Anarchy

by Stewart Binns

  I learned several things about women in Martigny, the most lasting of which was the simple observation that, shorn of their badges of identity – their distinct languages, their forms of dress and their local mores – girls from all over Europe were no different from the girls I had known in Norwich. We were using them and they were using us; it was a shallow exchange, but not a transaction between equals. A life of adventure still awaited us, but for them it was an interlude that was unlikely ever to be repeated.

  After a life under the strict control of their parents, they would soon enter a regime of devotion and servitude where temporal pleasures would be forbidden under pain of damnation. Like the young women of Norwich, most of whom could look forward to nothing more than an impoverished life of drudgery, the young girls we met had been given no choice in determining their future.

  Although I felt sorry that their lot was not as propitious as mine, it did not of course prevent me from helping them enjoy their brief respite of freedom.

  We would have tarried longer before traversing the Great Pass of St Bernard, down into Aosta, capital city of the lands of Amadeus III, Count of Savoy, but the snows of the winter of 1116 were almost upon us. I decided that we would make the crossing, then replenish our supplies in Aosta before seeing out the winter in Venice, from where we could board a ship to Constantinople in the spring.

  Venice was a sight to behold: its palaces, churches and marketplaces seemed to float on the sea, most of its thoroughfares were waterways, and transport was undertaken by barge or small flat-bottomed paddleboat. The few areas of dry land that had not been built on formed small markets in front of churches, or narrow walkways between buildings. Despite its unusual architecture, Venice was a mighty power. It controlled the Adriatic and much of the Mediterranean beyond, and its income from commerce and trade made it as rich a city as any in the world.

  Venice was not ruled by a sovereign but by the Doge, the military leader of the city, who was elected for life by its elders. When we arrived in January 1117, the Doge was a fascinating man called Ordelafo Faliero – a warrior of some repute who I decided was a man worth meeting. I set about trying to find a way of gaining an audience.

  The key to Venice’s power was its Arsenale, a huge fortified shipyard dedicated to building its enormous navy. All the finest maritime craftsmen in the Mediterranean flocked to the Arsenale to perfect their skills. Although the five of us possessed not an iota of naval skill between us, the Arsenale seemed like the best place to make a name for ourselves. Language was also a problem. Venetians spoke Veneto, a tongue hard to fathom, while educated men used Greek rather than Latin in sophisticated circles, so communication was difficult. All the same, I was determined to meet the esteemed Doge and learn as much as I could from the enterprising Venetians.

  We found lodgings close to the Arsenale and it took me a couple of days to devise a plan. I put it to my companions over a flask of the dark red wine favoured by the locals.

  ‘Gentlemen, we are going to present ourselves as aspiring marines for the Doge’s navy.’

  I had recently decided to drop formalities within our close-knit band of brothers and allowed them to call me by my Christian name, which soon became abbreviated to ‘Hal’.

  Eadmer made the obvious point in response to my bold suggestion.

  ‘Hal, you are not yet a dubbed knight and not yet nineteen. How will we get accepted?’

  ‘Leave that to me. We English have a good reputation as warriors, Wulfric and Toste are excellent shots with the bow, and my sword arm is strong. Eadmer, you are a very experienced soldier, I will rely on you a lot.’

  ‘I can fight too.’

  As always, Alric was keen to fight rather than be a cook and groom.

  ‘Of course you can.’ I looked at the four of them. I knew they were not convinced. ‘I’ve decided that I will win my knight’s pennon here, rather than with the Normans. I want to be made a Knight of Venice and be dubbed by the Doge. I’m impressed by what I hear of him; I think he would be a good man to serve.’

  Eadmer’s unease was escalating.

  ‘But we have no experience at sea. And besides that, I get seasick – and so does Toste.’

  ‘You’ll get over it.’

  Eadmer was beginning to lose his self-control.

  ‘Look, Hal, you could get us all killed. I made a promise to your mother to keep you safe. The plan was to go to one of the Latin Princes in the Holy Land, where you could continue your training as a knight. Not to join an army, and certainly not one that fights on water!’

  I decided it was time for me to assert my authority. This was something I had rarely done with my amiable companions before.

  ‘Firstly, my mother is not here, you are in service to me. Secondly, I’ve made my decision. And I expect you to respect it.’

  I looked Eadmer in the eye. I tried not to blink or waver in any way; he had to know that I meant what I said. With that, I walked away, leaving my companions to ponder my words. I had only made three steps when Eadmer called after me.

  ‘Hal, you are right, we are in your service and paid to do as we’re bid. But don’t get us killed.’

  I hesitated for barely a moment, but decided not to answer and walked on. I had made a big decision, based on my instinct that, despite the fact that almost everything about Venice was alien to me, the city and its Doge would be part of my destiny. The question was: did I have the stomach to meet that destiny?

