‘That, Catapan, will make you think!’
Which he did: the front line of his levies knelt down and pushed lower their pikes, creating a frieze of points no cavalry could ride into without becoming impaled, the same happening on the left as Humphrey and Mauger advanced. Arduin, moving forward behind his advancing lines, had turned to see William riding down upon him, what could be seen of his face under his helmet suffused with rage. Iron Arm ignored him, his voice like a blasting trumpet as he yelled for the rear ranks to open and let him through. There was no time for a conference, no time to tell Arduin of his error: the Lombards had sacrificed the high ground and they must be halted.
Men fell before his horse as he forced his way into the mass of bodies, using the flat of his sword blade to create a path through which the crossbowmen could follow him, until finally he was at the fore, no more than lance-throwing distance from the blond giants who faced him, the sun flashing on newly polished helmets, their raised axe heads, and the gleaming bosses at the centre of their round bucklers.
‘Crossbows, in a line. Aim for their lower legs. When they drop their shields, aim for the eyes. When they lift them to protect their heads, aim for their thighs.’
Once the first bolts were released, and had struck exposed shins, William turned and ordered the front Lombard rank to kneel, another behind them to lace their pikes through that first line, another to stand and present their pikes over their compatriots’ heads. There were men carrying spears, and once that solid line was formed they could aim those over the heads of their front with impunity.
That which he had ordered the crossbowmen to do was being executed, which was an appropriate word, as bolts thudded into any part the Varangians exposed. William knew they would not stand and suffer, just as he knew that he and those crossbowmen were between those soon-to-be advancing axes and an impenetrable mass of pikes. But he also guessed that a horn would order the advance, and as soon as that sounded he bellowed for those bowmen to run, hauling round his mount and heading for Drogo’s now engaged lances.
The catapan had only seen the Norman tactics at Masseria: here he was faced with a completely different set of problems, as the riders stood off from the pikes and shield wall, and the lances were used at full extent to jab at the men holding them, while swords were employed to cut off the deadly points, thus reducing their deterrent effect. Goaded, they sought to retaliate, opening gaps between shields into which those same lances were cast with deadly effect, that followed by a double horn blast, which had the men who had loosed them ride away from danger in a disciplined group, to be immediately replaced by a fresh line of Norman horsemen, who employed similar tactics.
Cohesion in defence was paramount and the Byzantine levies could not maintain it. Once it failed they were doomed, and now they faced, in their disorder, a solid line of mounted warriors coming at them at a fast canter with lances ready to impale them. And if they did not know of William Iron Arm they saw him, a towering figure bawling instructions and slashing at heads with a huge sword.
When they broke, they did so completely. The same soon happened on the left flank, and that left those mighty and fearsome Varangians trying to attack a solid line of pikes. Even as they lopped the points off the defenders’ weapons, taking human heads next, they found Norman lances pressing in on both sides in a way, given they were committed to a frontal battle, that could only have one outcome. Brave as ever, they died where they stood, as those who had come with them to ancient Cannae fled the field.
William was near to dropping off his horse when he approached the titular commander of this victorious host, a man bound to be unhappy, not about the outcome, but by the way it had come about. It did not help that the entire army was yelling ‘Bras de Fer!’ in praise of the man to whom they accounted their victory.
Iron Arm gave him an old Roman salute, arm across his chest, and managed to imbue the words he used with significance. ‘Arduin of Fassano, you have avenged the blood of your father. It is time to take Barletta.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The long ride to the south was a solitary one for Robert de Hauteville, and he had learnt, as had his brothers before him, that those on the route to Italy recognised a Norman when they saw one, and given he was more blessed than most with the physical attributes of his race — the height, girth and that golden Viking hair — and his warrior accoutrements were highly visible, he found that his company was rarely sought, that being especially the case in any settlement which stood on a navigable river. These were populated by folk who chastised their children with threats of the evil Norsemen who had, albeit not in living memory, sailed up those same rivers in their longboats to pillage and burn.
Nor were matters always eased in the countryside: a giant with lance and sword brought back too many memories to small communities, and in some cases very recent ones, of roving bands, armed and unemployed fighting men, whose only means of existence without war was to rob and defile the weak in any period of peace. To ride into many a hamlet was to find it deserted, the inhabitants taken to the nearest woods until he had passed.
When the occasion demanded he traded to eat, Robert would merely dismount and wait. Peasants and farmers, seeing he was alone, would come out eventually, tightly grouped for mutual protection and carrying various weapons, though they would keep their wives and daughters hidden, to cautiously approach this seeming Goliath. It was a testament to Robert’s winning ways that, even bereft of a shared language, he could make friends and gain trust given time. Countless nights were spent round blazing fires in laughter and japes brought on by whatever spirit these yokels concocted to ease the drudge of their lives.
Whenever he could, he sought shelter in monasteries: they, lying as they did on pilgrim routes, had a Christian duty of hospice accommodation, and none would turn him away, but there was rarely joy in their charity. If there was a group of humans who hated and feared the race from which the Normans had sprung, it was the religious one, for their churches and abbeys had always been the first places to be plundered, quite simply because they were the richest in treasure.
Truly pious monks, proper heirs to the monastic founders, were a rarity, and where they existed were much loved by the laity; most were far from devout, inclined to use promises of salvation as an excuse for rapacious exploitation. The hypocrisy of living a life of comfort and ease, of consuming good food and wine, interspersed with endless prayer, not to mention a degree of carnal predation, all provided on the back of serf labour, this while preaching the Saviour’s message of poverty and humility, escaped them in the main.
The landscape changed, turning from green to brown, the smell changing from damp grass to burnt earth, the roofs from thatch to red tiles, the bastions and watchtowers from dank, rain-soaked grey to near white. In the high-perched castles, with stout walls, citadels that oversaw every route by which a great fief might be vulnerable to an invading army, he was welcomed by men of his own stamp: knights in service or the lords to whom they were attached, for there was a universal bond between warriors. Men who might themselves travel to fight or serve had an affinity with a lone confrere.
This was where Robert was most at ease, among men of his own stamp, who saw that the blade of his sword had been marked by others while his helmet had dents, and were eager to hear tales of how these marks of conflict had been gained. If he was privileged to dine with the lords of these castles, they were eager to hear of the customs of other courts, and given he had conversed with both the Duke of Normandy and the King of the Franks, it was easy to impress these men, and their chatelaines, with tales of regal magnificence.