Tancred might loathe the man as well as his pretensions, and dispute whether he had the right to lord it over him in his home region, but he was, to his mailed glove, a soldier, and one who knew that to allow a dispute of that nature to interfere with their common purpose in battle was to invite disaster.
Battle was imminent but few knew when, though rumours abounded, while sorting those from fact was a daunting task: there were many who would believe and disseminate any tale, however stupid it might be. But the day came when all doubt was gone: the enemy was at hand and tomorrow they should clash. The sudden increase in the attention paid to the condition of mounts and weapons, the depth of prayer that came from constricted throats at the mass held in the dying light, was evidence of that, for those in entreaty knew that, on the morrow, some of them would die.
Geoffrey confessed Tancred, his sons and followers, as well as the two boys, who would stay with the horses and the duke’s baggage train. It was not unknown for that to be a prime object of an enemy assault. It was evidence of their youthful foolishness that they hoped such a thing would happen, for in their minds they were certain that they alone could repulse it.
CHAPTER THREE
The summons for Guaimar and Berengara to attend upon the Prince of Capua was delivered at dawn and without much in the way of grace. Osmond de Vertin had turned up outside the small gatehouse lodge they now occupied in the heart of Salerno, banging on the door with the same impatience he had shown at the abbey church. He had brought along two spare horses, one with a saddle suitable for a young woman, and he was in no mood to wait for their — particularly her — need to properly prepare themselves.
It was a measure of how unthreatened these Normans felt that, on this undertaking, not one was wearing mail, a helmet or carrying a lance. They were dressed in soft hats and surcoats over leather jerkins, slashed on the sleeve to allow the breeze to cool their bodies. Both the youngsters, with the prospect of facing the Wolf in his own lair, had donned elegant court clothes and covered them with cloaks, guaranteeing a warm and uncomfortable journey.
So hurried was the rousing out and departure that it took time for Guaimar to realise the different colours these men wore, no longer the red and black of Rainulf Drengot, but the yellow and green of the Prince of Capua, an indication that Osmond and this band of Normans who garrisoned Salerno must have changed their allegiance. What this portended he could not tell.
It was a journey undertaken at speed, a steady canter, with frequent changes of mounts every two leagues and a strong party sent ahead to clear the road, and God assist any peasant who got in the way. Those walking were forced into the storm ditches while anyone driving a cart was as likely to find it tipped on its side, and fear made sure they hid well their deep resentment, some even bowing to the passing horsemen. Nothing was allowed to interfere with the passage of this band, with the chief escort proud of the way his power was so decidedly demonstrated. Many a glance was directed at Berengara, in the hope of observing she was impressed.
A journey of twenty leagues took all day, even across a flat, featureless plain on a well-maintained Roman road, and they had little chance to snatch food and drink at the infrequent stops. It was telling that Osmond bypassed the home and camp of Rainulf Drengot near Aversa, which was on the direct route to Capua, underlining that he no longer served the mercenary leader.
It was a weary and dust-covered party that, in the gathering evening gloom, rode through the Norman guarded gates and into the courtyard of Pandulf’s palace-cum-fortress, tucked in a bend of the River Volturno inside the walled city. As soon as they were dismounted, before even they had a chance to ease their aching limbs, Guaimar and Berengara were ordered into the great hall in which Pandulf was wont to receive visitors.
‘Bring them forward.’
The voice called from the end of the hall, which, though lit, was too dim to distinguish the speaker at such a distance, but it was one known to them. Guaimar felt himself pushed in the back and as he advanced his sister did likewise. Closer to the raised dais at the end of the great hall, Pandulf was sitting in a throne-like chair, with one leg casually thrown across the arm.
Dark of colour, and with swarthy skin — which hinted at Saracen blood — Pandulf was a handsome man who prided himself on those looks. Guaimar had only met him on two occasions prior to the day he usurped his father’s place, but he could clearly recall the easy charm, the deep and attractive voice, as well as the ready smile and the twinkle in the eyes that engendered trust in those who had not before dealt with him. Anyone who had experience of his true nature did not trust Pandulf at all.
Yet no one could deny that he had luck, or was it that easy manner, smile and magnetism which so blinded people to his true character. The citizens of Capua were not fooled: the whole of Campania knew how much they hated him, knew how they had rejoiced when he had been deposed himself for earlier acts of chicanery as he played Byzantium off against the power of the Western Emperor, always for his own gain.
Yet somehow, having been taken to Germany as a prisoner by the previous emperor, he had thrown himself on the mercy of Conrad Augustus upon his election and had succeeded in convincing that newly crowned overlord of his good intentions. Conrad had set him loose and he had returned to claim his fief. The same citizens who had rejoiced to see him go had paid a heavy price for their hate: many had died, burnt at stakes or strung on ropes hanging from the walls of this very castle. So had Guaimar’s father!
‘You’ve grown, you pups of Salerno,’ he called, as though he was greeting old friends. ‘Pray take off those cloaks so I can get a good look at you.’
He sounds just like a benign and favourite uncle, Guaimar thought, as he undid his clasp, the cloak being taken from him by a silent retainer who appeared from the gloom at his side. That’s the way he talks: jocular and friendly. It made him think of the Garden of Eden snake.
Pandulf was on his feet, and coming down to meet them, his smile wide, his eyes fixed more on Berengara than her brother. ‘Grown did I say? Blossomed more like.’
Berengara had dropped her head, but close to, Pandulf lifted her chin. Then he took her hand and led her to a pool of stronger light, forcing Guaimar to follow. ‘You have turned into a beauty.’
‘We came as quick as was possible, sire.’
The hard voice of Osmond de Vertin, seeking praise for the speed with which he had carried out his orders, changed Pandulf’s face, making the eyes less twinkling and the mouth harder, but that slight change of expression was reversed as he faced his new Norman recruit.
‘You have done well, Osmond. You and your men must be weary. Take them to the guard quarters and give instructions that, while we dine, you too are to be fed.’
Guaimar was looking at Osmond as Pandulf spoke, and he sensed the man’s disappointment, not hard given it was written on his features. Did he feel he was elevated enough, now he served Pandulf directly, to remain in their company? Had he expected to dine at the princely table? Osmond stiffened in a sort of salutation, then spun on his heel and stalked off, his boots stamping hard to demonstrate his displeasure. It was doubtful if Pandulf noticed; he was back staring into Berengara’s upheld face.
‘We too must dine, but first I think you, young lady, should be granted some attention from the maidservants of my wife, to ease the strains of the journey. I have words to say to your brother.’
‘I have no objection to Berengara hearing anything you have to say.’
‘But I have, Guaimar,’ Pandulf replied in a sharp aside, before making a gesture with his hand that summoned one of his retainers. ‘Take the young lady to my wife’s private chambers. Ask that she be looked after and made more becoming, if that is possible.’
Berengara looked at Guaimar, who nodded. If he intended them harm, there was nothing he or she could do about it. If he did not, it would make no difference. As soon as she was gone, Pandulf returned to his chair, and, throwing himself into it once more, looked at Guaimar with an amused expression.
‘You too have grown, boy.’
‘It is, I believe, normal to do so.’
‘The question is, having done so, what have you grown into? A paragon or a nuisance?’
‘It might be possible to be both.’
Pandulf laughed. ‘Take the word of one who knows, Guaimar: it is not.’
