Jack Ludlow - Conquest

‘Let her die for that which she lived, the slut,’ a woman yelled, a cry taken up by many. From somewhere appeared a pointed stake, standing upright before Melita, like a high fence post, and hands took her and raised her over their head and its point. She screamed in terror at what she knew was coming and squealed in pain as those holding her let her down onto the point, before exerting every ounce of their strength to impale her, satisfied that the point which had entered her vagina erupted out of her ribcage, spewing out bone and gore.

Robert, sensing escape was now impossible, stepped out of his alleyway to let himself be seen, making those who had been holding the stake on which the now writhing and dying Melita was impaled turn to face him. In the growling and shouting this produced he could make out the words of damnation, along with a litany of his past crimes, so, stepping further forward he held up his hand and in a loud voice commanded silence: it was a tribute to the presence he possessed that it worked.

‘People of Gerace, you have me in your power.’

That brought forth howls of agreement and required him to raise his voice.

‘And no doubt you are set on revenge for what you say are my crimes?’ It took an even louder shout to add, ‘But hold a moment and consider.’ He opened his cloak to reveal he had no sword and also used the moment of curiosity created to remove and throw down his knife. ‘Having me at your mercy will tempt you to an error, for if you kill me, what then do you think will happen?’

He could see in the movement of the crowd that men of better dress and stature were pushing to the fore, elders, holding up their hands to induce calm in their fellow citizens, while behind them there were soldiers by their garb and Normans.

‘There would be pleasure in your revenge, but with that comes a price. I have a hundred lances outside your walls, five times that number at Mileto and thousands more in Apulia. Do not, for your own well-being, let your passions rule your heads. Nor would I beg you to forget that I am your liege lord — that Gerace, as did every town in Calabria, swore to obey me.’

He raised one hand to the heavens. ‘God is watching us now, you and I, and he will observe the breaking of your solemn oath. The men I command will have his blessing to deal with those who sever it, and would it not shame you to slaughter as a mob a single soul who means you no harm, but seeks only his brother? Kill me, if you cannot contain your bile, but know it is a sin that God, and my confreres, will avenge.’

Robert did not have to say they would all die: they knew it, and such a threat was enough to make them sullen and silent, until a commanding voice spoke, the same one which had damned him from above the gate.

‘Take the duke to my house, and not a hair on his head to be hurt.’

The gathering of the leading citizens soon turned into a babble of competing notions of what to do next: if fortune had favoured them in the gift of the body of Robert de Hauteville the Devil had cursed them equally. Some wished to just set him free in the hope that in his gratitude there would be no price to pay, others were firm of the opinion that the Guiscard could not be trusted: he would burn Gerace out of pure malice. The sky grew light and the arguments continued, this while outside the walls, at the Norman camp, it had become obvious that their leader was missing and, since he had not left unobserved, even if Robert had not told anyone where he was going, it took no great gift of imagination to discern his destination.

One of the Norman lances still in Gerace, Odo de Viviers, who had been making preparations to join Roger, witness to the disagreements of the town and mightily fed up with them, slipped out to tell his confreres what had happened. He, at least, had a clear sight of one fact: Gerace, where he had made his home and had a wife and children, could not keep so puissant a lord as the Guiscard; even to hold him too long was to invite total destruction. Robert, or his men, would kill every living thing down to the last cat regardless of how he was finally treated.

That continuing, unresolved discussion was brought to an abrupt end when the elders were informed that there were Normans outside their gates seeking parley. If they wondered at how quickly these warriors had found out about their prisoner it made little difference: they could not give him up for fear of immediate reprisals and they could not keep him for the same reason. Assurances that no such thing would happen were dismissed. As one elder put it succinctly to Robert’s most senior subordinate, ‘Such decisions are not yours to make, fellow.’

Dire warnings about what would occur should Robert be harmed changed nothing: those voices that wanted him hung from the walls were fatalists who suspected that they had done enough to be sure of bloody retribution so they might as well rid the world of a human devil before they, too, went to meet their Maker. Men who thought themselves more sage in counsel argued the opposite. Odo de Viviers, still outside the walls, was succinct in his advice to Robert’s captains.

‘It is an impasse and one only Roger can resolve.’

‘What are you saying?’ more than one voice demanded.

‘I am saying that Roger is much loved in Gerace. I am saying if he asks for Robert’s freedom, and assures them there will be no reprisals for his confinement, they will let him go.’

‘The Guiscard will flay us alive if we beg his brother.’

‘His brother will roast you over a spit if you don’t,’ Odo barked. ‘Who do you think will be Duke of Apulia if Robert dies?’

There was no need to elaborate: on coming into his title of Count of Apulia, Robert had put aside any claim by Abelard, the young son of Humphrey, just as Richard of Aversa had ignored any claim by his Uncle Rainulf’s bastard child, Hermann. Roger would do the same to his baby namesake — he would have no choice: to avoid doing so would fracture the Norman presence in Italy, which depended on strong leaders in both Apulia and Campania.

‘Will you tell us where he is camped?’ one fellow said finally.

‘Better than that, I will take you there.’

Sichelgaita turned up outside Mileto to find her husband gone, though tents had been sent ahead to accommodate her and her son in great comfort. On learning of how Robert had been rebuffed and by whom, she fell into gales of laughter, so loud, that baby Roger cried with fear and had to be calmed by a nurse. Once she had regained some composure she called for her horse, while that same nurse was told to make little Roger ready.

‘Where are you planning to go, Lady?’ asked the man Robert had left in command.

‘I am going to call upon Judith of Evreux.’

‘Lady, Mileto is under siege.’

That got the fellow a cold stare. Certainly Sichelgaita had observed much marching to and fro when she arrived, had watched the lances at their practice, had seen the ladders ready for an assault as well as woodcutters working on the baulks that would make up the base of a siege tower. But Sichelgaita was far from a fool, she was clear-headed and mightily interested in military matters; in fact, it was one of the bonds that united her and Robert: he could discuss with her things he normally kept to himself.

‘Get a pannier for my child and when my sister-in-law admits me to Mileto, which she will certainly do, no one of you is to take advantage of my entry.’

Few people had the commanding presence of the Guiscard: Sichelgaita was one of them. Within a short time she was trotting towards the gates, baby Roger in one pannier at her side, the other filled with fruits and sweetmeats. She stopped before the drawbridge to find Judith already on the walls.