Chapter Twelve: In Which A Duke Is Afraid
The lion was set aglow by the warm rays of the African sun. A golden lion on an azure field – the heraldic device Serlo had chosen for himself as Duke of Leptis Magna, or Labda, as the natives called it. The blue banner was made of silk, brought at an outrageous cost from some place beyond Egypt and stitched with gold thread which seemed to come alight under the touch of the rays slanting into the hall. In Normandy, this banner alone would have bought a complete manor. But Normandy was leagues and ages away. Another world. A world which Serlo couldn’t have dreamed as a boy. A world that was now his.
The Duke of Leptis Magna roused himself from his reverie. He had sent everybody away to be alone, and now the hall was silent and abandoned and echoed with his footsteps on the mosaic floor. Serlo traversed the hall and stepped over to the broad windows overlooking the courtyard. He sat down on the cushions placed on the window sill and glanced along the length of the hall. Was it really already thirty years that he left Normandy as a penniless adventurer? Time had passed so quickly. Especially the past year.
After he had been given the Dukedom of Leptis Magna, he had travelled from Messina immediately to Africa, without going back to Capua. His wife, his horses, his falcons, all that belonged to him had followed him into this new world. And as fascinatingly different Serlo had known Africa to be, he had found that governing a land of recently subjected Muhammadans was indeed a very new experience. The King had given much land to Norman lords, but also a decent amount to Arab ones, although no natives, but converted former Muhammadans from Sicily, well used to Norman rule for a score of years. The native population had been left powerless, and hateful of the foreign oppressors. Unrest and minor uprisings were ripe throughout Serlo’s new lands and had kept him busy in the year and a half he was now holding the Dukedom.
And the situation was even worse in the Norman lands beyond the Duchy, the lands held by Bohemond himself. The King had given Serlo, who was to be his deputy in these lands, extensive directives how the royal demesne was to be governed, and the stern treatment of the natives ordered by the King made these lands even more restless than Serlo’s own.
Yes, it had been a very busy time for Serlo de Hauteville. The Duke had travelled almost constantly, sometimes with his court, sometimes in haste with only a small retinue. Twice had the King visited Serlo in Africa, and twice had Serlo crossed over into Sicily to report to his cousin and get new directives. Only this very day had Serlo returned from Sicily – returned to this!
The faint agonized cry of a woman was carried on the gentle evening breeze, reaching the Duke’s ear in time with his thoughts straying back to his wife. He and Blanche hadn’t quite warmed to each other – she was no Helene, and they were seperated in age by almost thirty years. Serlo suspected strongly that she thought him an old man and resented having been married to him, and while she seemed to like the benefits of his station as Duke well enough, she hated this new world of theirs and was quite terrified by the infidels and their strange customs. Blanche was a very timid creature, and vapid, too, certainly no companion like Helene had been. Still, the Duchy needed an heir, and to this end Serlo had humped his young wife as often as possible, daily when she was with him. After a year of this, more duty than pleasure to any of them, Blanche had finally shown signs of being with child. But when Serlo had today returned to his residence in Tripoli, he had found its almost palatial echo interior echo with the painful and exhausted shrieks of Blanche. She was in labour, had been so since the last night. And it was two months early.
Serlo had already gone through it twice. There had been the early miscarriage of Helene, and then the birth of his tiny son who had died within a few short hours, died unchristened and still burdened with the sins of Adam and Eve, for which the priests said he was now burning in the pits of Hell, burning ceaselessly till Judgement Day. And it wouldn’t be too long until Purgatory for Serlo himself. He needed an heir, needed him desperately.
The sound of approaching heavy steps drew Serlo’s attention and he saw the hulking figure of Hoel had entered the hall and was now lumbering towards him, a jug and two earthenware cups tiny in his beefy hands. The half-Breton’s shock of red hair and his huge bushy moustache were shot liberally with grey, but he was still a formidable presence, although uncouth to the point of seeming barbaric in these refined surroundings, fitting them no better than a Byzantine courtier would fit a backwater manor in Normandy.
