Chapter Ten: In Which A Count Explains Certain Legal Matters
The air was filled with the sharp chirping of cicadas, wafting down from the high crowns of the pines, which were etched dark green against the cerulean sky. The immense train of men travelling on the often time-dislodged slabs of the old Roman road underneath the trees were glad for the protection the pines’ shadow afforded them from the glare of the Italian summer sun. The sheer endless procession of peasants pressed into service, professional men-at-arms and hardbitten, fair-haired knights was King Robert’s army, returning victorious from its campaign. In spite of the oppressive heat, the men exchanged ribald badinage, for they were in a cheerful mood and looking forward to returning to their homes, which some of them hadn’t seen for over a year.
One of these men was the Count of Capua, Serlo de Hauteville. He rode near the center of the procession, and yet the men kept a respectful distance to him, for he was riding with the King. The Count had spent a hard winter in the muddy fields of northern Italy, campaigning against Mathilda of Canossa. After peace had been made, he and Marshall Bohemond had marched the army back, into Ancona, where they met up with King Robert. The Norman lord had been in the middle of seizing Ancona from Count Werner von Lenzburg, who had in the previous year opposed the Hautevilles. The united northern and southern hosts had outnumbered von Lenzburg’s paltry troops by some eight to one, but still, the German had once again proven the almost proverbial tenacity of his people and defended his fief with teeth and claws. In the end – an end that had come soon, after only two months of campaigning – von Lenzburg had been forced to capitulate all the same and yield his lands and title to Robert de Hauteville.
Serlo and King Robert steered their palfreys from the road and rode over the sun-burnt yellow grass by its side, for the sake of their mounts’ legs avoiding a patch where the pavement of the road was a broken up mess of upturned slabs. They were talking about the future ahead and the campaign just behind them, recapitulating its assaults and skirmishes.
“He has not turned out all bad, has he?”, King Robert asked. It was his bastard son Bohemond whom he was refering to, Bohemond, to whom he had largely entrusted the conducting of the war with Werner von Lenzburg.
“No, my lord uncle, not at all bad”, replied Serlo. The telltales in the King’s behaviour had only been very minor, but the Count of Capua knew his relative intimately enough to notice them. The Guiscard was obviously quite pleased with Bohemond, maybe even proud of him. Even so, it was not hollow flattery when Serlo said: “Last year, when we warred against von Lenzburg for the first time, he still sought and needed my advice, but this year, he did it all by himself. I wouldn’t have conducted everything the way he did, but still, I doubt that I could have done better. He has become a fine warrior, in every way that matters.”
“If this came from another man, I would say he was only trying to tell me what I want to hear, but I know that you are above base flattery”, the King said. “And I am glad that you share my opinion, for now I know that it is not only the wishful thinking of a father. But anyway, don’t think that I am blind for his shortcomings of character.”
“Though maybe I am not entirely blameless here”, Robert de Hauteville said after a short pause. Serlo wanted to reply, but before he could do so, his uncle steered his horse away from him, back onto the Roman road, the pavement of which was now again only mildly dislodged. For a while, the two Hautevilles rode silently in the weltering July heat, then the Guiscard spoke again: “You know, he reminds me of myself, the way I was, back when I came to this land. He’s a bit like me – or at least like I used to be before I had grabbed more land and more gold and more followers than any man needs.”
Serlo shook his head: “Don’t say that, my lord uncle. You have done what you needed to. Before you came, we Normans were strangers in this land. We clung to what little lands we had seized, ever fearful that the Germans or the Greeks or the Lombards or even the Arabs might take them from us again. You made us Normans strong, and now we need not fear being driven from this land again.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right”, the King said and fell silent again. Serlo cast a quick glance at the man who rode absorbed so deeply in thoughts beside him. A mere thirty years ago, he had been no more than a common highwayman, different from the other brigands only by his descent from a knightly father, and now he was an anointed king and the most powerful man in Italy after the pope. Serlo’s thoughts began drifting to his uncle’s remarkable achievements, but he was roused from them almost immediately by the Guiscard: “Serlo - tell me honestly. What do you think of Bohemond’s character?”
