Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  ‘Very well, sire, I will be ready.’

  ‘No, Ranulf, not this time. Get Negu established in the north first. She will need your help; it is a lawless part of the world, but one that you know well. You are to take a two-year sabbatical, then you can join me.’

  ‘But, sire, your campaign could be over by then.’

  ‘I doubt it; the border with the French is not like England. Loyalty means nothing there. With Philip’s meddling and John’s duplicity, it will take me years to bring them to heel.’

  ‘I hope this does not mean the end of my service to you?’

  ‘Of course not, I will always be in need of your wisdom and your friendship.’

  The King put his hands on my shoulders and embraced me warmly.

  ‘Come, I want you to meet Roger de Lacy; he has some news for you.’

  The Lord of Bowland was a direct descendant of one of William the Conqueror’s warriors at Senlac Ridge and the epitome of the formidable Norman warlord of the past.

  ‘Ah, Sir Ranulf, the King has told me about you. I would be honoured to have you as a tenant.’

  ‘The honour would be all mine, my Lord.’

  ‘The King tells me that you want to bring to the north a prioress from the community of Hildegard of Bingen?’

  ‘Indeed, my Lord.’

  ‘And that she is not only a woman of similar worth to the good Abbess Hildegard, but is also very beautiful?’

  ‘She is, and a very devout woman of high repute.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  He cast a mischievous glance at the King.

  ‘Well, I have the ideal place for you. It’s in the valley of the Wharfe, at Bolton, just north of Skipton. The land is held by Hawise, Countess of Aumale, daughter of my cousin Alice of Romille, my vassal at Skipton Castle. She has just married again and is so rich from her holdings in Normandy, she can spare a small estate in the distant north. It has enough arable land along the valley for a reasonable community to thrive, and there is grazing for sheep that extends high on to the moors above. Will that do?’

  ‘It will, my Lord; I am most grateful.’

  ‘Very well, my steward will draw up the documents. The King has told me that you saved his life more than once and went through the purgatory of prison with him. That being so, you will have the tenancy at two-thirds of the price.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  We shook hands and the King placed his gauntlet over them.

  ‘Be good to one another and honour all your deeds and duties.’

  That evening, at the feast to close the Council of Nottingham, Blondel sang the chansons of the troubadours. They included the ‘Ballad of Robyn of Hode’, which had become a favourite with the army. I smiled nostalgically, because I now knew from reading Earl Harold’s story that it had been composed by his faithful companion, Eadmer, and that the deeds described in the ballad were those of the Earl himself.

  Blondel also sang the King’s lament, ‘No Man Who’s Jailed’, which he performed beautifully and captivated the audience. I looked at the King, and saw the pain of those many months in captivity pass fleetingly across his face; our memories of Trifels were still raw.

  On 17 April 1194, the Sunday after Easter, in the presence of his mother, Dowager Queen Eleanor, and William the Lion, King of the Scots, the Lionheart had his coronation reaffirmed at Winchester. All the prelates, earls, barons and knights of the realm came to pay homage to the greatest warrior in Europe.

  Flanked by the Grand Quintet and led, with his sword held high, by William the Lion, the King wore the royal crown and full regalia as he walked from his royal chamber in St Swithun’s Priory into the cathedral to be blessed by Godfrey, Bishop of Winchester. Prayers were said for his campaign against Philip and the French, after which a splendid feast was held in the cathedral cloisters.

  The mood was jubilant, a celebration for the return of a King they thought they had lost.

  It was a heartwarming moment for me too, and so reminiscent of the Lionheart’s original coronation on that wonderful September day in 1189. The occasion was not as grand, but much more poignant.

  So much had happened in the intervening years. I looked at the King’s imposing but elegant frame and watched as the guests stared at him, in awe of his presence. Many had tears in their eyes; so did I.

