‘With this marriage, the Guiscard becomes your ally against Capua and perhaps, in time, one who will help you recover the lands that robber upstart has stolen from you since the death of your father.’
Watching Gisulf think was like watching an infant pile wooden bricks, a slow deliberate affair that took no cognisance of the instability of the final result. In private discussions he had posited the notion of several alliances, not just with the papacy — with Byzantium or the Saracens of Sicily, as well — all to rid himself of the Normans, each idea foundering on the fact that once on his soil these putative allies would, like those very same Normans who had come as mercenaries, never leave without being forced to.
As he had listened to these fantasies he had been privy to Gisulf’s imaginings. The Jew suspected, at this moment, the prince was conjuring up great armies, with this time Robert de Hauteville bowing to him as the superior general, astounded by his skill in routing his enemies. That gleam in his eye was one Ephraim recognised — he had seen the same look in the eye of the prince’s father as he contemplated the chance of becoming the ruler of the whole of South Italy: that the son of Guaimar should harbour such dreams was not a surprise; that he thought them achievable bordered on madness.
‘You think the Guiscard would march against a fellow Norman?’
‘Sire, at some time they must either come into conflict or one must bow the knee to the other. Such a thing is inevitable.’
Richard of Capua and the Count of Apulia had a relationship that waxed and waned as circumstances demanded. But two such powerful patrimonies could not forever stay at peace — it could happen tomorrow or it might be decades distant. For now it was a telling carrot to a vacillating prince.
‘The Guiscard will demand a dowry.’
‘You surely intend that your sister should be married, sire. Whoever she weds would seek a dowry.’
‘I shall demand of him that he puts his brother of Scalea in his place. Do you think he will agree to that?’
‘He was willing to gift you a free hand before, sire. There is no love lost between those two brothers and the Count of Apulia lost as much from his raids as you did.’
‘Then why, if he does not love him,’ Gisulf demanded, ‘does he just not kill Mauger?’
It would do no good to explain the vow each of the brothers had taken with their father: a man like Gisulf would not understand.
‘He will not do that, sire, but he will, I am sure, oblige you by curtailing him.’
That Robert did, and swiftly, but not just for Gisulf: Mauger had led Roger astray and it was therefore a pleasure to descend on Scalea and accept his surrender, for he could not stand out against the massive force Robert brought to bear. He and his men were stripped of their gains, the gold they had acquired shipped to Salerno, with Robert insisting on an increase in the dowry so that it stayed there for no time at all.
Mauger was obliged to swear allegiance to his brother and to keep the peace, to cease his raiding and be satisfied with the revenues of the fief he was allowed to keep. A promise he swore in Holy Church and one he had no intention of keeping: let Robert depart, let things settle down, and he could go back to his old ways. The suggestion that he might attend the wedding was brushed aside with contempt.
Roger had to attend — the siege of Reggio, now that the other bastions like Cariati had surrendered, would have to wait, and if he felt Alberada, a lady he had come to like, had been treated badly he could also see the future needs of his brother demanded it be done. At some time he too must marry, and like Robert the notion of attraction would have nothing to do with the choice: he would seek a bride who enhanced his position, probably one of his brother’s wealthier vassals. Sichelgaita was coming with a huge dowry, not that such a thing stopped him and Ralph de Boeuf amusing themselves with the notion of the two giants coupling.
‘It’s like two ends of the gamut,’ Ralph said as they rode into the still-growing town of Melfi. ‘First a mouse to be crushed and ripped by childbearing, and now a wife bigger than his destrier.’
‘And as fearless, Ralph. Their wedding night will draw blood lest we pad the walls of the bedchamber.’
‘You have sat close to her, Roger, is she actually bigger than Robert?’
‘Nearly, and she’s as broad in the shoulder. All I can say is there is no dowry large enough to persuade me that the risk of deflowering her is worth it.’
They rode into the keep of Melfi to find a beaming Robert awaiting them. The ribbing, which always attended a bridegroom, began almost as soon as the two brothers had embraced, yet Roger was surprised by Robert’s reaction: while the words he used were sharp, the grin on his face as he led him into the great chamber took any sting out of them.
‘I will make you laugh on the other side of your face, brother.’
‘It’s your bride you have to pleasure, not me. I take it she is here?’
‘She is, and so is the Norman divine who will carry out the ceremony. Someone very special has come to do the honours.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘I hope you may recognise him.’ Robert pointed straight ahead. ‘There he is.’
Looking towards the end of the semi-crowded hall and following the pointed finger, Roger could make out a dim figure, for there were no candles lit at this time of day and the embrasures, meant to be defended, were narrow. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but it was not so obvious that Roger could name him.
‘Have you fetched from Normandy our cousin of Montbray?’
‘It is not Bishop Geoffrey, yet it is a fellow I hazard you will greet with greater joy.’
‘There would be few men who could claim that,’ Roger insisted.
‘My dear Abbot, pray let my brother see you more clearly,’ Robert called, his voice echoing and turning other heads.
The figure moved closer and Roger could see his clerical garments, as befitted the title his brother had just used, but it was only when he got really close that he was recognised, for it was a face Roger had not seen since that fateful trip to Falaise many years previously.
‘Grantmesnil?’
The head before him bowed in acknowledgement and Roger’s heart skipped a beat as he posed the obvious question. ‘Judith?’
‘Is with your brother’s future wife.’
‘Why are you here?’
It was a lame question and one which, whatever the answer, did not signify: the only thing that mattered was the proximity of Judith of Evreux, if you put aside Roger’s pounding heart.
‘He has fallen foul of the Bastard,’ Robert boomed, ‘just as we de Hautevilles have in the past, which would make him a friend if he was not a blessed addition to our estates in any case.’
‘Do I have your permission to talk with her?’ Roger asked.
He was moving before Grantmesnil could finish saying yes, with a very amused Robert shouting after him that he should behave himself.
‘I’ll get no more jests about my nuptials from him, will I, de Boeuf?’
Courtesy demanded that Roger greet Sichelgaita first, and also that he ask after her brother, the Prince of Salerno, but his eyes were not on her as she replied and nor did he hear the words in which she dismissed the polite enquiry: she and Gisulf did not have much in common, in fact it was doubtful if they had anything shared.