  The man I needed to convince about our credentials was Raphael of Pesaro, Master of the Arsenale of Venice. A large man with a neatly trimmed black beard, flecked with grey, he was responsible for the daily running of the Arsenale, as well as the recruitment of men to guard Venice’s trading vessels. I left my companions in our lodgings, cleaned up my weapons and clothes, trimmed my somewhat youthful beard and made my way to the Arsenale, the most powerful military establishment in the Mediterranean.

  I felt I looked the part. I was fortunate that I could afford quality weapons: my knight’s sword and battle-axe gleamed in the sunlight, and both were tooled with the elaborate designs of a man of substance. Battle-axes, the main weapon of my English kith and kin, had been abandoned since the Conquest, the Normans believing the sword a more chivalrous weapon for a knight. Nevertheless, I carried mine with pride, in tribute to my grandfather’s legendary weapon, the Great Axe of Göteborg. Mine was a single-bladed one-handed axe, not the double-headed mammoth that Hereward had wielded. I also carried my family colours on my shield: the gules, sable and gold of my grandfather and the English revolt of 1069.

  My mother had described my grandfather’s helmet to me many times. I had made sure that, when it came time for me to have my own helmet made, it matched her description of it as closely as possible: made in quarter-plates of iron, joined by reinforced bronze bands, it had a domed top with nose and eyepieces shaped to fit tightly to the face. On its front, from the tip of the nose guard to the dome, ran a piece of highly polished bronze, elegantly chased with runic swirls.

  I also wore fine leather knee-high boots, another legacy passed on by family tradition from my grandfather’s days in Sicily. Made for me by a cordwainer in Norwich from a design supplied by my mother, they made a distinctive clatter on the sett stone approach to the gates of the Arsenale.

  My knightly garb and weaponry made it relatively easy for me to pass the guards to the great Venetian dockyard and I was soon striding purposefully across what seemed like an infinite expanse of moorings, timber, rigging and sail. There were all manner of pulleys, hoists, blocks and capstans hauling weights; myriad artisans and craftsmen toiled at their tasks, and the incessant squawk of gulls conflicted with the rhythmic din of the labour of thousands of men.

  The Veneti
an galley was not just a vessel for trade; it was also a fearsome man-o’-war. The larger vessels had upper and lower decks of oarsmen, as well as a mainsail and sails fore and aft. They also had a body of professional marines to keep the pirates at bay. These larger ships usually acted as escorts to fleets of smaller cargo ships that were similar in design but smaller and lighter and with only one deck of oars. It was service on the larger war triremes that seemed to offer me the best chance for adventure and military experience.

  After finding a Norman shipwright who was fluent in Veneto to act as interpreter, I made my approach to Raphael of Pesaro. I thought I sounded convincing about my suitability to mount a marine escort to a Venetian galley, but the Master of the Arsenale took a different view.

  ‘Young sir, you are not much more than a boy. Come back in five years when that bum-fluff on your face has grown into a beard!’

  He laughed as he spoke, and the artisans and stevedores around him sniggered with him.

  ‘But, Magister, I have fought with King Henry Beauclerc in Wales. And my men are fine soldiers. Do not insult me or my noble family.’

  My challenge made Raphael change his tone to one that was even more disparaging.

  ‘Henry Beauclerc – who’s he? And Wales? Never heard of it. A land of woodchoppers and sheep-shaggers by the look of that peasant’s axe you’re carrying.’

  ‘My axe is a family tradition. My grandfather was Godwin of Ely, Captain of the Varangian Guard of the Emperor Alexius.’

  Although I was reluctant to use my grandfather’s reputation to gain favour, I had little choice but to use it to persuade Raphael to take me seriously.

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that? I saw this man once, many years ago in Bari. He was a huge blond man, and his axe was the biggest weapon I’d ever seen. And it was double-bladed.’

  ‘He was the only one who could use it effectively. My axe is the more typical single-blade design, but I am very proficient with it. As for my appearance, my grandmother, mother and father were all dark; they had the ancient Celtic blood of Old Britain.’

  Raphael moved closer and stared at me. He was taller than I was, and broader at the shoulders, but I remained resolute.

  ‘How many men do you have?’

  ‘Three and a groom.’

  ‘Is that all? Not much of a retinue for such an important knight!’

  He started to smirk again.

  ‘Magister, I travel light. I am going to serve the Latin Princes in the Holy Land, which is not a place to try to provision a large force of men.’

  ‘What do you know of the Holy Land?’

  ‘My father and mother fought there, at Antioch and Jerusalem, with Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy, and Edgar the Atheling, Prince of the English.’

  ‘Your mother was a knight? That’s not possible, boy.’

  ‘It is in Islam. My mother was knighted by Ibn Hamed, Emir of Calatafimi, when she and my father fought for him and Roger of Sicily at the Battle of Mazara. I am Harold of Hereford, Knight of England. I stopped being called “boy” when I won my knight’s pennon on my eighteenth birthday.’

