was asserting this, as though such an idea was original and his own, instead of one advanced by everyone who opposed imperial intervention. ‘And there should be no intrusion into the deliberations by the factions of Rome.’
Even that blatant piece of hypocrisy — he meant everyone except the Pierleoni — could not divert Guaimar from the thought which had hit him like a thunderbolt. It is not pleasant to realise you have made an error, and one so profound as to undermine your entire purpose. The Emperor Conrad had to be persuaded to come to his aid, made to see that the removal of Pandulf was essential, and the only solution to that problem was a military one. Strictures not backed by force would carry no weight whatsoever, but what would persuade the emperor to act when he had not done so in the past, even although the depredations of the Wolf could not be a secret.
Guaimar was now back in the archbishop’s palace in Salerno, and he realised he had acquiesced too easily in the cleric’s insistence that seeking help from the Eastern Empire was anathema. Both the courts of Bamberg and Constantinople were content to protest their rights as suzerain as long as neither sought to enforce it and the air of seeming harmony which they projected was a mask. There was deep mistrust between the two halves of the old Roman inheritance, but inactivity was the response: you stay out of South Italy and so will we; you ensure stability on one side of the Apennines, and we will do so on the other.
Conrad had made an error in releasing Pandulf, and before he would do anything he would have to first admit that. He had not done so up till now, even if it was obvious, so what would change his mind? Conrad would not move unless he felt threatened!
Guaimar nearly said those last words out loud, so obvious was it to his now troubled mind. He should have sent to ask the Eastern Emperor for help as well, and damn the fears of his archbishop, for there was one truth that never evaporated: both emperors would dearly love to take over the whole region, east to west, if they thought that they could do so and hold it without endless conflict. The next problem to surface was how to alter what was a cardinal error.
‘… No, I must take care with Conrad Augustus to give him no inkling of my thoughts.’
God Almighty, is he still talking? Guaimar wanted to scream.
‘This, of course, will not be a problem. When he sees the power of the intelligence he has to deal with, I am sure I will have this so-called Augustus eating out of my hand.’ Ascletin leant forward over his chest of money to impart, again not for the first time, his conclusion. ‘I do not expect, of course, to be the next holder of the papal office, but the one after that, young Guaimar. That I think will be mine.’
Looking into Ascletin’s face, Guaimar thought he might have a solution.
The cries of the escorts were enough to alert everyone to the approach of their next stop and his fellow- traveller began to preen himself in a plate of highly polished silver; he wished to be seen at his best.
When told of Guaimar’s plan, Berengara was entranced, but was wise enough to insist they rehearse the thing before carrying it out, and her brother was, although initially sceptical, made wise to the fact that she was correct when he stumbled on the words he needed to use. The other thing his sister said was equally true: just because he had realised his error, there was no need to correct it that second.
If sitting listening to Ascletin’s witterings had been hard before, it was doubly so when impatience was added. The temptation to blurt out what had to be delivered with guile was nearly overwhelming, and lasted until they reached Innsbruck, where they were once again the guests of an archbishop. In a palace that would not have disgraced an emperor, the perfect setting was found for the argument Guaimar and Berengara needed to construct. The rooms were vast, and so were the connecting corridors, high ceilinged and given to echo. Placing themselves within earshot of the apartments allotted to Ascletin and ignoring any passing servants, their raised voices carried a long way.
‘I absolutely forbid you to mention it.’
‘For what reason?’ Berengara demanded.
‘Telling Conrad such a thing will ruin what we are trying to do.’
Berengara had placed herself so she could see Ascletin’s door, and she nodded sharply to her brother to let him know it had opened a fraction, so she cried, ‘It is dishonest!’
‘It is necessary. If the emperor finds out we have sent a mission to Constantinople as well it will ruin everything.’
‘Why?’
Guaimar dropped his voice, hoping he had done so enough to have their eavesdropper straining. ‘The archbishop was adamant. Only the Western Emperor should be approached. To send for help from both could render useless our hopes. I need you to swear you will say nothing.’
‘Swear? Do you trust me so little?’
‘Berengara, a chance remark, a word let slip, and we will be undone. Conrad Augustus must come south with his army and get rid of Pandulf.’ Now he raised his voice again. ‘There is no chance of him doing that if he thinks we will take help from the Byzantines as well. When I swear allegiance to him, as I must, he will have to be convinced that it is inviolable.’
‘What if help comes from the east as well?’
‘What do we care who rids us of Pandulf, as long as we have Salerno?’
‘You will have Salerno.’
‘And you, my dear sister, will have a husband that goes with your station as my relative.’
They began to walk away from Ascletin’s door, still arguing, their voices fading until they were far enough away to collapse in a fit of giggles.
Ahead lay many more days of having his ears assaulted by his travelling companion, but it had been noticeable on that first morning after their ruse that Ascletin wore an expression on his face even more smug. They came to Bamberg eventually, through a week of snow, to find a town smaller than half a dozen they had passed through. Conrad had set up his court here because it was a fief of his own house and the palace of his predecessor and uncle, a move probably not popular with those who had to gather to elect and anoint a Holy Roman Emperor: the great magnates of church and state who represented half of Europe.
As a court it was far from magnificent, and away from the blazing fires that filled every chamber it was freezing. Outside the trees sagged under the weight of snow, and every morning, if the sun shone, great sheets would fall from the steep roofs of the buildings. Every one of Conrad’s courtiers dressed in heavy fur-trimmed garments indoors — including his chamberlain, from whom Guaimar had requested an audience — and thick furs if they ventured out of doors, which they had to do often, given their master was a slave to the hunt.
Guaimar found himself mounted and chasing stags, wild boar and wolves as Conrad and his fellow madmen raced their mounts across a snow-draped landscape or through dense forests, hoping that by doing so he would circumvent the strict protocol of the court and win a face-to-face meeting with Conrad. He hoped in vain: the emperor was always way out in front, and rode his mount with a total disregard for his own well-being. Many a fellow hunter found the going too hearty, and some who tried to keep up paid for it with badly broken bones. It was the weather that saved Guaimar from this: a week slightly warmer which produced a thick mist, one that simply would not clear. Finally, Conrad found time to welcome him officially.
Whatever else the imperial court lacked it was not servants and the chamberlain was as efficient an official as the job demanded. Guaimar had been greeted by his ducal title as well as all the family claims, however arcane, and because of the rank both he and Berengara held, much to the chagrin of Ascletin, had been awarded the kind of apartments that went with superior status. Now, emerging from those, both were dressed in their very best clothes, and Guaimar could look at his sister, nearly a full year older than she had been at the time of their father’s funeral, and see that his suppositions had been correct. Her figure had filled out and her face had lost what trace of youthful puppiness it had retained. She looked wonderful.
He was nervous; so much depended on what was about to take place, and try as he might he could not disguise it. This time it was Berengara who tightly held his hand, as they made their way through the chilly corridors of Conrad’s castle to the imperial audience chamber. Two pikemen in steel helmets and metal breastplates stood guard at either side of the closed door — no one in freezing Bamberg left a door open — and as they composed themselves to enter, as though by some osmosis the doors opened and a voice rang out.
‘His Grace the Duke of Salerno, and the Lady Berengara.’
The room was crowded and warm, a wave of welcome heat that enveloped them as they entered to face a
