‘Release him as well, and get a mendicant to look at him.’
They had to lift Osmond out, a stinking wreck soiled by his own filth, but a cot was arranged and when they left he was at least breathing in air that was less fetid than that to which he had been accustomed. Fed themselves, William and Drogo took possession of that gold crucifix and a heavy purse of Pandulf’s gold, and back on their mounts, leading the old Abbot on a palfrey, to the good wishes of their confreres, they made their way out of the fortress and across the old Roman bridge that led north.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Approaching the imperial encampment on the River Sacco brought back to William the experience they had had in the Vexin — that stench on the breeze of too many humans and horses in too small a space — only this host was greater than that assembled by Duke Robert. The hillsides were studded with pavilions, each with its own huge armorial banner — the imperial levies, both foot and mounted, encamped over miles of landscape, but again there was no doubt as to where the power lay. The massive imperial tent lay at the centre of what a Roman would have recognised as a triumphal way, surrounded by huge flags that bore the Salian device of a standing black griffin on a yellow background.
William and Drogo led the old Abbot towards the centre of the camp, soldiers standing to observe them as they passed. Odd, not one of them would know this elderly divine, bent with age, but somehow they saw in his person and his simple black Benedictine habit a man of holiness, and many crossed themselves, some even dropping on one knee. Others looked at the de Hauteville brothers, and judged them by a different standard.
William had talked with Theodore on the way, and had been impressed by the old man’s concern, which was not for his own person — though he was glad to be at liberty — but for his monastery and the monks that had once inhabited the buildings and worked the farms, now scattered to the four winds and driven to living in penury by the depredations of Pandulf. William and Drogo had met a lot of monks and friars in their time, not all of them good men; this abbot was the exception.
Outside the great pavilion, the brothers helped the old man off his palfrey. By the time he was on the ground and steadied, a whole host of mailed men had emerged to observe this, including in the centre a striking-looking fellow of stocky build and greying hair, wearing a bright-yellow surcoat with a griffin device to match the fluttering ensigns. It was him William addressed.
‘Sire, we bring you the Abbot of Montecassino.’
‘Abbot Theodore,’ said Conrad, coming forward to embrace the old man, ‘I am glad to see you well.’
‘Your Highness.’
The reply was weak, as was the speaker. Even although the imperial host, hogging the River Sacco as a source of water and supply, had moved closer to Capua, it had been a long journey; riding for hours was tiring for a fit man and it had exhausted him.
‘Come inside and rest. You must eat, you must drink, and you must tell me what Pandulf has been up to and what I must do to put it right.’
Theodore waved a feeble hand towards the de Hauteville brothers. ‘Then, sire, you need to talk with the men who brought me here, for what is needed is the stuff of conflict, and I am a man of peace.’
Conrad looked beyond the abbot to the brothers, standing, hands on their sword hilts, eyeing them up. Neither wore a helmet, so that their colouring could be seen, and that branded them as Normans, while their red and black surcoats identified them as mercenaries serving Rainulf Drengot.
‘They come with good in their hearts.’
‘That will be an unusual thing for a Norman,’ Conrad said.
Drogo bridled, as he always did when he perceived an insult, but it was William who replied.
‘To a Norman that sounds odd on Frankish lips, sire, given we have had scant reason to extend our trust to them.’
The way the men around Conrad stiffened, each no doubt a great lord in their own domain, implied danger, which had Drogo taking a firmer grip of the hilt of his sword. The emperor was indeed of that descent, from his sires as Dukes of Franconia, but it was an inheritance few referred to.
‘However,’ William continued, ‘we did not come here to trade low opinions.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘To inform you of what progress Guaimar of Salerno made with the Lord of Aversa.’
‘And where is Guaimar?’
‘With his sister, staying as a guest of Rainulf.’
‘Hostages?’
‘I said guests, Highness,’ William responded, in a sharp and disrespectful tone. ‘If they were hostages I would have termed them so.’
‘It does not do to show arrogance to my title.’
‘Hear them,’ the Abbot wheezed, ‘I beg you. No more blood should be spilt.’
‘Very well, Theodore, for you I will talk with them.’ He made a peremptory gesture that had their horses taken from them. ‘Leave your weapons outside.’
William nodded, Conrad being unarmed, and removed his sword and knife, Drogo doing likewise. The emperor spun on his heel, taking the abbot’s bony arm to help him along and, removing a small sack off their horse, the brothers followed them into the tent, the courtiers at their heels regarding them with deep suspicion. On a great square table lay maps of the country surrounding Capua, and on another table stood a model of Pandulf’s castle, the river and the bridge, made of wood.
‘They are frantically repairing the walls,’ William said, pointing at the model. ‘This is more complete than the real article.’
‘You came from Capua?’
‘We stopped there to collect the Abbot Theodore.’
‘Nothing else?’
William opened the sack and took out the gold crucifix, placing it on the map. ‘Prince Pandulf bade us make you an offer to secure peace…’
‘You will waste your breath in doing so,’ Conrad interrupted, ignoring the object and looking once more at the old divine. ‘His crimes are too great.’
‘…of three hundred pounds of gold.’
It was telling how much that amounted to; every one of these noble magnates attending the emperor was bound to be rich, but to a man they gasped at the mention of such a sum. Even Conrad, who had more self-control, was clearly impressed. He picked up the crucifix and examined it.
‘He has that much to offer me, a sum I would struggle to match?’
‘It is what he says he has, and knowing him I would believe it.’
‘What wrongs he must have afflicted on his fief to be so rich.’
‘We also persuaded Pandulf to release the Archbishop of Capua,’ Drogo said.
Conrad was looking at the old abbot, now seated and nodding, when he asked why.
‘So he could not use him for the purposes of bargaining.’
‘As if his gold is not enough,’ Conrad replied, then seeing the questioning look on Drogo’s face he added, ‘and it is not.’
William spoke again. ‘That is not the purpose of our coming here and we do not come as representatives of Pandulf or his money. If you take Capua you will take his gold. We come to offer you the support of the Lord of Aversa, on the terms agreed with Guaimar of Salerno.’
‘Leave us,’ Conrad said, abruptly, looking at his advisors. There was a certain amount of shuffling and confusion, not to mention affront, until they obeyed. Looking down at the abbot, he saw the old man had his head on his chest; he had fallen asleep. ‘Guaimar proposed what we agreed?’
‘He did.’
‘So Rainulf will stand aside?’
‘No, he will join with you.’
‘I do not need him to do that. If his force is not in the field I can easily besiege Pandulf.’
‘I know that, Conrad Augustus, but Rainulf will join you.’
‘Why?’
‘To have a say in any peace. Pandulf’s men are Normans and they are our brothers. We would not see them suffer for their service.’