  I had told a blatant lie about my knight’s pennon, but I was beyond the point of no return and threw caution to the wind. Raphael stared at me even more intently.

  ‘That is impressive; you certainly talk the talk of a knight. Do you have a testimonial from your lord?’

  ‘No, Magister. I had to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, I had a dalliance with someone in my lord’s household.’

  Another lie of course, but one born of desperation. By his demeanour, Raphael of Pesaro looked like the kind of man who was rather too fond of female company and I gambled that an infidelity at court might win me some esteem in his eyes.

  ‘Was she worth it?’

  ‘Yes, she was. But it got me into murky waters.’

  ‘Your lord’s daughter?’

  ‘No, his mistress.’

  The belligerent expression on his face softened as he thought about what I had told him.

  ‘Why do women go for skinny dogs like you? Can’t understand it.’

  He smiled. My gambit had worked; there is nothing like male vanity.

  ‘Can you and your men use a bow? All our marine cohorts have to be experts in the bow. It is most effective against pirates.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Archery is a great tradition in my country.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the land of the woodchoppers! Where is your bow now?’

  ‘With my men at our lodgings.’

  ‘Very well, come back tomorrow with your men and your weapons and we will see how well you measure up to your boasts and the pedigree of your family.’

  ‘Thank you, Magister.’

  As I walked back to give the news to the others, I was delighted that I had got as far as I had. But when I told the others, they were less than enthusiastic. Eadmer had a look of horror on his face, but it was Toste who spoke first.

  ‘So you told them you are already a knight?’

  ‘I did. It was only a small lie.’

  Wulfric spoke next.

  ‘It sounds like a big one to me. What could be bigger?’

  ‘I also told him that we had to leave Norwich because I had been tupping the Earl’s mistress.’

  All four of them looked at me incredulously. Alric tried to make light of it.

  ‘Well, that’s not too bad. You could have told him that you were an earl and had been humping the Queen.’

  None of them smiled at his attempt at whimsy. Eadmer was still frowning.

  ‘Hal, you know it is an offence to pass yourself off as a knight. The punishment would be severe in England, I’m sure it is the same here.’

  ‘I know. But when the Doge makes me a knight, it won’t matter.’

  ‘I thought you followed the Mos Militum and its code of honour: truth and justice, in all things?’

  ‘I do! But needs must. My family found its destiny beyond England’s shores, and that’s what I intend to do.’

  ‘Hal, the Master is obviously going to put us to the test tomorrow, but how?’

  ‘I don’t know. Archery for sure. He didn’t mention anything else.’

  ‘So we’re in a foreign land being tested as marines – something entirely alien to us – by people who think we’re barbarians. Is there any good news?’

  ‘Yes, of course! We’ll pass with flying colours and be on a galley to the Levant on the next tide.’

  My glibness did not seem to impress them. Eadmer just stood up and walked away sullenly, leaving the others to stare at me wide-eyed.

  The next day, in a perfect example of Eadmer’s loyalty and professionalism, the men were ready in excellent order for their ordeal. Their discipline also helped fortify me. I had not spent the most comfortable of nights coming to terms with what I had let my companions and myself in for.

  Raphael of Pesaro was in a more generous mood when we arrived. He had gathered a small group of marines and men, who he introduced to us as his training officers. I could sense that these men had been told that the morning might be entertaining, with an adolescent English knight making a fool of himself in a futile attempt to join Venice’s renowned corps of marines. Our Norman interpreter looked uncomfortable, which only added to my apprehension.

  ‘So, Harold of Hereford, to the bow. First, six arrows each from your quivers. Your target is over there on the other side of the dock – the large mooring post in the middle.’

  The post was about seventy yards away, so demanded a flatter trajectory than our usual aerial tactic. But, at about a foot wide, it was relatively easy to hit. The wind was light and our aim good: from our twenty-four arrows, we had thirteen hits and most of t
he rest were very close. There were nods of approval from the Master’s retinue.

  The arrows were brought back to us and Raphael issued another challenge.

  ‘The four of you shooting together, four volleys. Your target is that patch of dry ground in the empty dock area beyond the furthest quay.’

  The area was almost 200 yards away, a target distance much more like the one we would use in battle. Using our English stance, we launched our volleys high into the air at an acute angle. The Master and his men seemed impressed as each volley landed in unison with increasing accuracy, all within a few yards of one another.

  ‘I can see you prefer to shoot at distance. That is good – we have crossbowmen for close-quarters battle. Now let us see what you are like in combat.’

  We were then led to a large open courtyard, which was immediately recognizable as a military training area. There were stacks of weapons all around the perimeter, and in the middle various combat mannequins were being vigorously assaulted by trainees with swords and maces. The rhythmic clamour of orders being barked, the war cries of the trainees, the clash of steel on steel and the thud of metal on wood created a strange sort of bellicose harmony. It fell silent as soon as the Duel Master shouted the order, ‘Cease!’