then dipped his hands in the chilly waters of the bowl of water to wash his face. The scuffling sound of feet had him turning quickly, but not speedily enough, and although he managed to deflect the assassin’s knife away from the centre of his body, it entered the flesh of his side.
He knew he had shouted, knew he had hold of the hooded man trying to kill him, but he could see the eyes and make out the intention: that knife had been pulled out to inflict another stab and he, being stripped, was near defenceless. The sword flying through the air was no more than a flash of steel, but the bellow that accompanied it was more than that. The blade hit the man before him, and even if it did not penetrate, it was enough to distract him from the blow he was trying to deliver, enough to allow William to gain some space between them.
It was Robert who followed that sword blade, grabbing William’s assailant in his great big hands and twisting and lifting him at the same time, so the sound of the snapping neck was as clearly audible as the snapping of a dry twig. William by that time had doubled over his wound, his hand over it, but his eyes seeing the blood seeping through his fingers. Suddenly the chamber was full of people, all his brothers and more beside, and as he lifted his head to one side he saw his wife standing holding the curtain that concealed her bed, and the concerned look on her face mystified him, not least because of all the people in this castle who might want to kill him, she could be one.
‘It would take too long to list those who might be responsible,’ said Drogo, and he was right: the Emperor Henry, Pandulf, Guaimar, Rainulf were all suspect, and that left out the notion that Argyrus had sent someone from far off Bari to carry out the deed. William did not mention Berengara, and in truth the look of concern she had carried when she saw him wounded might actually have been for the father of her coming child.
‘Is the council going ahead?’ William asked, feeling the bandages in which his belly was now swathed.
‘It is.’
‘Then get me on my feet.’
‘Not wise, Gill, that was a bad wound and the monk who treated you said you should remain still to let it heal.’
‘If there is someone at that gathering who is responsible for this I want them to see my face. Now do as I ask.’
It was a painful struggle for William, and there was no way he could dress himself, a task carried out by Drogo and Listo, with his other brothers, Robert excluded, looking concerned. Finally he stood — or was it swayed? — in his family surcoat, striped in blue and white, as his sword was strapped to his waist. An imperial order dictated he should not wear arms, but that was one William de Hauteville was determined to ignore.
On the walk to the great hall of the castle he had to stop several times, to lean against a wall and gather himself, but when he entered that huge chamber he stood alone and upright, his family several steps behind him, before a crowd of nobles and churchmen who parted so that his view, from doorway to dais, was uninterrupted. Many present were surprised, but that did not indicate guilt. It took much determination to walk as if unwounded up that aisle, but walk he did, until he stood before the Emperor Henry, fixing him with a look that was as questioning as it was discourteous.
‘We are glad to see you are well, William. We have cut off the head of your assailant, even though he was dead, and it now sits on a spike by the outer walls.’
His brothers were beside him now, Drogo and Geoffrey so close that he could, if he needed to, lean on them, and when he spoke he managed a voice of full strength. ‘Let it be known, sire, that to kill me will avail whoever tried to carry it through of nothing. You see beside and behind me my brothers. If you wish to contain the name of de Hauteville you must kill us all.’
‘You have my permission, William, to be seated in my presence.’
‘I thank you, sire, but that is unnecessary.’
‘Gill,’ Drogo hissed.
‘Then let it be known,’ Henry said, standing, and his voice ringing out, ‘that in my office as elected emperor, and with the blessing of the most holy Pope Clement, I hereby repudiate the title taken unto himself by Guaimar, Prince of Salerno, in the territories recently wrested from Byzantium. He was granted the title of Prince of Capua by my predecessor and that grant I now repudiate in its entirety, and with the title thus being vacant I appoint to it, with all its lands and revenues, the previous holder, my most loyal servant, Prince Pandulf.’
‘Sire,’ Guaimar protested, but he got no further.
‘You have Salerno and Amalfi, Guaimar, be content.’
Naples and Gaeta were grinning: anyone standing close to Pandulf would have heard the Wolf say, under his breath, ‘You have them for now, Guaimar.’
‘And for you, William de Hauteville, I invest you with the title of Count and Master of all the Normans of Apulia and Calabria, and charge you to hold those provinces in my name.’
The escort William had brought to Capua were all in the keep when he emerged, looking pale but still on his own two feet. They cheered him to the echo, and two of his brothers took his arms to aid him to stay upright.
‘I can look Normandy in the eye now,’ William said. ‘How I wish our father, Tancred, was here to see this.’
‘He will hear of it, Gill,’ Drogo replied. ‘Now you must rest.’
‘I must have a seal made. I need to send greeting to my cousin and namesake, Duke William, and I also need to request that he give my father permission to build that stone donjon he has dreamt of all these years. He cannot deny it now I have my title!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The emperor, feeling his work was done in Capua, moved on to Benevento to censure the prince of that fief, only to find that Landulf would not open his gates to admit him or the Pope. Verbal thunderbolts thrown at the walls had little effect: there was not a person inside who did not suspect the purpose for which Henry had come, even if they disputed his right, namely to depose the ruler and replace him with some unknown quantity. If Landulf was not universally loved — he was too fond of display and a spendthrift — they were not prepared to trade him for someone imposed on them: that someone might be Pandulf the Wolf.
They might make jests about there only being one letter between them, but there was a lot more than that: Landulf was foppish and a little foolish, but he was not overtly cruel. His near namesake was the kind to hang his own citizens from his walls if they displeased him, and his dungeons, in his previous incarnation as Prince of Capua, had never been less than full to bursting. Rumour had it that he was filling them again: those he felt had betrayed him, if they had not been wise enough to flee, were paying a heavy price, some with their very lives.
Having only a small escort and thus lacking the military means to impose his will, the emperor was obliged to ask his newly appointed Count of Apulia for help, something an ailing William declined to provide, replying that in his new capacity as an imperial vassal he was too busy in his own province to even think of Benevento, and besides, it would involve a siege for which he lacked both the equipment and the time. In order to avoid a more pressing request he took his army off to the south to find and fight Argyrus, despite his brothers’ insistence that he was too ill to lead men into battle.
Thus a seething Holy Roman Emperor persuaded Pope Clement to excommunicate the whole population of the city, before he was obliged to retire north, blustering as he departed — for that was all it was, and a serious loss of face for a man not long elected. But before he left he let it be known that Benevento, both city and principality, was subject to his deep displeasure and that anyone who could bring the miscreants to book, and bring Landulf in chains to his imperial capital of Bamberg, would earn his gratitude. Given the only force with the power to carry out this task was Norman, it was nothing less than an invitation to William to put aside his southern adventures and take the province to the north.
Had the message come to him when healthy he might have been tempted, but he was fevered and in a sick bed, rarely able to speak, surrounded by anxious relatives and priests praying earnestly for his recovery: he had taken to his horse too soon, long before he had fully recovered from the wound to his innards. Sometimes he spoke, at other times he shouted out, a jumble of memories and aspirations, at one time even speaking calmly to ask if a