The Count of Capua deliberated for a moment before he answered haltingly: “Well, he is very bright, for sure, and he seems not to know fear. But he is also, well, very dangerous. I mean, I wouldn’t want to stand in his way. That vow at Cingoli, and the ravages he visited upon the enemy’s lands without even the blink of an eye – I think he will stop at nothing to reach his goal.”
The King gave a clipped laugh: “And do you think I was any different? Or can be, when the need arises? You know war, Serlo, and you know the business of ruling. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that you sometimes have to do what you must, despite yourself.”
“Of course not, my liege”, said Serlo, “but still, there is something very … I don’t know, feral in your son.”
“Aye, I think I know what you mean”, Robert de Hauteville said, swatting at a fly which had settled down on the sweat beading on his brow. “But I suppose I am not entirely without blame for this.”
Count Serlo had the impression that his uncle did want to say more and waited, but the Guiscard had once again fallen silent. Just when Serlo opened his mouth for a late reply, the King spoke again: “You know, Serlo … it wasn’t right what was done to the boy. I mean, the relation of me and his mother … well, the consanguinity wasn’t really all that close.”
“You did it for all the Normans in Italy, my lord uncle. Back then we were weak, and we needed the friendship and protection of Gisulf di Salerno. You did what was necessary for the common good.”
“Yes, yes, but still”, Robert de Hauteville said irritably and fell silent once more, only to soon burst out: “I have been thinking a lot those past weeks. Listen, Serlo. I think I shall tear up the annulment document of my marriage with Bohemond’s mother. Everybody calls him ‘de Hauteville’ anyway, it’s only proper I give him my name.”
“But, my lord uncle …”
“If you think of succession, don’t worry, that’s taken care of”, the King cut Serlo’s sentence short. “I have consulted the notaries – when a former bastard is acknowledged, and even if he is older than all of his siblings, his inheritance rights are weaker than their’s. Roger is my heir and stays my heir, all this will do is give Bohemond my name. The blemish on his honour will be unmade - he will be able to call himself my son and me his father, that’s all.”
“Certainly”, said Serlo, “but are you sure that this will be all the consequences? What about the pope? Will he not be angered when you revoke an annulment enacted by one of his predecessors and declare your marriage valid in spite of a papal decree to the contrary?”
“Damn the pope”, King Robert said with emphasis. “Let him care for the immortal souls and let me care for my family. He may send me a nuncio with an admonition, but he isn’t so stupid to risk a falling out with me over a matter of so little consequence to him.”
“Most probably, yes”, admitted Serlo. “But this might stir unrest among the barons. Quite a few of them are very devout. They might be … unsettled by their king acknowledging as his son the fruit of a union the pope has branded as incestual and against the Faith.”
“The barons have a say in ruling the kingdom, but they don’t have one as to how I rule my family”, the Guiscard said brusquely, in a tone telling Serlo that further arguing with his uncle was pointless. “No, Serlo, it’s decided – I will give Bohemond my name.”
* * *
And the King had done so. In fact, he had done much more than that, he had also made Bohemond one of the great barons of the land, by creating him Count of Siracusa. To dispel any doubts that it was despite this still Roger who was to succeed him to the throne, Robert Guiscard had at the same time added the rich County of Napoli to his younger son’s personal demesne, making him a direct neighbour of Serlo in Capua. Finally, the King had named the other Roger de Hauteville, his brother, Duke of Calabria. This had been yet another move to counter the barons’ displeasure at the acknowledging of Bohemond, as Roger de Hauteville was very popular and was held in high esteem by the other Norman lords, many of whom very pleased by his elevation.
In spite of these appeasing measures, many Norman barons were unhappy with their King’s decision, foremost among them Serlo’s cousin Robert, Count of Benevento. Count Robert was mainly motivated by religious objections against the acknowledging of fruit of a marriage damned by the pope, but this wasn’t the reason for Serlo’s own reservation. The Count of Capua and former teacher of Bohemond had misgivings concerning his erstwhile pupil’s character. He liked Bohemond well enough, and he also felt that he was one of the few people in the world Bohemond cared about to some degree, but since the terrible threats uttered by the youth at Cingoli, Serlo was somewhat wary of him. Herman da Intimiano would probably have been able to talk King Robert out of elevating Bohemond, Serlo though, whishing once more that his old friend hadn’t succumbed to his wounds in the previous winter.