  Following the coronation celebrations, while the Lionheart made his way to Portsmouth to assemble his fleet, I obtained his permission to travel to St Paul’s to retrieve Earl Harold’s casket.

  I wanted him to read its contents before he left for France and, if he could be persuaded, to wear the Talisman of Truth during his campaign against Philip.

  I arrived back in Portsmouth on May Day with the burgh in the midst of the ancient festival. The King was enjoying lunch with Queen Eleanor when I arrived; I was honoured that she spoke to me directly.

  ‘Sir Ranulf, I have heard how important you were to the King in Germany. I owe you as much as he does, which is a great deal.’

  ‘Ma’am, it is a privilege to serve you and the King.’

  ‘I hear that you are taking some time away from his retinue to begin a foundation in the north. Perhaps I could visit it one day. I have never been beyond the Welsh Marches, but the King tells me the weather can be unkind.’

  ‘Not to someone with your constitution, ma’am.’

  The Lionheart smiled at my fawning over his mother.

  ‘So, you have finally brought the casket?’

  ‘Yes, sire. I left it with your steward.’

  ‘I will look forward to reading it.’

  I knew that the King’s Latin was excellent, so I waited expectantly for several days in the hope that he had begun. I saw him daily as he busied himself, in his typically meticulous way, with every detail of the preparation of the fleet, but nothing was mentioned.

  He and his quartermasters counted every component of his siege engines. All the reams of quarrels and arrows were accounted for and loaded and every horse, soldier and sailor was placed on a roll call which was read every morning. I decided he was far too busy to spend hours reading two manuscripts of vellum as thick as a man’s thigh.

  But then, on 10 May, just two days before his embarkation, he summoned me to join him for dinner at the new hall he had had built at Portsmouth Harbour. To my surprise, the Dowager Queen was with him.

  ‘Ranulf, welcome; sit and eat with us.’

  Until the stewards cleared away the dishes, leaving us with just wine and cheese, normal conviviality ruled during the meal. Then his senior steward brought in the casket, placed it next to the King and opened its lid.

  ‘Well, my friend, I started these reluctantly; there are so many pages. It was only out of respect for Alun that I persevered. But, eventually, they became compelling.’

  ‘I know, sire; my Latin is not as good as yours, so I struggled to grasp the details.’

  ‘But you knew what they contained from Alun?’

  ‘Yes, but he was only able to impart the barest outline as he lay dying.’

  ‘I now understand why you and he drew such inspiration from these stories. They are remarkable.’

  ‘That is why I wanted you to read them before we went our separate ways.’

  ‘I have told the Queen the gist of what these pages contain.’

  She looked at me sternly.

  ‘Sir Ranulf, who else knows what is in the manuscripts?’

  I decided not to mention the two young Tuscan monks sworn to secrecy at the monastery of Sant’Antimo.

  ‘Just the three of us, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, that is how it must remain.’

  I felt the strength in her that overpowered everyone who met her. Her next question was typically shrewd.

  ‘Can we be sure the contents are a true account?’

  ‘I believe so, ma’am, there are too many worthy scribes involved for them to be false.’

  ‘I want the casket and its contents burned, but the King is prevailing upon me no
t to do so. He says they are too important to be destroyed.’

  The King was quick to offer reassurance.

  ‘Of course they are, mother. Earl Harold is my grandfather and I am a direct descendant of Hereward of Bourne, the bravest man this island has ever produced. We should be proud; apart from his courage here in England fighting the Conqueror, he fought with the Normans of Sicily, was Captain of the Emperor of Byzantium’s Varangian Guard and was a friend of El Cid.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Richard, but the stories in those manuscripts must never be told.’

  ‘Why not? Sweyn of Bourne, Earl Harold’s father and my great-grandfather, was one of the heroes of the First Crusade; he took the lance intended for Robert Curthose at the Battle of Tinchebrai!’

