Al-Malik, already drenched in blood and only semi-conscious, was dragged into the citadel’s main square and tied to a column in the marketplace. A hot iron was prepared which Hugh de Payens brandished – with a relish unbecoming the Grand Master of a brotherhood of good men – before proceeding to take out the Emir’s eyes. He was then cut down and made to kneel in front of the Grand Master, who raised his sword high above his head and cried: ‘Go to your god to face his wrath and know that this is the punishment for anyone who defiles the children of the true God.’ To my shame, our Grand Master then started to hack at the neck of the Emir until he had detached it from his body. It was an act a merciful executioner would have accomplished in one or two blows, but which Hugh de Payens took at least a dozen ham-fisted attempts to achieve.
Despite the brutality, the men of the army roared their approval – so much so that, in the weeks that followed, Jerusalem saw long queues of knights wanting to enlist as Knights Templar. I looked at the King, who had a troubled expression.
He had unleashed a beast in this man; I hoped he could contain it.
Fulham Palace, 15 February 1187
Dear Thibaud,
Another Sabbath today and the warmth of the sun is on our backs. Winter is nearly over, and I think the worst has passed.
I find it fascinating that over sixty years after the events Harold has described in so much detail, the same names and places are still part of the story of the Holy Land. More crusades, yet another Baldwin as King of Jerusalem. Cities fall and are retaken; it goes on and on. And we’re only a few years away from the hundredth anniversary of the First Crusade.
Surely the great religions can live together? Do the Muslims not accept Christ as a great prophet? Could we not accept their prophet, Mohammed, in the same way?
But perhaps that’s heresy. I crave your indulgence, my friend, for the musings of an old priest; don’t tell your friends in the Vatican.
I enclose another bulletin for you. Harold’s story continues, and his destiny takes him to far-flung places. He has an important pilgrimage to make, back to Hereward’s mountain lair in the Peloponnese. His journey there will reaffirm his stubborn streak of Englishness – he is a tenacious young man! – and enable him to close the circle of his family’s history.
Yours in God,
Gilbert
15. Aquitaine
When the dust of the desert began to settle, Eadmer and I began to talk once more about our future with the Order. Like me, he understood the life of a warrior, but when it became mixed with the passions of religious faith, he was at a loss to understand what was expected of him.
He was clear about our next move.
‘Let us retrieve our purse in Antioch, travel to Aquitaine to see if you can claim your family inheritance, and then journey home to Norwich. You could buy an estate for your mother to retire to – and I could buy a farm and settle down.’
‘Eadmer, I doubt that you will ever settle down. But if you do, I wager it won’t be for many years yet.’
Our discussions about the future continued through the summer of 1124, a period that passed without incident, during which we spent most of our time training new recruits to the Order. Then, in August, we were called to the King’s Great Hall in Jerusalem to meet with Hugh de Payens, the other founding members of the Order and a few of the recent senior recruits. The King presided over the meeting, but it was the Grand Master who did all the talking.
‘Brothers, I have some excellent news. His Majesty King Baldwin II, Lord of Jerusalem, has agreed to join our Order as an honorary lay member. He will not take the same vows, but he has pledged his lifelong support to us and to our mission.’
There was applause from all the brothers. Ceremonial embraces were exchanged with the King before Hugh continued.
‘I am also honoured to tell you that our Order has reached the second stage of its life – our coming of age. Where we were once a handful, we are now a legion. We cannot any longer rely on the generosity of the King’s Exchequer; we must earn our own way in life. Godfrey will stay here to continue our work in the Holy Land, but I will travel to Rome to seek recognition from His Holiness and be granted the honour of being placed under his direct authority.’
I glanced at the King at that point and saw him move uneasily in his chair.
‘The rest of you will travel throughout Europe to build our own Templar foundations and communities. We need land, we need money, we need weapons and armour – we need to be independent and in charge of our own destinies. Find benefactors; recruit lords and bishops to our cause; build churches, farms and granaries; train churchwrights, artisans and craftsmen who can create homes for our brothers to live in and chapels for them to worship in. We will function like the great monasteries – they will be our model.’