“Reckoned you could use one of those”, Hoel said to Serlo and poured a cup from the jug. Hoel did never address Serlo with any of his titles, but he did also not use his name, which would have been unbecoming for a man of his squire’s and personal retainer’s low station. Instead, there was a kind of unspoken agreement between the two close companions of many years to avoid the matter of titles and address entirely. They had lived through too much together and were too close to let these matters come between them.
Serlo accepted the cup Hoel had brought unbidden and and took a gulp of the ale. Like all things Mediterranean, the taste for wine had also never taken root with Hoel, who was true son of the north and preferred ale any day. Half Breton he may well be, Serlo thought, but he was most certainly full Viking.
Another shriek sounded in the distance. Hoel, who had sat down on the window sill opposite Serlo, cleared his throat and asked: “So, any news from Italy?”
“Much news, indeed”, Serlo replied. “But a month ago, old Abelard has died, and Arsenio is now the new Duke of Calabria.”
“And how’s he coming along?”, asked Hoel, who had never thought too well of somebody who had assumed Mediterranean customs as readily as Arsenio.
“Oh, it’s still too early to say, really. I guess he will be alright, though, nothing special, but allright. And he seems loyal enough.”
An awkward silence fell again after this short conversation, made more pointed by being punctuated by another shriek from the Duchess. Both men new well that Arsenio de Hauteville would be the man to inherit all of Serlo’s holdings and possessions should he die without a son. Hoel, who was no great talker, wrested finally an ‘And the war?’ from his lips.
“That’s now officially over. Queen Mathilda has consented to the King’s terms. I’ve heard it said that King Peter is giving her a hard time, and so she was probably glad to take the money and be done with it.”
Hoel acknowledged these news with a grunt and said: “And the campaign? Any notable deeds or encounters?”
There were actually plenty, and Serlo had at court heard of many of them, and so he regaled Hoel with a detailed account of the King’s newest campaign. Bohemond had had his Chancellor trump up a few hair-raising claims on the Italian German County of Siena, revolving somehow on the current Countess, Bianca da Morrone, being illegitimate and thus unable to lawfully hold this title. Boheomd had Count Renaud and Marshall Charles invade Siena and had followed himself with another host. Before Bohemond had arrived, Charles and Renaud had already defeated the Sienese forces and were laying siege to Siena.
But Mathilda of Canossa had declared war upon the Normans sent a host to aid her vassal Countess Bianca. Considering all the trouble the Queen was having, this host had been surprisngly big, even slightly larger than the combined Norman armies, as Bohemond had deemed a small force enoough for a surgical strike against Siena. Still, the King’s superior generalship had once again carried the day. Bohemond had furthermore distinguished himself by plunging into the thick of the fighting with an almost mad abandon.
“The court is still singing the praises of the King”, Serlo said. “They say that he charged where the Norman lines were already breaking, and that he singlehandedly held back the Germans and rallied his men to victory. From all I hear, it must have been one madcap charge, completely reckless.”
Another scream, louder, longer, and even more agonized than the previous ones, interrupted Serlo. Trying to push Blanche and questions of succession from his mind, the Duke continued: “Sometimes, I think that Bohemond is courting death, inviting it. Almost as if he was daring him to come and get him. You’ve seen him fight often enough – don’t you think there’s something slightly unhinged about his bravery?”
Hoel wiped the ale from his moustache, which hung into the cup with every sip, and said: “Never thought about it. Hmm. He sure is the most terrible fighting man I’ve ever seen. I don’t think anybody could take him on, not even old King Robert in his prime, bless his soul. And thinking of it, I believe I’ve never seen the King afraid. Or even hesitant”
“Yes, exactly. All men are afraid, no matter how many battles they’ve seen, but they overcome their fear and face the enemy. Who says he doesn't is a liar. But not Bohemond. He seems simply not to know fear, as if he was unable to feel it at all, in the way some men are unable to feel love. I noticed this first when I trained him as a boy, but then I dismissed it as the cockiness of youth, the big-mouthed ways of one who hasn’t yet tasted battle. But he has tasted many battles since, and still he has not changed.”