  ‘Yes, so you told me, but he conceived Earl Harold in the desert with Hereward’s daughter, Estrith, who was an Abbess of the Norman Church!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That makes him the bastard child of a nun and a peasant boy from Lincolnshire! Not only that: this account says that all three of Empress Matilda’s children were sired by Earl Harold, not by Geoffrey of Anjou.’

  The Queen’s point suddenly hit home with the King, whose judgement had become dulled by the excitement of his newly found lineage. He looked saddened.

  ‘Perhaps we should burn them, after all.’

  The Queen slammed closed the lid of the casket.

  ‘Of course we should. Not only was your grandfather a bastard, whose own grandfather’s English Brotherhood fought Norman rule until their dying breaths, but he cuckolded Geoffrey of Anjou and fathered Empress Matilda’s three sons, all of them bastards! One of whom was my husband and your father!’

  She was livid, furious that the purity of her noble blood had been sullied.

  ‘Our family is full of peasants and rebels! What’s worse, I’ve been tupped by one of them and have borne him eight children!’

  She drew a deep breath and calmed herself down. Then she looked the Lionheart in the eye.

  ‘Bastards don’t become kings any more; your legitimacy as ruler of this Empire could be challenged by all and sundry, if these pages were ever to be revealed.’

  The King looked forlorn.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. It appears that our great Plantagenet Empire is not even Plantagenet.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  My head was spinning by the time the King turned to me.

  ‘What do you think, my old friend? You’ve carried these secrets for long enough.’

  ‘It is difficult to answer, sire. England’s story means so much to me, and I am proud of what has been done by the men and women in those manuscripts.’

  The Queen flashed a mien of anger that was fierce enough to make a flower wilt.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Sir Ranulf. If I had my way, his head would come off and the secret would die with him!’

  The King stared into his goblet of wine and looked at his mother.

  ‘Worry not, Ranulf, the Queen doesn’t mean it. You are an old and trusted friend. I will think about it overnight. Come back tomorrow morning.’

  Although I was reassured by the King, I had no doubts that the Dowager Queen had meant exactly what she had said.

  I saw the King early the next day. He was already dashing around the harbour issuing orders with a dozen scribes, sappers and stewards in his wake.

  He took me to one side.

  ‘Ranulf, I need your trust in this. I have told the Queen that I have done the sensible thing and that the casket and its contents have been destroyed. However, I cannot bring myself to do it. It is my story and I care not a jot for my legitimacy as King or otherwise; let any man try to take this Empire from me. After all, there was no greater bastard than William the Conqueror. I want the manuscripts preserved so that one day, perhaps, the real story can be told.’

  ‘Sire, tell me what you want me to do and it will be done.’

  ‘My Senior Steward has wrapped the casket in plain sackcloth and put it on a good sumpter. Take it with you and when you lay the slab of your new altar at Negu’s priory, protect it well in lead and bury it deep in the ground. It matters not if it isn’t found for a thousand years, but one day the deeds of Hereward’s Brotherhood and Edgar’s Brethren will finally be revealed to all.’

  ‘Your third cousin would be thrilled to know of your decision.’

  ‘Is that my relation to Alun?’

  ‘Yes, your great-great-grandparents were brother and sister; Edgar the Aethling on Alun’s side and Margaret of Scotland on your side.’

  ‘Astonishing! You always said I would fall in love with England.’

  ‘Go safely, sire.’

  ‘Thank you. I go first to Bérengère; I’m afraid she is not well, and I fear she may not be able to give me an heir.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, my Lord.’

  ‘My mother says I should divorce her, but I am too fond of her for that.’

  ‘I will pray that all may be well.’

  ‘Thank you, we all pray for that.’

  ‘There is one more thing, sire.’

  I took out the leather pouch containing the Talisman of Truth.

  ‘I hoped you would wear this?’

  ‘I will, at all times and with great pride, my friend.’