Closing the heavy oaken door of his bedchamber behind him as silently as possible, Serlo walked down the short hallway to the stair winding up to the roof. Montesarchio was not only the most southernmost castle he possessed, but also the most modern one, much more comfortable than his old holding at Montemilone, but it was still a far call from his luxurious townhouse in Capua. Serlo climbed the steep and narrow stairs to the flat rooftop of the keep. It was a very warm night for November, but still it was draughty up here. Serlo pulled his brown woolen cloak with the broad fur trimming more tightly around himself and closed his eyes to expose his hot and flustered face to the cooling wind. After a while, he looked to the east, to the towering summits of the Apennine mountains, but the horizon was still dark, without a sign of the approaching morning.
He had stood for some time in deep thought when he turned to the sound of approaching steps. His wife appeared out of the pit of darkness the nightly stairwell was. Serlo gave a weak smile, immediately realizing that Helene could not see this in the darkness.
“You are restless”, Helene said, the words not a question but a declaration. After more than two years in Italy, she had finally mastered the native language, though she was not yet fully fluent in the Norman tongue.
“Thoughts have driven off my sleep”, Serlo answered. He saw that Helene was shivering under the cloak she had thrown over her nightgown and was reminded that she was neither a child of more northernly climates like himself, nor hardened against the elements by many months of campaigning. Without a word, he spread his arms to open his own cloak, and Helene accepted the invitation gladly. She settled in his arms and Serlo pulled the cloak around the both of them, enjoying the proximity of her soft body and the smell of her hair.
Serlo and Helene on the roof of Montesarchio
For a while, they stood silently, gazing over the parapet out at the villages, fields and pastures barely visible in the darkness. When Serlo didn’t speak, Helene evetually picked up the conversation: “What thoughts?”
“About the King. About Bohemond. About the upcoming gathering at Crotone. I am worried what the barons will do. The King has given all of us lavish gifts, but many still refuse to accept his decision. There is talk of treason in the air. I’ve heard rumors that Count Robert is rallying supporters for the cause of Roger Borsa.”
“But why would he do that?”, Helene asked and quickly added: “The King I mean, not your cousin.”
Serlo squeezed the exquisite form of his wife and said: “I don’t know. I really don’t know. He and Bohemond grew a lot closer when we were together on campaign against Ancona, but there’s no saying why the King went that far. Maybe it has something to do with Bohemond making him a grandfather, but I doubt it – it’s only a daughter, after all. We will have to wait until Crotone to see what the King has to say on the matter.”
Helene craned her head back and up to look at her husband: “You’ve already told me, but I think I didn’t quite understand – how could the King do it?”
“We Normans don’t follow the same law that you Greeks do”, Serlo explained. “Back in France, we followed the old Salic tradition, by which the oldest son inherits all. When my uncles came to Italy to seize your lands” - at these words Serlo squeezed his wife’s bosom with one hand – “we Normans still followed this custom. When my uncle Guillaume died without child, he was succeeded by his brother Drogo, and when Drogo died, also without child, he was in turn succeeded by his brother Humphrey. But when Humphrey died, he had a son, Abelard, who was almost grown up and who is now Count of Taranto. But the Normans didn’t want Abelard as their new count, they desired that Humphrey should be succeeded by his brother, like Guillaume and Drogo had been. They clamoured for uncle Robert as their count, and so the law was changed. Ever since, it has been Norman custom that a lord should be succeeded by his most powerful close male relative, preferably a son, as chosen by the vassals.”
”That’s not so very different from Greek law”, interrupted Helene.
“Yes, maybe, but however. The point is that King Robert has now declared this new custom invalid and has decreed that the Italian Normans are to return to the strict Salic custom of their fathers. And by this custom, Bohemond will succeed.”
