DAVID DONACHIE was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in military history, including ancient Rome, the Middle Ages, the British navy of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and the clandestine services during the Second World War. He has more than fifty published novels to his credit, with over a million copies sold. David lives in Deal, the historic English seaport on the border of the English Channel and the North Sea.

  By David Donachie

  THE JOHN PEARCE ADVENTURES

  By the Mast Divided • A Shot Rolling Ship

  An Awkward Commission • A Flag of Truce

  The Admirals’ Game • An Ill Wind

  Blown Off Course • Enemies at Every Turn

  A Sea of Troubles • A Divided Command

  The Devil to Pay • The Perils of Command

  A Treacherous Coast • On a Particular Service

  A Close Run Thing • HMS Hazard

  A Troubled Course • Droits of the Crown

  THE CONTRABAND SHORE SERIES

  The Contraband Shore • A Lawless Place • Blood Will Out

  THE NELSON AND EMMA SERIES

  On a Making Tide • Tested by Fate • Breaking the Line

  THE PRIVATEERSMEN SERIES

  The Devil’s Own Luck • The Dying Trade • A Hanging Matter

  An Element of Chance • The Scent of Betrayal • A Game of Bones

  HISTORICAL THRILLERS

  Every Second Counts

  Originally written as Jack Ludlow

  THE LAST ROMAN SERIES

  Vengeance • Honour • Triumph

  THE REPUBLIC SERIES

  The Pillars of Rome • The Sword of Revenge • The Gods of War

  THE CONQUEST SERIES

  Mercenaries • Warriors • Conquest

  THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES

  The Burning Sky • A Broken Land • A Bitter Field

  THE CRUSADES SERIES

  Son of Blood • Soldier of Crusade • Prince of Legend

  * * *

  Hawkwood

  A Conquest Novel

  CONQUEST

  David Donachie

  Essex, Connecticut

  An imprint of Globe Pequot, the trade division of

  The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

  4501 Forbes Blvd., Ste. 200

  Lanham, MD 20706

  www.rowman.com

  Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK

  Copyright © 2010 by David Donachie writing as Jack Ludlow

  Map of Italy © David Donachie

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2010

  First McBooks Press edition 2024

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  ISBN 978-1-4930-7626-0 (paper : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-4930-7627-7 (electronic)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  To Natalie

  Who could recruit me

  anytime!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

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  Guide

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  Start of Content

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ITALY IN THE 11TH CENTURY

  PROLOGUE

  By the time Roger, the youngest of Tancred de Hauteville’s brood, made ready to leave Normandy, the surname of the family was not the obscure appendage it had once been. In twenty years, since the two eldest sons had departed to take mercenary service in Italy, the de Hautevilles had become renowned throughout Christendom: from being obscure knights with nothing but their lances and their fighting ability, they had come to such startling prominence, to serve as an example to all young men who aspired to greatness.

  William, known by the soubriquet Bras de Fer, had fought his way to land and titles only to die in his prime. In his wake had come his brothers Drogo and Humphrey to both expand the family holdings and elevate the family name. Two more brothers now held valuable fiefs, but if William Iron Arm had led the way, the half-brother who eventually succeeded to his legacy, known to the world by the single soubriquet of the Guiscard, had surpassed him.

  Styled Count of Apulia, he was as famous for his cunning as his military prowess: Robert de Hauteville dealt on equal terms not only with the temporal power of the papacy, but with the imperial authority of the Holy Roman Empire based in Germany, while being in constant conflict with the Eastern Empire ruled from Constantinople. The lands he now held, from the Apennines to the Adriatic seaboard, had for five centuries been the property of Byzantium and, being valuable, the empire was locked into endless attempts at recovery: Apulia and Calabria were thus cockpits of continual warfare, shifting allegiances, endemic betrayal and ceaseless intrigue.

  If Robert Guiscard had trouble with the empire in the east he was not spared turmoil in his own backyard: apart from Lombards, Greeks and the native Italians there were other powerful confrère barons south of Rome. No Norman willingly bowed the knee to another and that, on occasions, included his blood relatives. Thus, when the baby of the family made up his mind to head south, it was not by invitation: a brother who shared the name and the family ability as a warrior could be as much of a pest as an asset.

