Gisulf, with the few still loyal to him, fled to the Castello di Arechi, the citadel that had been his family’s refuge of last resort for decades. Holed up in the home of his ancestors and with much of the food stolen from his subjects, they held out for a full six months, seeking terms from an opponent not prepared to grant him any, and he was only persuaded to give himself up when he was promised on binding oaths that he would be safe from his own people and be provided with both his goods and his treasure. Robert agreed because he wanted the city, not his brother-in-law’s blood or money.
Gisulf and his family left Salerno in a line of covered wagons at night, with a strong, armed escort, so that his one-time subjects could not see him, for it was obvious to the Guiscard they would, at the very least, take the chance to pelt him with filth if not string him up from his one-time own gates. The Duke of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily, as well as Lord of Amalfi, now had a fitting capital. If it was not his first task, it was to the Guiscard an important one; he set in train the construction of a new cathedral, one of a magnificence enough to house a relic he had long desired to own, a tooth of St Matthew that had been in his wife’s family for two hundred years and an object he had demanded Gisulf surrender. Naturally, the duplicitous prince had sought to palm him off with a fake; the message that persuaded him to part with the true relic was simple: surrender the real St Matthew’s tooth or forfeit every one of your own.
Gisulf headed straight for Capua, there to seek the aid of Richard in recapturing his city. He found out then of the secret arrangement previously made: the Guiscard’s fleet was on its way to Naples to begin a blockade of that port in support of Capua, while his fellow Norman magnate had assembled his army to march on that city. Gisulf was sent packing, forced to resume his journey towards the Pope, the only friend he felt he had left.
Gregory was not in Rome but Tuscany, where he had gone so he could be close to confronting Emperor-elect Henry, who, in defiance of his instructions, had appointed as Bishop of Milan a married prelate of whom the reigning pontiff, with his insistence on celibacy, naturally disapproved. The new bishop was just as naturally beholden to the imperial right of clerical appointment while Tuscany was also a hotbed of simony, with offices being sold to the highest bidder so that the revenues of the Church could go to lining the pockets of the already wealthy, rather than being employed to carry out God’s work.
Aware that he lacked the military power to curb young Henry’s ambition, which naturally centred on his ancient rights, the Pope had alighted on the one measure he possessed to bring him into line. For the first time in the history of Western Christendom, on a February day, a pope pronounced excommunication on an elected King of the Germans. If this was an anathema that the likes of the Guiscard could live with, the effect on Henry was profound and even more so on his pious subjects. North of the Alps it was catastrophic, especially given many of his vassals were already in rebellion, but more so because the entire population over which he ruled were stout devotees of the Church of Rome and genuinely saw the Pope as God’s Vicar on Earth; none of his subjects could obey or even show respect to a ruler who was not in a state of grace.
If that applied to the low-born, it was just as effective with the German princes who elected their king, especially to those who were ambitious for change. In an October meeting they joined with the religiously disquieted and threatened to designate another in Henry’s place if he did not receive absolution. He was given a year and a day from the date of the excommunication to achieve this and a diet was called at Augsburg in February at which he must either appear before them forgiven or lose his crown.
For Henry there was no time to waste and notwithstanding the fact that it was midwinter he knew he must go to Gregory, where he would be required to abase himself, a necessity to keep his crown. With his wife and son in company he crossed the frozen Alps and eventually located the Pope at the fortress of Canossa, where Gregory was staying until the snows melted and the Brenner Pass cleared, at which time an escort would arrive to take him to the Augsburg Diet.
If Henry, holed up in an inn, suspected the Pope kept him waiting many days through a desire to make him suffer, he could not have been more mistaken. The last thing Gregory had expected was that the excommunicate would turn up on his temporary doorstep and he was at a loss as to how to respond. If Henry begged forgiveness then he could not in all conscience refuse him absolution, but that would release him to take revenge on those who had rebelled against his authority. Added to that there was no way of forcing him to hold to any of the vows he professed, or to ensure he would behave better in the future; once back in the bosom of the Church he would not only reassert his authority, but once more become a thorn in the papal breast.
Eventually he was obliged to relent and the deed was done; Henry mouthed those promises he needed to make, his excommunication was lifted and he immediately went north to deal with his rebels. Still intending to travel to Germany himself, partly to impose his moral victory and hold Henry in check, Gregory found that the Lombard magnates who controlled the Alpine passes, aided by their prelates, would not permit his passage.
After six fruitless months of trying, and much chastened, he returned to Rome and news that was even more depressing: Salerno gone to the Guiscard, Naples remaining under siege. Both Richard of Capua and his son Jordan were excommunicated, the latter for his banditry in the papal province of Abruzzi, but worse than all of that came the information that Robert de Hauteville had marched on Benevento and now surrounded the city. How feeble it seemed to make his excommunication a double one!
From being in the depths of despond, the death of the Prince of Capua changed everything for Pope Gregory. Richard Drengot, retiring ill from the walls of Naples, lay abed and sinking for a month before, having made a deathbed reconciliation with the Church, he passed away. Jordan was well aware that to inherit his father’s titles as an excommunicate was impossible — it was a situation that could drag on for years and too many of his subjects, unlike those of Robert de Hauteville, especially those in the most valuable fiefs, were likely to listen more to their Roman priests than to a prince under anathema; he would have nothing but trouble and stood to lose everything. The siege of Naples was lifted forthwith, his plundering in the Abruzzi brought to a halt, and he headed immediately for Rome to make his peace.
The same news caused the Guiscard to worry because he was well able to read the runes. Jordan would do anything to get absolution and confirmation of his titles and that could include sending his forces to relieve the papal city. In an out-and-out contest he could best Capua, but it would not serve for the very same reason he had made peace with Capua before: the destruction brought on by such mutual enmity would only advantage their enemies. Yet for all his shrewd appreciation Robert failed to see how much pressure a ruthless pope like Gregory could bring to bear.
‘Do you not see, my son, how I am bound by my lack of the means to enforce God’s will?’