Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  We saw Normans only rarely. Twice a year our lord, Henry de Lacy, Lord of Bowland and Baron of Pontefract, would send his steward to collect our taxes. The de Lacys were to be treated with caution. Their domain extended across the entire north-west of the country and as far east as the great keep at Pontefract. Three of the de Lacys had fought with the Conqueror at Senlac Ridge, and the present family had lost none of its forebears’ renowned ferocity. There was a large garrison of their men at Lancaster, whose main job was to patrol the old road to the north, all the way to Carlisle. The family also kept a small force at Preston and another one at Clitheroe.

  Over the years, as my father and I made our monthly visits to the burgh of Lancaster so that he could attend meetings of the local clergy, I had watched the many foreign masons build the new stone castle at Lancaster. Slowly, but relentlessly, it loomed over us like the monstrous edifice of giants, built to remind everyone that what had happened to our land in the distant past – and the result of those events – was an everlasting reality.

  My father had told me many times about the devastation of the north by the Conqueror, as he punished the local populace for their rebellion of 1069. Tens of thousands were killed and the farms laid waste. For three generations the lands north of Chester and the Humber were abandoned, the fields becoming a wilderness. Only within my lifetime were people rebuilding the villages and ploughing the ground again. Lancaster was one of the many places that were beginning to flourish in the uneasy truce between Norman and Englishman.

  Almost no one believed that the Normans would ever relinquish control of our lives, but that did not prevent us from cherishing our English language and folk memories. As a boy, I had feared our Norman masters and thought of them as a different breed. But after several years of serving with them and for them, I had come to realize that they were not very different from us at all.

  Most importantly, we English knew that our King, the formidable Henry Plantagenet, although a Norman in words and deeds, also carried enough English blood to make him as much ‘one of us’ as he was a Norman. His mother, the Empress Matilda, who had styled herself ‘Lady of the English’, was a direct descendant of the ancient Cerdician kings of England and Wessex, tracing her lineage all the way back to Alfred the Great. That simple fact of genealogy was so important to us; despite its daunting Norman facade, it made our blood a living part of the inheritance of our kingdom.

  We also took great comfort in the fact that King Henry ruled an empire far bigger than either England or Normandy, making us all feel part of a mighty dominion of many peoples, languages and traditions, a vast realm of which we could all be proud. Not only that, but after several generations, our Norman rulers had come to adopt many of our customs and all could now speak English.There were so many of us, and so few of them, that they had no choice; our mother tongue had become the customary language, while the Normans kept to their own idiom among themselves and at court. Even so, Latin was always the language of government, both secular and spiritual.

  My father knew that a good education afforded me one of the few routes to any kind of future. The Church, especially one of the great northern monasteries, was the objective he set for me. He worked tirelessly to make sure I had the intellectual gifts and personal discipline to succeed – so that when it came time for me to be subjected to the rigours of examination by the all-powerful abbot and his inquisitors, I would be ready.

  Now, in the Great Hall at Wolvesey, I faced a similarly intimidating encounter.

  ‘I am Harold of Hereford, Earl of Huntingdon.’

  When the dignified old man spoke to me, he reminded me of my father (especially when he used to mimic the austere tones of the Abbot of Rievaulx, an imposing man typical of his Norman kind). The Earl spoke in English, without any hint of a Norman accent, confirming my assumption that I was in the presence of a man of my own kin.

  ‘My Lord, I am Ranulf of Lancaster, in the service of our King, Henry Plantagenet.’

  He looked at me with an intensity that was disconcerting. He did not speak for what seemed like an age. I wondered whether I was supposed to bring a message or say something else. It was not that being in nerve-racking circumstances was a new experience for me. The King and his earls often bellowed in my direction, and even directly at me. It was part of the life of an officer in the King’s retinue; I had become accustomed to it.

