Crusade moe-2

by Stewart Binns

  Robert was already in the thick of the fighting, with Sweyn, Hugh Percy and I taking positions to protect his rear and sides, when disaster struck. Robert of Bellême, thinking that the day was lost, turned and fled, leaving our right flank completely exposed.

  Henry grasped the opportunity immediately.

  He committed his cavalry and ordered Count Helias to charge, letting loose a horde of knights from Normandy’s neighbours who had many scores to settle.

  Our position was hopeless.

  Sweyn turned to Robert and shouted at him, ‘We are being overrun; let us get you away before it’s too late.’

  Hugh Percy and I beckoned to as many of Robert’s Sybilla Squadron as we could to form a cordon around him and escort him from the field, but he would have none of it.

  ‘We stand! No retreat!

  Moments later, Hugh Percy was unhorsed when his mount took an arrow in its shoulder. He was then beaten to the ground with a huge spiked mace wielded by a Breton knight; he did not move, and seemed mortally wounded. Robert’s horse reared, tipping him off its back, and Sweyn and I dismounted to close ranks around him while the few survivors of his elite cavalry tried to shield us.

  We were soon surrounded by a swarm of infantry and knights on horseback, their blades and lances raining blows down on us. I took a heavy blow to the top of my helmet, which brought a painful end to my role in the battle, rendering me unconscious for several minutes.

  When I came round, Robert was on his knees with blood streaming down his left arm and face. He was one of only a few of our men left standing in what was a strange calm, disturbed only by the heavy breathing of the living and the moans of the dying.

  I could not see Sweyn at first. But then I saw him sprawled in front of Robert, lifeless.

  He had taken a Breton lance through his mail and deep into his chest. Blood was still pouring from his wound and forming a pool in the ground beneath him as Robert sank to his haunches and lifted his friend’s limp head on to his lap.

  I moved to join them, but was again struck from behind, plunging me into darkness once more.

  I never saw either of them again.

  I was sent to the coast and put on a ship to England. My status as the Queen’s uncle saved my life, but I was banished from court, all my lands and money confiscated, save for a small allowance from the King, and I was required, under pain of death, to remain within the boundaries of Northumbria for the rest of my days.

  William of Mortain was blinded on the King’s orders and confined within the Great Tower in London.

  Robert was paraded around Normandy as Henry’s vassal, before being sent to England to be incarcerated at the King’s pleasure, first in Wareham Castle and then, for a while, in the custody of Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, with whom he got on well. When the King heard of this, he sent him to the much less pleasant environs of Cardiff Castle. Apparently, he was not mistreated or locked in a dungeon, but he was allowed no visitors or any communication with the outside world.

  Sweyn, our handsome, brave and noble brother-in-arms, was left lying on the battlefield with Hugh Percy and so many other loyal men, to be stripped of their weapons, armour and clothes and left as carrion for the crows.

  He had insisted that Hereward was still alive and found his hero, as he said he would; he had married Adela, so that she could fulfil her dream; and he had avenged Mahnoor’s murder. His exploits in the Holy Land were unsurpassed by even the bravest of the Crusaders, and his belief in the ethics of the Mos Militum made him a chivalrous knight of the highest order. His service to Robert and to me was faultless, and he had become a friend and confidant to us both. Perhaps, most importantly, in his brief love affair with Estrith, he had sired Harold, Hereward’s grandson, a boy who, one day, may continue the noble legacy of the children of Bourne.

  36. Phantom in the Night

  Sweyn’s death meant that our Brethren still had four living members, but it was unlikely that we would ever see one another again. So, what would our testament be? I have spent a lifetime reflecting on that, concluding that, in the end, it will be the scribes who decide.

  The last part of my long story happened just a few months ago, when I had a visitor here at Ashgyll Force. In the intervening years I had heard about his mother’s death and had asked the monks at Durham to locate his whereabouts, as I needed to be sure that I could honour a promise I had made many years earlier. However, I had heard nothing in reply.

