Jack Ludlow: Warriors

What he could not persuade them to do was to provide him with the kind of force denied to his predecessors, so on arrival in Bari, Argyrus knew he was in for a long campaign in which his best weapon would be guile, not strength. Handsome, personable and not by nature cruel, he had won over much of the population of Bari and he had intimidated the rest. So he had, with the port city’s formidable defences, a place of refuge. The burning question was how to expand out from that in the face of the military superiority of the Normans. Lombards worried him less, they could be bought or overawed, but as long as the likes of William de Hauteville had ambitions in Apulia he would never gain victory.

The near assassination of William had not brought with it the hoped-for break-up of cohesion. A new strategy was required and his original attempt to construct an alliance which would overcome the Normans fell at the first hurdle: he sought to engage Prince Pandulf of Capua in a joint conspiracy against them, and the early results were promising from a man who lived for intrigue. But Pandulf let him down, as he had done most people in his life, though Argyrus found it difficult to curse him for the mere fact of dying.

It was odd, following on from that disappointment, that in re-examining his options a clearer strategy emerged, one which seemed to have with it a greater chance of success. First, he must use what weapons he had, but his greatest asset in forming a body of opposition large enough to triumph was being brought about by the very people he wished to remove. The Normans were their own worst enemies, creating adversaries amongst the very people they needed to win over.

‘How can I prosecute a war, when I cannot even be sure that the men I command to assemble will come?’

If it was worded differently, it was in essence a complaint that Drogo de Hauteville had been making for two years now. The men his brother had led might have acclaimed him, but he lacked the authority which William had exercised with such ease, given the composition of the men he led had changed and he lacked, due to the cunning of Argyrus, an enemy in the field to fight and defeat. Staying close to Bari, Argyrus was like an itch Drogo could not scratch, but he had made life more difficult merely by being, then doubled that by inactivity.

Certainly the number of lances Drogo commanded had increased substantially from the day when he and William had first arrived in Melfi, but so had the problem of keeping them content: they had come for land and plunder and Apulia was not a place where ground was freely available to give away. Drogo could not just dispossess the local Italians and Lombards to facilitate the elevation of his confreres without creating an uprising. But lacking that and the plunder that came from successful war, they were inclined to outright banditry, giving that precedence over service to him as their titular leader, and ignoring any strictures he tried to impose.

‘Salerno,’ said Humphrey, as they crested a rise to see the whole bay and city laid out before them. ‘You can smell the wealth from here.’

‘And I can smell trouble,’ Drogo replied.

‘This Pope Leo has been a soldier, Drogo. He will know that fighting men are hard to control.’

‘Our own are worse.’

‘You would be the same if you had no other choice.’

‘Are you going to argue with me again?’

The mutual glares which followed that snapped response underlined that these two brothers had never been bosom companions, indeed Drogo often found the company of the one he liked most, Mauger, just as hard to take, given all of them were inclined to dispute any decision he made. Now, instead of being together continuously, as they had under William, they saw each other rarely, tending to remain in their own fiefs when not called upon to combine for some military venture.

That applied especially to brother number four, Robert, who Drogo had come to actively loathe, but he had got rid of him by some distance, having sent him to a particularly unrewarding part of Calabria, where, when he was not fighting malaria, he did battle with the intransigent locals.

Spurring his horse, still scowling, Drogo led his men down into the natural amphitheatre that was Salerno.

The summons from Pope Leo was one he could have ignored: this was not a man he feared outside his ability to deny him the sacrament by excommunication, but it was politic to obey. Guaimar would be present too and, like Drogo, would mouth platitudes to the Pope about future behaviour, because with Pandulf gone to meet Satan — Heaven for such a man was out of the question regardless of how many indulgences he had bought — the Prince of Salerno, now related to Drogo by marriage, was once more eyeing the vacant fief of Capua.

Meeting Berengara again was as unpleasant as it had always been: having a half-Norman daughter had done nothing for her hatred of the race, but Guaimar was fulsome in his greetings, eager to engage Drogo in schemes of infiltration and conquest of Byzantine territory, but he made no mention to Drogo of Capua: for that he would rely on the man who now styled himself Richard of Aversa.

‘And how is Rainulf’s boy, Hermann?’ Drogo enquired, when that name cropped up.

Guaimar knew he was being mischievous, but he could not let that show. ‘I have no idea. He is, I suppose, as well as can be expected.’

Drogo doubted Richard would actually kill the boy, but he was sure that he had been put aside. Guaimar knew that for certain: as he had suspected, Richard had come to be at ease with his command. The prospect of relinquishing it had no doubt preyed on him before he had been officially appointed as guardian, and that would not have eased with power. There was some admiration for the way Richard had gone about things: he had quietly removed the child from view while he was too young to do anything about it, an act which would have become increasingly difficult as the boy grew to manhood.

‘All I know is that Richard has proved to be a most loyal vassal.’

‘And we both know how difficult it is to be that,’ Drogo growled.

‘Time to meet our spiritual overlord,’ Guaimar said, as he led the way into the chamber where Pope Leo awaited them.

‘This letter is from one of your fellow Normans, Count Drogo,’ said Leo, waving a piece of heavy parchment. ‘No less a person than the Abbot of Fecamp.’

‘I fought alongside a bishop of that diocese once. He was a doughty warrior, as, I am told, Your Holiness, are you.’

Leo knew when he was being flattered, and his freckle-covered face showed it, not that he much liked it. ‘Let me read to you what he says.’

‘If you wish, I can read it myself.’ That surprised the Pope: few men of Drogo’s stamp were lettered. ‘I was taught by the priest of our family church, my cousin, who has recently been appointed, as you will know, to the See of Coutances.’

‘Geoffrey of Montbray is your cousin?’

‘He is, and no doubt the Duke of Normandy had some say in his elevation, since he looks to him often for counsel.’

‘The Duke did request he be given Coutances, it is true, and I was happy to oblige him. But this is wandering away from that which we are here to discuss, which is the sheer outlaw nature of the behaviour of the men you are supposed to lead. Listen!’

Leo started to read, looking at Drogo as each point was made. The abbot had been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and like many travellers to the Holy Land he had taken in many a shrine en route. One such was the cave of St Michael on Monte Gargano, which was in the province of Benevento. The land around the shrine was overrun with Normans, and though they had respected the abbot as coming from their homeland, what had happened to him and what he had been told by the local Italian and Lombard population had made him seethe with anger and disgust.