  I was one of only three Englishmen to have been accepted into the elite bodyguard, an accolade my father was both shocked and dubious to hear about. He had long accepted that a path in the service of our spiritual Lord was not one I would follow, but my submission to our temporal lord, King Henry, was difficult for him to accept. He had little time for men of violence, especially for those in the pay of our Norman rulers.

  But the life of a warrior had become an inevitability for me. Even as a young boy, it was obvious I was stronger than other boys of my age. I could outrun them, throw further than they could, and I was able to wrestle the toughest of them to the ground. I was not the biggest boy in the area, although bigger than most, but I could intimidate anyone. It was not that I was fearless, but I enjoyed physical challenges, especially those involving the thrill of victory. Wrestling matches and children’s trials of strength soon developed into military training with the men of the area and, by the age of fourteen, I was a fully accepted member of the local fyrd.

  I was soon nominated to train with Lord de Lacy’s garrison at Pontefract and in less than two years had been accepted into the King’s elite bodyguard. Life since then had been good. I was taller than most men, strong of arm and – so I was told by several female acquaintances, admittedly some more discerning than others – was handsome ‘in a craggy sort of way’. My Celtic heritage gave me dark-brown hair, but the English blood in me gave me eyes the colour of honey and meant that every summer my tresses were bleached fair by the sun.

  I tried not to be vain, but if I ever got the chance to look at myself in a lady’s mirror or in still water, I was content with what I saw. More importantly, I never seemed to have trouble finding female companions – a mighty godsend to a professional soldier far from home.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the old warrior spoke again.

  ‘Your record in service to your King is to your credit, Sir Ranulf. Where sits your ambition?’

  It was an unexpectedly direct question; I was thrown a little by it, and also by his piercing gaze.

  ‘To continue to serve England, my King and my Lord.’

  ‘That is a predictable but trite answer, young man. What about your real ambition?’

  I was nonplussed. I had not expected questions like these, and I realized I was not properly prepared for the encounter. The Earl raised his hand and glanced at the two sergeants standing either side of him. They immediately bowed to him and took their leave. The Earl then walked over to the hearth and sat by the fire. I noticed that he appeared sprightly enough, but that he had a distinct limp and his face showed the hint of a wince of pain with every step. He sat down heavily and was suddenly less austere as he relaxed in front of the glowing embers. He stared into the flickering light almost absent-mindedly.

  There was another pause.

  ‘Join me by the fire.’

  I remained standing, feeling sure the invitation did not extend to informality. I was wrong.

  ‘Sit, boy!’

  The stern look had returned to his face. But as I sat opposite him, he produced the beginnings of a grin.

  ‘Don’t be in awe of me; I am a lad from the English provinces, just like you. My men have gone, so we can speak openly.’

  I had heard the name ‘Earl of Huntingdon’ and had assumed that the old man was one of our many Norman masters. But ‘Harold of Hereford’ meant nothing to me, except that it was clearly an English name. I sat down hesitantly, not having any idea what the next question would be – or, indeed, why I had been summoned to Winchester in the first place.

  Wolvesey was an imposing place.
The largest royal palace outside Westminster, it sat next to the mighty cathedral, the only two buildings that had survived the great fire of twenty-five years earlier, during the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda. We were alone in a hall so large that in the encroaching gloom of the afternoon I could not see the doorway at the end. There was an eerie silence, save for the distant jangling of activity in the kitchens and the hiss and crackle of the fire.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  I told the Earl my story, as confidently as I could. Gradually the relaxed setting put me at ease, and I finished with something of a flourish as I described my pride in being selected to serve the King.

  ‘You have done well. I am told you are a fine soldier, the most highly regarded Englishman in the King’s guard.’

  ‘My Lord Earl, that is not the highest of accolades. There are only three of us in the King’s retinue—’

  ‘Do not be too modest. The King’s Constable holds you in the highest regard.’

  He stared at me again, but this time more gently, almost benignly.