  Then he appeared, like a phantom in the night. I was sound asleep, it must have been three in the morning, and I woke with a start. I could sense a presence in the room and froze, thinking that, at long last, Owain Rheged had tired of my presence and had come for me.

  Then a deep, but gentle, voice spoke from the shadows.

  ‘Prince Edgar, don’t be concerned. I am Harold of Hereford.’

  I peered into the darkness; the moon was bright and casting strange silhouettes. I called out to a figure sitting by the window.

  ‘You mean young Harry? Son of Estrith of Melfi and Sweyn of Bourne?’

  ‘Indeed, sire.’

  ‘Show yourself!’

  ‘I cannot, my anonymity is important to me. I need to tell you some things as a fellow member of the Brethren of the Blood and to obtain your blessing for what I have done and am about to do. My mother made me a full member of our Brethren when I came of age; she said you would be in agreement.’

  ‘I heard that your mother has died?’

  ‘Scarlet fever; it devastated Norwich while I was away. She was a wonderful mentor to me and told me all about the Brethren and your lives together. She was content with her lot, and her work meant everything to her. She took enormous pride in helping the great cathedral grow.’

  ‘Did she give you the casket?’

  ‘She did. That’s why I’m here – to thank you for the endowment and the gift of land, and also to seek your permission. Duke Robert is still in Cardiff Castle and no one can see him. You and I are the only members of the Brethren at liberty, and I need your sanction.’

  ‘If I think what you are doing furthers the cause of the Brotherhood of St Etheldreda and our Brethren, then you will have it.’

  ‘I haven’t got much time. I leave for Constantinople and the Peloponnese as soon as the winds are favourable. My mother told me where my grandfather’s mountain eyrie is. I am going to see it, to spend some time and reflect there. I am sure he is long dead and buried, but I want to be sure he is properly in the ground. I am also going to see the new Emperor, John II, to thank him for his father’s very generous legacy. My mother told me he will give me the fabled Talisman of Truth.’

  ‘You don’t need my agreement for any of that.’

  ‘I know, but my purpose in coming here is to tell you of a new Brotherhood. When I became a knight, I went to France to serve King Louis VI. There, I met two men of great valour and virtue; we have become great friends. Their names are Hugh of Payens and Godfrey of Saint-Omer; they both served with Geoffrey of Bouillon in the First Crusade. They are much older than me and have become my mentors.’

  ‘I don’t recall their names.’

  ‘They remember you and the English contingent, and the exploits of my grandfather, Sweyn, Adela and Edwin. They have formed their own brotherhood. It is a very noble order and they have invited me to join it; it is a great honour. There are only nine of us, and the rest are Normans or Franks. You may have heard their names: André of Montbard, Payen of Montdidier, Archambaud of St Amand, Geoffrey Bisol and two monks, Gondemere and Rosal. We are the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar.’

  ‘And what is your mission?’

  ‘The King of Jerusalem, Baldwin II, has granted us his church on Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the former al-Aksa mosque, the site of the Temple of Solomon, which gives us our name. We wear the cross of Christ and are sworn to poverty, chastity, piety and obedience in the service of God and our fellow men and are strong supporters of the Mos Militum, the
code of chivalry that all knights should follow.’

  ‘It sounds very worthy, but a little strict!’

  ‘It is, but there is so much cruelty and evil in our world we have to be disciplined to resist its temptations. My brother knights will follow me to Constantinople, from where we will travel to the Holy Land.’

  ‘So much time has passed. It is strange to hear your voice now, as a grown man. Be careful in Palestine. I’m sure it’s as dangerous now as it was in my day.’

  ‘My mother told me what an inspiration you were to all of them; she was very fond of you.’

  ‘That was kind of her. We were a good team, true brethren.’

  Harry’s words were very gratifying; they also reminded me of how I had wanted so much more from Estrith, if circumstances had been different. Ah, the wistful memories of an old man!

