high it made a discreet approach to the castle impossible. From their post the sentinels set there to watch could see in all directions and give ample warning of any approaching army.

Holding the castle required few defenders, so high and difficult was the assault, so stout were the walls, and for the rest, William Iron Arm had set the tactic that made investiture fraught with peril. On the one occasion when Byzantium had tried to recapture Melfi, he had, with his Norman warriors, ridden out of the castle to a point from which he could harry the enemy by cutting up their forage parties and raiding their siege lines, forcing the attacker to seek to destroy him before any siege could be instigated. The Catapan who had attempted such an outcome had ended up seeing his army destroyed and himself made a captive.

Any party of armed horsemen was enough to set off the alarm, though in the case of Roger de Hauteville it did not engender a closing of the gates, portcullis or the drawing up of the wooden footbridge. What he found before him, well before he got a proper sight of his destination, was a party double the size of his own, in full mail, blocking his path to the town. He and his men wore no helmets and their lances and mail were still lashed to their packhorses, their destriers unsaddled and led. They represented no threat but it was an indication of Norman caution that they were treated as if they did.

‘Roger de Hauteville, come to seek audience with my brother.’

That he spoke in Norman French was sufficient to establish he was of the same race as those before him; his height and colouring — fair of hair, startling blue eyes and a face made florid by too much sun — was enough to underline the truth of the connection.

‘Audience?’

There was a haughty air to the way that question was posed, as if he were not believed, which annoyed him and, given his family attributes, to which he was not entirely immune, that high colour on his face reddened even more.

‘I question whether you are going to escort me to my brother or merely stand aside and let me pass?’

‘I may do neither. I may tell you to wait here while I send a message to Melfi to seek instructions.’

‘I am not accustomed to being told anything.’

‘And I am not sure if you are who you say you are.’

‘I can think of no reason to lie.’

‘I, on the other hand, can think of a dozen.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Ralph de Boeuf, Castellan of Melfi in the service of the Duke of Apulia.’

‘My older brother.’

‘So you say.’

The reply was sharp. ‘If you wish to dispute, I will need time to don my mail.’

Ralph de Boeuf burst out laughing. ‘Damn me, you’re a de Hauteville all right, always up for a fight. In truth I did not doubt it but it amuses me to see you are the same as the Guiscard. Follow me.’

With that he spun his mount and headed for Melfi. Behind him, Roger fetched out his lance and attached to it his pennant of blue and white chequer. He wanted that above his head, wanted those in the castle to have no doubt who was approaching.