Robert craned his neck to look to the top of the high peak and to the banner on the flagpole. For several hours it had been a fluttering ochre, a sign to the garrison of Melfi alerting them to the approach of an armed party of unknown provenance; nonsense, of course, since messengers had arrived days before to alert them to the movements of their suzerain. Now the men that manned it could see his lance pennants they could confirm his arrival and replace the ochre with a long stream of blue and white, as if to say not even Duke Robert was permitted to approach his foremost castle without he must identify himself.
‘Bohemund,’ Reynard called, his arm outstretched towards the top of the mountain.
There was a long pause while Bohemund examined that long pennant bearing his family colours, wondering who did it signify, for it could mean that Borsa was approaching, not the Guiscard. If it was his half-brother, no doubt in the company of his fat sow of a mother, then he needed to get there before them, though the notion that he could then seek to hold it and keep them out was unlikely. What mattered more was that he was not barred from entry, so it was necessary to saddle up and move out quickly.
If Melfi was well defended from the east, the west was not ignored, and they were only halfway to the castle when a strong party of mounted men, fully mailed, closed at a rapid pace. Discretion demanded that Bohemund show no aggression towards them; he needed to halt and wait, which was frustrating, but he was not held up for long. If sometimes his height and build could be a burden, this was not one of those occasions; as soon as he put forward his identity it was accepted by men who very likely had never seen him before, so much had his proportions become the stuff of tales — he did, of course, look like a de Hauteville.
That was the first good thing; the second was the news that his father was alive and close by, less cheering that Sichelgaita and his half-brothers were with him.
Since Robert was in no hurry, Bohemund got there ahead of him and had time to join the knights lined up at the base of the sloping causeway to receive their master, a welcome carried out with some ceremony. He was obvious not just by being head and shoulders above the rest but by the filth of both his clothing and accoutrements, added to the ungroomed state of his horse, in contrast to the men of the garrison who had been busy with polish and oil to glitter and glow before their liege lord. A flourish of trumpets accompanied him as he rode along the line, greeting each man he recognised, for there were many in the garrison who had fought with him in years gone by and would do battle under his banner in the future. He must have spotted his son well before he came abreast — how could he not? — which must have given him time to wonder at his presence. Face to face he hauled on his reins and brought his magnificently caparisoned mount to a halt.
‘I did not expect to set eyes on you this day.’
Partly it was the peremptory tone that made Bohemund respond the way he did — it was not a greeting with any degree of warmth — yet it was much more the glare he was getting from Sichelgaita that irked him, she having reined in behind his father.
‘Nor me you, I was told you were dead.’
‘Which you can see is not the case.’
‘I wonder how such news was received?’ Sichelgaita demanded, with a scowl.
‘With sorrow, what else?’
‘I can think of a dozen other emotions that might surface.’
‘Where is Reynard?’ his father asked, still without anything approaching a smile.
‘Inside the castle with my conroys.’
Robert just nodded, kicked with his heels and that moved his mount on, which was as good a way as any of saying that he would talk to his familia knight before he ever spoke with his son. That thought was wiped out as Sichelgaita came closer, angling her mount, he thought, so her sons could get a good look at him. Borsa tried to both appear taller and hold a cold stare, but he blinked, which spoilt the effect. Guy was too young to do anything other than be amazed at his size, actually gaping, which brought from Bohemund a slight smile, given it was a look to which he was well accustomed, the cheering reaction the fact that it clearly annoyed his mother.
‘Move on,’ she hissed, spurring her horse more than was necessary and making its head rear back, a loud snort coming out of its nostrils. As his half-brothers moved away, he heard her say over her shoulder, ‘Mark that man well, my sons, for one day he will serve to feed your dogs for a month.’
Not being called into his father’s presence until the next day, plus knowing that Reynard had been summoned, caused frustration; it made him feel of no account, but there was one blessing: Sichelgaita had not come to Melfi to stay — she departed with a substantial train at dawn on the second day, on the way, he was told, to her prenuptial home of Salerno. It was later, well into the afternoon, when Bohemund was sent for, entering his father’s privy quarters to another less than glowing welcome.
‘So, are you going to tell me what you failed to pass onto Reynard?’ Robert demanded. ‘Did you commit yourself to Capua, did they even seek to detach you from my service?’
‘There is nothing I can say in that regard that you will not guess.’ The look he got in response was designed to show much doubt. ‘But I think I have learnt much that might be of use to you.’
That got the kind of raised eyebrows that acted as an invitation to continue. Bohemund briefly reprised his conversation with Fressenda, but laid much more emphasis on the exchange with Jordan, seeking to skip over his offer of aid while underlining the disagreement with his father Richard about how to deal with the supposed death of his great rival. He did not leave out his impression of a one-time warrior prince going to seed through overindulgence, or the advice that a deeper investigation of who stirred up the recent uprisings might point to a different culprit.
‘Richard must trust him, since Jordan had no fear of his anger in letting me depart — either that or it was prearranged. I have had time to think since then and I cannot believe that what was said to me was anything other than a policy to which Jordan would hold. He claims to be continually prodded by Gisulf to bring you down.’
‘You trust his word on my dolt of a brother-in-law?’
‘I do,’ Bohemund replied, with real feeling. ‘As I do on many things.’
‘This son of Capua has clearly captured your heart.’
‘You mock me for believing him?’
‘You talked to him but once and you trust him. You claim he has the confidence of Richard without proof. I like to see into a man’s eyes myself and even then I look for duplicity, for the very good reason it is there more often than honesty.’
‘What if he really does believe that a bloody contest between Capua and Apulia will only advantage others and will do all in his power to avoid it? And if Jordan is speaking with sincerity and Capua did nothing to stir up and sustain the revolt of your vassals, who, then, was behind the likes of Peter and Abelard?’
It was pleasing that his impassioned statement did not draw ridicule; instead his father looked thoughtful, though he remained silent for a long time, even holding up his hand when it looked as if his son was about to speak. Eventually the silence became too much.
‘It could be Gisulf,’ Bohemund said quietly.