CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The gathering of the leading citizens soon turned into a babble of competing notions of what to do next: if fortune had favoured them in the gift of the body of Robert de Hauteville the Devil had cursed them equally. Some wished to just set him free in the hope that in his gratitude there would be no price to pay, others were firm of the opinion that the Guiscard could not be trusted: he would burn Gerace out of pure malice. The sky grew light and the arguments continued, this while outside the walls, at the Norman camp, it had become obvious that their leader was missing and, since he had not left unobserved, even if Robert had not told anyone where he was going, it took no great gift of imagination to discern his destination.
One of the Norman lances still in Gerace, Odo de Viviers, who had been making preparations to join Roger, witness to the disagreements of the town and mightily fed up with them, slipped out to tell his confreres what had happened. He, at least, had a clear sight of one fact: Gerace, where he had made his home and had a wife and children, could not keep so puissant a lord as the Guiscard; even to hold him too long was to invite total destruction. Robert, or his men, would kill every living thing down to the last cat regardless of how he was finally treated.
That continuing, unresolved discussion was brought to an abrupt end when the elders were informed that there were Normans outside their gates seeking parley. If they wondered at how quickly these warriors had found out about their prisoner it made little difference: they could not give him up for fear of immediate reprisals and they could not keep him for the same reason. Assurances that no such thing would happen were dismissed. As one elder put it succinctly to Robert’s most senior subordinate, ‘Such decisions are not yours to make, fellow.’
Dire warnings about what would occur should Robert be harmed changed nothing: those voices that wanted him hung from the walls were fatalists who suspected that they had done enough to be sure of bloody retribution so they might as well rid the world of a human devil before they, too, went to meet their Maker. Men who thought themselves more sage in counsel argued the opposite. Odo de Viviers, still outside the walls, was succinct in his advice to Robert’s captains.
‘It is an impasse and one only Roger can resolve.’
‘What are you saying?’ more than one voice demanded.
‘I am saying that Roger is much loved in Gerace. I am saying if he asks for Robert’s freedom, and assures them there will be no reprisals for his confinement, they will let him go.’
‘The Guiscard will flay us alive if we beg his brother.’
‘His brother will roast you over a spit if you don’t,’ Odo barked. ‘Who do you think will be Duke of Apulia if Robert dies?’
There was no need to elaborate: on coming into his title of Count of Apulia, Robert had put aside any claim by Abelard, the young son of Humphrey, just as Richard of Aversa had ignored any claim by his Uncle Rainulf’s bastard child, Hermann. Roger would do the same to his baby namesake — he would have no choice: to avoid doing so would fracture the Norman presence in Italy, which depended on strong leaders in both Apulia and Campania.
‘Will you tell us where he is camped?’ one fellow said finally.
‘Better than that, I will take you there.’
Sichelgaita turned up outside Mileto to find her husband gone, though tents had been sent ahead to accommodate her and her son in great comfort. On learning of how Robert had been rebuffed and by whom, she fell into gales of laughter, so loud, that baby Roger cried with fear and had to be calmed by a nurse. Once she had regained some composure she called for her horse, while that same nurse was told to make little Roger ready.
‘Where are you planning to go, Lady?’ asked the man Robert had left in command.
‘I am going to call upon Judith of Evreux.’
‘Lady, Mileto is under siege.’
That got the fellow a cold stare. Certainly Sichelgaita had observed much marching to and fro when she arrived, had watched the lances at their practice, had seen the ladders ready for an assault as well as woodcutters working on the baulks that would make up the base of a siege tower. But Sichelgaita was far from a fool, she was clear-headed and mightily interested in military matters; in fact, it was one of the bonds that united her and Robert: he could discuss with her things he normally kept to himself.
‘Get a pannier for my child and when my sister-in-law admits me to Mileto, which she will certainly do, no one of you is to take advantage of my entry.’
Few people had the commanding presence of the Guiscard: Sichelgaita was one of them. Within a short time she was trotting towards the gates, baby Roger in one pannier at her side, the other filled with fruits and sweetmeats. She stopped before the drawbridge to find Judith already on the walls.
‘I have come to show you my baby, Judith.’
‘It would give me great pleasure to see him, sister.’
‘Then let me enter.’ Judith hesitated, as was proper. ‘Under flag of parley.’
The creaking sound began as the double defence of the gates was removed, continuing as one great oak door swung open, allowing Sichelgaita to enter — the postern was too small. Judith was there to greet her, standing on her toes to peer into the pannier at the now sleeping child.
‘Take him, Judith, I sense you are more gentle with children than I.’
Not long after, they were inside Judith’s private apartments, chatting away like old friends while Roger’s daughters billed and cooed over their cousin. Judith, cradling baby Roger, was decorous both in appearance and manner; not even the kindest observer would gift that to Sichelgaita: she was loud, clumsy and raucous in her humour, roaring with mirth when her sister-in-law repeated the words she had used to her husband, even more tickled by the notion of him being covered in shit.
‘They are both fools, Judith,’ Sichelgaita said. ‘Too proud to admit they are wrong.’
‘I am bound to say, and not just in support of my spouse, that Robert is most at fault.’
Sichelgaita frowned, as if not in full agreement. ‘You do not see him as he truly is, Judith, you only see the bellowing man who gives of no doubts. But those he has, I assure you, and you are holding one that troubles him. What if he falls when his heir is of such tender years?’
‘Bohemund?’
‘Has been made bastard, Judith! Roger is Robert’s true son. I daresay Bohemund’s father will care for him, but my child, if the Good Lord spares him and his sire, will live to one day be Duke of Apulia.’
‘Why have you come, Sichelgaita?’
The blond eyebrows on her wide face lifted in surprise. ‘Why, to see you, Judith, to talk to you of this nonsense between our husbands.’
‘You feel they should be at peace with each other?’
‘You, surely, do not believe they are at war?’
Looking down at the slumbering child in her lap, Judith was aware of the true reason Sichelgaita had come. She wanted harmony between the husbands for the sake of the child and she wanted from Roger an assurance that, should the Guiscard expire, he would act as true guardian to his namesake and not as a usurper. Odd: she had thought of her sister-in-law as more manly than was proper, but the birth of her child had brought to the fore the true nature of her gender and such a thought was touching.
‘I am sure you have nothing to fear, Sichelgaita. The Good Lord will surely bless such a comely infant with a long and happy life.’
Their smiling eyes locked: Sichelgaita could not bring herself to ask for that which she had come, Judith’s help in gaining an assurance from Roger, and besides, much as Judith loved her husband and was sure he loved her, no words of hers would alter what he felt he needed to do in the event of his brother being killed or dying.
‘It may be a good notion, Judith, to go now and pray for such an outcome.’
‘Let us do that.’
‘If you were to ask me, Father, I would suggest that what the people of Gerace did to that woman would be best visited on your brother.’