  My eyes were beginning to adjust to the light and I could see the outline of his face. He was like his father – dark of hair and complexion, and tall and willowy. I could not see his eyes, lost in the dark bowls of his eye sockets, but I would have wagered they were warm and dark like Estrith’s. I suddenly wondered how Harry knew where my little abode was.

  ‘Tell me, how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. I asked the King.’

  I was curious. I knew that Harry was not without funds and knightly status, but that would not normally give him access to the King.

  ‘So, you have access to him?’

  ‘I do. He speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘May I ask how you have access to King Henry?’

  ‘I am part of his bodyguard, what the Saxons used to call his hearthtroop. But I have vexed the King and he searches every shire in the land to hunt me down. That is why there must be no trace of me here. It would put you in mortal peril.’

  I was desperate to know more, but realized that Harry’s real purpose was to ask me questions, not the other way round.

  ‘I wish you every success in the Holy Land. I have some very vivid memories from the days when we were there; some still haunt me to this day.’

  ‘I have one last question for you. Were you there when my father died?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Did he die well?’

  ‘He did; he took a lance intended for Duke Robert. Your father was a very brave man and a noble knight, just like your grandfather. Did your mother tell you about the brave Adela? And Edwin, the man who kept us all together and working as a team?’

  ‘She did, and especially what Adela did for her in Palestine. I have been to her grave in Bourne to thank her, my other “mother”. I hope that the order of knights I have joined will be able to emulate the traditions begun at Ely and continued by our Brethren in Palestine.’

  ‘It was my honour to know them all; now I am privileged to meet another knight of Bourne. I wish you well.’

  ‘I will try to live my life as they lived theirs.’

  ‘I have no doubt you will. Go carefully, Harold of Hereford.’

  He was a very earnest young man, but I readily gave him my blessing and as much wisdom about Palestine as I could. I think I must have sounded like Torfida’s father in the wildwood, and Hereward atop his mountain – full of talk of truth, virtue and destiny. I suppose I had become a sage. I did give him one piece of firm advice.

  ‘Wherever your destiny takes you and whatever it leads you to do, always remember your past and the legacy you have inherited. It will not only be your guide, it will also bring meaning to your life and to the lives of those who follow you. Your grandfather once told me that that was the message he had learned from the Talisman of Truth. When the Emperor, John Comnenus, passes it on to you, he will help you understand the wisdom of that message.’

  I asked Harry to stay so that I could get to know him better, but he insisted that he had to go and, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. He did promise to come back with the Talisman one day and to bring news of Hereward’s resting place.

  Perhaps he will.

  When Harry had left, I felt a profound sense of relief. My mission in life had been fulfilled.

  A fine young knight was about to embark on his own story, and he carried with him everything that Hereward, the Brotherhood and our Brethren had striven for.

  Not only that, I had fulfilled my promise to Hereward to take care of his grandson.

  When my time came to join him in the earth, I felt sure that the Wodewose would welcome me, just as he had welcomed my mentor, Hereward, and his own guide, the Old Man of the Wildwood.

  Epilogue

  Testament

  William of Malmesbury, the renowned scribe of England’s history, breathes a long, deep breath and adjusts his position to find a more comfortable posture, as he has many times during the long days he has sat listening to the story of the life of Edgar the Atheling, Prince of England. His young cleric, Roger of Caen, yawns; he is overwhelmed by what he has heard in the modest hall of Ashgyll Force and terrified about how much he has to remember.

  Twenty years on from the Battle of Tinchebrai, despite the unseemly haste and connivance of his ascendancy, and his subsequent avarice in snatching Normandy from his brother, Henry’s reign is largely peaceful and prosperous. Some of the wounds between Englishman and Norman are healing – even so, Prince Edgar is cautious about raking over ashes that are still warm.

