‘They may sneak out to investigate?’ one voice proposed.
‘No, their safety lies in doing nothing and waiting.’
Speaking softly he outlined the results of his reconnaissance, which included a calculation of how long it would take a hard-riding messenger to cover the nine leagues to Grottaminarda, using frequent changes of mounts from the watchtowers he passed, added to the time it would take to get the lances from the castle to where he intended to meet them, assuming that those that would join en route would be waiting at a prearranged rendezvous.
‘It is close to a day’s march and they may well not rush to get here. However, we must be in position before nightfall this very day, for if they come on with haste, at some time on the morrow they will pass through that valley.’
‘Numbers, Bohemund.’
The young man looked at Reynard. ‘How many men would you send to see off a band of ten?’
There was time to light fires and cook some food, to be both eaten and taken as rations; roasting and baking would not be possible again until the coming fight was over. While that was taking place every man not overseeing the cooking was set to gathering enough dead wood and brushwood, as well as splitting enough logs, to keep those blazing for a day or more. It helped that from the watchtower they would hear the sound of axes thudding into trees, indicating that perhaps timber was being cut for assault ladders. Once the wood stacks were high enough to satisfy Bohemund he led the fighting men and their mounts away from the tower on foot to minimise any noise.
If it was a warm night, it was one in the new encampment, found by the light of moon and stars, that went without a single flame and that continued after sunrise, for even if they could keep the actual fires hidden, the smoke would rise above the trees and excite curiosity as to their source. Much as he tried to keep it from view Bohemund was palpably nervous, which manifested itself in much unnecessary activity, pacing up and down, constantly checking the equipment of those who were well versed in the ability to maintain it, repeatedly asking about the alertness of the sentinels he had set at the head of the valley, until finally Reynard took him by the arm, hauling him well away from the rest of the men, and insisted he settle, given it could be a long time before any fighting took place.
‘You have done all you can to prepare.’
‘Failure is still possible. What if the relief force chooses another route?’
‘Why would they?’
‘A clever leader may smell a trap.’
‘And if he does?’
‘Then it is I who look the fool.’
‘Fighting always carries that risk, Bohemund. If one plan fails you must conjure up another, and your father would tell you that. God knows he has been forced to often enough.’
Meant to reassure, it just underlined for the younger man the possibility that all his plans would come to nought, which was not aided by a day that dragged by with no sign of an enemy, which meant another night in which all his men could consume was the leftovers of what they had saved from their last cooking. Having called in his lookouts — the relief force would not come on in darkness — he sent them out again in the first grey light, with the feeling that if this day brought no sight of his enemy he must look for an alternative way to proceed. Luckily the sun was barely up before news came of the approaching relief force, added to the opinion they would enter the head of the valley within half a glass of sand at most.
‘Numbers?’
‘Fifty men, all mounted on cavalry horses but with only packhorses as led animals.’
No destriers — moving at speed, then, Bohemund thought, and relying on numbers to chase him away or take him, unless … ‘Normans or Lombards?’
‘Impossible to tell; they are all clad in the colours of Capua.’
‘They cannot be Normans, Bohemund,’ Reynard insisted, as he observed a degree of hesitation. ‘Richard would not so use them.’
‘If they are, I could have a short existence as a leader of men.’
That response was accompanied by a grin, to let everyone who could hear and see know that whatever the composition of those they were going to face, their leader was determined to fight them. Orders were unnecessary, given every lance knew where to go and what to do, those tasked to cross the valley floor departing as soon as their prayers were completed, again walking so as to leave no trace of their passing in the thick grass. Reynard, who would attack with his conroy from the left flank, took a hard grasp of Bohemund’s gauntleted hand and wished him success.
‘That depends on our enemies as much as me.’
‘I have ridden into a fight with the Guiscard many times. This we are about to do has the stamp of his cunning upon it.’
Bohemund led his men, first through the trees and then, at the far end of the valley, out to take a line across the grassed floor. He was not about to assume whoever opposed him was a fool, and the location for his ambuscade had been chosen not only for the narrowness of the valley but also because of its length, which allowed him to ride forward as though he and his men were progressing to the westwards in search of places to plunder, mounted on their cavalry horses and leading their roped-together destriers and pack animals; it was his task to tempt his foe and break up any cohesion by offering them a tasty morsel they could not fail to consume.
How soon would they come into view? — an important consideration given timing was a guess. He needed to be at least halfway up the valley when sighted and with so few men he could spare no one to act as a sentinel and control his own pace to match theirs. It was therefore not surprising for those of his conroy who looked in his direction to observe his lips moving in silent prayer. In his favour was the strong morning sun at his back, so that he saw his enemy starkly before they could quite make out his party, though that was only worth a sliver of time.
He shouted to halt in a way that carried and, he hoped, conveyed surprise and shock, then immediately waved his hand to order a withdrawal as their superior numbers became plain, hauling his own mount round and kicking hard to make it gallop, his men doing likewise, dragging on their lead ropes to bring along his other two mounts, an act which naturally and dramatically slowed the turn. The next bit of his plan required that his enemy indulge in a swift pursuit and Bohemund’s over-the-shoulder gaze was an anxious one.
Whoever commanded was not a man to allow a shapeless charge; down the valley floor the Apulians could hear echoing horns, accompanied by shouted orders as the enemy horsemen fanned out into two lines so that their flanks filled the entire space between the treeline on either side, their aim to ride down and envelop this inferior band. Before long those echoing sounds turned to thundering hooves coming on at a pace which would rapidly close the gap, one which Bohemund, still tugging on his lead rope, watched with concentration. For all the pursuit was swift, it was being carried out in an ordered fashion: if the front line of horsemen was not perfect, it was yet a row of lances acting in unison, getting dangerously close, and that had to be broken up.
The shouted command from Bohemund had his men let loose their destriers and packhorses, not that these animals ceased to dash along with the cavalry mounts, for no horse can see another run without they do likewise, that being instinctive in a prey animal. But roped together they could neither maintain the same speed, nor move in a straight line, so within moments a gap had opened and they were veering right and left, while in one case a pair went over with legs kicking and loud, panicked neighing.
The pursuit now hit that barrier of horseflesh, the riders obliged to swerve to avoid collisions, while they were now chasing men who, having abandoned their encumbrances, were riding as fast as they. With much shouting, the occasional jab of a lance point and even more pile-ups between various forms of horseflesh, the Capuans forced their way through what was now a confused and milling mass. In doing so they broke the continuity of their line and, having forced their horse barrier aside, became bunched in the centre. With all proper formation gone and control impossible by whoever commanded them, the pursuit turned into a ragged mass, in essence a wild charge, with a few lances well out in front of a seething body of horsemen.