  ‘I had a stroke of great good fortune as a young knight, but I also had my future forged by tragedy and hardship. Are you prepared to face the same, should an opportunity come your way?’

  I realized immediately that there was a challenge in the offing. I began to feel my heart race a little as the Earl continued.

  ‘I am looking for a special man, one who can carry a burden for me. The load is exceptional and it involves many years of devotion and almost certainly much sacrifice. Are you ready to be examined to determine whether you are that man?’

  I had no idea what to say. A brave man would have said ‘yes’ immediately; perhaps a wise man would have said that his answer depended on the nature of the challenge. I knew it was unwise to vacillate, so I gulped hard and chose the former option.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘A brave answer, Sir Ranulf, but possibly an imprudent one. You and I will soon find out whether your choice was wise.’

  The Earl looked up to King Henry’s huge war banner above the fireplace. Emblazoned with England’s two lions rampant, quartered with the fleur-de-lis of his French ancestors, it was meant to be a war banner that all in his realm could follow.

  ‘I have one more question for you. I understand you have Celtic, Danish and English blood. Yet you serve a Norman king. How does that sit with your heritage?’

  ‘It sits comfortably, my Lord. The King carries English blood as well. He rules this land justly; that is all a man can ask for.’

  He smiled broadly.

  ‘Very good, young knight. A fine answer.’

  I felt a shiver of anticipation and not a little apprehension. What was this burden I was going to be asked to carry?

  I had no fear about facing an examination of my worthiness, but I wondered why my heritage was important. I was intrigued and excited. Was this my chance to play a part in the future of England? If it was, nothing on earth would prevent me from grasping it.

  With a little difficulty, the Earl pushed himself up from the large carved-oak chair. I jumped to attention as he stretched to his full height.

  ‘There will be times when you will regret accepting this challenge. After I leave this room, the examination will begin. It will take several weeks; at the end of it, we will both know whether you are the man I seek. Many men have accepted my challenge. All have failed.’

  He turned and began to walk away into the shadows of the Great Hall, the flicker of the fire dancing on the back of his long, dark cloak. After a few strides he spoke again.

  ‘In a few minutes, a knight called Máedóc will come for you. You will be under his command for the duration of the tests. He is Irish, from Limerick, formerly champion to the warlord Dermot O’Brien. When his lord was blinded by his cousin, Donal the Great, King of Thomond, he sided with the Anglo-Normans. Don’t cross him; you will regret it.’

  Then he stopped and turned his head towards me before speaking for the last time.

  ‘Good fortune, Ranulf of Lancaster.’

  After the echo of the Earl’s heavy footsteps had waned, the hall became silent once more. I turned to stare into the fire. Its embers had died to a faint glow and I felt a sudden shiver.

  Winter was coming… and so was my test.

  2. Ordeal

  I heard the great oak door at the end of the hall open again, but it was not Máedóc, merely two stewards who had come to tend the fire. They looked at me curiously as they went about their chores. Were they looking at me as if I was a beast bound for the slaughterhouse? Others had gone before me; did they know what trials awaited me?

  My anxious musings were soon ended by the sound of four pairs of heavy footsteps reverberating around the walls. A quartet of formidable warriors appeared. Their leader, a very large man with the mien of a cathedral gargoyle, spoke in Gaelic, most of which I understood.

  ‘I am Máedóc. My men are Óengus, Fáelán and Mochán. From now on, you will do everything we say without hesitation. Remove your weapons and armour.’

  As a trained soldier, I wavered. It was a mistake. A mailled glove hit me in the side of the face and I was sent sprawling across the floor. A heavy kick to my midriff followed, with two more landing in rapid succession. My weapons were confiscated and my armour ripped from me. Several more blows arrived, rendering me semi-conscious, and I was dragged along the stone floor of the hall, my limp body making a wave in the straw as we went.

  I was thrown into a small, pitch-black cell, given a piece of stale bread and a jug of water and left for what seemed like an eternity.

