Jack Ludlow: Warriors

‘If we are not to repeat what happened previously,’ Arduin insisted, driving home his point with a jabbing finger, ‘then I want a cavalry leader who has experience of real battle, not something barely a step up from that which we witnessed today.’

‘He has the gift of previous success,’ Guaimar added, driving home Arduin’s point; not even Rainulf could match William de Hauteville in that regard. There was also the delicious pleasure of reminding the Count of Aversa that in a proper battle, as opposed to skirmish, he had known only loss. ‘I fear, as your suzerain, Rainulf, I would be bound to insist you grant Arduin that which he wishes.’

There was a moment then, pregnant with threat. Rainulf was an imperial count mainly through Guaimar’s good offices: it was the disenfranchised young heir to Salerno who had first suggested to Conrad Augustus that, instead of seeking revenge against the man who had betrayed his father, only such an elevation would detach him from support for the rapacious Pandulf. Rainulf had turned to Guaimar, who had stood by as he accepted his gonfalon from the imperial hand, to then acknowledge the new young prince as his immediate overlord.

Yet there had not been, since that time, a point on which they could disagree on any vital matter and there was no certainty this Norman, who had made so much trouble in the past, would acknowledge Guaimar’s right to make such a decision. The test had to come at some time: who was the lord and who was the vassal? Odd that it should be over William de Hauteville, the very person who ensured the Count of Aversa felt insecure, and also the very person who had brokered the actual pact with the Holy Roman Emperor to get rid of Pandulf.

‘Perhaps I should lead my men myself.’

‘I need you to stay close with a number of your lances to protect my fiefs and impose my will.’

The pause was long, the looks unblinking, until Rainulf, who had drunk sparingly throughout the feast, picked up a full goblet of wine and drained it in one, pushing it out towards a flagon-bearing child to demand a refill. He did not speak, but then he did not have to.

William was eating at the same high table, close enough to Rainulf and his main guests to observe the depth of their conversation, but he was not near enough to actually hear what was being said, that made doubly impossible by the hubbub of talking and shouting which surrounded him — there was dancing too around a great bonfire — though he had no doubt it involved the proposed invasion of Apulia. It was galling that these matters were being discussed without him; he was in no doubt that he was the one who would have to carry out the task.

So in his mind he ranged over the problems he would face, firstly those of a military nature. Arduin clearly desired to have overall military control, and that was as it should be; if the assault on Apulia was to be based on the notion of Lombard independence, then it required one of that race to be in command. If Michael Doukeianos had trouble holding the many fortified towns, any Norman-led force would have just as much trouble subduing them, and besides, that was not the object: they needed to be won over to the cause, not besieged and forced into surrender.

He would have at his disposal a formidable body of Norman cavalry, but that would not be sufficient: he would need more to face the power of Constantinople, an empire with millions of subjects and, William knew from Sicily, a bottomless treasury. So word must go out from him to other Norman bands in South Italy, enticing them with the possibility of rich rewards. Then there was the man he would face!

Byzantium had different types of commanders, and they ranged from the very good to the utterly useless, the quality and the person depending entirely on intrigue at court. The armies they fielded away from their constantly threatened eastern possessions tended to be bought-and-paid-for fighters, or unwilling milities raised locally. The latter could be a weakness, sometimes more trouble than they were worth, but no army could fight without foot soldiers of some kind, and Arduin would have to raise those. It was necessary they should come to the banner willingly, for the catapan would be obliged to conscript his.

Would Arduin have a force of crossbowmen? If not, they must be recruited, for they were an essential tool against any army in a strong defensive position, and William reckoned, if Byzantium was presently weak in the Catapanate, then a wise general would force the people he saw as rebels to attack him rather than seek open battle with an enemy strong in cavalry. Finally, nothing could be complete without the reduction of the Adriatic ports, that is, if they failed to support the revolt or were held by the catapan; that might mean siege equipment and artisans to construct them on site, weapons of which the Normans knew nothing. He was still ruminating on such problems when he looked up to see Arduin standing behind his shoulder.

‘Rainulf has agreed that you should lead his men into Apulia.’

‘Was it ever in any doubt?’ William enquired, looking towards Rainulf, who avoided his eye. Turning back to Arduin, he could see, as much as the Lombard tried to hide it, that had indeed been the case.

‘I hope you are willing to serve under me?’

‘I am,’ William replied, seeking to control the anger in his voice, lest Arduin think it directed at him. ‘As are my brothers.’

‘All of them?’ When William nodded, Arduin laid a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Good! I have asked Prince Guaimar to meet with us tomorrow, to discuss the campaign.’

‘I look forward to it.’

That was when the fighting started, round that bonfire; the combination of food, drink and women had worked its usual magic on the many present rivalries to produce a brawl. Normans who had been to Sicily would take a swing at those who had not, added to Italian peasants who resented the mercenaries long before they sought to interfere with their womenfolk. Drogo would be in there somewhere; he always was when there was trouble. There was a time when William would have gone in to seek to cool things down and to ensure Drogo, and for that matter his other siblings, did not suffer from trying to take on too many opponents.

He was not inclined to on this night, which made him wonder if perhaps he was getting old. Turning away from that to glare at Rainulf he saw Berengara leaning forward, watching the fracas with deep concentration. She looked stunning, but it was her evident pleasure, and the flush of blood in her cheeks, picked up by the torches, that was most evident. Was it caused merely by the fighting, or the thought that some Normans might be getting what, in her mind, they deserved?

There was a certain amount of amusement to be gained from observing the way Prince Guaimar sought to exercise control over the direction of what was proposed while at the same time he made it perfectly plain that Salerno and Capua were detached in terms of interest in the outcome, clearly trying to have the best of both worlds. Watching the other faces was also instructive: Arduin disappointed but resigned that he would not have Guaimar’s complete support — Salerno would provide no foot soldiers, in fact nothing but sustenance on the route, and that would be paid for; Rainulf, obviously suffering from a night of excessive imbibing, looked morose, when not openly furious.

The conference was taking place in Rainulf’s stone donjon, a square defensive edifice that had stood in this place for centuries, possibly since Roman times. The tower lay at the heart of his impressive operations — no less than what amounted to a standing army — and was surrounded by the huts which accommodated his men, as well as their concubines and bastards, a huge barn in which feasts could be held, a manege for training in the use of all kinds of arms, and a square league of paddocks which contained the horses without which his lances were useless. Added to that was a stud which bred even more mounts of the various types Norman cavalry required for movement and combat.