by Angus Donald
The people were all gone — perhaps driven to take refuge in a local monastery, or even to swell the throngs of beggars in the stews of Paris, though I noticed a dozen fresh graves in the churchyard, and concluded that a few villagers must have lingered long enough to bury their dead before they departed. All the livestock had disappeared, too, perhaps taken by the villagers, perhaps driven off by the marauders.
The marauders: I knew who had done this. It was Mercadier’s work. I knew that they had passed through this area a few days previously. Was it a strike at me? Was Mercadier trying to punish me for being given this manor by Richard? It seemed slightly odd behaviour, even for a ruthless warlord like Mercadier, a little moon-crazed, to be honest. I had not been receiving the benefits of these lands before they had been despoiled, and I would not have any chance of garnering any profit from them now. But I had not been damaged by his actions; I would not miss revenues I had never received.
I sat in my saddle looking down at the half-burned carcass of an elderly nag that lay half in and half out of the charred remains of the stable block. What could Mercadier mean by this excess of destruction? Was he saying that I should never possess this land? Certainly, even if Philip’s borders were pushed back and I were to take on this manor, as the King intended, I would have to spend a good deal of silver to restore its fortunes; rebuilding the church alone could cost half what I received in a year from Westbury. And if the labouring people did not return, I would have to find villeins from somewhere to work the land; perhaps even parcel some of it out to freeholders. It did not seem worth the trouble. Yes, Mercadier’s actions seemed perplexing to me. What was he trying to achieve? Was he merely saying, by this destruction of a manor that might one day have been mine, that he hated me? It seemed so.
Chapter Twenty-five
I returned to Chateau-Gaillard to find Mercadier a hero, crowned with fresh laurels and riding even higher in our King’s favour. While I had been assaulting the insignificant castle of Milly, the mercenary had boldly attacked the mighty stronghold of Beauvais — the lair of Bishop Philip, a loyal Frenchman and sworn enemy of our King. And the grim-faced captain had even managed to capture the feisty Bishop of Beauvais, outside the walls in full armour, and bring him bound and furious to Chateau-Gaillard, where he had been promptly imprisoned in the deepest cellar. Capturing Richard’s enemy had been a stroke of good fortune; capturing him fully armed and helmeted for war meant that Richard could keep this high churchman imprisoned. And there was a satisfying symmetry to this coup, from Richard’s point of view. The Bishop had been responsible for the rumour half a dozen years before that Richard had ordered the assassination of the King of Jerusalem, a lie that had given the Holy Roman Emperor an excuse to keep the Lionheart in chains in Germany. Now it was the rumour-mongering Bishop of Beauvais who languished in chains.
King Richard gave a lavish feast in Mercadier’s honour, which I was obliged to attend, although mercifully I was not asked to perform my music. I caught my enemy’s eye as he sat at the right hand of the monarch, basking in his favour, and he grinned smugly at me. I smiled back, and politely inclined my head. And thought: I shall kill you one day — perhaps not today, perhaps not this year — but one day I shall surely give myself the pleasure of watching the spark of life being extinguished in your eyes.
In the weeks that followed, I spent a good deal of time working with my ten remaining Westbury men, training with them and taking them on mounted patrols around the neighbourhood of Chateau-Gaillard. King Philip’s men held the powerful castle of Gaillon only five miles to the south-west of Chateau-Gaillard and so the patrols had some purpose, not only in providing intelligence about enemy troop movements, but also in providing regular skirmishing practice for my men when we encountered enemy patrols. We had no orders to stay and fight and die, so we did not do battle a l’outrance, as the saying goes, when we encountered the enemy; we would try to ambush them occasionally, and they us, but if we were overmatched we exchanged a few cuts and cheerfully fled for our lives.
Two of my Westbury men particularly distinguished themselves that summer in Normandy: a tall, quick-witted lad called Christopher, whom we all called ‘Kit’ — who single-handedly killed a French knight with his lance in a melee, and Edwin, known as ‘Ox-head’ — a thick-bodied youth, immensely strong, with a large poll, as his name suggested, and a wide easy smile. Ox-head was a natural peace-maker in the troop but was a fearsome man in a fight, using his strength to batter down his opponents. But the natural leader, after me, was Thomas: it was he who forged these men over the course of the summer into a small but deadly fighting force.
