Jack Ludlow: Warriors

He searched for a leader, there was always one or more in a situation like this, a person the others would look to for guidance, and the fellows were not hard to spot, they being the ones who were shouting and gesticulating the most. So intent were they on their purpose they did not look behind them, for if they had they would have dispersed. Having a voice that went with his stature, Robert yelled that they should do so now.

At first they ignored him and he had to repeat the call twice, preparing himself to step back behind the line of the gate, which would be slammed shut; he was as brave as they come but not fool enough, with only his sword as defence, to die under a hail of blows from hoes and scythes if the people he confronted were too stupid to listen.

The change in the shouting was enough to tell him that someone had cast a backwards glance, and that was enough to alter the tone from belligerence to apprehension. From the bottom of the hill came a line of fully armed and mailed Normans, a hundred in number, lances at the ready, more than enough to massacre, at will, the mob Robert faced. This time, when he shouted that they should stop, they obeyed. His next shout brought his lances to a halt as well.

There was a risk in him stepping forward, right up to the front line, for all their fury had not abated, but Robert sheathed his sword and dropped his voice to disperse any sense of threat, asking in a level voice for whoever led this rabble to show themselves. That led to much shuffling: vocal and brave before, those who had been the most vociferous now did not want to be identified, but their even more fearful compatriots pushed them to the fore. Speaking even more softly, and having to repeat himself so they could comprehend his accent, Robert invited them in Greek to follow him, so that they could see for themselves the monks were unharmed.

Still reluctant to follow, he had to take one by the arm, a quite sturdy and stocky fellow of half his own height, to lead him through the gate. Trying not to tremble, for he thought he might be about to die, the peasant followed reluctantly and Robert took him across the paved compound of the monastery, past the kneeling but unharmed monks, to the first of the storerooms, standing back to let him enter.

He was guessing that whatever produce the peasants of the valleys delivered to their monkish masters they never saw it in its full measure, and judging by the look of wonder on the fellow’s face he was right. Calling forward the man who spoke better Greek, he had him explain that the peasants outside could come in twos and threes to be given some of this largesse.

‘Tell him we are here to stay, but we will not harm their monks, but protect them. We will also protect the valleys that lead to Fagnano as well as all the land around, so that no Saracen dare ever again trouble the province.’

Robert doubted the word province would make much sense, but the word Saracen did, for without a force to deter them they had come here enough times to make their name a potent and fearful one. But it was what he said next that really hit home.

‘The abbot and monks of this monastery will, in future, work alongside you to seed, plough and grow, and in doing so they will render better service to God than they do now. That will be needed, for the able-bodied men hereabouts must help us quarry stone to build a fortress into which you may flee and be secure should anyone come to despoil your lands. Now go back through the gate and tell that to the others.’

Just about to do as he was bid, Robert spoke again, and these words were chilling. ‘But know this, we can make war on you as easily as we can make war on those who would ravage your lands. You will show us the kind of respect you show these monks, or those lances and swords you see will be used against you.’

In twos and threes the peasants came through the gate, many looking fearful still, and most reluctant to take from the monks they revered or feared that which they had grown to keep them portly. There was no mystery to their caution: simple folk with simple needs, their dreams tended to be fixed on the next life, not this one, and the men from whom they were taking this food had convinced them they had the path to salvation, a message much repeated in the services held in the nearby church which they were obliged to enter through a separate outer door.

Though God-fearing, Robert was of a mind to think otherwise: that if God needed slugs like these to carry his message — and he had met too many well-fed monks in his life not to think of them as such — then he was not the Saviour of Holy Scripture.

‘I think it would be good to have a Mass said for our souls,’ said Gartmod.

Robert burst out laughing, his booming mirth bouncing off the surrounding walls. ‘I think the roasting of some of that beef and pork which is yet on the hoof would do more for our souls than prayer. We have fasted long enough, brother.’

The soubriquet given to Robert, who was busy laying out plans for his castle walls, following on from taking over the monastery, became common amongst the Normans, and was repeated often enough to make those monks who accepted the new dispensation curious. They tended to be young as well as inquisitive, less resentful and, in truth, still retained some of the devoutness that had brought them to Fagnano in the first place. Eventually one of them plucked up the courage to ask Gartmod, who had shown himself to be a pious fellow and less likely to take offence.

‘Guiscard?’

‘It is a word I do not know,’ the monk said.

‘Neither would you, for it is Norman French.’

‘But what does it mean?’

‘It means cunning, which our leader most certainly is.’

When Robert heard it he wondered if he might not be known by a more suitable soubriquet, like that of his eldest half-brother, William. Bras de Fer sounded better than Guiscard, which could also mean weasel-like. Yet he knew no man would dare to use it in that sense and let him know they were doing so. In time he became comfortable with it, even to the point where some of his lances dropped his given name completely.

The multiple assassinations ordered by Argyrus had checked the Normans, but it had not stopped or removed them, underlined by the fact that Pope Leo was in constant receipt of complaints that his territory of Benevento was still being ravaged by roving bands of mailed warriors. Added to that, the grip of the Normans on the principality, despite assurances that they were not encroaching, was increasing. Appeals to the Emperor Henry to come south once more, this time with the whole might of the empire behind him, had produced nothing, leaving the Pontiff at a loss to know what to do — doubly frustrating given his background.

When the envoy arrived from Argyrus asking for permission to come to him, it took no great leap of imagination to conjure up a very good idea, in advance, of what he wanted to talk about. Argyrus had to travel incognito, secretly by ship from Bari to a point further up the Adriatic coast, before journeying inland, with Leo coming east to meet him at a secluded monastery high in the Apennines. They met alone, without attendants and devoid of the trappings of their responsibilities, Leo ostensibly on pilgrimage, Argyrus just an unknown traveller, the latter opening the discussions with a blunt statement of the truth.

‘The Normans are as much a plague to the Church of Rome as they are to Byzantium.’

Considering those words, with fingers arched before his mouth, Pope Leo was also sizing up this Lombard. He saw before him a solid-looking young man of fine countenance, with a direct gaze and a lack of the kind of excessive gestures or eager explanation which denoted insincerity.