‘You seem certain Bohemund will be seduced by my brother-in-law.’
‘The boy hates you, even if you are not told of his loathing.’
‘I am told he admires me.’
‘You listen too much to Ademar and he is blinded by his regard for his wife.’
From an open arch a breeze came in from the Adriatic, a hot wind from the east that did nothing to ease his lethargy. ‘And you think too much like a Lombard.’
Sichelgaita laughed and it echoed off the tiled chamber walls, for it was no slight creature that sat on the pool edge, her feet submerged to the knees. She was a blonde Amazon who could stand toe to toe with Robert, was his equal in height and had a frame to match. Both being huge, it needed a stout bed to hold them and an even more robust construction when they engaged in carnal conversation, for when it came to enthusiasm and frequency in the bedchamber Sichelgaita could match her husband for gusto there too.
‘What are you saying to me, husband? That Normans are more faithful to their overlords?’
Normally one to share the humour of such a remark, Robert just shook his head and began to haul himself out of the water, falling back as a pair of servants rushed forward with drying cloths. That was followed by a curse, then a more powerful effort, and once he was upright on the mosaic floor he grabbed a cloth and wrapped it round his trunk, making for the open arch, there to allow the warm breeze coming off the Adriatic to dry his upper body.
‘Bohemund will be tested and he will either pass that test or fail it.’
That Sichelgaita prayed for the latter was no secret to Robert; she hated and feared Bohemund, for if his father had monitored his progress as he grew to manhood so had she, and for once it seemed more pressing than normal. To be so tired, so lacking in vigour was unusual, almost novel to the Guiscard, who was famous for rarely succumbing to the fevers and agues that afflicted others with whom he fought and marched. Yet at this moment he could feel the ache in his thighs and across his lower back that he knew to be the onset of some kind of malaise. Less normal was the feeling of morbidity, which he forced himself to suppress; he would suffer a few days of discomfort as he had in the past and would then, as usual, be back to his full and formidable strength.
Robert de Hauteville was not one to brood on his own mortality, even if he knew the number of his years and was aware that he was likely to expire before Bohemund and his legal heir. His son Roger, known as Borsa for his habit when a child of always counting the contents of his purse, was as yet physically no match for his older half-brother, which was odd given the brute size of his parents. Not that he was tiny; more that he was of an average height instead of a commanding one and showed no sign that he might put on a spurt to alter those dimensions. Borsa too had been in the manege that morning and he was, for his fourteen summers, a hearty fighter in contest against those of his own age, though in no way exceptional.
Such limitations extended to his manner, which was reticent where it needed to be bold, and to his father’s way of thinking his son and heir was also too inclined to be swayed by priests; the boy spent far too much time on his knees. A pious man by his own lights, the Guiscard was of the opinion that God had to be kept in his proper place; no man, not even a pope — and that had been proved too many times to be gainsaid in their own venal bailiwick — could rule by the tenets of Jesus Christ. Robert worshipped regularly and was generous in his endowments, funding abbeys and building churches, while at the same time doing all in his power to spread the tenets of the Roman practice of the Christian religion with which he had been raised by, allowing monks sent by Rome to freely proselytise, but he refused to be a slave to faith.
This he did, notwithstanding his own present state of excommunication — was it the third occasion or the fourth he had been denied a state of grace by Rome? Not that he cared; it was a stricture that carried so little weight in the lands over which he held sway, for most of his subjects were Greeks and still adhered to the Eastern rite which they had practised for centuries. Likewise the Lombards, while those of his own persuasion owed everything they had or could hope for to him. In terms of worship things were changing among his subjects, but slowly and not without resentments that could be added to all the other grievances the ruled held against their Norman overlords.
The entrance of his chamberlain broke the train of thought he was following, a brooding both on his state of grace and his troubled relations with Rome. Here to see him was the man entrusted to ensure that what his master needed to know was put before him in terms that allowed for decisions to be made; his other task was to keep at bay the minor matters that fell beneath the ducal dignity.
‘My Lord, I have the prisoner, Lord Peter, in your privy chamber, as you desired. Also there is a communication from Constantinople under the imperial seal that is said to be significant and is for only you to see.’
There was a moment when Robert felt like saying both would be required to wait, but it could not be. There would be much to consider on top of that, for after his chamberlain, and despite all his efforts to ease the burden of ruling, would come his treasurer, then the Master of the Host to report on the state of his supplies, then followed the various leaders he had tasked to plan the training of his forces. After he had dealt with those there would come a number of merchants and traders, ships’ captains and guild masters, too important to ignore, supplicants seeking either favours or relief from the customs duties he demanded. Finally, in order that his subjects should know they had access to his largesse and the rule of law, he would need to listen to a whole raft of petitions from those who felt their lives blighted by either the principles he imposed, or the lack of his hand where it was weak.
‘Let’s deal with the flea first; I’ll come as soon as I’m dressed.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I would hang him,’ Sichelgaita insisted, as clothing was brought to her husband from those same servants who had sought to dry him, the last garment his surcoat, crested with his coat of arms, a shield of red and gold crossed with a chequered blue and white bar dexter.
‘Ademar was of the same opinion,’ Robert laughed softly, as the garment was placed over his shirt and loose breeches. ‘You are a bloodthirsty pair, to be sure.’
‘He rebelled and forced you to retake this city by siege and assault.’
For all she was married to a Norman, Sichelgaita was too much a Lombard to understand his thinking or the truth of his position. It was as he had said to Bohemund on the battlements of Corato: too many of his vassals, when he was not actually present, asked themselves why they should bow the knee to a mere de Hauteville, a family no better than their own. Such thoughts fed upon many other minor resentments that they held, so that when two or more Norman barons combined over food and drink, such grievances took on a life of their own as they worked off each other. That, if left unchecked, led to revolt, usually minor and easily contained.
Yet murderous revenge was not likely to achieve the kind of concord that eased the rule of such an extended patrimony; powerful as he was, he could not be everywhere at once. There had always been upheavals and there always would be — it was an ingredient of his inheritance and an element of the very fabric of being part of a race descended from Vikings: a ruler held what he held by force of arms and his personality; if that was in any way weak, his possessions were there to be taken. That the recent rebellion had been more serious, added to the implication of Capua, to Robert meant a high degree of calculation was necessary; too heavy a retribution might bring on more trouble instead of restore harmony.