successes.’
They were in Mauger’s apartments now, in the newly completed main tower, hung with tapestries and the heads of wild beasts, the furnishings well made, the carpets Eastern in their design and the wine, as well as the food, local and excellent. The horses of Roger and his lances had been put out to good pasture, while the riders were being well looked after, no doubt swapping tales of home with their Norman confreres.
‘He is a thief, Roger,’ his brother maintained, ‘and as for Geoffrey, all he ever does is kiss Robert’s arse so he can hang on to his titles. If our father had not made us vow never to raise a weapon against each other I would have been sorely tempted to dispose of that swine.’
The ability to keep a straight face in receipt of hyperbole was a gift Roger needed now. Mauger was a big man but he had none of the sheer physicality of Robert, the breadth of shoulder and the leonine head. Robert also had a presence, which, much as he was angry with him, bespoke of a great leader. Mauger would certainly be able to command men, but did such ability extend to the leadership of complex armies on difficult campaigns?
Observing one brother and recalling the other, he knew precisely why Humphrey had named as his successor the brother he actively distrusted — not that he was prone, it seemed, to gift much in the way of affection to any of his siblings. Roger remembered Humphrey as beetle-browed, sour, humourless, cruel to men and animals and the one, as a child, he tended to avoid. Added to that, Tancred had little time for him.
‘That is a vow I never took,’ Roger finally replied.
That brought forth a keen look, as if Mauger were thinking that Roger could do that which he had forsworn, but the fact he had not knelt before Tancred to swear to that oath counted for nothing. Roger would never raise arms against any of his brothers, never seek to draw their blood: it had been his father’s wish and for him that was a command.
‘Well, you are here now so we must find you something to do, but before that you must tell me what you learnt in Salerno.’ Mauger grinned like a mischievous child. ‘Did that popinjay Gisulf curse me?’
‘I have to tell you, Mauger, that he did not even mention you.’ It was the wrong thing to say, a dent to his pride, immediately obvious as the smile disappeared to be replaced by a childlike scowl. Realising he had made a gaffe, Roger said quickly, ‘He is too taken with the inroads of Richard of Capua to worry about any of our family.’
‘Is he, by damn? Then I shall have to show him that he has more to care about than that impostor.’
That required equal prudence when it came to a reaction: Mauger was lord of a small fief, even if it was a valuable one, and perhaps a hundred knights. Richard was a master of great estates and counted his lances in the thousand. Even on such short acquaintance he was beginning to discern that it was not just physicality that had denied Mauger Apulia: such pronouncements indicated a want of common sense and an inability to accept his own limitations.
‘We shall raid together, Roger,’ Mauger said, leaning forward, ‘and show Gisulf what we are made of. You will also be pleased to know that from my fief we can steal as much from Robert as we can from Salerno. In truth, that gives me greater pleasure.’
‘I doubt we can steal as much as he owes me.’
‘We can try, brother,’ Mauger boomed.
That they did, riding out on raid after raid, side by side with half their available lances, never too far or too long away to be in danger of reprisals by any force large enough to stop them, secure in the knowledge that the men left behind would keep safe that already held. Certainly they met resistance, but in the lands of Gisulf of Salerno it was by small bands of Lombard warriors who, if they fought at all, left their bones on the field of conflict.
With Normans it was more a case of a parley, a realisation by those they encountered, individual conroys owing allegiance to the Guiscard, that a spillage of blood for what could not be prevented was unwise. Harsh words would be spoken, threats of retaliation would be issued, some of the plunder would be given up, but each side would withdraw without a fight: the unwritten rule applied — Normans did not, if it could be avoided, kill Normans.
Usually they would return to Scalea with their plunder intact: lowing cattle, bleating sheep, donkeys and packhorses loaded with wine, grain and olive oil, some of which would be passed on locally to traders, or if Mauger was feeling generous, as gifts to his subjects. The rest was traded with the other ports and cities that lined the coast, even, an irony, with Salerno itself.
That summer and autumn were good and profitable, though raiding had to be put in abeyance during the winter, resumed as soon as the buds began to open, with Mauger now raiding deeper and deeper into the territories of his neighbours — expeditions that lasted a month, spreading fear and mayhem to Gisulf and Robert’s subjects seemingly unchecked. The day they found themselves, eighty lances, facing a Salernian force ten times their number, came as a shock, that being close to everything the Prince of Salerno could muster.
‘Now Gisulf knows I am here and a threat,’ Mauger cried, waving his sword.
These words were, Roger surmised, meant for his ears, Mauger seeking to make the best of what had to be seen as a tactical error. He was in command, he had brought them to this place on a raid that had over-extended the time away from safety, without taking the precautions necessary to ensure that any force sent to interdict them could not get between them and their base, this despite gentle reminders from his younger brother that to come such a distance, without leaving small parties behind to warn of a threat to their rear, was unwise.
‘I think we are going to have to fight them,’ Roger said.
‘Of course we must fight them,’ his brother replied, while he searched the surrounding landscape for a way to avoid that very thing.
Whoever had chosen the spot had done well. Between them and the sea, distant and hidden by high hills, lay a river in full spate, too ferocious to cross, even on horseback. Inland was thick forest running up steep hills leaving only two options, to move forward and fight or seek to retire and find a way round. That would require them to first of all abandon that which they had pillaged. Even accepting that as a necessity, and it would be hard, the most pressing problem was the condition of their horses.
They had been active for forty days, rarely with enough rest to keep them at peak. A horse ridden continuously, sometimes pushed harder than was wise, soon lost fitness. They were far from being blown, but in an attempted flight they would have to push them to the limit with no certainty that they could avoid battle. If they could not, they would be forced to fight at an even greater disadvantage than that they faced now. Despite such concerns it was clear Mauger preferred that course.
‘They lack the will, these Lombards, for the kind of pursuit we will force upon them. They will tire before we will.’
‘They had the will, brother, to seek us out and get behind us and we have no idea if this is all that we face. There could be more to our rear.’
‘Gisulf could never raise more than this?’
‘That would depend,’ Roger replied grimly, remembering the words spoken in Gisulf’s council chamber, ‘on how much he is prepared to spend.’
A small group detached themselves from their enemies and rode forward, clearly intent on talking, leaving Mauger to ruminate on what Roger had implied: soldiers could be bought and the notion just voiced affected his brother, who had not yet considered a possibility that should have come to him at once. The last thing that would serve the men he led was indecision, and right now Roger realised, which was worrying, that Mauger was unclear as to what to do. He was good company, generous with the proceeds of that which they had jointly plundered. Roger’s men were as content as he with the state of their purse and, as part of the garrison of the castle, they had also enjoyed the privileges that gave them in the town, not least with the women they had taken as concubines.
Roger had also fallen into a kind of happy stupor: he was well fed, had a local girl of tender years to keep warm his bed, who had just produced for him a lusty son called Jordan, as well as a group of uncomplaining personal followers and a decent amount of gold in a locked coffer. But it was not what he had come to Italy for, to be no more than a brigand: his ambition was to emulate the best of his siblings.
Odd that he should be suddenly back in that arbour with Judith of Evreux, thinking of the words he had left unsaid, of his desire to make so much of himself that no man, or no duke, could deny him her hand in marriage. What would she think to see him now? These thoughts ran through his mind in the time it took the party to get close enough to speak, and he pulled his mount back a few paces to let them know he was not the man to
