Standing atop the wall, feet apart but precariously balanced, Roger swung his sword with all his might, the blue and white surcoat now massively stained with blood of those into whose flesh he had cut. Finally he got onto the wooden parapet, to the right and left of him, protecting his flank, two of the young men he had brought from Normandy, all fighting to create a space that would allow their fellow warriors to join them. Once an unbroken line could be formed they would overwhelm the defence by sheer weight of weaponry.
The defence hardened as defenders were brought from other, less threatened parts to hold the endangered section, but that had been anticipated, for behind Roger the men who had been assaulting the gate would be thinning out as instructed to make their way to join him. He needed to get off the parapet and down to ground level, where superior close-battle control would really count and all their numbers could be brought to bear. The fighting became lethal on both sides, narrowed down to what was right in front of each man, whatever side he was on. The Normans had skill and determination, the defenders desperation, but in the end it came down to faith in leadership. Roger led men who knew he would die as readily as they; it was only to be discovered later that those who held the town lacked that vital ingredient. A rumour circulated that their lord was preparing to flee and the defence began to crumble with a suddenness that surprised every Norman, Roger included.
Weapons were cast aside, while men fell to their knees pleading to be spared, those at the very front in vain. The defence was about to disintegrate, but then the leader they thought about to desert them appeared, dressed in a fine helmet, good mail and wearing a multicoloured surcoat. Voice raised, he rallied his broken ranks in a way that, even engaged, Roger found time to admire, and the fighting resumed its deadly pace.
Much as he needed to share his men’s travails, Roger was also required to direct the battle. Trust had to be placed in Ralph de Boeuf and his other conroy leaders to carry on the command at the very front, while he himself withdrew to seek an overall view of where the enemy weaknesses might lie. Dry-mouthed and with sweat running down his face — the cloth band he wore under his helmet was drenched — Roger tried to assess each part of the enemy line and he thought he spotted a weak spot right by the walls, where the defenders lacked firm leadership. Pulling back some of his knights he formed a phalanx and struck hard at the very edge of the wall, driving forward with mighty sword blows and equally heavy thrusts with his shield. His opponent was no fooclass="underline" he saw the increasing danger and led at a rush a portion of his men to defend it.
Thus the two leaders found themselves face to face. The Greek Count of Montenero was not gorgeous now, he had been in close combat and was as bloodily stained as the Norman, and if he was fresher, he lacked Roger de Hauteville’s height and reach: the Norman sword swung in a wider arc than his, making it hard for him to get close to landing a blow, and by engaging as he did he had created a situation he would have been well advised to avoid. The men knew their leaders: the contest had become personal, lessening the general melee, and the count was no match for the man he faced.
He fought valiantly, even as it became clear he was outmatched, his sword taking blow after ringing blow as he put up a stout defence, never letting it show that, barring a shock, there could be only one outcome. Swinging hard and continually, his arms and shoulders aching from the continued effort, Roger beat down the man’s every effort to best him, wondering why he did not drop back, let fall his sword and beg for succour.
Yet Roger knew why he fought as he did: this was his fief and, in effect, his life. Everything he had of himself and his personal esteem coursed through the blade with which he fought: he had to kill this man before him or die in the attempt, there was no other way with honour. That came when he, tiring also, failed to parry a sweep of Roger’s sword and in seeking to recover from that error he left himself exposed. The following blow, the broadsword held high and swung with maximum force, caught the man at the join of his shoulder and neck. It did not decapitate him, the mail cowl under his helmet prevented that, but the blade sunk deep into his neck, forcing his head to cant at an angle, as a fount of bright-red blood spewed from the ruptured arteries and the light died in the man’s dark eyes.
Those he had led lost heart, but they had so incensed their Norman opponents by their fortitude that few were spared, so that the hard ground of the interior of Montenero was fed with much blood. Some fought on with the despair which comes from knowing death awaits and it is better to expire fighting than on your knees, falling back until they found themselves under the canopy of that ancient acropolis. It ended there with slaughter and the Norman leader, his chest heaving, leaning on his sword, rasping that combat should cease, aware that for once, he was being ignored.
When it did stop there was no one left to kill and Roger, looking around the stone columns of the ancient building, tried to say that what held them up would make fine foundation stones for his castle: tried but failed — he lacked the breath to make himself heard even by the men right at his side.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I have been faithful to my word, Robert, sending you everything I pillaged as well as the revenues I have gathered from those who submitted.’
‘Everything? I think not, Sprat.’
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘I am your liege lord, I can call you what I wish.’
Roger was aware that his brother was uncomfortable, as to his mind so should he be. Famed for his generosity, he had not been that with him, quite the reverse: the revenues sent to Melfi in the last year had stayed there in their entirety.
‘I decide who is my liege lord, not you, and as of this moment I am not inclined to acknowledge a man who acts like a common thief.’
‘I will not let you address me so,’ Robert yelled, his voice echoing off the stones of the great hall. Meant to cow Roger, it signally failed to do so.
‘How are you going to stop me, unless you are willing to use your dungeons? I cannot pay my men, damn it, Robert, I can scarce feed them. What happened to the half of the revenues I was promised, all that gold I sent you?’
‘It has been used wisely.’
‘For what?’
‘The needs of my holdings, which are of paramount concern.’
‘Your coffers are full to bursting, I’ll wager. Is it that you have become a miser?’
‘The revenues of the lands I have are mine to do with what I wish…’
‘Which clearly does not extend to keeping a solemn promise.’
‘Promise? I recall no promise.’ The booming voice had mellowed, but it was the sly look that went with it that really annoyed Roger. ‘A discussion yes, a proposal and one larded with avarice from you, given you were without prospects lest I grant them to you.’
‘Have I not served you well? Half of Calabria accepts you as suzerain.’
‘You have served me as you should.’
‘Perhaps you fear me, Robert.’
‘If you believe that you are a fool.’
‘The one thing am I am not is a fool, brother. Pay me what you owe or I will depart your service.’
‘Do you think you, of no account, can threaten me?’
‘If I am of no account I may as well depart.’
Seething, Roger turned on his heel and left. The next heard sound was of him and his knights riding out of the castle of Melfi. What should have troubled the Guiscard more was that accompanying them were Ralph de Boeuf and many of the men Robert had sent with his brother to Calabria.