Keeping strict formation, the quintet rode behind us. Godric took the lead; behind him, in pairs, came Penda and Leax, followed by Modig and Rodor.
Father Alun was at pains to point out that Earl Harold had trained our men-at-arms to the exemplary standards of King Harold’s fabled housecarls of the past and that they were the finest of soldiers – men you would happily go into battle with. When he reminded me that they were my men to command, I realized that, sooner or later, I would have to prove myself to them.
They carried the traditional battleaxe and circular shield of the English housecarl. Their shields all had the same three-colour design: gules, sable and gold. I was curious to know what they represented. Father Alun was happy to oblige with at least part of the answer.
‘Earl Harold is very fond of those colours. They were Hereward’s colours during the English revolt of 1069 and have been carried by the family ever since.’
I sensed there was more, and asked what the colours signified.
‘That is a good question. It is an important part of our story, and one which Earl Harold entrusted to me at the start of our mission…’
He paused and seemed to consider whether to continue. I waited, content in the knowledge that my journey with my new companion was only just beginning, and trusting that he would tell me what I needed to know. Even so, I was not prepared for Father Alun’s next question.
‘Have you heard tell of an amulet known as the Talisman of Truth?’
I confessed I had not.
‘The talisman is a primeval piece of amber. It contains the image of the Devil and his familiars, but Satan is trapped by a slash of crimson, thought to be the blood of Christ. It is a symbol of five abiding truths that have brought insight to kings and emperors from the beginning of time: the need for discipline, to control the darkness within us; the importance of humility, to know that only God can work miracles; the value of courage, to overcome our fears and anxieties; the purpose of sacrifice, to forfeit ourselves for God and for one another; and the power of wisdom. To understand the talisman itself is to understand all other mysteries and how not to fear them.
‘The amulet’s provenance is obscure, but it was carried by Hereward and his wife, Torfida, throughout their lives. Hereward well understood the amulet’s significance, and he took its colours as his own. The gold is the amber of the stone, the sable is the black image of the Devil and his imprisoned familiars, and the gules is the blood of Christ.’
I felt like a boy listening to a magical story; I had to wipe the tears from my eyes. The amulet described by Father Alun was a tangible link with England’s history and one of its legendary heroes. I could not suppress a burning question.
‘But where is the talisman now?’
‘It has found a guardian who will look after it – one of many over countless generations – until its truths are needed again.’
‘Are you its next keeper?’
‘No, that man is yet to be found.’
I decided not to press Alun further. The puzzle was still a mystery to me, but more pieces were gradually falling into place, each more intriguing than the last.
As we moved further south, the air became milder. Clouds heavy with rain from the Western Sea rolled over us almost every day. Occasionally, the wind veered round and brought cold air from the east, much like an English winter. The dark days of November and December rendered our surroundings grey and flat, but it was easy to imagine how different it would be in the spring and summer, especially amidst the countless rows of vines and fruit trees. They were dismal and bare now but would be verdant and full of promise in just a few months’ time.
Saintes was brimming with pilgrims when we arrived. Every inch of the nave of the great Church of St Eutropius was covered by a sea of humanity. They had travelled from the distant corners of Europe to make their way, ponderously but faithfully, to the shrine of St James the Great, in Galicia, and they still had months of travel ahead of them. The nave was more like a marketplace than a church. Traders sold their wares, buskers performed, and even the harlots were allowed to flourish. The monks kept a watchful eye – especially over the privies, which were a source of much stench and not a few arguments as the queues grew from early morning.
Sadly for our mission, Duke Richard was nowhere to be found in Saintes, nor was he in its vicinity. A week earlier he had left for Bordeaux with his army. Having pacified large areas of the Limousin and Angoulême, it was now his intention to bring to heel Gascony and Navarre, the land of the Basques.
Duke Richard’s reputation preceded him. We heard reports that he was ruthless with any recalcitrant lord who refused to submit to him. It was said that if a siege was necessary, his strategy was an unrelenting attack by missiles and fire, supplemented by a scorched-earth policy to induce starvation and a final, brutal assault on the walls of the castle or city.
When victory or submission had been achieved, as was invariably the case, he was harsh with those who opposed him. But he was magnanimous with the garrison which had fought him and generous with local inhabitants, often insisting that their lord pay them a handsome sum as part of the peace settlement. There was little wonder that the sobriquet ‘Lionheart’ was so widely attached to his name.
When Father Alun told me that we would be travelling as far south as the towering Pyrenees, I was curious, especially after he offered me a quote from a new Guide for Pilgrims, which had just been made available for wealthy travellers. It could be read – by those who had sufficient Latin – at the great monasteries along the Way of St James, from as far away as Paris, Geneva and Turin.
The Gascons are gossipy, licentious and poorly dressed. They eat and drink too much, but not at a table, rather they squat around a fire and share the same cup. When they sleep they share the same rotting straw, master and mistress, servants and all. The Basques and Navarrese are much like the Gascons, only worse! They all eat out of one big pot like pigs at a trough and when they speak they sound like dogs barking. They warm themselves in front of the fire by lifting their kilts and are not afraid to display their genitals for all to see. They treat their women like mules and fornicate with animals. In fact, so jealous can they be of their favourite mares and mules, they have been known to fit them with chastity belts.
