‘There are thirty lances guarding the coast at Gerace.’
‘Which is ten leagues from here,’ complained Ralph de Boeuf.
Roger put his arm round Jordan’s shoulder. ‘Ten leagues would not trouble you, my boy, would it?’
‘Never, Papa.’
‘Then you will accompany me.’
‘And the rest of us?’
‘Stay here, Ralph, there are none of Robert’s conroys this side of Mileto.’
‘Take an escort, Roger.’
‘And wear men out to no purpose? What need do I have of an escort when I have Jordan at my side?’
Ralph de Boeuf’s expression showed he knew that to be rubbish, but Jordan was beaming, his face so flushed with pride his juvenile spots looked like fire coals. Told to prepare, he rushed off to get their mounts ready, his bright blond hair flying, followed by the admiring eyes of his father.
‘I swear he has grown half a hand since we left Mileto.’
‘Which makes him just as easy to mark as you. Be careful, Roger, remember your brother is no dimwit.’
Roger was right, there were none of Robert’s conroys east of the central mountains. What there were, however, were numerous individual riders seeking news of his whereabouts, and even if he avoided towns, he was every inch the Norman knight, while Jordan had an innocence and a pride that meant if he was asked, out of Roger’s earshot, with whom he rode, he was only too happy to tell the enquirer not only his father’s name and title, but where they were headed and why. Pushing their mounts, it was only a day’s ride to the walled town of Gerace, full of Greeks and one which had suffered much in the famine, happy to welcome the man they saw as their liege lord and saviour.
Normans cared for their horses when they must: Roger and Jordan walked their mounts a third of every league. The fellow informed of their presence and destination had no such consideration. He rode his horse till it nearly dropped, then commandeered another that got him swiftly back to Robert’s encampment. Few grains of sand made it through the neck of the glass before the Duke of Apulia was mounted and on his way with a hundred lances, driving his mounts with the same lack of regard. It was only by the greatest good fortune and a whisker of a wooded hillside that he missed Roger and Jordan, who had spent a whole day and night in Gerace, and were now riding back to their mountain retreat with half the men of the garrison, the rest pledged to follow.
Robert’s lances were spotted thundering towards the walls and even if they had not known his identity they would have slammed shut their gates. Nothing they subsequently learnt was inclined to alter such thinking: to these Greeks the Guiscard was remembered as a ravaging brigand, for Gerace had met him before. He had not been a duke then, nothing more than a thief, one feared by the citizens of this part of Calabria for the destruction he had wrought.
‘You know me and you know what I will do if you do not open your gates.’
‘We do know you too well, weasel,’ a voice cried. ‘May the Devil take you!’
‘I am your duke.’
‘We are loyal to Roger of Mileto.’
‘Which I will burn and when I have I shall come to Gerace and do the same.’
‘The children of the men you slaughtered before await you, pig.’
It was a futile exchange: he had no idea if Roger was in Gerace — with just a boy alongside him he would be mad to show himself — and no way of forcing entry with the forces he had to find out, as obvious to those hurling insults as it was to him. Previously he had taken Gerace in a lightning raid which had left the inhabitants, undefended by Byzantium, no time to bar his entry. Blood had been spilt, but that was to be as expected as was the violation of the women — it was a Greek town owing allegiance to Constantinople and he was a Norman seeking plunder. There had been much of that, too, but what he also recalled was the name of one citizen who welcomed him. It was time for a touch of the famous Guiscard cunning.
Having set up camp far enough away so his fires could not be seen, Robert posted sentinels around the town with instructions to ensure his brother did not sneak away. Having divested himself of his surcoat and mail, with a cowled cloak over his body and head, crouched to minimise his height, he made his way back to the town, sure that folk would be slipping in and out, going about their various errands. He was right: the carts that had come in from the country before he was sighted were sneaking out to return to their outlying farms and it took little effort to creep along the unlit wall and dash through the gap, hidden from those guarding the gate on the other side of a cart.
Memory helped him find the home of the man he thought most likely to help him, a Bulgar named Brogo, and a man who so hated the Byzantine killers of his people that he had secretly helped Robert to identify those citizens of the town likely to have hidden wealth — a betrayal for which he had been well rewarded, his secondary pleasure being in watching them tortured to reveal their hiding places. Fifteen years is a long time and Brogo had aged much, yet he could not fail to recognise a man of the height and build of the Guiscard, nor did he hesitate to drag him from under the lantern outside his doorway and into his hovel.
‘Lord Robert, how I longed to see you come again.’ The man was slobbering over his hand in the most embarrassing fashion, yet Robert knew he must indulge him. ‘I hate the Greeks and I hoped once more you would come to strip them of their gold.’
Robert wanted to say, recalling what he had plundered here, there had been precious little gold. But he held his tongue on that: there was only one question to which he required an answer.
‘Is my brother still in Gerace?’
‘No, My Lord, he left this morning before the sun was high.’
The string of curses that induced, in Norman French, might have been incomprehensible to Brogo but he knew what they portended in a man much given to anger. ‘I have wasted my time, friend, I must away and pursue him.’
‘Wait, My Lord, do you not intend to take Gerace again?’
In a room with enough candles to see reasonably well, Robert looked at unsavoury Brogo, a thick-necked, round-faced creature who perspired constantly, with misshapen features, broken teeth and breath that would have halted a camel. He had made money from Robert before and it took no great imagination to see that he saw in this visit a chance to repeat his good fortune.
‘You cannot depart now, it is not safe.’
‘The gates are in use, Brogo,’ Robert growled, ‘how do you think I got here?’
‘They will not be so now, all who needed to leave will have done so. But at first light, when the country folk want to come back, as long as your men are not close-’
‘They will not be.’
‘Then wait till then, Lord Roger, and perhaps you will allow me to offer you food, humble fare to a man of your wealth, but you cannot have already eaten.’
In truth, Robert was sharp set, having ridden hard and consumed little and, even accustomed to hard service, he was weary. The prospect of a seat at a table and food, risky as it was to be sat here in an enemy town, was too tempting to resist. He threw back his cowl and nodded.
‘Very well, Brogo.’
‘If you would pay, I could buy food more to your liking.’
The odour of the place was enough to tell the Guiscard this was no house of plenty, more likely an abode where rotten vegetables were the staple fare. In his absence this man had not prospered, no doubt because, if he hated the Greeks of Gerace, they were not fond of him. Some coin from Robert’s purse produced a shout that brought into view a much younger woman, Brogo’s wife, a dark-skinned creature introduced as Melita. Another shout brought forth an ageing servant so thin and rickety he looked as though he was half starved, he given the coins and sent out to buy meat and wine.