That meant both he and Drogo, yet to join him, would be in very much the wrong place, and if he did not move with speed Doukeianos would have a clear route to Melfi and only a small garrison to face when he got there. The Normans could find themselves fighting just to try to relieve the fortress, and that would mean facing an army in prepared defensive positions — not good for cavalry at all.
There was one chance, but it would have to be taken at speed. From memory he knew there was a mapped river crossing just to the north: a place where the Ofanto, crossing a wide, low plain, was shown as fordable, certainly for mounted men — but not, he suspected, at this time of year and with a river flowing strongly, for those on foot. As of this moment he had no idea how far away Drogo was, and he had with him a sizeable number of the available lances. If he was to have any chance of stopping the catapan he would need every man he commanded.
Decision made, the orders came out in a stream: the messenger to ride back to Mauger on a fresh horse, contacting Humphrey en route and telling them to retire west along the riverbank until they came to the piquet he would leave at the point at which he and his men had forded it, though it should be obvious from the evidence of hundreds of mounts preceding them. Another messenger was sent to tell Drogo to speed up: he must abandon anyone on foot and push his horses hard if he was to be of any use.
‘What about our foot soldiers?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Find one of the Lombards who looks as if he has a brain. Tell them to march our labourers back to Lavello and close the gates. Then get our men mounted.’
This time the Normans were on the move quickly, watched by their bewildered conscripts, with William trying to calculate distances and how far he could push his mounts, a reckoning made on years of experience. Around seven leagues in any one day, with frequent halts, was held to be a good norm for horses; he needed to do more.
Like every Norman, he had grown up surrounded by several varieties of horses: those bred for battle, trotting alongside on a short rein, others more fleet, like the one he was now riding, another of the strain he was leading, his broad-backed packhorse. He had foaled them, whatever their type, watched them grow to yearlings, nursed them when sick and come to know each one as an individuaclass="underline" the shy, the biters and kickers, the cunning and the near human in their attitude; but all had common features.
Push any mount too hard with a weighty rider or panniers on its back, eschew the periodic walk, and they would tire very quickly. Put aside any thoughts of a complete break twice a day with water and at least some pasture and even those being led would be less effective if it came to an immediate battle. They required to be fed, as well, and each of his men had only one day’s supply of oats on his packhorse, that set against plentiful pasture; but cosset them and Doukeianos might outpace him and get between him and Melfi. What emerged had to be a compromise: he would work them harder than was prudent, but not so hard as to render them blown.
The stops they made were short, and always near some habitation, the numerous hamlets scattered throughout the land next to strips of cultivation, where small amounts of fodder and food for his men could be had; water was plentiful, it being springtime. No one resisted the demand for the last of their produce stored over the winter: no peasant would contest with armed men, especially these giants from the north, for if they had never in their life come across one, the reputation of the Normans was a folk tale well spread. They were sullen, certainly, but offered nothing more than black looks, which matched the increasing density of the clouds overhead.
Getting across the Ofanto at this time of year meant pushing the horses through a river that came up to their thighs, though thankfully the current was slowed by the spread of the flow over the flattish plain. No sooner had they crossed than it began to rain, a steadily increasing drizzle, then a downpour that soaked everyone to the marrow, despite their thick cloaks. William could only hope the same conditions were affecting Michael Doukeianos — nothing slowed foot soldiers more than wet weather: if rain made a horse drop its head, it destroyed much more quickly the spirits of men marching in mud.
They spent an uncomfortable night in the open, hobbling their mounts so that they could graze and sleep as they pleased, necessary with no hay to hand, and rose in the morning to an all-consuming mist that made getting dry impossible. It also prevented William from sending out patrols to scout ahead — not much point in that when they could see little — and it seriously hampered his desire to push on: without sunlight he had little idea of the direction in which to proceed, and it was mid-morning before the sun began to burn it off.
The extra time was good for the horses, and with no actual rain it was possible to groom them, not for beautification, but for their health. Brushing removed burrs, picked up riding through long grass and bushes, which, if left, could break easily into infected skin. The dust of the previous day had already been cleaned from their nostrils and dung residue from their behinds, but in the morning hooves required to be inspected for wear, and oiled to avoid splits that would render them lame, while backs needed to be checked for sores caused by wet saddlecloths.
Not all were in good enough condition to continue: on the march a loss of mounts was inevitable and this was no exception. When they headed out, two of his men were riding their packhorses, their regular mounts unsaddled, limping, and trying to stay with the herd. There was no time to light a fire, to kill and eat them: all William’s men had was some stale bread, and dried strips of beef on which to chew.
Those on the best and fittest-looking horses had been sent ahead, their task to look over every high point and ensure their confreres were not riding into a trap, while also looking to the east for any sign of marching men. Those scouts found a grass-covered hill that gave extensive views in all directions, all the way east to the silver ribbon of another river tributary, and stopped, William calling a halt for all as soon as he caught up. The ground on the slopes was dry, the grass at the base thick and green, and if an army had passed nearby he would be able to see evidence and there was none: he had got ahead of his foe. Across a rolling hilly landscape, he should be able to observe their line of march, as well as the early presence of Drogo and his lances coming from the south, allowing him to make whatever dispositions were needed.
All around packhorses had been stripped of their loads, but now, unlike the previous night, the contents they carried were laid out in the sunshine: no fires could be allowed as that would alert the enemy to their presence, although William had a great deal of timber gathered and brought in for later, piling up the wood along the crest of the mount.
Spare leather jerkins and woollen breeches had been donned to allow the ones they had worn previously to dry, and footwear had been removed for the same purpose. Still-wet cloaks covered the grass and they lay alongside chain mail, hauberks and gloves, which if left damp would rust. The men cleaned those when they were dry and their weapons, swords and lance tips, using the same oil as they had previously applied to hooves. William waited till all was done and his men were back to being ready for battle, then, having put out a piquet on the nearest hill to the east, he allowed those who wished to some sleep.