I was amused by this account; indeed, it reminded me of our English prejudices about the Scots.
When we finally caught up with Duke Richard’s army outside the walls of Bordeaux, it presented a disconcerting impression. Led by a motley group of lords and knights from many parts of King Henry’s empire, it was largely composed of Brabançon mercenaries from the Low Countries and the bordering German principalities. Fierce and ill-disciplined, and clearly only interested in the spoils of war, they were the antithesis of the professional soldiers I had trained and fought with. By the look of them, there was no doubting their ability to fight; what was more questionable was their loyalty to anything other than their own self-interest. Indeed, they were the kind of men towards whom it would be unwise to turn one’s back – unless provided with adequate protection from comrades who could be relied upon.
Large, gnarled, unkempt, scarred, fearsome and formidable were just some of the words that sat well with them. They carried a range of weapons and armour, both conventional and unusual, but all designed to inflict maximum harm on an opponent. They wielded swords of varying designs and lengths, axes, clubs and maces and a multitude of spears, javelins and lances, some longer than a man.
Many of them were sappers and siege engineers, skilled in designing and building a range of ballista, all vital to the successful execution of siege warfare. The archers and arbalests formed separate elite forces, each of which was dedicated to a peculiar fusion of deadly accuracy aligned with brute strength. The two groups of bowmen did not mix – in fact, each was contemptuous of the other. But their two contrasting trajectories, used in parallel in battle – one slower but toweringly high, the other flatter but speedier – made a crushing impact on an
enemy.
I counted a force of around seven hundred men. It was not a huge army, but clearly an efficient one.
The Earl sat high in his saddle as he surveyed the scene. The army had made camp, but it was a disorganized muster of tents. Horses were picketed in small groups, and field kitchens were scattered everywhere. Latrines were notable by their absence, the River Garonne seemingly offering the only sanitation. Earl Harold glanced at Father Alun, then surveyed the surroundings with a look of contempt.
‘What a buggers’ muddle! It is to be hoped they are only besieging small garrisons of burghers and merchants. In open battle in the field, this rabble would be cut to pieces.’
The Earl was right. As individuals or in small groups, these were formidable men, but together, they were an army in name only.
We rode right up to Duke Richard’s tent unchallenged and were only asked to name ourselves after we had dismounted and were within ten paces of his standard, which was flying stiffly in the westerly breeze. Godric spoke to the Duke’s standard-bearer in Norman.
‘Tell your lord that he has guests.’
‘And who might they be?’ was the curt reply.
‘An Earl of England and his men.’
The man pulled back the canvas door of the tent with a flourish and disappeared inside. He had not saluted Earl Harold, nor had he proffered a courtesy of any sort. The Earl looked down at the ground, clearly unimpressed. The rest of us shuffled uneasily, embarrassed that our ageing lord had been unacknowledged and left standing outside the Duke’s tent.
It seemed like an age passed before a dishevelled knight emerged from the tent. He looked flustered and had hardly finished adjusting his armour and clothing. He blinked in the bright light and bowed to Earl Harold.
‘My Lord, Duke Richard asks if you will join him in his tent. He is on campaign, sire, so begs forgiveness for our frugal appearance.’
Earl Harold stepped forward and beckoned to Father Alun and myself to follow him.
‘Worry not, Sir Knight, in my lifetime I’ve seen the inside of enough campaign tents to house a multitude of armies.’
Duke Richard’s tent was, despite the caveat, remarkably luxurious. Although the interior was dark and musty, the walls were richly decorated with embroideries, and thick oriental carpets covered the floor. Incense hung in the air, together with the odour of attar of roses and perfumed candles. It was more like a lady’s boudoir – and a lady of dubious repute at that – than a general’s campaign tent.
The sounds of splashing water, female laughter and male merriment wafted from behind a curtain at the back of the tent. The Duke was obviously entertaining young women, even though the hour had barely passed midday. Once again, the Earl looked displeased.
When the Duke finally emerged from behind the curtain, only a chemise covered his nakedness. His hair was wet and matted and he had the unsteady gait and slurred speech of a man who had consumed more than his fair share of alcohol. Despite his tousled state, he was the epitome of his much-lauded reputation. He had the golden hair of a lion, his beard a little darker with a tinge of auburn, and his eyes, although a little bleary from drinking, were a distinctive emerald green. He stood prodigiously tall with a lean, muscular frame and broad shoulders. He was strong and lithe, the envy of any man and an object of desire for any woman.
‘Welcome to my tent, Earl of England. Your name, sir…?’
‘I am Harold of Hereford, Earl of Huntingdon, formerly commander of the armies of your grandmother, the Empress Matilda.’
‘Well, well, we are…’ and he swayed a little, appearing to forget what he was trying to say before slurring, ‘… honoured.’
