‘You know what he will offer you, Bohemund?’
‘Yes, Reynard, he will offer me the Dukedom of Apulia, with his aid.’
‘And if you were to accept?’
‘I would be betraying my father and my family.’
‘It is tempting nevertheless.’
‘Is it?’ Bohemund responded, his voice showing a rare degree of irritation, for he was by nature calm in his speech. ‘To have what is mine by right given to me by another hand and one who would expect me to be his vassal for the prize. That is not a temptation to which I am inclined to succumb, especially when, weak and in his debt, he would want to take it away from me in turn.’
Reassured, Reynard nodded. ‘Be careful, Bohemund.’
‘I will be that,’ the youngster replied as he mounted his riding mare. ‘But know this: if it appears I am tempted, I do so on instruction from my father, who told me this might occur and also advised me how to proceed.’
‘And that is?’
‘Slowly, Reynard, very slowly.’
That made Reynard grin, for he should have thought of that; when it came to being devious, few could play the game better than the Guiscard.
CHAPTER SIX
At the very moment when Bohemund was riding towards the parley, his father was lying in his bed, wracked by the effects of a horrific fever, his body shaking and sweat pouring off his naked frame, with Sichelgaita bent over him seeking to ease his discomfort with cloths which had been dipped in iced water, wondering whether instead of that as a remedy her husband should be shipped to the underground icehouse where there were still enough blocks left over from the winter supply to make it seriously cold. The Greek physician attending advised against that, convinced the malaise was escaping from the ailing body through a combination of perspiration and loose defecation; a cold atmosphere would not be beneficial.
The smell in the room was of overpowering corruption, for the mighty Guiscard had soiled his bed more than once like a mewling child, and the discharge by its colour and deathly odour indicated that the malady was horrendous enough to be fatal. Retching produced nothing but a trickle of bile, for without food there was little for his stomach to emit. He was dipping in and out of consciousness and gabbling, ranting in a way that sounded as though his mind was as troubled as his body.
Curses were heaped upon foes real and imagined, Robert speaking for and against them in a frenzied dialogue, some of the names human and known to those attending, others imagined creatures sounding like demons from the depth of hell as he screamed imprecations that made no sense to those listening, this while a relay of priests prayed continually for his troubled soul. For a warrior who had faced many battles in his time and had shaken off sicknesses as a dog shakes off water, it was clear this was one of the greatest challenges he could face.
His wife was in discomfort too, for, regardless of the heat of the day, she had ordered braziers to be lit and herbs to be burnt on them to relieve the malodorous stink, which she was sure was making her husband’s condition worse. When torches, oil lamps and candles were added after the sun went down it turned the sickroom into an oven, for the drop in temperature was not great; a scorching day was followed, as clouds gathered to trap the heat rising from the baked earth, by a humid night. Her garments were soaked and her long blonde hair, normally braided, hung limp along her cheeks as she mouthed quiet prayers to all the saints she knew to intercede and make her man well again.
‘Lady,’ the physician whispered, ‘a messenger has come from the Master of the Host to say that the sickness that affects the Duke is within the town and spreading. He has moved out the mounted knights to surrounding farms but he seeks permission to order outside of the walls every citizen of Trani their master has listed for conscription. He insists he needs to preserve the strength of the army.’
‘Take back the message that he must act as he sees fit,’ Sichelgaita replied, her cracked voice betraying her own near exhaustion; she had been at Robert’s bedside for over eighteen turns of the glass and had not eaten or drunk anything in that time, ignoring the advice to rest lest she too succumb. Then, as the import of what had been said to her sank in, she grabbed the man by the sleeve. ‘The sickness is spreading?’
‘It is most rampant in the port, though I am told some cases have begun to surface in the upper town. The priests and mendicant monks are doing what they can, but for some it is giving nothing more than last rites.’
‘Many have died?’
‘Several dozen I am told.’
Sichelgaita had been bent over the troubled body, sometimes required to physically restrain her husband lest his writhing throw him to the floor, and as such she had addressed the physician eyeball to eyeball. Now she stood up and towered over him, her blue eyes boring into his, her sweat-soaked face flushed so her cheeks seemed on fire, and such was the effect of the flickering light and her own appearance that the man, no stranger to shocking sights and fearsome wounds, or even angry patients, took two paces back, alarm on his face.
‘Never mind the conscripts; if death is around us we must get my husband and my son to somewhere that is safe.’
The Greek responded with a gesture of open hands, a signal that such thoughts were futile. ‘Who knows where that is, Lady?’
‘Is there any word of the sickness from any other place?’
‘I do not think it has been reported elsewhere.’
The voice boomed out, with no particular person in mind, as Sichelgaita ordered the servants present to first find out, then to organise a litter and enough men to carry it in relays, plus a message to her eldest son, already outside the walls with his father’s familia knights, to make his way to the road leading south, bringing them with him as escort.
‘To move him could be hazardous, Lady.’
‘To keep him here could be worse.’ Then she yelled at those she had ordered to make arrangements, few of whom seemed to have reacted as she wanted them to. ‘In the name of Christ risen, move!’
‘Prince Richard asks that you accompany me to his castle of Montesarchio, where you will be received with all honour.’
It was notable to Bohemund that his uncle by marriage had sent one of his own race with the message, not a Greek or someone spouting Latin; was there some kind of statement in hearing the communication in Norman French? The fellow, however, did not look like a fighting man; the face was unmarked and smooth, more like that of a priest perhaps, even though he was armed with both lance and broadsword. Unheard of in Italy, he could indeed be a cleric, for the Norman divine saw no disgrace in being fighting men as well as members of the clergy. For such a breed it was in order to smite their foes and then see their souls into the afterlife.
‘And my conroys?’ Bohemund demanded.
‘Will be accommodated as guests too.’
‘How do I know Prince Richard won’t just slit my throat, and theirs, once I am inside the walls?’
The smile was meant to point up the absurdity of such a notion. ‘Nothing would bring down the wrath of your father quicker than that his son should be in any way harmed, quite apart from the custom of our race that no guest can suffer indignity, regardless of how much he is seen as an enemy, when he is inside the walls of a castle by invitation.’
‘And what does Prince Richard want to say to me?’
‘I am too humble to even pretend to guess.’
‘You don’t look humble.’
That got a half bow, to acknowledge that his manner was, if anything, haughty.
‘Perhaps if I was to outline the alternative, which is that you will be pursued until captured by a level of force you cannot overcome and taken into my master’s presence in chains, while your conroys might suffer the fate of those who burn and plunder, the ignominy of dying at the end of a rope.’