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.
That was not a luxury he could allow himself: looking out over the surrounding landscape, barren and deserted except for the dots of grazing sheep and goats, he searched for a suitable field of battle, the best place to confront Doukeianos, wondering if he would be granted the right to choose it. Given his force was cavalry that should be the case: horsemen could manoeuvre with much more ease than milities, however well trained they were. But this catapan had outfoxed him once and he was too wise to think all the choices would remain his, a point he made to his younger brother.
‘All I can say for sure is that we got ahead of them.’
‘Can we stop them?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘That I do not know until I see their numbers.’
‘And if they are too numerous?’
‘We fall back on Melfi and prepare for a siege. At least we know we can outrun them.’
‘Not Venosa or Lavello?’
William smiled, aware his brother was asking these things out of ignorance; yet he had experienced battle, having, like William, ridden alongside their father under the banner of Duke Robert. But then so had Drogo, and though he was a mighty fighter he deferred to William when it came to tactics; Humphrey and Mauger would likely do the same. All four were formidable in battle; even if it had only been in mock combat he had contested with them and knew their prowess. That they could not best him meant less than the fact that they could beat most of the men he led.
Yet they were limited when it came to command; excellent at following instructions — also, certainly in Drogo’s case, good at close battlefield control — but none of them could plan what he had in his mind, which was a great deal more than just stopping this approaching catapan and his army. Sometimes William tired of responsibility, and often, at home in the Contentin, he had wearied of his status as elder brother, but that was useless: if it was a burden it was one that could not be put down, and in truth, he would not want to.
‘No. If we sought to retire on those, I think this Michael Doukeianos would just bypass us. Melfi is the prize.’
‘He will not capture it. The castle is too strong.’
‘He does not need to take it, Geoffrey, he needs to deny us the use of it, and the ability to sally forth at will. He also needs to let the Lombards Arduin is busy recruiting know that they do not have Melfi as a safe refuge. Doukeianos has little in the way of strength and a long time to wait before any reinforcements can arrive, and even if he had those he cannot hold Apulia if the entire population rises against him. Doubt of outcome in this is his greatest asset. News that he is besieging Melfi will make many minds cautious, will serve to divide those keen to rebel, and that will do. Byzantium rules by the fear of what its armies might do, not what they can actually accomplish.’
‘Better to fight him, then?’
‘I will if I can, but that will depend on many things, and not just the size of the force he brings against us.’
‘Such as?’
‘The quality. You can tell much about an enemy host by the way it deploys. If it is smooth and disciplined then they are likely to be steady under assault; if it is ragged and muddled they will not stand against our lances, and once broken they will not stop but flee the field. The ground too will have a bearing. Following that heavy rain we rode through, it would not be wise for us to fight in a valley until the ground dries out and ceases to be soft.’
Geoffrey acknowledged that: mud would slow the horses, impede any attack and make manoeuvre challenging.
‘And since Doukeianos knows this as well as anyone he will seek to draw us into such ground.’
‘How do you intend to deal with that?’
‘By talking, brother.’ Seeing Geoffrey’s questioning look, he added, ‘For I think the catapan, before he seeks battle, will try to do what Byzantium does best, and buy us off.’
The cry from a sentinel had them both looking south, to a long ragged line of horsemen approaching. Within a glass of sand William was greeting three more of his brothers, but most importantly, for they were weary and damp, he would now be, once they had rested, at maximum strength.
CHAPTER TEN
