None of this boded well for Borsa’s future as the Duke of Apulia; he could not win, and in time and by attrition, for all his power and wealth, he might well lose. Yet to abandon him to a slow erosion of his power was not an option that held much joy for his uncle; for many years a near-autonomous ruler in Sicily, Roger de Hauteville had concerns in case a problem he thought solved repeated itself, and that not just the line of his communications to Italy. It was the constant demands he had received to come to his late brother’s aid, for he had always been much troubled by Robert’s ambitions, which were never seemingly satisfied — one conquest always led to an attempt at another — while at home the Guiscard had never had control of his unruly barons. Too many times, and at an important moment in the subjugation of the island, Roger had been dragged away from his own concerns in Sicily because Robert needed his aid. He had no desire to see in possession of those same titles a warrior who sought to match and possibly surpass his father.
He had, of course, his vow of allegiance, made at Bari and repeated at Salerno, yet on a personal plane he could not but admire Bohemund while at the same time view his titular overlord in a different light. Even if he thought himself more free than his confreres of the normal Norman prejudice, he still thought Lombards to be inferior to his own kind in every way. Both nephews bore the de Hauteville name, but only one had a pure bloodline and represented what it had come to stand for in Southern Italy. Roger was no more prepared to become the nemesis to one than the other.
These were the thoughts he ruminated on as his single galley entered the harbour at Salerno, his personal standard at the masthead so they knew who was on board. His first task was to convince his relatives — Borsa himself, Guy, now Duke of Amalfi, and his sister-in-law — that what they were bound to propose was something impossible to implement: namely, that he should go to Bohemund and threaten to take the field against him unless he desisted from his incursions and handed back the rightful Duke those possessions he had usurped. It proved to be, as he had anticipated, an uncomfortable meeting.
‘Surely, Roger,’ Sichelgaita insisted, ‘you do not dispute that Robert’s bastard is in revolt?’
‘You cannot do him the honour of using his name?’
‘Should I do so, I would require immediate communion for the utterance of a blasphemy.’
‘Bohemund seeks what he thinks is rightfully his.’
‘Which,’ Borsa responded, ‘we know not to be the case.’
‘But it is not as simple as just saying that he should bend the knee and give up his gains, which is what you wish me to propose to him.’
‘Why not?’ Guy demanded.
‘Because he would say to me what I would say to him if the positions were reversed — he would tell me where to stick my lance.’ The disappointment at his attitude was very evident in their expressions, but Roger was not about to be swayed. ‘How did our family gain Apulia? Was it gifted to us?’ No one cared to answer, only to look away as Roger added, ‘We won it by force of arms.’
‘And had our title recognised by the Pope,’ Borsa interrupted.
‘I am sure your father told you how much love was in the granting of that.’
‘Times have changed, Uncle. Pope Victor writes to me kindly and will be happy, should I journey to Rome, to lay hands upon my head and confirm me to the triple dukedom. He is also close to excommunicating Bohemund.’
Sichelgaita went straight to the nub of the quandary, in truth why he had been summoned to Salerno, not that Roger would have accepted anything other than he had come of his own volition.
‘You have the ability to force him to cease his depredations.’
‘And what do you offer him in return?’
‘His life,’ Guy spat.
That angered Roger — if Borsa was no warrior, his brother was even less of one. ‘Boast of that when you can take it, and if you wish, Guy, I will arrange for you to meet him in single combat.’
‘He must be stopped,’ Borsa said, in an almost pleading tone, this as Guy sought to look martial and ready, so easy at a distance from Bohemund.
‘He has Taranto from my husband,’ Sichelgaita snapped. ‘Let him be content with that.’
‘It may be best,’ Roger sighed, ‘to find out what he will accept.’ The way the three of them looked at him then made Roger wonder if they were beginning to see him as an enemy, and that was not comfortable. ‘I will travel to see him on the morrow.’
‘You will need a strong escort, Uncle.’
‘No, Borsa, I need only the half-dozen familia knights I have brought with me from Sicily.’
That did not endear him either, underlining as it did that he, unlike them, had naught to fear from Bohemund.
‘I know why you have come, Uncle, but I would say to you now, to avoid that I must dispute with you, that I will have my father’s title.’
‘Which one, Bohemund? He had several.’
‘Duke of Apulia I will settle for.’
If Bohemund had the ability to read another man’s mind, and it did not take too much to read Roger’s, he would have seen in the eyes that such a statement was not to be given credence. In any case, his uncle added words that underlined his disbelief and not without irony. One thing the Guiscard never did was settle for what he already had.
‘And I thought you might be my brother’s son.’
At least Bohemund smiled; he did not try to dissemble. ‘Join me and I will give you Sicily.’
‘Bohemund, I already have Sicily.’
‘Not in your own right.’
‘Next you will try to tell me that Borsa will take it from me, and if you do I will be tempted to ask you how.’
‘And what else will you ask of me?’
They were sat in the round bastion of the castle of Conversano, which had been the seat of Bohemund’s cousin, and Roger made much of looking around the walls hung with fine tapestries to break up the stark stone blocks.
‘I would ask that you hand this back to Geoffrey.’
‘He rebelled several times against my father and supported my half-brother. That cost him his fief.’
‘Geoffrey swore an oath to Borsa, as did I, at Bari and Salerno.’ All that got was a shrug. ‘I have not come here to ask but to enquire, but I will say this: whatever it is you ask me to take back to Salerno, do not ask for the Duchy of Apulia, for you cannot have it.’
‘Who will stop me?’
‘If you leave me no choice, nephew, I will.’
Roger liked and admired Bohemund and he had cause to feel at that moment such sentiments were not misplaced. There was no expostulation, no attempt to bluff and call upon his uncle to tell him he thought he could achieve such a thing. Whereas Borsa would have blustered, Bohemund just held his gaze, his face showing no expression, an indication that he knew what had just been said was no idle boast. Whereas Borsa would struggle to raise lances against him, Roger would not; men would flock to him. Where Jordan of Capua might continue his tepid support, the advent of a host led by the Great Count would see all his lances withdrawn back to his own domains; he would not risk a battle with such an opponent.
‘I am trying to think, Uncle, what you will gain from that.’
‘Best you think, nephew, what I will lose for the want of it.’
‘Do you fear me?’