We were, of course, differentiated from Robin’s men by our red surcoats, but we also kept ourselves apart from the bigger force of men in green, while maintaining cordial relations with them as best we could. Their hesitation at Milly had not been forgotten by my men, and it was much resented, although I had forbidden them to speak of it. And while Robin’s men outnumbered us ten to one, we began to feel that we were a superior force: tight-knit, hard-fighting, disciplined and well trained — for I made sure that we exercised in arms together every day, rain or shine, in the courtyard of Chateau-Gaillard. I was proud of them.
That summer the war went Richard’s way almost entirely: he captured Dangu, a small castle only four miles from Gisors — during which, it must be said, Robin’s men fought heroically under their silver-eyed lord — and we all had a sense that the frontier between Normandy and the French King’s possessions was being pushed back towards its rightful location. At one point, Richard’s furthest scouts were able to make a quick raid on the outskirts of Paris — although, in truth, like rabbits they merely robbed a few vegetable gardens and scampered away when King Philip sent a sizeable force of knights to confront them. But we were winning the war in the north, and we all knew it.
Richard was also making great strides in his diplomatic struggle, as well. He had forged a lasting peace with his old enemy in the south, Raymond, Count of Toulouse, whose father and grandfather, encouraged by the French, had plagued the House of Aquitaine in their most southerly dominions. In July, we had the honour at Chateau-Gaillard of a visit from Baldwin, Count of Flanders. He was a handsome man; tall, fair of face, with a soldier’s carriage and a straight, honest gaze. In the presence of Count Robert of Meulan, William of Caieux and Hugh of Gournay, all of whom had recently abandoned the French King and come over to Richard’s side, the Count of Flanders signed a formal treaty with our King stating that neither would make peace with Philip without the other’s consent. In exchange, the Count received a ‘gift’ from King Richard of five thousand marks.
The French King now faced enemies to his north and west, and it was not long before Baldwin of Flanders made good his pledges to Richard and invaded Artois, besieging the French-held castle of Arras. Philip’s vigorous response surprised almost everybody. The French King replied with massive force, first striking west, retaking Dangu, and pushing back Richard’s forces in Normandy, then surging north to relieve Arras. We had all perhaps been too confident of victory — Richard was in the south in the county of Berry with the bulk of the army when Philip struck and one hot morning in August I found myself looking east from the battlements of Chateau-Gaillard to see a huge French army below me — hundreds of knights, thousands of men; I could even see a fleur-de-lys fluttering from a knot of horsemen to the rear of the force.
However, Philip had no intention of besieging the saucy castle; he was just trying, once again, to intimidate us, to keep us penned in Chateau-Gaillard while he planned his attack against Baldwin. And he succeeded: with Richard and Mercadier in the south, we had not the man-power to engage his army, and Robin, who was Constable of the castle in the King’s absence, ordered us to stay put behind its walls. ‘You do not exchange a position of strength for one of weakness,’ he told me one night over a cup of wine in his chamber at the top of the north tower in the inner bailey. ‘Philip cannot stay outside our walls for long, and we canno
t sally out and attack him without courting disaster. Besides, our orders are to hold this castle. Richard is storming through Berry and the Auvergne — I’ve had word that half a dozen castles in the south have fallen to him. And Baldwin is at Arras, in the north, which will fall to him soon enough, if it is not relieved. Philip cannot stay here.’
So we did nothing. As Robin had predicted, Philip soon departed and, in a series of swift marches, covered the hundred or so miles north-east to Arras, relieved the beleaguered garrison and pushed Baldwin’s troops back almost as far as Flanders. But in his blind fury, and driven by an ardent wish to punish Baldwin for his disloyalty, Philip fell into the Flemish trap. The French advanced, but Baldwin’s troops retreated ahead of him, burning the crops, driving livestock before them, and destroying the bridges after they had been crossed — and behind Philip’s army, too. It was no doubt a cunning manoeuvre on Baldwin’s part, but I could not but remember the destruction at Clermont-sur-Andelle and wonder what the ruined peasants of Flanders would eat this coming winter with their crops and livestock gone. Still, it was no business of mine, and Philip’s men, deprived of food and forced to forage from a barren landscape, began slowly to starve. The French king was being humiliated, and we rejoiced at the news.
