Jack Ludlow - Conquest

‘What a family we are, brother.’

‘There is not a soul in Christendom who does not rate us remarkable for what we have gained, given what we had, which was nothing when we started out from the Contentin.’

‘And here I have you in my power, not something to which I’m accustomed. What would Tancred say I should do?’

‘I think Tancred would remind you of a vow I took and you did not.’

‘And what would you do if the positions were reversed?’

Robert actually laughed. ‘Why, Sprat, I’d box your ears.’

With the exception of Ralph de Boeuf, who was sure he knew what was coming, not a jaw was not dropped by what happened next. Without another word the two de Hautevilles moved towards each other and, gleefully, they threw their arms around each other in an embrace later described as like that between Benjamin and Joseph of biblical fame.

‘Don’t call me Sprat,’ Roger said.

‘What in God’s name am I to call you if not that?’

Robert had pushed his brother back to arm’s length before Roger replied, still in high humour. ‘I can think of one or two titles that might suit.’

Robert responded with the kind of laugh that shook rafters. ‘Come to think of it, Sprat, so can I.’

‘No harm to come to Gerace?’

‘None, Roger, they have not harmed anything bar my conceit.’

‘Which would not suffer from the odd wound.’ The pause was short before Roger asked, ‘And me?’

‘Everything you are owed, I give you my word.’

‘There is a church there,’ Roger said, jerking his head. ‘Would it trouble you to know I would be happier to hear you swear that before God?’

‘Lead on.’

Arm in arm, the pair walked towards the church, disappearing into its cool interior where, kneeling Robert de Hauteville swore to respect every promise he had ever made his brother.

‘And now, Robert, I invite you back to my castle of Mileto, where we will have a feast of celebration and talk of future matters, not least how we are going to divide the revenues of Calabria, so that when the Devil visits your bedchamber, you are not tempted to renege.’

Sichelgaita was back in her tent when the horns blew to signal the return of her husband. As soon as she was outside it was obvious that Roger was with him and, given he was riding by his side, no captive. Close to the castle Roger peeled off with his knights and rode to the rapidly opening gates, there to be welcomed by a beaming Judith. Given the numbers to be entertained, the feast had to be held in the open and since it took time to prepare, Judith had the chance to send for musicians and singers from her half-brother’s Abbey of St Eufemia.

That time also allowed her to talk to Roger about Sichelgaita’s unspoken anxieties, and if she was troubled by his silence in response, at least she had a good idea of what prompted it. Naturally Robert and his wife had forsaken their tents and moved into Mileto, so the uncle had an opportunity to gaze into the crib of his nephew. Anyone watching would have worried at the way he failed to smile, indeed what they saw was a frown, for Roger de Hauteville was thinking that, should this dilemma ever be faced, he could not do that which he knew he was about to be asked.

Most of the time was spent with Robert, haggling over how to divide the revenues of the province, no easy matter since each fief had a different value and trading them off to find a balance was a nightmare. Finally they compromised by dividing every one equally: each would hold half the land and each would collect and keep half the revenues. Neither thought it anything other than a dog’s breakfast, but it answered what was quite obvious: their continuing and deep mutual suspicion.

More harmonious were their discussions of what to do about the future, with Roger persuading a not-too-hard-to-sway Robert that Sicily should be a priority and that their next campaign was one which must be properly plotted to not only invade but hold whatever they conquered.

‘And then,’ Robert said, ‘there is Bari.’

‘I will not begin to advise you on that, brother, my priority is Sicily.’

‘There is something I must ask of you, Roger, Sichelgaita insists on it.’

Knowing what was coming, Roger’s reply was guarded. ‘And you do not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your son?’

‘You guessed.’

‘That would not be difficult.’

‘I must tell you that in marrying Sichelgaita I have gained a great deal.’ Seeing Roger begin to smile, he snapped, ‘No jests about her size, please! I would also say that her having given birth to what is seen as a Lombard prince has eased my life.’

‘I cannot give you or Sichelgaita a guarantee, Robert, you know that.’

‘Sadly, I do, but I would ask you to give me your solemn oath to do your best for the boy. If we Normans stand to lose everything we have gained in Italy, no child, even my son, is worth such a price.’

‘I would never harm him.’

‘That I take for granted. He might be seen as a Lombard prince but his name is the same as yours, but if you can allow him to inherit, I would ask that you do so and guard against others who might challenge his right.’

From what Roger knew, if his namesake had anything to fear it was from Bohemund, who, if reports had any truth, looked likely to grow up the image in size of his father. The same might apply to his Geoffrey and Jordan. Inheritance was fraught with peril regardless of the level of power; was it not an oft-told tale that one Duke of Normandy had murdered his own brother to gain the title? The future could not be seen, but an answer was required and he gave the only one he could.

‘If I live, brother, which is in God’s hands.’

‘Are we not all in that?’ Robert sighed. ‘Do I have your word?’

‘If I can, I will.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That, Robert, is the first time I think you have ever said those words to me.’

‘Cherish them,’ Robert barked, ‘it could be the last. Now to the great hall where your wife is waiting, as is mine, along with all your knights and the Abbot of St Eufemia, to bless what I am about to do.’

‘Which is?’

‘To give you that title you so hanker after, brother.’

‘Which will be?’

‘Count of Sicily, Roger, what else?’

To Roger the time spent arguing with Robert was time wasted and nothing proved such a truth more than the news that the Ibn-al-Tinnah had been ambushed, his forces soundly beaten and he himself assassinated. Worse, the Norman garrison of Troina, which, like Rometta barred the route to Messina, had abandoned the castle for fear of what would come next. The Saracens loyal to al-Tinnah had fled the town in their entirety.

Within days Roger was on his way with three hundred knights, this time taking not only Jordan but also Judith — Geoffrey, now weaned, being left with a nurse. Judith was happy to go whatever the reason, much preferring to be with her husband than to be stuck in Mileto; Roger wanted her not just for her company, which he missed when they were parted, but to show the Sicilians he was committed enough to the conquest of the island to settle there.

There was no delay at Messina: Roger and his lances rode straight to the stout fortress right in the shadow of Mount Etna, the most forward stronghold of the late al-Tinnah, surprised and delighted to find that no attempt had been made to take what was a castle devoid of a proper defence, proof that Ibn-al-Hawas had not yet recovered from the drubbing Robert had inflicted upon his army below Enna. Slowly he rode into the lower part of Troina, which rose through narrow streets to the upper town and the castle, expecting to be greeted as a saviour, nonplussed by the lack of zeal shown by the locals: indeed they seemed sullen.