  It was a moment of mixed emotions for me. I was elated and relieved that I had finally completed my mission for Earl Harold, but I was also saddened to think that my astonishing adventures at the right hand of the most noble and courageous man in Christendom were at an end.

  I also thought of Alun, at rest in what I hoped had become a place of beauty for him in Anatolia, cleansed of the horrors of his death. He would be so proud of the Lionheart, and so proud of England under his new reign.

  32. Bolton Priory

  I met Negu and her little band of brothers and sisters at Sandwich in early June 1194. She had brought Magnus, a very austere-looking prior who seemed to take his devotions very seriously, and in their wake, like a badelynge of ducklings, walked thirteen tonsured monks and nine wimpled nuns. All were under thirty years old and – other than the prior – were a good-humoured bunch.

  Negu was in good spirits and, thankfully, England was at its best for our journey, with long June days and warm sunshine, so I did not have to make excuses for the weather in the north. That would have to come later.

  The Lord of Bowland’s land by the Wharfe was a paradise. The river was wide and full of trout, and the meadows by its banks were flat and fertile. Its high ground extended on to wild moorland but was perfect for hardy upland sheep. Skipton, only five miles away, was a small, remote burgh, but it had a good market and a robust garrison to keep us safe from the occasional raiders who still roamed the wastes of the far north.

  We chose our ground for the priory’s buildings, and after employing local carpenters to build us temporary wooden buildings we began the process of buying stone and hiring masons. Good masons were not difficult to find, because many of the cathedrals and castles begun by the Normans two and three generations ago had now been finished, or were nearing completion.

  Negu brought a nest egg of geld from Germany, most of it given to her by local bishops who prized her charms. I had inherited a significant sum derived from the income of Earl Harold’s lands in Nottinghamshire. Roger de Lacy’s generosity continued, and he gave us a hundred pounds, while the Countess of Aumale donated thirty pounds and Hugh, the Castellan of Skipton, a further twenty pounds. By late October, the footings had been dug and the foundation level of local millstone grit was in place. It was a sight to behold, and we were very proud of it.

  The community of young Germans were happy in their new surroundings; they soon made themselves popular with the locals by bringing much-needed work and trade, and by offering vital succour for the sick and needy.

  I began the construction of a hall for myself on higher ground, to the north of the priory. But until it was ready, Negu and I enjoyed our trysts together in the seclusion of th
e nearby woods, or hidden in the gorse of the desolate moors. Our excuse was the search for medicinal herbs, but I was aware that this arrangement caused Negu some anguish, and she often reminded me that the subterfuge could not continue indefinitely.

  When the hall was completed, Negu felt that she could finally relinquish her obligation to her mentor, Hildegard, and to her order of nuns. She gave up her habit and renounced her vows in a solemn gathering of her Bolton community. Her companions understood her reasons, and there was only support and understanding from them.

  Freed from her obligations, we were able to rekindle the passion we had shared at our reunion in Rupertsberg. Becoming intimate again proved a delight; our couplings were not quite as frenetic as in the early months, but they were just as fulfilling.

  When we had first met, as young lovers, we were both finding our way in the world, using whatever gifts we had been granted to better ourselves, and our love was an all-consuming passion. Now, we had both achieved so much in life, and our rediscovered love was much more mature – still passionate, but based on the wisdom that comes with a lifetime of experience.

  Winter came and went, and the building work on the priory made rapid progress. The walls of the nave had risen to a height of almost four yards, and the community’s refectory and accommodation were nearing completion.

  In the summer of 1195, Geoffrey Plantagenet, Archbishop of York, the Lionheart’s illegitimate half-brother, came to bless the foundation stone of our altar.

  Before he arrived, Negu and I made our preparations to put Earl Harold’s precious casket to rest. Two nights before the service, we stayed up late, drank some wine, and then made our way to the place where the altar slab would be laid. I had borrowed one of the masons’ spades and, while Negu held a lantern, I dug a deep hole for the lead box and its casket and placed it in the earth.