Now facing disaster, Philip tried to make a separate truce with Baldwin, which would have allowed him to extricate his men from Flanders and unleash them on Normandy, but that steadfast prince of the Lowlands showed his rectitude: the noble lord remained true to his agreement with Richard and resolutely refused to parley with the French heralds.
It was a summer of war, a summer of victory, but like all good things it had to come to an end. Richard’s men had been covering themselves with glory in Berry, and Baldwin’s had fought the French to a standstill in Flanders, but when the King of England and that honest Flemish Count met in Rouen in September, it was to discuss the terms of the truce they would jointly make with Philip. The war was not over; Philip had merely been hemmed in, his borders shrunk in the north, the west and the south, but it was the time of year for all combatants to take a breath, and rest their limbs in the cold months of autumn and winter.
‘Next year,’ said Richard jovially, ‘next year, Blondel, we shall take Gisors, and once that is back in our hands, the whole of the Vexin shall be mine. Next year, God willing, I shall regain my entire patrimony from that French thief.’
I had been entertaining the King and his senior barons in the audience room at Chateau-Gaillard, and when the rest had retired the King had asked me to stay behind and play something solely for him. There was but one choice: ‘My Joy Summons Me’ — a piece that I had played under the walls of Ochsenfurt in Bavaria and, by his response to it, from a high cell in one of the towers of the city, I had located my captive King when he was in the hands of his mortal enemy Duke Leopold of Austria.
I had expected the King to join me in singing some of the verses — after all, he had written the alternate ones — but while I played my vielle and sang, he stayed mute, watching me with his eyes half-closed, a smile on his lips. When I had finished, he repeated one of the verses, the third one that I had written, quietly in his normal speaking voice:
‘ A lord has one obligation
Greater than love itself
Which is to reward most generously
The knight who serves him well…’
We sat in silence for a moment and then my King said: ‘Well, Blondel, you have served me well — I cannot deny that. You served me well in the German lands, and at Nottingham, and at Verneuil, too — and the Marshal tells me that you were the first man over the wall at Milly. Tell me truly, have I been a generous lord to you?’
I did not hesitate for a moment. ‘Yes, sire,’ I said.
‘Your master, my lord of Locksley, does not seem to think I am a generous lord. He complains that the lands I have given him are in French hands, and says that he will never live to enjoy them. What say you?’
I thought about Clermont-sur-Andelle, now destroyed. ‘We all live by the fortunes of war, sire, and the will of God. I think He does not mean me to enjoy Clermont.’
‘That is a good answer, Blondel,’ said my King, and he laughed. ‘When this war is over you shall have more and better lands to compensate you for Clermont — or if you choose, I shall give you the necessary silver to repair the ravages done to it.’
I bowed my head. ‘That is most generous, sire,’ I said. And I meant it. But the King was still speaking: ‘Robert of Locksley, however, does not feel that I have been open-handed. Now that the truce has been signed, he has requested that I allow him to leave my side and go off on some sort of treasure hunt — I do not fully grasp the details, but it seems he wishes to go to the Duke of Burgundy’s lands in pursuit of some fantastical object of miraculous provenance and exceedingly great value. And I am not minded to refuse him.’
The Grail, I thought, with no little shock. Robin is seeking the Grail. But the King was still in mid-flow. ‘Locksley too has served me well and I must grant him this request. However, it does mean that I cannot spare you. I cannot have all my knights departing before the ink is dry on the treaty. Some must remain to garrison the castles or, truce or no truce, Philip will be beating down all the doors in Normandy. I know that you had wished to return to England to marry your sweetheart — a commendable desire, I am sure; my mother the Queen has met the lady concerned and tells me that she is a most beauteous, mild and charming creature’ — not when her anger is roused, I thought privately, but said nothing — ‘and I understand that she is an orphan, and a ward of the Countess of Locksley. Therefore, I propose that, with your agreement, when we have pushed Philip out of these lands, I should give the lady in marriage to you — with a suitable dowry, of course, of, say, a hundred pounds in silver!’
