Sichelgaita got minimal encouragement from her son; Borsa moved among those same vassals without the ability to engender much in the way of support, hardly surprising given his age. Too often, feeling either ineffectual or rebuffed, he took refuge in long hours of prayer with his personal confessor, without ever letting it be known what supplication they were seeking from God. His strong desire that his father should live was something he shared only with his mother and it was observed by her that when in the company of the men from whom he would require backing, few, when caught not looking at him face to face, gazed upon him in a way to produce encouragement. Quite often, in her fevered imagination, the looks aimed at his back had about them more a trace of the dagger.
Sichelgaita needed these men to pledge loyalty to her son and did much in the way of persuasion and sometimes outright bribery to increase that support, but with too many unwilling to confirm she feared to put an oath to the test; if the lords of Robert’s domains refused to endorse Borsa while her husband still breathed there would be scant chance of them doing so once he had passed away, yet the longer she delayed increased the risk that some combination would be formed to thwart her wishes. Her pleas to the tribe of physicians for a clear prognosis fell on an equal amount of dissension: one would claim that recovery was inevitable only for another to insist that death could not be avoided and was hourly to be expected.
In the middle were those who hovered between being positive one day and the opposite the next but it was clear to even a medical layman that if Robert could not be fed, and being comatose that was hard to achieve, even if his vital spirit was strong it would weaken slowly until the end could not be gainsaid. So when the news came that a fleet of galleys had been sighted approaching the harbour from the south-east and that the lead vessel flew at its masthead a blue and white pennant, Sichelgaita could hardly contain her relief — Roger was here.
Looking from the deck of his vessel at the massive fortifications of the most populous port city in Apulia, Roger de Hauteville was astounded, even if it was a proven fact that his brother had ever managed to take the place. The walls did not just protect the port from the landward approach; what made it so formidable was that the entire inner harbour was enclosed, which, had it not faced such a cunning adversary, would have made it unassailable to a land-based assault. Also he wondered what he would face behind those walls, for if the boat that had intercepted him had told him his brother was seriously ill, there was no sign from his standard flying atop the citadel to say that he was more than that — it still flapped at the very top of the pole. Still, being by nature prudent, he had no intention of landing in force until he knew what lay ahead, evidenced by his call to his master of the fleet.
‘Signal the other galleys to anchor in the outer roads. We will go in alone.’
Roger’s sister-in-law, as well as his namesake nephew, were on the quay to greet him as his galley tied up and a gangplank was lowered for him to cross. Much as dignity was prized, there are few men who can move from a vessel to terra firma and quite hold their balance; after many days at sea their body has become used to the motion of the ship and some adjustment is required, so when Roger came off the gangplank he did so unsteadily. Sichelgaita was more concerned with the look in his eye than gait and that was firm, unblinking and meeting her own, so if others watching were unsure of his loyalty, she felt her own concern ease. It needed her two hands, both held in his, to make him feel steady as he kissed her cheeks and whispered his brother’s name, the reaction of relief palpable when he was told he was still breathing.
Sichelgaita pushed him to arm’s length and smiled. ‘There you are, Roger, ever the most handsome of your tribe. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.’
That was greeted with a wry smile and a negative shake, for if he was indeed a fine figure of a man Roger did not possess the vanity to take the compliment without being dismissive. He turned to look at his nephew, whom he had last seen as a small boy; now he was close in years to manhood and while Roger was smiling there was in the eyes sharp examination — this lad could be a strong influence in his life and it was fitting that he make an assessment. Under his soft cap Borsa’s hair was the colour of charcoal, not the red-gold of a de Hauteville, and his face was olive-coloured, for it took the sun well, unlike the family tendency to reddish cheeks that suffered from overexposure. There was something about the boy that nagged at his mind until he placed it: he had about him similar features to his mother’s brother, Gisulf of Salerno, quite natural given their relationship. It was not, however, one to encourage Roger, who knew only too well what a dolt was the boy’s Lombard uncle.
‘Do they still call you Borsa, nephew?’
‘They do,’ the youth said in response, before adding a shy grin. ‘Though I am given to wonder if I might have more names to answer to than that.’
‘If you don’t have them now, you will.’
Sichelgaita killed any notion of what they might be as she made the ritual enquiry after a lady of whom she was fond, Roger’s wife Judith, as well as his daughters, a diversion in which she could not but touch her boy, for if she too had four girls she also had two legitimate sons, Borsa and the ten-year-old Guy; Jordan, Roger’s only male offspring, was illegitimate and without question so, therefore surely no threat to her hopes.
‘Sichelgaita, I long to see Robert,’ Roger insisted, when manners and the rituals of greeting allowed.
‘And you shall, though I recall it was not always so.’
Her brother-in-law laughed out loud as they began to move from the quay towards the citadel, for there was much truth in that; it was hard to know if, in the last fifteen years, they had fought with each other more than cooperated, for even he had been forced to rebel against Robert over his brother’s continual refusal to meet the obligations to which he had sworn. In moments of reflection Roger knew why his relationship with his older sibling was never smooth and it was not just a family trait — the Guiscard was conscious that in Roger he had a match, a de Hauteville with no shortage of the family genius in both war and statecraft, and it was a rivalry that he did not enjoy; he liked to think himself supreme in such arts.
‘If he hears the sound of my voice he will stir for fear that I might usurp him.’
Meant as a jest, Roger was quick to see the effect on Sichelgaita was one of apprehension and if he knew it to be misplaced he also knew what was the cause: that should he contest the ducal inheritance with his nephew, then Borsa was doomed. Succession was not guaranteed by bloodline amongst the Normans of Italy; each de Hauteville brother who had succeeded had done so as much by acclamation as by a sibling gift and that had come about because of their unmatched abilities. It was necessary to reassure her.
‘Then if he has any sense at all, he will know that I would never do so.’
‘Roger, I am required to ask something of you.’
‘I am Robert’s vassal as well as I am his brother, and even if I were not constrained by that, I would never challenge him. I did not take the vow that others did. Tancred had passed away by the time I left Normandy but I hold to it nevertheless in his honour, and if I challenged Robert in the past it was only because of his chicanery over what I was owed.’
‘That is not what I was about to solicit.’
‘I can guess your other concern, Sichelgaita, and I beg you put it to rest. I made a vow to Robert I would look out for your son and that I will do.’
‘Then you will support me when I ask that all Robert’s vassals swear to him.’