The only relief was provided by Gisulf’s sister and that came from observing their differences as much as their manner. Where he was weedy and narrow of chest, Sichelgaita was huge, as tall as Roger and with a frame and a voice to match, strikingly blond where Gisulf was dark, and she seemed fearless of nature where he portrayed anxiety with his continual twitching, so much so that Roger was wont to wonder if they truly shared the same sire. The last act of his day, when the feasting was done, was to alert Ralph de Boeuf to make ready to leave at first light.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Away from this madhouse, we shall go on south to Scalea.’
‘They might try to stop us leaving.’
‘Then you know what we will do if they try.’
De Boeuf grinned. ‘I’ll get the swords sharpened just in case.’
CHAPTER NINE
The approach to Scalea was along a rocky shore, leading to a fertile plain hemmed in by hills and mountains, the most striking feature a rock escarpment on which stood the walled town, topped by the outlines of a castle, that replacing an old Byzantine watchtower on a volcanic plug right on the shoreline. With a mind naturally military, Roger could not help but see the strengths of the location, which were many, and its weaknesses, which were few, yet it could be taken: had not Mauger done just that to the previous incumbent, a Lombard vassal of Gisulf?
Stopped by sentinels in the approaches, a messenger had gone ahead to alert the garrison and, of course, the suzerain and soon Roger saw a lance bearing a pennant of the same blue and white chequer that adorned his own. A space apart, both brothers dismounted to approach each other; Roger was welcome anyway, but when his elder brother found out he had fallen out with Robert, he was hugged by a beaming sibling unsurprised by what had brought him to this place.
‘The weasel dunned you,’ Mauger hooted. ‘That does not surprise me.’
The soubriquet Guiscard might mean cunning to those who esteemed Robert, to those who hated him, and there were many, the secondary meaning, weasel, was the more accurate. Mauger was still smarting from the way Robert had taken over from Humphrey. He saw himself as the equal of any of his brothers, and having been longer in Italy he felt the title of Count of Apulia should have devolved to him
‘Geoffrey insists he is generous by nature, that the way he has treated me is an aberration, and so does every other Norman to whom I talk, though he did wonder that Robert might be made cautious by my successes.’
They were in Mauger’s apartments now, in the newly completed main tower, hung with tapestries and the heads of wild beasts, the furnishings well made, the carpets Eastern in their design and the wine, as well as the food, local and excellent. The horses of Roger and his lances had been put out to good pasture, while the riders were being well looked after, no doubt swapping tales of home with their Norman confreres.
‘He is a thief, Roger,’ his brother maintained, ‘and as for Geoffrey, all he ever does is kiss Robert’s arse so he can hang on to his titles. If our father had not made us vow never to raise a weapon against each other I would have been sorely tempted to dispose of that swine.’
The ability to keep a straight face in receipt of hyperbole was a gift Roger needed now. Mauger was a big man but he had none of the sheer physicality of Robert, the breadth of shoulder and the leonine head. Robert also had a presence, which, much as he was angry with him, bespoke of a great leader. Mauger would certainly be able to command men, but did such ability extend to the leadership of complex armies on difficult campaigns?
Observing one brother and recalling the other, he knew precisely why Humphrey had named as his successor the brother he actively distrusted — not that he was prone, it seemed, to gift much in the way of affection to any of his siblings. Roger remembered Humphrey as beetle-browed, sour, humourless, cruel to men and animals and the one, as a child, he tended to avoid. Added to that, Tancred had little time for him.
‘That is a vow I never took,’ Roger finally replied.
That brought forth a keen look, as if Mauger were thinking that Roger could do that which he had forsworn, but the fact he had not knelt before Tancred to swear to that oath counted for nothing. Roger would never raise arms against any of his brothers, never seek to draw their blood: it had been his father’s wish and for him that was a command.
‘Well, you are here now so we must find you something to do, but before that you must tell me what you learnt in Salerno.’ Mauger grinned like a mischievous child. ‘Did that popinjay Gisulf curse me?’
‘I have to tell you, Mauger, that he did not even mention you.’ It was the wrong thing to say, a dent to his pride, immediately obvious as the smile disappeared to be replaced by a childlike scowl. Realising he had made a gaffe, Roger said quickly, ‘He is too taken with the inroads of Richard of Capua to worry about any of our family.’
‘Is he, by damn? Then I shall have to show him that he has more to care about than that impostor.’
That required equal prudence when it came to a reaction: Mauger was lord of a small fief, even if it was a valuable one, and perhaps a hundred knights. Richard was a master of great estates and counted his lances in the thousand. Even on such short acquaintance he was beginning to discern that it was not just physicality that had denied Mauger Apulia: such pronouncements indicated a want of common sense and an inability to accept his own limitations.
‘We shall raid together, Roger,’ Mauger said, leaning forward, ‘and show Gisulf what we are made of. You will also be pleased to know that from my fief we can steal as much from Robert as we can from Salerno. In truth, that gives me greater pleasure.’
‘I doubt we can steal as much as he owes me.’
‘We can try, brother,’ Mauger boomed.
That they did, riding out on raid after raid, side by side with half their available lances, never too far or too long away to be in danger of reprisals by any force large enough to stop them, secure in the knowledge that the men left behind would keep safe that already held. Certainly they met resistance, but in the lands of Gisulf of Salerno it was by small bands of Lombard warriors who, if they fought at all, left their bones on the field of conflict.
With Normans it was more a case of a parley, a realisation by those they encountered, individual conroys owing allegiance to the Guiscard, that a spillage of blood for what could not be prevented was unwise. Harsh words would be spoken, threats of retaliation would be issued, some of the plunder would be given up, but each side would withdraw without a fight: the unwritten rule applied — Normans did not, if it could be avoided, kill Normans.
Usually they would return to Scalea with their plunder intact: lowing cattle, bleating sheep, donkeys and packhorses loaded with wine, grain and olive oil, some of which would be passed on locally to traders, or if Mauger was feeling generous, as gifts to his subjects. The rest was traded with the other ports and cities that lined the coast, even, an irony, with Salerno itself.
That summer and autumn were good and profitable, though raiding had to be put in abeyance during the winter, resumed as soon as the buds began to open, with Mauger now raiding deeper and deeper into the territories of his neighbours — expeditions that lasted a month, spreading fear and mayhem to Gisulf and Robert’s subjects seemingly unchecked. The day they found themselves, eighty lances, facing a Salernian force ten times their number, came as a shock, that being close to everything the Prince of Salerno could muster.