feel wretched. Nor did he really want to explain to her that he must, in the imperial presence, behave properly, for there was much at stake. This Henry was reputed to be a principled fellow much taken with prayer and confession, not long wed, who might take a dim view of someone attending upon him in the company of an obvious concubine.
How different it was when he was with this girl. She made him laugh, she made him happy and she brought out in him a love of the bawdy, a side of his character he kept hidden from even his own brothers, who saw him as somewhat dour. Had she been of the right blood he would have wed her in an instant, not least because she so wanted to please him, a feeling he had to be guarded about reciprocating.
William actually fretted about raising her hopes: the girl knew his marriage was far from blissful, just as she knew it was not based on affection. He realised that one day, even if it would render him miserable, he might have to send her away: should fortune favour him with an heir, he would not raise the boy in close proximity to such an evident mistress. She would never starve: he would help her to find a husband and provide for any children she had, and he reassured himself the course he had in mind was the right one; but would he not be as miserable as she?
The ride into Capua, from his tented encampment, on the day appointed for the synod, brought back many memories, not least that in this locality Normans were not loved: the looks they received from the population as they made their way from city gates to the castle left them in no doubt that time had not abated the fear Capuans had of these blond, blue-eyed warriors. Then it had been just him and Drogo, now it was all six of the brothers de Hauteville: even Robert was in his entourage, riding alongside the litter in which sat Berengara, the drapes firmly closed.
But there were other memories, more pleasant: it was here he had ceased to merely be a mercenary lance without patrimony and had become, or so he thought, heir to the County of Aversa. He had ridden up to the gates of the twin barbicans of the castle he was now approaching as an imperial messenger, to demand its surrender. Now he was coming to it as a warlord in his own right, older and, he hoped, wiser.
The walls and gate were manned by imperial troops, Swabians by the look of their accoutrements and speech, who demanded to know his name and title before allowing him admission to the inner keep, this accompanied by suspicious looks at the powerful escort of fifty lances William had fetched along. From there, once dismounted, the senior members of the party made their way to the great hall he had visited so often in the past, in more disordered times.
Guaimar was already present in all his pomp, as was the Abbot of Montecassino, who looked daggers at them, as he would at any Norman, while on a dais sat two men. One, young and fresh of face he took to be Henry, the other, given his pontifical garb and his great age, undoubtedly the Pope. Rainulf was standing by the aisle, with a stalwart-looking young fellow by his side who William suspected might be his nephew, Richard, news of whose arrival from Normandy had filtered through to Melfi. Clearly, if it was, and given his presence at such a gathering, he already had the ear and trust of his uncle.
The Dukes of Naples and Gaeta were identified by the gonfalons retainers held over their heads, proud men and Lombards, owners of their own fiefs, who nevertheless knew they held their titles by imperial favour, and it was telling the distance that existed between them and Guaimar, whom they knew to be ambitious that Salerno, having subsumed Amalfi, should surpass them as the greatest trading port of their shared coast. To these lords he was a constant threat, having, as he did, Rainulf’s still-numerous Normans at his beck and call.
The surprise of the gathering, in fact no less than a shock, only revealed itself after they had made their bows to the dais and been welcomed by the emperor. Standing to one side, partially hidden, stood Pandulf, the one time Prince of Capua, the man known as the Wolf of the Abruzzi, in what had been his own great hall, this before he had been deposed. Hasty questioning of the others, gathered as they retired, revealed the truth: if the release of George Maniakes from his dungeon had been one of the Emperor Constantine’s little surprises on his accession to the purple, this was another, potentially equally troubling. Pandulf had been freed and sent home, in the certain knowledge that he was bound to cause trouble among his fellow Lombards, which could only benefit the Byzantine cause.
‘So, William de Hauteville,’ Pandulf said, having made his way through the throng to sidle up to a man he had once tried to recruit, the very fellow who had seen to it he lost his title. ‘I find myself addressing a very different fellow. You have risen in the world.’
The Wolf had aged, hardly surprising for a man who had spent years in a Byzantine oubliette; at one time darkly handsome, he was now drawn-looking and his black hair was streaked with grey, but the dark, dancing eyes were the same as was the voice, one which William knew to be silky and insincere, but also one which wove a spell on the uninitiated, which seemed to be able to embrace and render congenial whichever person he was addressing. And there was the smile as well, slightly crooked.
‘And you, Pandulf, have risen from the dead.’
‘If it were not blasphemous, I would compare myself to Christ.’
‘I do not recall that you feared blasphemy or damnation,’ said Drogo.
Pandulf ignored that remark, looking past Drogo and his brothers to Berengara, the eyebrows lifting and the smile broadening in mock wonder. ‘And you have taken as wife the beautiful Berengara, William. How I envy you such a prize.’
There was mockery in those words: Pandulf was the kind to ferret out gossip and he was telling him that he knew very well how troubled was that particular relationship, just as William knew they were meant to rile him. All his life he had reacted to people who attempted that with a slight smile, one which hinted at an interior superiority. Generally it infuriated the recipient; there was great pleasure in seeing it work on Pandulf now, but the question still remained: how had he got to this place at this time? Being set free by Constantine was one thing, being invited to a synod set up by the Emperor of the West quite another.
That he had charmed this new emperor was later obvious and not wholly surprising: he had done the same to this young man’s predecessor until his depredations had forced Conrad to act. When called forward to speak, admitting his previous errors and seeking forgiveness, Henry listened intently. William just had to look at the face of Guaimar of Salerno to know how badly he took the re-emergence of the man he held to be his greatest enemy.
The Abbot of Montecassino looked as if he would happily forgo his vows and commit murder to be rid of a man who made the Normans appear like saints. It was hard for Rainulf too, for he was in the presence, not only of an abbot who gladly would list his sins for an imperial ear, but also of two magnates he had at one time, and in turn, betrayed, while he was about to kneel before the only man who could legitimately strip him of his title for the activities of the men he led.
But whatever Guaimar and Rainulf felt paled beside that of Berengara, who for once spoke to William in a voice not dripping with hate for him, her gaze fixed intently on Pandulf.
‘Kill that man, cut out his living heart, and I will give myself to you willingly, and perhaps bear you the child you desire.’
Robert de Hauteville replied, not William, in a voice too loud, as usual. ‘You have asked the wrong person, Lady Berengara. If you want someone killed you should have asked me.’
Before either she or William could respond to that, Henry stood, and looking out over the assembly at the many armorial devices which identified each grouping, his face creased with curiosity. ‘Where is the Prince of Benevento?’
Someone, a court official no doubt, responded in the negative, which produced a look of anger and a voice to match. ‘Not yet here on the appointed day! Send messengers to seek him out. He is my vassal and he should be in attendance.’
The voice that responded was so soft it was difficult to hear, but the words were much repeated afterwards, as the newly elected Pope Clement leant across and reminded the emperor, and not entirely to his liking, that in strict truth Benevento was a papal fief, not an imperial one.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emperor Henry III, looking out over the assembled gathering, was not happy and he had good reason: there
