sea of enquiring eyes. Here were the nobles of the empire, several red-capped cardinals, princes, dukes, counts and margraves, all of whom seemed to have about them an air of certainty of their status. Guaimar knew that whatever plea he made to Conrad would be examined by many of those present; these were the men who advised the Emperor in council.
The crowd parted, to reveal at the end of a passage of magnates a heavily built man, who stood with his legs set in a way that, allied to the hands firmly resting on his hips, seemed to demonstrate his power. Here was Conrad the Salian, Duke of Babelsberg and the Lord only knew of how many more fiefs, King in Germany, and the Holy Roman heir of Charlemagne the Great. He had the ruddy face and substantial build of an outdoor man, topped by a mane of pepper and salt hair. The look aimed at the two young nobles was not friendly: it seemed to ask what dared them to enter his presence.
Guaimar’s mouth was dry, his heart was pounding, but he did notice as they made their way forward that these great men to either side executed a bow, not to him — they saw themselves at least as his equal — but to his sister, each one receiving a smile and a nod of gratitude. In front of Conrad, Guaimar bowed low, Berengara executing a deep curtsy, which brought Conrad forward, to hold out his hand and raise her up.
‘You have brought me the flower of Salerno, I see.’
His voice was deep, composed of gravel, and seemed to come from his belly rather than his throat. As Guaimar replied, the emperor was still looking at Berengara.
‘I bring you the loyalty of Salerno as well, sire.’
The benign look evaporated as his gaze turned to Guaimar. ‘I am glad to hear it, though I had no reason to fear it was in doubt.’
There was a sting in that: previous lords of Salerno had flirted with Byzantium, which had required Conrad’s Uncle Henry to enforce his rights with an army.
‘I am sure Prince Pandulf has sent you many such messages protesting that you are his true liege lord as well.’
‘He has.’
‘Just as you, Conrad Augustus, are wise enough to know how false they are.’ Receiving no reply, just a less- than-engaging stare from a pair of steely grey eyes, Guaimar knew he had to say more. ‘It is no duty of a loyal servant of the empire to steal from another, no part of a loyal servant of the empire to people his dungeon with his subjects.’
‘Unless they are disloyal, boy! If they are that, then let them suffer the fate they deserve.’
Guaimar made a point of stiffening his body, and holding the imperial eye. Even though Conrad was twice his girth, his voice did not lack equal force.
‘I think, your grace, that my true title is not boy, but Duke Guaimar.’
The two held a look for several seconds — it seemed to Guaimar like a lifetime, for he had issued a direct challenge to his suzerain, which could prove totally fatal to his hopes. He was inwardly cursing his own inability to bend to another’s will, and then Conrad laughed.
‘Well, Duke Guaimar, you must tell what is happening in Campania that warrants you travelling all this way to confront me in my own court and, I may say, show scant regard for my imperial majesty.’
‘I cannot but believe, sire, that you know that as well as I do. No man could hold your title and be a fool as well.’
Conrad was still smiling when he replied. ‘You are not lacking in impertinence.’
‘I believe my station and my duty oblige me to speak truthfully to my sovereign lord.’
‘Very well, Guaimar, we will talk a little. My chamberlain will arrange it.’ Conrad’s attention, as he said that, had moved back to Berengara. ‘Now you, young lady, must tell me how you find my little court.’
It was smoothly done, the way the emperor detached her, and left Guaimar standing virtually alone in a crowded room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was a thoughtful Norman captain who oversaw the burials of the men who had died under that hail of rocks, though Odo de Jumiege sought to display indifference. The priest, dragged from his church, performed the service with a tremble, as though he expected to end up in the grave with one of the bodies. William, though he prayed for the souls of these men who were strangers to him, studied the faces of the other mercenaries to see how they reacted to the loss of two of their number, not least because of the manner of those deaths.
Following on from the burials, it was too late in the day to do more than take over the best house and stabling in the town with a clear view of the fortress, throwing out the inhabitants, raiding others for the means to feed both horses and men and to see what valuables the locals had been foolish enough not to bury.
There was little of that, this being a part of the world often in turmoil, with a population who took up their possessions and made for safe places, deep pits or hard-to-find caves, as soon as disorder threatened. They would have known of their lord’s defiance, would have known too that it would be likely to bring retribution, so anything worth stealing was long gone. The mercenaries were unperturbed, and William discerned from their talk that they were well versed in the art of torturing those who looked prosperous, to force them to reveal their hideouts.
William waited to hear what Odo had in mind regarding Prince Pandulf’s renegade but he waited in vain. Their captain was too concerned with his belly and making sure that he had a woman, willing or otherwise, to warm the bed he had commandeered in the stone house closest to the causeway. His sole act was to arrange the guard who would keep watch on the actions of the Lord of Montesarchio in case he attempted to essay from his fortress.
As one of the first set of guards, William looked up at the stout walls and the torches that illuminated the area below them — Odo was not the only one wary of a surprise — trying to guess what the fortress contained. How many men? Did they have horses? If they had oil to soak flaming torches did they have enough and the necessary cauldrons to pour over the heads of attackers? That would make what happened with the hail of rocks look like child’s play.
He was convinced they would have to assault the place, and he suspected Odo thought the same, but how? The slopes of the pointed hill on which it stood were steep, maybe too much so to get even a decent foothold carrying ladders — they might very well need those just to ascend, and once below the walls there would be no protection from above. To attack that way was just to provide easy targets.
That left that concourse before the gate, at the top of the causeway, the only flat piece of ground from which an attack could seriously be mounted. The man set to repulse them would know that too, so there he would have his best defences: his crossbowmen, more heavy stones, perhaps boiling oil and, if there were horses inside, the ability to suddenly emerge and mount an attack on men who would, of necessity, be fighting on foot.
They could put together a rough-hewn barricade, one that protected not only their front but their heads, one that they could manoeuvre onto the concourse, perhaps using it to set fire to the wooden gate. But that, stout oak studded with bolts, probably many hundreds of years old and thoroughly seasoned, would take an age to burn and the defenders would pour over water, as well as keeping wet the interior face.
Stay too long and the roles would be reversed: fire would rain down on them and force a withdrawal. It looked as though the only hope, as some of the men had accepted, was a lengthy siege, which was galling given the very idea was what the man they had come to capture would have calculated. He would have made sure he could hold out for months in the hope that either boredom, events elsewhere, or sickness, drove his besiegers away.
Such speculations helped the time pass, and after the glass had run twice he was relieved, grateful to get out of his hauberk and helmet and rest his weary limbs, for it had been a very long day. Sleep came swiftly, even if the room, too full of humanity, was hot, and he was surrounded by the stentorian snores and endless rasping farts of his fellows; sleep in which he dreamt of things cool, of the river back home in which he had swum, engaged in water fights against his brothers. They had also fished with rod and cold tickling hands.
The yell brought him awake immediately, though for a moment he had no recollection of where he was — in Hauteville or Italy — but that kind of alarm was one he had grown up with; in uneasy times Tancred too had mounted guards, day and night, in his wooden tower, to warn of any approaching threat. All around him men were on their feet, reaching for their weapons, shouting to rouse themselves for a fight; there was no time for mail, only