  I lost all track of time; I had no point of reference and no way of recording day or night. The cold and hunger were difficult to deal with, but they were nothing compared to the horror of the confined space, and the total lack of light and human contact.

  My mind raced; more than once I panicked and began to shout and scream. There was no response, and that made matters even more unbearable. The fact that I had been told it was a ‘test’ did not make any difference after a while. My imagination created countless terrifying outcomes.

  Relief came on what I later discovered was the fourth morning. The door to the cell suddenly opened and the darkness was transformed by what seemed like the midday sun, but in fact was only a candle.

  There was a vague shape behind the light. It thrust a bowl of soup and another jug of fresh water in my direction. Then a voice emanated from the silhouette. It was a Gaelic voice, but with a tone far gentler than Máedóc’s.

  ‘If the examination is too much for you, you are free to go; you have a little time to decide.’

  The shadowy figure then left and the cell door slammed shut behind the departing apparition. My instincts cried out to me, imploring me to shout, ‘Enough!’, ‘Let me go!’ Fortunately, my instinct to eat was stronger than my fear and I devoured the soup and the water, but too quickly; my stomach rebelled, punishing me with agonizing cramps and, only moments later, violent vomiting.

  So horrendous was the pain, by the time the door opened once more – an hour or so later – and the mellow voice sought my response, I could hardly speak.

  ‘If you end the challenge now, you will be carried from here and given good care until you recover. There will be no shame attached to your decision.’

  Had I been more in control of my senses and emotions, I may have accepted the sweet encroachments and capitulated to the rigours of my ordeal there and then. But there was something about the sudden warmth of the offer to concede that reminded me that, no matter how arduous, this was no more than a test, merely an examination of my courage and resolve. The thought ignited a spark of defiance in me and I managed to spit out a response.

  ‘Do your worst, I’m not finished yet!’

  I regretted my boldness immediately as, once again, the door slammed shut and I was left in the bitterly cold darkness. I must have fallen asleep – for how long I was not sure – but by the time I was next fully awake
I was being bound hand and foot and pulled from my tiny cell. Máedóc then hoisted me on to his broad shoulders and carried me up the narrow stairs to the castle battlements. I felt like a child being effortlessly carried by his father, except there was nothing paternal about Máedóc’s intentions. My head banged repeatedly against the stone wall of the narrow stairwell. When we reached the top, he just threw me on to the floor of the ramparts like a rag doll.

  ‘Can you swim?’ he bellowed at me.

  Being certain that my answer would lead to unfortunate consequences, I hesitated and again paid the price as several kicks to my midriff ensued.

  ‘Can you swim?’ he yelled, even more vociferously.

  My reply in the affirmative came quickly, but reluctantly.

  My legs were unbound and Máedóc, in a single easy movement, lifted me up and hurled me from the castle walls. I prayed that Wolvesey’s moat awaited me at the end of my interminable plummet downwards. It did, thank God, but I hit the water awkwardly and my breath was shocked out of me. The water was pitch black and icy cold, and I lost all sense of direction. It was a dilemma that was only resolved when I felt the weeds at the bottom of the moat wrap themselves around my legs.

  My foot touched the bottom of the moat and I tried to push myself upwards, only to feel myself beginning to sink into thick mud. I was fighting for air as the freezing water paralysed my chest and made my head feel as if it was held in a blacksmith’s vice.

  Trying not to panic, I took a moment to compose myself. I knew not to use my other foot as a lever, as that would also become trapped. Summoning what strength I had left, I managed to prise my foot from the mire that held it by using my arms and upper body to push against the water. Once free, I kicked for the surface. I saw a bright light and used it as a beacon. When I broke the surface, my childhood by the sea came to my aid; I knew to turn on to my back and use my legs to propel me to the bank. Two of Máedóc’s men were waiting for me and Óengus grabbed my wrists and dragged me out of the water. He was the one with the mild voice. Once again, he spoke to me reassuringly.