‘That fool! Even with the proceeds of his nautical larceny he lacks the means. The rebels had funds to pay their soldiers and that could not have come from their own money chests. And who armed those Lombards you slaughtered at Noci?’
‘Gisulf is a Lombard.’
‘So is my wife,’ Robert barked. ‘Leave me, I need to think.’
It was not often that Robert de Hauteville considered that he might have been duped, but he was thinking that now and in the background he saw the hand of the one-time Hildebrand. If Bohemund was right and Jordan was telling the truth, then there were only two other places the funds to feed the rebellion could have come from and he had already discounted Byzantium, while Bamberg was too distant and too disinterested. But if the cunning archdeacon were the gremlin he would work to keep his hand well hidden, so it was very possible that he had used Gisulf as a proxy. If that was the case, how much more trouble would Hildebrand cause now he was Pope Gregory; there was no comfort in thinking he might desist — the man was not like that.
Odd that in ruminating on such a conundrum, the thoughts he had mulled over the day before should resurface, melding into a set of possibilities that might solve several problems in one fell swoop. What emerged was the kind of tangled solution that the Guiscard loved, and in truth it had all the hallmarks of the combination of cunning and clear-sightedness for which he was famous; no one could pull the strings of the tangled skein like him. The call for messengers, when he had reached his conclusion, was as loud as that to which his clerks were accustomed.
‘Messengers and scribes!’
For Reynard the notion of being a messenger was not one to make him feel elevated, but Robert had insisted that the message he was sending had to go with someone known to be close to him, so that its importance could not be doubted, and to assuage his pride the Guiscard had gone as far as to appraise him of the contents. This saw him heading back from Melfi in the direction in which he and Bohemund had so recently ridden, though at a less furious pace and on a constant change of horses.
There was no sneaking into Capuan territory this time; he went straight to the old Roman bridge and settlement by the Ponte Ufita where there was a contingent of soldiers to back up Prince Richard’s toll collectors, stating his business and demanding free passage. Naturally, such a crossing was home to a hostelry where he could get food, drink and negotiate for a change of horses, his to be stabled until he came through on his return. It was while he was arranging this, as well as bespeaking a bed, that a knight of Capua, a tall, burly fellow in a red and black surcoat, came to talk to the innkeeper on exactly the same subject and since they were both Norman it was natural that they should fall into conversation over a flagon of wine.
‘A messenger you say?’ Reynard asked, for the fellow, who went by the name of Odo, had about him the air, as well as the build — not to say the scars — of a fighting man.
‘To the Prince of Capua,’ Odo replied.
‘Can I say you do not look to be a mere messenger?’
That puffed his chest. ‘I am one of the senior familia knights to Prince Richard of Capua, but it was felt that a communication of such importance required that it be carried by someone of my rank.’
‘On what purpose, friend?’
From being affable, the look on the fellow’s face made the appellation ‘friend’ seem out of place. He positively growled. ‘I am not at liberty to share the thoughts of my prince.’
‘What if I were to tell you that I too am a messenger, that I too am a familia knight, to the Duke of Apulia, and that he prevailed on me to carry a very important communication to Prince Richard for the very same reasons of standing?’
‘Yet you will not know its contents?’
‘Not the words, but I do the sentiments.’
There had to be something in the way Reynard said that, for Odo’s eyes narrowed and he whispered, ‘Peace?’
‘And harmony between Capua and Apulia.’
‘There’s devil’s work here, Reynard, for my message is the same.’
‘Not the work of the Devil, friend,’ Reynard replied, filling both their goblets then raising his. ‘Maybe God’s?’
Bohemund was allowed to accompany his father to the meeting with Richard of Capua at the Castle of Grottaminarda, but required to be discreet in his presence, for Borsa was there too and it would have been unseemly for him to seek to stand as the acknowledged heir’s equal, added to which Sichelgaita was on her way from Salerno. Naturally, he and Jordan exchanged meaningful looks but to avoid suspicion they did not seek each other out for a private discourse. The two rulers greeted each other with a warm embrace; they had, after all, fought as allies against Pope Leo at Civitate many years before and if they had been very deeply suspicious of each other’s motives since, and no doubt still were, they understood the demands of diplomacy and conversed as friends, while Robert graciously kissed his sister Fressenda’s hand.
The arrival of Sichelgaita allowed for the very necessary great feast in which the followers of both magnates sought to outshine each other, while their wives sought, with less success, to disguise their mutual loathing, for Sichelgaita knew exactly what Fressenda thought of the annulment and her subsequent marriage. But important as both the spouses were, such dislike was not allowed to cloud the masculine bonhomie.
Richard, as was his habit, drank too much and had to be led off to bed, and a keen eye might have spotted the look from the Guiscard that followed him as he departed at a stagger; Jordan certainly did, and Bohemund, observing his father, saw that he was far from pleased, for it was not a benign gaze, rather one of pity mixed with calculation — the look of a plotter, not a companion. To Bohemund it only showed that his father too had drunk too much; he suspected he was normally more careful to disguise his feelings.
The outline of their discussions the next morning was perfectly simple: they would not fight each other but cooperate in those areas of mutual advantage, and part of that related to Robert’s wayward brother-in-law, for Gisulf was as much if not more of a thorn in the flesh to Richard as he was to the Guiscard. The Prince of Capua’s land bordered what little Gisulf still retained and if he had the power of a flea, they still nip and leave a mark, so when the suggestion was put forward by the Duke that both men should gain from the meeting it was warmly received.
‘I sent my wife to warn him to behave and he laughed in her face, Richard, and swore to bring me down. Even now I think him still in league with Rome, so I will countenance that no more. I intend, when the time is right, to chase Gisulf out of Salerno and make it my capital.’
There was a pause then, a look exchanged between Jordan and his father, which was held until the Guiscard added, ‘And I will make no move to interfere should you wish to take Naples and I will also come to your aid with my fleet to enforce a blockade.’
Richard of Capua nodded; to take Salerno the Guiscard would wish passage for part of his forces across Capuan lands — he lacked ships to lay siege to a port like Naples. That was all that was needed, there being nothing put in writing: an air of amity they could show to the world, as well as an embrace made in public. Such secret arrangements had to remain that, so as not to forewarn their numerous enemies, while beneath the bonhomie, the mutual suspicion and distrust had not dissipated one jot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The news that all his plans in the south had come to nought sent Pope Gregory into another one of his teeth-gnashing passions; all his machinations through Gisulf were now exposed and the awareness of this saw a newly gifted chalice thrown against a wall of his Lateran Palace with such force that the dozens of jewels and pearls embedded in the solid-gold body flew free to roll across the floor because, sent by King William of England, it reminded him of those who were his enemies. He could not have the two great Italo-Norman powers in accord at a time when his other adversary, Henry IV, was weak; the Western Emperor-elect, a young unproven ruler of twenty-three years of age, was dealing with a revolt in Saxony and struggling to press home his imperial claims as throughout the Empire.