“And the King hasn’t the right to simply change the law?”, Helene asked.
“No, he has it, even though it is normally customary, almost mandatory, that he ask and respect the opinion of the barons. Nobody denies the King this right, but many barons feel that he is twisting and abusing the law. They say that even under Salic law, Bohemond cannot succeed, as he is no lawful son of the King – by annuling the marriage of Bohemond’s parents, the pope has decreed that he is not, and the King has no authority to undo this decree. While the King holds that Bohemond is his son, most barons say that this may well be so in reality, but that he is not so by the letter of the law, and that he therefore cannot succeed under whatever law. And I think they are right.”
“And what is Roger Borsa’s position on the matter?”
Serlo knew how fond his wife was of the youth who until recently had been the presumptive heir and replied: “I really do not know – yet. He has taken the acknowledging and enfiefment of Bohemond with good graces, but now that he has been deposed as successor to the throne, it should be an entirely different matter. But then, he is still little more than a boy. The real danger, if there is any, will come from our neighbour, Robert of Benevento”, Serlo said and gestured to the southeast, where the lands of his cousin lay only an hour’s ride distant. “He will not easily stomach a King Bohemond, and people mutter that he is already marshalling the supporters of Roger Borsa. And if that wasn’t already enough, some fools even imply that by Salic law, the Guiscard is a false king anyway and should step down for Abelard of Taranto.”
The discontent of Count Robert de Hauteville
Helene hesitated a moment before asking in a small voice: “Do you think there will be civil war?”
“No”, Serlo shook his head resolutely. “Not if cousin Robert has any sense at all. Duke Roger – I mean my uncle, not my cousin – stands firm with his brother the King, and without his support, any rebellion is doomed to fail.”
“And what about you? Whom will Capua support?”
Now it was Serlo’s turn to deliberate before answering: “Look, I don’t want Bohemond to become king. There’s something of the tyrant in him. And in naming him his successor, King Robert is breaking the law, insulting the barons and defying the pope’s will. When the barons gather at Crotone, I will try to reason with uncle Robert, to make him renege his decision. But if he refuses, and if the barons rise against him, I will support him anyhow. If Roger of Calabria supported a rebellion, it might stand a chance of success, but he will never desert his brother. Under these circumstances, it wouldn’t make a difference to a rebellion’s success if I supported it or not, so why should I? And then … well, he’s the King, after all.”
Helene fell silent, and Serlo hugged her for a moment very tightly, in a way he hoped was reassuring. Forcing cheerfulness into his voice, he said: “But don’t worry. It’s not without reason that Roger of Calabria has invited the King and all the barons to a great hunt to his estates near Crotone. He will use the opportunity to smooth relations over, and with the prestige he holds with the barons, he’s sure to succeed. Just you wait for the great hunt. In two weeks’ time, all will be back to normal.”
Subinfeudation of Norman Italy in late 1076
* * *
Somewhere else in the kingdom. Three riders are still abroad after the day has faded into night. From their looks and their clothes, they are Normans, and from the way their hair is cropped short in the back and cut to a shelf around their heads, they are knights. The three canter through the blackness of a remote grove of olive trees, the branches whispering in the nightly breeze. The youngest of the trio, who sits astride a more magnificent courser than his companions, says: “And I can rely on you having no second thoughts?”
“None whatsoever, my lord. He has shown us little love, and we have no reason to feel obliged to him.”
“Our loyalty lies with you, my lord.”
“Very well, then listen”, the young man says. “You will do it during the hunt. He usually gets carried away in the excitement of the chase and often hunts apart from the others. The passion for the kill runs in our family’s blood, I suppose. When he is alone in the forest, you can do it easily.”
“But what if he doesn’t separate from the others?”
“He will most probably be with one attendant, yes. In that case, kill them both. If he is with a larger party, separate him from it. Claim that his brother is urgently asking for him and that you will escort him.”
The youth on the magnificent courser sees how his two companions cast a quick doubtful glance at each other. He says: “Don’t worry, I will protect you. Serve me well, and you will be generously rewarded, with riches now, and with office and honours once I am king.”
Edited to re-upload picture.
