Robert had been craned ashore and laid on to a litter, to be surrounded by monks swinging thuribles of burning incense meant to ward off any malodours, with the crowd pressing forward as far as they were allowed to look at him, peering between the soldiers who formed an outer ring, seeing a much-diminished figure if you took account of the face. Gone were the florid cheeks and full red lips, to be replaced by heavily drawn features in which the bones of the jaw and the nose were prominent, while even his hair, which Sichelgaita had dressed, looked like used straw. Many just stared, but there were those, and this cheered Sichelgaita, who crossed themselves repeatedly and seemed to silently pray, hoping for his recovery, not saying farewell to his departing soul.
Massively walled, Bari also had a strong castle with a formidable citadel at its heart and it was to here that Robert was taken. His son made for the partially built cathedral, where he knelt with the priests and the congregation, many of them recently Orthodox in their worship, as the new Archbishop of Bari said Mass in the Roman rite to aid in the recovery of their overlord. Robert now lay peacefully in a private chamber, no longer the ranting, sweating victim of whatever assailed him, but in his wax-like appearance akin to an alabaster representation of the kind that one fateful day, mailed and with a sword in his hands, might grace his sarcophagus.
Bohemund was well beyond the reach of that and, in any case, heading further west. He had sight of Montesarchio a good while before they came to the base of the steep, cobbled causeway that led up to the castle gates. Once there he could not, as a Norman warrior, look at it from any other viewpoint than a fortress that required to be taken by assault. With his worship of family it would have pleased the young man to know that this was where his Uncle William had first won his spurs in the mercenary service of Rainulf Drengot, to know that the warrior who many years later became known as Iron Arm and Count of Apulia had bloodily fought his way up that cobbled causeway to the very gate through which he would be welcomed, and once inside, given the man commanding the expedition was wounded, taken it upon himself for the first time to act as a leader not a follower.
Constructed of cream stone blocks, the small castle of Montesarchio was set on a high hill, almost conical in shape, broad at the base but tapered at the top so that there was no glacis around the actual walls on which either ballista or ladders could be employed; thus the only route of assault was up the causeway, making it a hard place to capture. From its highest point — probably, judging by its aged stone, the original Roman tower — it overlooked the surrounding landscape, not least an old imperial road running straight east and west, which rendered it also near immune to surprise. From the pole at the top of the tower flew a red and black banner to tell all it was a fief of the Prince of Capua, though in size it barely suited his station.
Fearing that his horse would slip on that cobbled causeway, Bohemund dismounted, the reins immediately taken from him by one of the men on duty as sentinels. When he was halfway up to the open gates an elegantly clad group, some six in number, emerged and stood waiting to greet him. From the bearing of the man in the middle he knew he was about to meet his relative by marriage, who was employing the first step of what would be a long attempt to flatter him by the singular act of coming out to give him greeting. By his side was a lady who stood a good hand taller, whom he assumed to be his aunt, given he could see in her something of his sister Emma.
If the Princess Fressenda was loftier than her spouse — she had a measure of the de Hauteville build — it was natural that her nephew towered over him and by habit he sought to shrink himself by slightly hunching his shoulders to mitigate the effect. Bareheaded, the suzerain of Capua was stocky, small and balding, with cheeks that seemed puffy in a way that indicated he ate and drank well. An eye drawn to his midriff showed he had a paunch as well, which for some reason Bohemund found unbecoming in a Norman leader; if his father had bulk, it was muscle not fat. Try as he did, it was impossible to avoid the need for Richard to strain his neck to meet a pair of eyes now searching his face, the effort of forcing himself to smile obvious.
‘Greetings, cousin.’
Bohemund turned to a more genuine smile, that of his aunt, and as she proffered her hand to be taken by his, he dropped to one knee to kiss it, saying as he did so, ‘You do me great honour, Lady.’ He would have been pleased to observe her husband’s expression; he looked piqued that no such accolade had been addressed to him.
‘It gives us great pleasure to receive you, Bohemund,’ Fressenda replied, gently raising him up again, then stepping forward and forcing him to bend so she could kiss his cheeks. ‘And it is to be hoped that you will stay as our guest for some time. I wish you to know that, for us, this is as much the bosom of your family as anywhere in Apulia.’
Looking down still, Bohemund smiled; there was no time-wasting here — that was the first round in an attempt to seduce him from service to his sire. A movement to his aunt’s rear made him look past her, this as she stepped aside to introduce a young man who had recognisably de Hauteville features: broad shoulders, red-gold hair, blue eyes, a fair complexion and, not least, a height greater than his father, though like most men he was dwarfed by Bohemund.
‘Allow me to name to you your blood cousin,’ Fressenda said, ‘our son Jordan. It is to be hoped that you will behave more like brothers.’
Jordan’s eyes narrowed as swiftly as did those of Bohemund; how they would come to see each other, whether they would be friends, indifferent or enemies would not be dictated by blood but by the kind of rivalry that afflicts all young men.
‘Come,’ Fressenda said, turning to re-enter the castle, ‘we have here dozens of men eager to set eyes on the youth they could not lay by the heels.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
While the Duke of Apulia hovered between life and death, those who owed allegiance to his person began to arrive in Bari, but the one face Sichelgaita longed to gaze upon was not yet present. Her husband’s most potent vassal, she knew that his voice would carry most weight when it came to the succession and she had sound reasons to think him steadfast in her cause. Much would rest with Roger de Hauteville, Count of Sicily and younger brother to the Guiscard, after whom Borsa was named. He was on his way from the island, that she knew, for Robert had called upon his brother to bring to Apulia what forces he could muster to aid his campaign against Capua.
What she did not know, and her husband had prior to his illness suffered the same uncertainty, was how long he would take to arrive; there was no way of guessing the precise depth of his engagement against the continuing Saracen resistance to the complete Norman subjugation of the island. Boats had been sent out to intercept him on his way to Trani, to which he had been summoned, to ensure he changed course for Bari, which he must bypass on the way.
Meanwhile she could sense the atmosphere growing more febrile as the numbers who had taken up residence in Bari, and who had now witnessed for themselves the depth of their liege lord’s malaise, turned idle talk into varying schemes.
All of these sought personal advantage and had only enough force behind them to last till they foundered on the aspirations of their equally ambitious peers. Naturally, those who had rebelled at some time were the most vocal, and noisiest amongst them and a perennial complainant was Abelard, loud in his constant protestations that he was the rightful heir to the dukedom and that it would be a double denial of his inheritance if the son of the usurper was considered as fitting to hold his title. It was a blessing he lacked the attributes to be a true leader of such a fractious polity.