  ‘So, there you have it, William of Malmesbury. Do with it as you see fit, but treat us kindly. Perhaps the story is best told after the King is dead. He rules England well, but he still has a vindictive streak, which is never far from the surface.’

  William agrees with Edgar; the story is so intimate, it should not be told while the King is alive.

  ‘Your story will stay within the walls of Malmesbury until the time is right, when the King has been laid to rest. He is nearly sixty now and has not been in good health since the death of his son, William the Atheling.’

  ‘I heard that he drowned off the Normandy coast.’

  ‘He perished on the White Ship, dashed on the rocks off Barfleur. They say that he and the crew had been drinking and racing another ship to see which could reach the open sea first.’

  ‘I hear Robert’s son, William Clito, is now Count of Flanders and is still harassing the King.’

  ‘Indeed, he is. And to Henry’s credit, he does not take any revenge on Robert, who is still alive in Cardiff, or use him as a pawn to persuade Clito to submit.’

  ‘It is astonishing, Robert is seventy-five now. I hope he is as well as I am and not missing Sybilla too much. I wish I could see him; we would have a lot to talk about.’

  ‘I am told that the King used to let him hunt once a week, but he is too old now. His allowance from the King is thirty-five pounds of silver a year – a meagre amount for a royal duke – but he doesn’t starve or go about in rags.’

  ‘He deserves better than that.’

  To Roger’s horror – he had thought their long and exhausting inquisition of Edgar was over – William resumes his questioning.

  ‘What of Estrith, did she ever build that roof?’

  ‘I heard from one of the nuns at Durham that Estrith died a few years ago, during an outbreak of the scarlet fever that killed half the population of Norwich. I don’t know about her roof; perhaps they are working on it now.’

  ‘Her father must also be dead. No one can live for ever – not even Hereward.’

  ‘He would be almost ninety, but bear in mind, Robert and I are both in our mid-seventies and still going strong.’

  Young Roger, ever keen to impress his abbot with his knowledge of the scriptures, reminds him about longevity in the Bible.

  ‘The Bible tells us that Methuselah lived to be 969, Noah almost as long, and that Moses died at the age of 120. So, Hereward has plenty of years left yet.’

  The three men smile at one another.

  The scribe of Malmesbury is weary; day after day of revelations and insights have been hard to absorb. He and Roger of Ca
en have been checking one another’s recollections at the end of each day, and every evening until the early hours they have been scratching hurried notes to aid their memory.

  What they have been made privy to is a remarkable story of two families, as if in a Greek tragedy: William’s powerful, all-conquering Norman family and Hereward’s modest, redoubtable English family locked in a bitter struggle over three generations and across a far-reaching landscape. What is more, in Hereward’s grandson, recently in the service of William’s son, King Henry, the saga still continues.

  Edgar the Atheling’s long life has been laid bare in minute detail, and now the three men eat a final meal together, drink some wine and mead and savour a few flasks of the dark Pennine beer that Edgar’s steward brews for him.

  At the end of the feast, William notices a tall, dark woman of about forty, slim and attractive, wearing a light, clinging dress. She slips behind the curtain of Edgar’s hall, leading towards his chamber.

  The Prince sees that William has noticed the nocturnal guest.

  ‘She is not another phantom, my friend. That is Awel, which means “gentle breeze”; she is a widow from Owain Rheged’s tribe. She comes to see me once or twice a week. We have, shall we say, an understanding… it gets awfully cold up here, and we keep one another warm.’

  Roger of Caen yawns once more, which is the signal for him to make his excuses and retire to his chamber, leaving Edgar and William to indulge in more heavy Pennine beer. Although tired, and much the worse for wear after sampling too many flasks of brew, William still has an appetite for more reflections from Edgar.

  For his part, the old prince’s prodigious intake of various intoxicating potions is making him melancholy.

  ‘What do you make of my life, master storyteller? You have heard the accounts of many.’

  ‘It is a noble life, well lived and well told, and I am very grateful. You bring great honour to your noble Cerdician lineage.’