That too fell on deaf ears; in the millennium since its foundation the Catholic faith had been proscribed and provided martyrs in the thousands, risen to a state religion and been overawed by emperors, seen its possessions, even its spiritual home, sacked and destroyed, and had brought it back to life and prominence. In that time it had become accustomed to both the necessity of compromise and need for expediency; when this objection finally got through to those who had elected him the solution was simple: Hildebrand was immediately ordained to be fully a priest and so entitled to hold the pontificate — his consecration as a bishop could wait.
‘Your election was popular,’ Desiderius insisted, to a collective and murmured assent as he chose to speak for the High Church dignitaries assembled inside what was now Hildebrand’s Lateran Palace. ‘Every voice in Rome from high to low is raised in acclamation.’
Seated by the desk at which he had worked for decades and slumped from exhaustion, Hildebrand replied with resignation, an unusual tone for such a passionate man. ‘I never sought this.’
‘Which makes you more suitable than most.’
‘It should be you.’
‘And if it was,’ the Abbot of Monte Cassino replied, ‘I would do no more, and pursue no policies other than those you advised. Better you do command yourself and are known to, than disburse the proclamations under another name.’
‘What will Bamberg say?’
‘They will fight you as Pope or whosoever we had chosen, for it would not be the Emperor’s nominee, but your own.’
‘Henry would have accepted you, Desiderius.’
The abbot wore a thin smile as he responded. ‘Which surely makes me a very unsuitable candidate.’
As they had been talking, a clutch of clerks had entered carrying folders relating to those things which Hildebrand had been dealing with before his elevation, a list of appointments to the various offices of the Europe-wide Church, or at least approval or denial of same — William of England was being particularly difficult regarding the See of Canterbury. There were sheaves of letters, reports on everything, from what was happening in Constantinople to clerical malfeasance in selling benefices — neither encouraging — instructions to bishops to enforce celibacy or to defrock forthwith the deniers, and this applied especially in the regions ruled by the Duke of Apulia.
‘Which reminds me,’ Hildebrand said, as he beckoned one fellow forward, taking from him his folder and opening it to reveal on the top a finished letter, requiring only that it be signed. ‘This I penned last night, a message of condolence to the Duchess Sichelgaita on the loss of her husband. Hypocrisy, of course, God forgive me.’
‘If God will not forgive his Vicar on Earth, then who?’
Hildebrand looked hard at Desiderius then, for the abbot, despite all his apparent saintliness, was not beyond mockery. Speedily he read his letter again before reaching forward to extract a quill, which he dipped in his inkwell. Then he hesitated and looked up at Desiderius.
‘How shall I sign it, for I have not yet decided how I will be named?’
‘Now, Your Holiness, is as good a time as any.’
Hildebrand was startled to be so addressed. He sat for several moments in contemplation, then quickly bent and signed the letter. As soon as he did so another one of his clerks came to the desk and produced a stick of wax, which was held to a candle to melt. Then he put a red ribbon on the bottom of the missive, dripped the runny wax onto it and watched as the new Pope pressed home the ring with the papal seal that only he had the right to use. As he finished, Desiderius held out a hand, took it from him and looked at the name scrawled across the bottom, nodding slowly.
‘Let us hope, Your Holiness, that Gregory is a name you can live up to.’
In Bari, the day before, the bells pealed out to announce that their liege lord had fully recovered, and to prove it to even the most sceptical and ill-disposed of his subjects he walked through the streets, on his wife’s arm and trailed by his sons. Behind them came Count Roger and the leading men of his court and the garrison, heading to the cathedral where a Mass was said to thank the Lord for his deliverance. He was, of course, examined closely; was it truly the Guiscard and not some cunning ploy of a lookalike? But even the most doubtful had to accept the truth, for if his appearance could possibly be faked, his irrepressible manner and sheer presence could not.
Naturally the priests claimed it was their prayers that had saved him, the physicians equally certain their ministrations had brought about the recovery. Robert himself put it down to his own robust spirit, though he was careful to assuage the Almighty with several Masses performed in gratitude for his deliverance over the coming week. That was when the letter of condolence arrived from Rome, along with news of the election of a new pope and who had been elevated. Yet that was not what set him off; it had to wait till the seal of the office of the new papal chancellor was broken. When he opened and read it the Guiscard laughed so hard he nearly suffered a relapse.
The letter was full of duplicity; he was not an excommunicate, but a dear son of the Holy Church. The cardinals and the Roman Senate were grieving at his passing; indeed they had been brought low by the news. It said that Sichelgaita in order that she should know of the perfect love we bore your husband could take comfort from their permission for his son to succeed to those titles which his father held from the Pope, our predecessor. In other words, much as it pleased his wife when he read those words, remember he is our vassal!
‘Gregory the Seventh, by damn!’ Robert spat when he read the signature. ‘You can’t fault Hildebrand for ambition.’
‘He may live up to the name,’ Roger replied.
‘I hope not, brother; the last thing we need is a pope who earns the right to be called Gregory the Great. Hildebrand was enough of a damned nuisance as an archdeacon.’ Another of Robert’s huge belly laughs followed that. ‘Who knows, he might not last — he might go the way of Alexander when he hears I am still alive, which he will do from the messenger that will depart this very hour.’
CHAPTER NINE
With extensive possessions to control and the news circulating of the elevation of Hildebrand to become Pope Gregory VII, it was not surprising that Richard of Capua, having seen to the greeting and engaged in just enough conversation to be polite, had excused himself and his son, for he had much business to which he had to attend. Locally this meant a line of supplicants taking advantage of their lord’s close presence, while mounted messengers came and went with noticeable frequency, carrying messages to and from the whole of Campania and very likely many places beyond.
In this industry he was aided by his son, Jordan, who gave an impression of taking a full part in ruling his father’s holdings, and given the princess had retired from the midday heat, Bohemund was left to his own devices. If he was a prisoner not a guest — yet to be proven despite what that herald had said — then he was bound by silken cords, free to move around at will, both inside the castle and the immediate surroundings, but never out of sight of a watchful gaze from the many who attended upon his relatives.
He had grown up with people staring at him because of his height, but even taking that into account, the amount of attention he received from the Capuans amounted to an unusual degree of scrutiny and after a while he realised that one or a pair of them were observing his meanderings, if not always closely so. It was as if in his movement and actions they had been tasked to discern the very workings of his mind, while in conversation, when they did engage him, he was subjected to an unaccustomed amount of flattery. To hear them talk it was as if the prince’s nephew had plundered the possession of some sworn enemy rather than that of their lord and master, for they were full of praise for his sagacity and his actions; no mention was made of those Lombard lances who had died in that narrow, tree-lined valley.