‘Would it be permitted for me to greet the other lady present?’
‘Sweet Judith,’ Sichelgaita responded, in her slightly braying way, her eyebrows knotted on her rather unbecoming face. ‘You know of each other?’
‘I had the good fortune to make the lady’s acquaintance in Normandy.’
The look on his face must have made obvious the undercurrents of that, for Sichelgaita gave a hoot that was more guffaw than laugh and one in its tenor that would not have shamed her husband-to-be. Her whole frame, and it was a big one, shook with amusement and she looked at Judith, demure, with her head bowed.
‘You wish to take her away from me?’
‘For a short while, yes.’
Roger stepped forward and took the end of Judith’s fingers, feeling a sensation run up his arm, one he likened to that which he occasionally got from a touched piece of rubbed velvet, though in this instance he had no desire to snatch his hand away and shake it. She raised her head to look at him and he saw that if she was older there was no diminution in her beauty, quite the reverse: where there had been some puppy fat there were now clean and definite lines, while the eyes, blue and direct, were as becoming as ever.
‘You are more lovely to look at than even my memory allowed me.’ The maidenly blush was entrancing. ‘I hope, battle scarred as I now am, I do not displease you?’
That had Judith looking keenly at his face, which was in truth bearing marks that had not been there at St Evroul. The way she suddenly touched one, where a sword tip had very slightly sliced his cheek, was like being fingered by something divine and the spell it created was only broken by the booming laugh that came from behind him.
‘I pray God my husband does not behave like this. What a couple of milksops.’ The shove in Roger’s back was close, in force, to the last time a horse had head butted him. ‘Go on, you fool, kiss the woman.’
Having had to grab Judith to prevent knocking her over, complying with that demand was almost a requirement. They got some time alone eventually, when Roger could listen to what had brought her to Italy, nothing less, as described, than the tyranny of William the Bastard, who now ruled Normandy with a rod of iron and was as rapacious as any despot could be. He had demanded Judith marry one of his followers, a man her brother thought unsuitable. That refusal was followed by an order to hand over the portable treasures of St Evroul, and Grantmesnil had rejected that too, which was tantamount to his asking to be slung into a dungeon for life. The only option was to flee.
‘All the musicians the abbots had gathered over many years and those sweet-voiced monks were scattered.’
‘I cannot believe you stayed unwed.’
The answer was delivered from under lowered eyebrows. ‘I hope it makes you happy.’
‘It makes me delirious, Judith, but, of course, I must speak with your brother and guardian.’
‘Would it please you if I say I hope he consents?’
Roger laughed out loud. ‘I cannot see how he can disagree. I am no bare-buttocked knight now, Judith, I am lord of many fiefs and I say to you I will be more than just Roger de Hauteville very soon, as soon as I can get my brother to keep some of his promises.’
‘Your station matters not, Roger.’
‘Not to you, but your brother, the abbot, will take a different view.’
Which he did, but all was welclass="underline" Abbot de Grantmesnil had just been told by Count Robert of Apulia that he was to be endowed with the means to found a new Benedictine abbey, along with extensive lands, near Nicastro in Calabria, where he was charged with recreating the traditions of St Evroul in both music and singing. To refuse to allow Judith to marry his brother would have been ingratitude indeed, especially when Robert boomed his reasons.
‘That’s one in the eye for the Bastard of Falaise! Get me a scribe now, I want to write to the swine.’
That the permission to marry immediately was withheld by his own brother mattered not: Robert wanted nothing to overshadow his wedding to Sichelgaita and what a sight they created entering the rebuilt church in Venosa, where, passing the bones of his late brothers, Robert led his bride-to-be to the altar. Matching his height and so fair as to be near white-haired, a looming Amazon even in fine silks, they took their vows with due solemnity before emerging to partake of an openair feast, surrounded by thousands of Robert’s knights, many themselves with wives of Lombard descent.
The time came for the newly-weds to retire, accompanied by much behind-the-hand sniggering, ribald joking and predictions of imminent bloodshed, for many thought Robert, lusty and strong as he was, would meet his match in Sichelgaita. They were, of course, followed and eavesdropped upon, the listeners gratified to hear much shouting and screaming, though even the most malicious had to admit they appeared to be sounds of deep pleasure, not conflict.
Roger, in the company of Judith and her half-brother, departed the next day, to journey back to Calabria, and he and Judith, with Jordan in attendance, were married in the church of Mileto, the town Roger had chosen as his future residence, the ceremony accompanied by music and singing arranged by his new brother-in-law, who had decided that he would henceforth be the abbot of a Benedictine monastery dedicated to the memory of St Eufemia.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Pope Nicholas is coming south to hold a synod at your castle at Melfi and he asks, most humbly, that you attend.’
‘To what purpose?’ demanded a bemused Robert Guiscard.
The envoy was surprised to be so questioned. ‘I cannot read the mind of the pontiff.’
Now outside the walls of Reggio, the last Byzantine bastion in Western Calabria, Robert was reluctant to once more be dragged away from campaigning. That Roger was competent to press home the siege was not in doubt, but following on from Robert’s wedding and, on his previous return to the region, the mere sight of his banner had brought about the surrender of the last three inland bastions held by the Greeks. Yet Reggio, the old Roman city and a capital to Byzantine Calabria, was proving a tough nut to crack, for to lose this was, to the Eastern Empire, to lose their last foothold in this part of Italy.
‘You cannot refuse such a summons,’ Roger suggested.
‘Yes I can,’ Robert growled, his brow furrowed. ‘I cannot leave here now.’
‘Before you do something foolish, brother, I think there is someone you should meet.’
Roger asked that one of his brother’s attendants take care of the papal envoy, to get him out of the way, then sent another to his own tent to fetch his visitor, refusing to respond to Robert’s querulous enquiries as to what he was about. When Kasa Ephraim entered his tent he looked even more confused, doubly so when introduced.
‘What can a Jew tell me that I do not already know?’
‘There is not enough time in my life to allow for an answer,’ Roger replied, a remark which earned him a jaundiced look.
‘I have heard of you, Ephraim.’
That barked greeting from the Guiscard had no effect on Kasa Ephraim, who had on his face a bland look: if asked, he would have replied he had been insulted too many times, from his childhood to the present, for the perceived failings of his race, to ever feel the need to respond to irate behaviour.
‘I was an admirer of your brother William,’ he said.
‘Oh, it was mutual, Jew,’ Robert replied. ‘He mentioned you to me more than once and said you gave him sage counsel. Is that what you have come here to do for me?’
‘He came at my invitation,’ Roger interrupted, ‘and I would be obliged if you would treat him as you would any invited guest.’
‘I suspect he came in the hope of profiting from our seizure of Reggio.’
‘If my presence offends you then I will leave,’ Ephraim replied.
‘No, stay,’ Roger insisted. ‘Tell my brother what has happened in Rome.’
Ephraim nodded before looking directly at his brother. ‘You will know of Richard of Capua’s intervention in the deposing of the false pope?’