The King searched my face, and I could see that he was enjoying the look of surprise and joy he saw on it. A hundred pounds in silver — it was a great fortune, without a doubt; I could rebuild Clermont, if I wished, or purchase a far bigger, richer manor in England. But there was more.
‘I want you here at Chateau-Gaillard,’ said the King, ‘holding the place for me as the Constable. I shall be coming and going, but you will have the responsibility in the next few months for my fair castle on the rock. Will you do that for me, Blondel?’
I would be the Constable of the greatest castle in Normandy, a position of vast honour and responsibility — and all that the King desired in exchange was that I postpone my wedding for a while. I bowed once again, and said: ‘You are truly a most generous lord.’
I found Robin in his chamber in the north tower reading from a leather-bound book, seated at a table piled high with parchments and scrolls. I knocked and entered and Robin barely glanced up from his book but waved a hand vaguely at a tray on a sideboard with a flagon of wine on it and several cups. I poured myself a drink and one for Robin too and waited patiently while he finished the page he was reading.
‘What did he offer you?’ my lord said, laying down the book. I was slightly taken aback by Robin’s bluntness.
‘A hundred pounds in silver and the post of Constable of this castle.’
‘Constable, that’s good. Did he say when he would give you the silver?’
‘He offered to give Goody to me in marriage — and to let me have the money as a dowry. When we have retaken all Normandy, he will personally bless our union.’
Robin grinned. ‘That’s our Richard. He would always rather promise money to be paid at some future date than hand over the cash here and now. But well done, Alan!’
I said nothing for a few moments. Then: ‘So you are going to Burgundy?’
‘Yes, I’m going to see this fellow’ — he tapped the book in front of him — ‘Robert de Boron, a knight who serves the Seigneur de Montfaucon. Reuben knows him, apparently — our friend has excellent connections down there — and has arranged a meeting in Avignon, which is close by.’
‘What’s the book about?’
‘It’s about Joseph of Arimathea, that blessed man who entombed the crucified body of Our Saviour Jesus Christ.’
I gave Robin a look, and he stared straight back at me, his expression grave and humble. I knew that look: Robin was trying to appear sincere. I could not help myself: I laughed. Robin joined me, chuckling and shaking his head.
‘You know why I’m going,’ he said, ‘don’t you?’
‘You want the Grail.’
He nodded.
‘In God’s name, why?’
‘I can’t fully explain. I’ve been thinking about it almost constantly since you first mentioned it to me. I could tell you that it is the most fabulous treasure in the world, an object worth a county at least, and that’s why I want it. I could say that I long to possess the vessel that Christ drank from and which held his sacred blood — but I think you would laugh at me again. I could say that owning it would make me the most powerful man in Christendom; and that taking it away from a gang of renegade Templars would give me enormous satisfaction. I could say that I have had enough of Richard’s endless petty wars and I need a new and better task to fulfil me. And all of that would be partially true. But the honest answer is, I want it, I want it with all my heart — and I will have it.’ Robin’s eyes were shining with a passion I’d not seen in years.
‘You realize that it is probably just an old bowl?’
‘That may well be. Still, I must have it.’
‘So what are your plans?’
‘I’m heading south — tomorrow, actually. I am going to Avignon to meet this Robert de Boron. He writes with authority on the Grail, and I am sure he must know more than he has written. After that, I will go on to stay with Reuben in Montpellier, then through the county of Toulouse towards the Pyrenees. I’m not sure where the trail will lead. We will see what I can discover. The scraps of evidence that I have managed to gather’ — he waved a hand at the piles of parchment on the table — ‘all seem to indicate that the legends began down there. And the Master was originally from those parts, too, if I recall rightly.’