Hoel gave a pensive nod of his massive head, but if he wanted to reply something, it was cut short by yet another of the loud screams. Once again, an awkward silence followed this interruption. Indeed, Serlo mused, all men know fear, and the worst fear was that of things which one was powerless to influence. Holding out his cup to Hoel to have it refilled, he forced himself to continue: “Anyway, with the German relief army driven off, it was only a matter of weeks before Bianca da Morrone capitulated to the King. Bohemond sent to Mathilda, to make peace and have him recognized in his possession of Siena, but the Queen would at first have nothing of it. But then a rebellion against her rule broke out in the north of Italy, and Bohemond renewed his offer, now with some money thrown in, just enough to let Mathilda save face, and the Iron Maiden did finally accept. So the war is now officially over.”
After a moment Serlo added: “Oh yes, and one more thing. Renaud has distinguished himself once more in the campaign against Siena, and he’s back in the good graces of the King. The slight falling out at the diet is forgotten, and Bohemond has invited Renaud to celebrate Christmas with him – and to receive the County of Ancona and the Dukedom of the Marches.”
Hoel grunted in appreciation: “I’m glad for Count Renaud. He’s a good man. Somewhat too pious, though. But you mentioned the diet – what about the Queen?”
“I haven’t seen the Queen. She wasn’t at court, and she spends ever more time at her holdings at Agrigento, away from Bohemond. Their relations have decreased even more, as the war isn’t at all going well for her relatives in Spain. I’ve heard it said that in less than two years, the Emir of Sevilla has conquered all Catalonian counties. Queen Sancha’s brother Duke Pedro Ramon is reduced to Barcelona itself, it seems, and it’s questionable wether he will be able to hold it.”
“Why isn’t Castille coming to their aid? Never understood that.”
“Petty jealousy and rivalry”, Serlo replied. “It seems that Castille is at odds with Catalonia, and it won’t lift a finger to help its rival. The Jimenez think they are powerful enough to be able to repel any Muhammadan attack on their own, even without aid from Catalonia.”
Suddenly, Serlo noticed the silence, that had been no more screams for quite some time now. Anxious and nervous, he was unable to keep to his seat. He leapt up and took a few restless paces on the hall’s mosaic floor. The sun had set by now, and as Serlo had ordered everybody away, no servants had dared enter to light the lamps and candles, so the hall was like a dark cavern, echoing with the sound of its master’s footsteps. All this wealth, all this finery – to whom would it pass?
Still sitting on the window sill, a darker mass against the greyness beyond the window, Hoel asked in tones that could be considered subdued for his rough and booming voice: “If it’s a boy, how are you going to name it?”
Serlo wiped his brow with his fingers, surprised to find it cold with sweat. “Godfrey”, he said, “I’m going to name him Godfrey, after my friend Godfrey de Mortain. Do you remember him?”
“Aye. He was a fine youth, and it’s a good name.”
Godfrey de Mortain had been a childhood friend of Serlo, a younger son of a knight as poor as Serlo’s own father, and when Serlo had decided to travel to Italy to make his fortune with his uncle Robert Guiscard, Godfrey had come with him. Serlo’s aspirations had turned out well, Godfrey’s hadn’t. Already in their first year in Italy, Godfrey had unluckily been killed in a very minor skirmish, and Serlo had been there to see his friend succumb to his wounds. That day he had learned realized what the life of a fighting man was really like.
The sound of hasty footsteps approaching, a silhouette emerging from the darkness of the hall. Heart-stopping anxiety, then the relieving words: “My Lord Duke, you have a son.”
Edited to re-upload picture.
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