Many hopes had travelled with him and that childish vision was one, the ultimate mark of success for a Norman warrior, a castle of his own, which flew his own personal standard to tell the world of his possession. Some achieved it through service to a greater being, as fortress captains; few were gifted the chance to build their own, as Robert had done at Monte Fagnano. Yet here was a fine spot for that very thing, one that could hold a permanent garrison. The more he walked, the more he looked over the walls he and his men must overcome, the more vital it seemed he must have possession of the place.
At the base of the hill he could see the bulk of his men and their horses, the latter now unsaddled and tethered, with hay at their feet or being taken in turns to drink at the pool that had formed in the rock-strewn river. They would be useless up here: the ground close to the defences was too steep, and mentally thinking ahead to the possibility of a garrisoned castle, he reasoned there would be a need to build stabling if this was to become a permanent Norman holding. It would be wise to accommodate warriors and mounts down below, so they could move swiftly to meet any threat in the surrounding countryside or on the coast.
‘So, no terms?’ Ralph de Boeuf asked when Roger outlined his thinking.
‘No. We must take the place.’
‘Quarter?’
‘We will kill what we must, but keep alive what we can.’
‘Then we had best get what we need up that damn hill.’
‘I will organise the peasants to supply us and when that is complete I want them building fences around the local pasture. If we are going to be here permanently, properly husbanded grassland will be necessary.’
If whoever was overseeing the defence had any doubt about the Norman intention it would have died when he saw them constructing a dry-stone wall set across the track right to the cliff edge, high enough and stout enough to make any attempt to sally out and dislodge them dangerous. They could also see a constant stream of packhorses, as well as their own local peasants, carrying heavy loads up to this encampment: food, skins of water and wine, as well as copious amounts of wood for the fires they would need at night, added to the kind of timber and reeds needed to make shelters to protect them from both sun and rain.
‘The one thing they might not have is an abundant supply of weapons, so we want them using those against probing attacks.’ He looked around the assembled conroy leaders, all thirty of them, each in command of nine other men. ‘We will approach the walls then retire when they respond. I don’t want these attacks pressed home, I want them to be coming from different directions, drawing their fire before retiring.’
‘If they’ve got any sense they’ll ignore us.’
Roger looked at the man who had spoken, his blue eyes steady but without any rancour: it was good they voiced their concerns, good that they used their brains and experience and did not just blindly follow orders. There were men here who had many years on him as well as a wealth of fighting skill. The lances he had brought from Normandy would follow him regardless but he had worried at the outset of the campaign that those Normans given him by his brother might baulk at having to obey such a young and untried leader. There had been a trace of resentment to begin with but that was now gone: Roger had proved himself able, proved that he was not the leader just because of his bloodline.
‘If they do I will be racking my brain for an alternative.’
‘Then we are going to be here an eternity,’ jested Ralph de Boeuf, to general laughter.
Working in parties of thirty at various points, the tactic was partially successful, depending on the amount of control exercised behind the walls: if the man commanding that section was strong of mind there was little response, if weak then his men let fly with what they had. The result of each probe was reported back to Roger, who then made his dispositions. To fight at night, without mail or shield, gloves or helmets, was risky but necessary, and he led the way, discarding his surcoat — the white could alert the defenders — the sword in his hand sheathed in straw in case it inadvertently struck stone. Scabbards, too, had to be left behind, seen as a possible encumbrance.
Torches lit the ground close to the walls, but they created pools of Stygian darkness not far off. Being strewn with scrub and rocks, it was a place into which the Normans could crawl, on a cloudy night, without being seen, the only sound a hissed curse or two as skin was rasped or bruised by passage through unseen obstacles. That died down as they got into the places they had sought out in daylight, and there they lay, waiting in utter silence, listening. The soft sounds of movement were not long in coming and glimmers of light would illuminate a small area of ground as a shaded lantern was uncovered, while, if the man holding it was careless, they would see what it was he had come out to find, a pike or a lance thrown from too much excitement.
‘Now!’
The single cry was followed by a mass of yelling as the Normans raced towards where they had seen those pinpricks of light, swords now ready for battle, seeking out those lantern-holders who panicked enough to show where they were located. It was never going to be conclusive, Roger had never intended it should be, but it had the virtue of showing the defenders the determination their attackers intended to employ to subdue them. At the cost of a succession of cuts and abrasions they managed to kill half a dozen of those who had come out to retrieve their weaponry — their bodies were obvious as soon as the sun rose — and to prevent the rest from succeeding in their task of recovery.
At first light, those Normans not employed in the dark launched a proper attack on a section of the walls, lopping off the ends of the defenders’ pikes while avoiding being impaled on the points, while the shields they bore were used to deflect heavy rocks big enough to break a bone. That, too, was only partially successful — in fact it cost Roger more in wounded than it caused harm to the defence, but it had been deliberately targeted at the place where the defence was strongest, on either side of the entry gate.
‘They’ll think us fools,’ de Boeuf said, watching as the attack was repelled.
‘I hope so,’ Roger replied. ‘Sound the recall.’
The horn blew, the Normans fell back as ordered and the garrison cheered.
They hit the walls again that evening, lances probing at the fools who, so eager for success, tried too hard to push the Normans back, then again as soon as the sun rose the next morning, never once at the point Roger had selected for an assault he thought might succeed — part of the defence on the eastern side where the land was reasonably flat. The ladders they would need were taken to that section at night, with torch-bearing Normans haranguing the defenders, while just out of the arc of light they created, their confreres laid the climbing frames in place for the morrow.
It was mid-morning before they moved and much play was made of a third of the Normans marching to the chosen spot, while the stronger contingent once more attempted the gate, this to pin the defence. What could not be seen were the preparations until the attackers lifted up their ladders and ran to the walls, this while the lances at the gate pressed home their assault to keep occupied those with whom they were contesting.
The defences were not high, not more than twice the height of a man, so the ladders were short. But they were also numerous and a surprise, creating a degree of confusion which got many of the Normans, personally led by Roger de Hauteville, onto the walls, there to fight the Greeks on more equal terms. Now defenders began to die, the difference soon apparent between men who lived and trained for war and those forced to partake of it. Yet the Greeks were stalwart and fought back with gusto: ladders were cast down along with the men climbing them. The point of maximum exposure came when any Norman tried to transfer from ladder to wall, at the point when his weapon and shield were not covering his body. Mail was armour against a cutting blow, less so against a determined thrust by a sharp-pointed pike, and good as Roger’s men were, several paid the price of the assault with wounds that were deadly.