Jack Ludlow: Warriors

The man who had said those words, Gartmod, his second in command, was a pious warrior indeed. He came from the Norman town of Eu: at one time, in the first days of Norse occupation, the capital of the whole Normandy province. He had been brought up in the cloisters of the monastery there as an orphan, which had deeply affected him. Robert knew him to be a man who prayed to God more times a day than any Saracen, but he also esteemed him when it came to combat: he was a doughty fellow with both lance and sword, and a dependable subordinate.

‘Do you see anyone around these parts whose spines are not visible on their bellies? Do you see a dwelling that does not let in rain when it pours?’

There was truth in that: the abodes that dotted the landscape, homes to those who worked the land which surrounded the monastery, were modest indeed: there was not a single stone dwelling of any size.

‘If God has chosen to grant prosperity to those who do his work, who are we to see fault?’

‘I love our God as much as you do, Gartmod, but he did not grant them the land they live off, they took it by telling the peasants hereabouts that they would show them the way to eternal salvation. What they have done is condemn them to starvation instead. Every one of them looked well fed, but did you see how fat was that abbot, the one who refused me entry? He had a belly like a pregnant sow and that face tells me he takes wine so copiously you could get drunk on his piss.’

‘I still say-’

‘Shall we put it to the vote?’ Robert demanded.

‘I know which way that would go.’

‘Because your confreres have more sense than you.’

‘They are less godly.’

‘Tell me, Gartmod, anyone who isn’t.’

‘The peasants you talk about will not thank you for destroying their monastery.’

‘Who said anything about destroying it?’

‘If not that, then what?’

Robert put aside his slightly belligerent tone, to adopt one more companionable, though even then his voice was gruff. ‘We’ve been here in Calabria a year, my friend, and what have we accomplished? Nothing is the answer. Am I to go back to Melfi and say that we had to abandon all hope of adding this to the territories we Normans control? Every town has denied us entry and we have wandered around looking for a place to settle.’

‘And you want that to be here?’

‘Look at it, Gartmod, it’s perfect. The monastery itself is already formidable, but imagine a castle at the top of that hill with storerooms full of food. We can build quarters to support the kind of force that will make the Calabrians see sense. Look around you at the hills in the distance and imagine beacons atop them. We are no more than ten leagues from the sea in four directions, so we would know of a Saracen raid before they beached their ships.’

‘Then let me speak with them.’

‘You think to succeed where I have failed?’

‘I shall seek to convince them it is the will of God that we have come here.’

‘Very well, try.’

While their mounts grazed contentedly on the rich grass of the valley floor, Gartmod made his way up the hill to attempt at friendly persuasion. When he returned covered in the content of the monks’ privy, which had been dumped on him from atop the walls, even his Christian forbearance was overstrained. He was just as keen as Robert de Hauteville to teach the monks a lesson, but at a loss to know how to do it without an assault and the inevitable violence.

‘If we spill blood the whole countryside will rebel against us.’

‘Fear not, my friend, I have a plan.’

And Robert did, the first part of which involved he and his men riding away as if they accepted they could not have their wish, but that was only to get out of sight and to find a place to camp overnight. Then, choosing the least tall and the darkest of hair, he had them use the juice of tree bark to darken their skins, this while those who were good with wood fashioned a makeshift coffin. That done, they were told to don the hooded cloaks that every man had in his pannier.

What the monks saw from their elevated position at dawn the next day was a body of mourners bearing and trailing that coffin. Mourners in such numbers denoted someone of means had expired and needed to be buried in consecrated ground, a service for which the monks could charge a decent fee either in produce or, if it was truly a wealthy individual, in coin. Slowly the party, heads covered and bowed, wended their way up the road that led to the heavily barred gates, with much wailing rising and falling from their throats. One of the Normans who had originally come from Aversa, and had been in Italy for many years, went ahead to seek entry in Greek.

The gates swung open and the mourners bore the coffin into the large open and paved courtyard, with a well-stocked fishpond in the centre, the whole surrounded by solid-stone double-doored buildings. Further on there were some stables and a mill, well tiled and weatherproof, the whole assembly of buildings buttressing the outer wall, with what looked like dormitories flanking the church at the furthest point from the gate. The place reeked of prosperity and it was full of monks seemingly in prayer for the departed soul, but they were cautious folk, for those same gates were being quickly closed behind them.

As soon as they heard the wooden bar drop to secure them, the mourners let go of the coffin, which falling to the ground and far from well built, fell apart, spewing out the swords and shields with which it had been weighted. At the same moment the heads of the faux mourners were uncovered, the hooded cloaks were thrown back and the monks of Fagnano found themselves facing fully armed Norman warriors who looked intent on killing each and every one of them.

Men who give their lives to God in poverty and true righteousness are brave, and would probably have stood their ground, willing to meet their Maker if that was his will. Those who use piety as an excuse for avarice and a life of comfort lived off the backs of a put-upon peasantry are not. The wailing now was coming from the monks as, to a man, they dropped to their knees, hands clasped in front of them in supplication.

One fellow was not cowed, for the bells at the top of a tower were ringing furiously, summoning the people of the valleys, who looked to the monastery for eternal deliverance, to defend their place of worship, which set off the animals penned and cooped; so as well as the ringing and wailing the air was full of bleating, mooing, screeching geese, braying from the donkeys and alarmed clucking from the ducks and chickens.

Robert sent men to check the storerooms and brusquely ordered that the fat abbot be fetched. In his less-than-perfect Greek, once the man was kneeling before him, he gave the bloated divine a choice: the monks could stay and help the Normans build a castle, or they could be cast out to sustain themselves in the same manner as the peasants they exploited, while he and his men destroyed every building in sight.

‘I would roast you over a spit, myself,’ he barked, jabbing his blade gently into the unresisting fat of the abbot’s huge belly. ‘Though God knows how much wood I’d need to cook you right through.’

‘Robert, there is a mob of peasants coming up from the valley.’

‘The storerooms?’

‘Near to full,’ replied one of the men he had sent to check, who was now slicing and distributing bits of a smoked leg of ham. ‘Sacks of corn, hams and cheeses, enough to feed us for a year, and wine — flagons full of it.’

‘Open them up and somebody get up the bell tower and stop that ringing.’

That done he ordered the gate unbarred and partially opened, then went to stand in the gap, sword in hand, as the mob approached, carrying with them the implements they used to reap, sow and harvest, which could be just as deadly as any weapon wielded by a warrior. It would have taken more than a man of his height and presence to stop them, and Robert knew that what slowed their approach was not the threat he presented but the curious fact that he was facing them alone.