  All of those who had preceded Roger had left without comment from their father’s liege lord, the Duke of Normandy; it was testimony to how much they had risen that when Roger aired his intentions he was summoned to meet with William the Bastard, an order he would disobey at his peril. Escorted by a party of the family lances, warriors owed in fealty and feudal obligation to the duke, he set out for Falaise, the city his suzerain had chosen as his main residence.

  There was, however, one place he was determined to visit, and it was not on the way. It was necessary to bypass Falaise to find the Monastery of St-Evroul-sur-Ouche, while it also required artifice to persuade the noble abbot, Robert de Grantmesnil, that this near-penniless knight was accidentally passing by his door, even more that he should be allowed contact with his half-sister and ward, Judith of Evreux. Roger and she had met the year before at the annual gathering of knights called to render homage to their suzerain. Seven years his junior, she was already a beauty, he was the most handsome of his family; for both, on a mere meeting of eyes, it had been instant mutual attraction.

  Only pleading by a distraught Judith melted the relative’s initial rebuff: Judith was, after all, a cousin to the duke and the idea of Roger de Hauteville paying suit to such a well-connected beauty was risible – she was destined for a more prosperous hand than his, some great magnate with land, castles and lances. His brother might be Count of Apulia but Roger was a landless nobody. Yet the man was not made of stone and her tears were genuine, so he let her have her fantasy that she could somehow marry for love.

  ‘Italy?’ Judith asked, in a near whisper.

  They sat in an arbour with a pair of nuns close enough by, placed there to ensure no proprieties were broken, like the touching of hands. Roger, tall, blond and blue-eyed, had been treated by these Brides of Christ like some kind of rabid despoiler and when the two youngsters sat, their chaperones had ensured there was a gap between them of a full arm’s length. That was enough for two people enamoured of each other; they sat quietly talking in the way only those who have deep affection for each other can: inconsequential to a listener, heart-searing to the participants.

  There was no need to explain the need to go south, given it was a well-worn path for the impoverished knights of Normandy. To prosper at home meant a close connection to the duke, not something a de Hauteville was likely to be granted, given the family history.

  ‘I would have you come with me,’ Roger said. ‘Allow me to ask the abbot to let you accompany me?’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘As my wife, Judith, what else?’

  There was no need to utter a refusal: her crestfallen look was enough. ‘I had to beg for this, Roger, a few moments alone, and you know I cannot wed anyone without the permission of Duke William. I am his to give away.’

  ‘Added to that which we had last year our time alone cannot amount to more than half a glass of sand.’

  From the church came the sound for which the monastery was famous, the voices of its choir, backed by the musicians her half-brother employed and encouraged. St Evroul was renowned throughout Christendom for this: folk of means travelled long journeys to sit in the chapel and listen to the sweet harmonies, never departing without leaving gifts to an already well-endowed establishment for the sake of their souls.

  ‘It may be all we will ever have. If you go to Italy I may never see you again.’

  ‘I have lances with me.’

  She knew what he was saying, and if she had doubts they were assuaged by the determined look in his eye, but Judith also knew that to elope was impossible. Duke William would send men after her and, if caught, she would be ruined, forced to take the veil while Roger would likely spend the rest of his life in a damp and rat-infested oubliette. On her breast she wore a pin surmounted by a freshwater pearl, which she took off and stuck to his blue and white surcoat, moving close enough to have the two nuns on their feet, alarmed at the contact.

  ‘Go south, Roger; become a great man, as I am sure you must, and every time you touch this remember me.’

  Judith was gone in a flash: she did not want the man with whom she had fallen in love to see her cry. Roger sat for a while, touching the pearl, then rose slowly and walked, a figure with a bowed head, to join his accompanying lances.

  Those steel-tipped lances were for show and he had required the permission of his elder brothers to take them along: once, not long past, they would have been necessary for safety. Duke William had come into his title carrying not only the stain of bastardy, but his own tender years, succeeding aged but seven. He had inherited a province containing numerous powerful vassals unwilling to bow the knee to either his illegitimacy or to his youth, making it a dangerous place to travel, banditry being a brother to rebellion.

 

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