Stewart Binns - Conquest

‘That is an elegant introduction, Hereward of Bourne. So, not only do you presume to know the details of my arrangements with the Pontiff, you have the gall to suggest that you can teach us how to fight!’

The Duke guffawed heartily and turned to his court, all of whom laughed with him. A solid, round-faced man with ruddy cheeks and a thin patchy beard, he could easily have been a butcher or a blacksmith, had not his and his family’s notorious cunning and strength of arm elevated him to the lofty perch of a dukedom.

‘I carry with me parchments testifying to our standing from Queen Gruoch of Scotland, widow of Macbeth, and Iziaslav I, Grand Prince of Kiev and King of the Rus. We would not presume to teach Norman warlords how to fight. Your reputation and that of your kin goes before you, but we wish to join you as highly skilled and experienced soldiers who can help your cause. I would like to serve at the level of knight, my companions, the mighty Einar and the brave Martin Lightfoot, as sergeants-at-arms.

‘Anything else: a pension, lands in Normandy, one of my daughters as a concubine?’ He chortled loudly again.

As before, his court joined with him, enjoying the Duke’s sardonic repartee.

‘Just to serve, my Lord Duke.’ Hereward was solemn and calm, trying not to rise to the Duke’s baiting.

Guiscard turned to his younger brother, Roger, who had recently arrived from Normandy for the celebrations and would soon begin campaigning in Sicily. He lowered his voice to a whisper. For what seemed an eternity the two spoke in hushed but animated tones, their conversation private.

Hereward glanced at his companions, who looked around uneasily, assessing the odds in what could be a very difficult situation. Guiscard was clearly a brute of a man; an adventurer successful enough to enlist the blessing of popes but, nonetheless, an ogre. Einar counted a dozen heavily armed men in the room. Then, from another chamber, the Duchess Adela appeared, a stout and maternal figure, and approached Torfida.

‘I hear you are a philosopher and speaker of many tongues. I see you are also with child. The women in the town say you are a witch powerful enough to seduce popes, and that the child is the Devil’s progeny.’

Torfida bowed to the Duchess. ‘Your Grace, the child is my husband’s, Hereward of Bourne, a great knight of England. I am his obedient wife and your Grace’s humble servant.’

‘But you speak privately to popes.’

‘I am just a woman on a journey with her husband. It led me to a pope; I did not seek it.’

The Duchess seemed only to be teasing Torfida. Her questions were delivered gently and with a wry smile, suggesting she realized that the gossip she had heard from her ladies-in-waiting was nothing but idle talk. She turned to her husband and hissed into his ear like a scolding matron.

His brother added words of caution, this time for all to hear. ‘Robert, look at the battle-axe on the Englishman’s shoulder; I have never seen a weapon like it. Look at him, his scars, the scale of him. This is a formidable man; let me take him to Sicily to fight the Saracens.’

Guiscard turned to his visitors. He looked Torfida in the eye, clearly intent on intimidating her, but it was as if he were looking into a mirror: the more intensely he stared, the more resolute Torfida appeared.

Seconds later, the Duke threw back his chair and charged towards the doors of the Great Hall. ‘I am made Duke, but I’m no longer master in my own house! Where’s my damned steward? We go hunting! Bring that new butt of Cypriot wine… and that new servant girl from Bari. She will string my bow of an evening and fill my quiver for the chase!’

This parting boast, a cruel insult for his wife, made no impression on the Duchess Adela, who was busy talking to Torfida about the work to be done in Melfi.

Roger Guiscard walked over to Hereward and offered his hand.

As Hereward left the great hall, Torfida at his side, he spoke to her about Duke Robert.

‘I hope the Pope is right in trusting this enterprise to such a man. He is without virtue of any kind.’

‘Except as a warrior.’

‘But surely the Pope expects more from someone he makes a duke.’

‘Sometimes popes and kings make choices born of necessity rather than moral virtue.’

‘Then who takes care of virtue?’

‘Hereward of Bourne, that is a very good question. You are becoming quite a philosopher!’

Hereward looked out across the busy square of Melfi and the scores of people resuming their lives after the previous week’s excitement.

‘In times like these, with virtuous people hard to find, who protects these innocent souls?’

‘Perhaps we do, Hereward.’

Hereward looked at his wife, soon to be the mother of his child, with a sudden seriousness. He knew her statement was not an idle boast.

‘Torfida, is what we do worthy, or do we fool ourselves that our purpose is just?’

‘You do what you must because you are a warrior. Einar and Martin follow you because they admire you. Men look to you for leadership; they always will. I am with you because I love you and because I know that something of great importance lies at the end of your quest.’

‘Will there ever be a time when we can rest, when there is peace in the world?’

‘I have read that many centuries ago, under the rule of Ancient Rome and, protected by the legions of the Caesars, the world lived in peace. Many kings and warlords have striven for that ever since – a peace by force of arms – but I often wonder if there could be another kind of peace: a peace born of the common agreement of men; observed by all, enjoyed by all, enforced by justice, not by war.’

‘What would men like me do in such a world?’

‘You would lock your weapons in a chest and find other ways to become heroes.’

‘How?’

‘You would test yourself: swim rivers, climb mountains, discover new lands, compete in trials of strength and speed like the Ancient Greeks, or even play chess – something you could do in your old age.’

‘What is chess?’

‘A game of war played on a board with figures for kings and queens and armies. One day, I will teach you how to play.’

‘You are such a dreamer, Torfida. I can’t imagine a world where men would resolve their disputes with trials of strength and games of strategy.’

‘I know it’s a dream, but it’s a good dream. What a world that would be for our child.’

They kissed and embraced, inspired by Torfida’s speculations, before Hereward brought the conversation back to reality.

‘Do you think Roger, the Duke’s brother, is a good man?’

Torfida thought about the question for a moment. ‘I think so. He looks fierce, but he has gentle eyes.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

Torfida gave birth at the end of 1059. Duchess Adela insisted that the delivery be at the new hospital in Melfi, an institution she was determined would become the finest south of Rome. It was run by an order of nuns from Ghent, in Flanders, devoted to the care of the sick. One of the sisters, Adeliza, a large woman with big red hands and fat hairy forearms, specialized in childbirth and was assigned to Torfida as her midwife. When the time came and Torfida took off her dress to squat at the birthing stool, Adeliza had a surprise for her.

‘You’re going to have twins, my Lady. You’re not as big as some, but, mark my words, you’re going to have two little creatures!’ She proceeded to run her stubby fingers across Torfida’s belly. ‘Here’s one… and there’s the other. You can always tell, the shape of the belly is different. The important thing is to get the second little mite out; the first is easy, but the second often hides.’

In the end, Adeliza’s skills were barely required and both babies popped out like peas from a pod; they were twin girls – Gunnhild and Estrith. These were happy times. Ingigerd and Martin also produced a child, called Gwyneth. Einar and Maria had a little girl they named Wulfhild, and thus the family of six became a tribe of ten.