The Earl said nothing, he just breathed deeply, trying to remain calm.
The Duke shook his head, in an attempt to clarify his thoughts. He squinted at Earl Harold and then pointed at him in a sudden gesture of recognition.
‘I have heard of you.’ He started to snigger and staggered a little. ‘Yes, of course, is it not true that you did more for my grandmother than organize her army? Were you not her tup, cuckolding my grandfather for years?’
I looked at Father Alun, astonished at what I had just heard. The Earl stiffened, and he took another deep breath.
‘You are impudent; you should show the Empress more respect.’
The Duke started to laugh heartily.
‘Forgive me, Earl Harold, I have had a little wine with my breakfast. Will you not join me? I am washing the earthiness from some Bordeaux girls in my chamber; they will be more than acceptable when the stink is gone from them.’
The Earl did not answer; he just turned and headed out of the tent.
As he passed the Duke’s equerry, he bellowed at him, ‘Tell your lord that I will come back when he’s sober.’
We found lodgings in Bordeaux that night. Earl Harold did not join us for dinner, preferring his own company, weighed down by a sombre mood born of anger and sadness.
Later that evening, over a cup of the highly regarded local wine, I asked Father Alun about the accusation Duke Richard had made.
‘The story is well known at court, but the Earl has never spoken about it. Matilda was a beautiful and remarkable woman – the daughter of a king, the wife of an emperor and later a count, and then the mother of a king – there are many stories about her, good and bad. Who knows which are true?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think that as our mission unfolds many things will be revealed to us.’
‘Another evasive answer, Father Alun, another test of my patience.’
‘The Earl will soon leave us and return to his home. He will go there to die. It is important to him to know that we will carry out our mission in the way that he hopes.’
‘I would be much more likely to carry out my mission successfully if I knew exactly what it was and if I knew all the background to it. I am hearing more and more stories: legendary families, England’s sacred cause, mysterious amulets. And now I hear that the Earl was Empress Matilda’s lover! You treat me like a child. Why can’t I know the truth of it all?’
Father Alun smiled at me benignly.
‘All in due course, my friend, all in due course. Until young Richard can be persuaded of the Earl’s proposal, some things must remain unsaid. Have another cup of this excellent wine. There is no finer grape in the world than the ones produced in this region.’
Although I was frustrated, I realized that Alun was protecting not only the confidences of Earl Harold but also, it seemed, vital information about Duke Richard’s lineage and England’s history. I let matters lie.
Alun was right; the wine was good. We had several more cups and my impatience subsided, to be replaced by a drunken stupor that lasted until very early the next morning.
I awoke to the sensation of my shoulders being shaken.
‘Wake up, Sir Ranulf, wake up!’
It was too dark to recognize who was shaking me until he held a candle in front of his face. It was Godric.
‘Godric! What do you want? It’s the middle of the night—’
‘Not quite, Sir Ranulf, but it is very early, the cock hasn’t crowed yet. The Earl is up and dressed, he wants us ready to ride in ten minutes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, sir, he didn’t say.’
I threw some water on my face and got my weapons and armour ready as quickly as I could. When I arrived at the stables, the Earl and Father Alun were already in their saddles, and Godric and his men were in the process of mounting. The Earl had a lantern in his hand, which he held high to light our way. I looked towards the east, where there was no hint of dawn. Nothing stirred in Bordeaux; it felt like the middle of the night.
‘I should have warned you about drinking with Father Alun. He has hollow legs, and always has a clear head the next day.’
The Earl laughed as he kicked on. Jumping on to my horse, which did little to improve the painful consequences of my night of indulgence, I called after him.
‘May I ask where we are going, my Lord?’
‘We are going to teach the Duke some manners.’
I looked at Father Alun.
‘Is he serious?’
‘Oh yes, he’s serious!’
We were soon at Duke Richard’s camp and rode through the perimeter of his picket lines unchallenged. Earl Harold beckoned to us to dismount about fifty yards from the Duke’s tent, where we left our horses with Modig.
The Earl extinguished his lantern, drew his sword and marched onwards with purposeful strides. We approached our quarry’s tent from the rear, and the Earl signalled to Godric to take Rodor and deal with the two men guarding the entrance. Shortly afterwards, and following some muffled blows, two limp shapes, gagged and bound hand and foot, were dragged towards us and deposited in a heap at our feet. The Earl then relit his lantern from the guards’ brazier before whispering to Godric and his men to stand guard.
With Father Alun and myself in his wake, Earl Harold marched into Duke Richard’s tent.
There was now a less sweet but equally pungent aroma inside the tent, a heady mix of sour alcohol and stale bodies, the aura of which was of no benefit to my fragile condition. A large butt stood to one side, still full of water for bathing, but its contents now more closely resembled a greasy broth than fresh water. There were two prone knights next to the butt, each entwined with a female companion. All began to stir. The two girls began to shriek as the knights got to their feet and made a grab for their swords. Earl Harold kicked one in his midriff with a ferocious blow and hit the second one on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword.
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