The Grand Master looked at us all with the intensity that was his mark. It was as if he was the Saviour himself sending his fishermen disciples to be ‘fishers of men’.
‘Do this in the name of our Brotherhood, The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ of the Temple of Solomon. Amen.’
Eadmer and I had been given our passage out of the Holy Land – without having to confront our problems with the Order or examine our increasing misgivings over the behaviour of our leader.
We tried not to leave in too much haste. But within a few days we had made our way to Antioch where, in clear breach of our code, we retrieved our money from the moneylenders. We packed away our Templar’s garb and sat in one of the city’s many taverns in the lee of its walls and enjoyed a flask of Cypriot wine.
We were unsure how to deal with the task with which we had been charged – especially as the Grand Master expected that I would concentrate on spreading the Templar gospel to England. Given that we had already determined to travel to Aquitaine to visit my grandfather’s family home in the Lot, we agreed that a decision about our future as Templars could wait for a while. We bought new clothes and armour – more befitting chivalrous warriors of some standing – and set sail for Narbonne, following in the footsteps of my family.
In Narbonne, we bought sturdy Norman destriers from a trader with stables in the shadow of the Cathedral of St Justus and St Pastor, then headed north and west via Carcassonne to Toulouse. It was late September and the first autumn rains had freshened Aquitaine’s parched earth following a long hot Mediterranean summer. The fields were full of peasants harvesting the black grapes of the countless vineyards, and gathering the prune plums for which the region was renowned.
But there were also many abandoned farms and deserted villages, and we had frequent encounters with soldiers in full armour travelling along the roads. We soon learned that Toulouse and Poitiers had been at war for several years and that, after recent success, the Count of Toulouse had now turned his attention to a confrontation with Provence.
I thought about home. Although England had to live with the heavy hand of Norman rule, at least it was at peace. Life was far from pleasant for many, and the Normans were still harsh foreign rulers; nevertheless, they brought order and security, something I felt sure the good people of Aquitaine would relish in their current circumstances. I remained committed to the cause of England’s freedom, but realized that any future struggle for the rightful heritage of our people would come at a high price. The Normans had been there too long; their fortifications were too powerful; their presence was permanent; and the outcome of any future fight for justice would have to involve an unlikely compromise that accommodated the Norman minority as well as the English majority. In some ways, I was relieved that any potential conflict seemed to be a distant prospect.
Toulouse was one of Europe’s leading centres of moneylending and fina
nce. Counts, kings and popes would raise money there, and traders would travel from all over the region to its thriving markets. The usurers were easy to find – mainly Jews or Lombards, they occupied both sides of the main street leading to the Cathedral of St Sernin.
Our promissory note bore the name ‘Jakob il Ebreo di Siena’. It was dated and promised in the name of ‘Edwin of Glastonbury’ – my grandfather’s standard-bearer and member of his extended family, who was killed in battle on the Great Crusade. Everyone in Toulouse seemed to know Jakob the Jew of Siena and we were soon sitting at his exchange table as he unfolded our note.
He did not speak for a long while. A man of some age, with a long white beard and shock of hair under his kippa hat and long robe, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper as he held the faded piece of vellum to the light.
When he finally spoke, his accent betrayed his roots in the County of Tuscany.
‘This is a lot of geld, my friend. But you are not Edwin of Glastonbury. I remember him well; he was a fair young Englishman. Are you his son?’
‘No, I am Harold of Hereford, the son of Sweyn of Bourne – a sworn brother of Edwin. He and my family had an estate near Cahors, at a place called St Cirq Lapopie. It originally belonged to my grandfather, Hereward of Bourne.’
‘I know the estate well, and the famous English family who owned it. The estate has been sold several times since Edwin came to me and is now abandoned again …’
The old man paused, sensing an opportunity. His eyes widened.
‘Perhaps you would like to buy it and return it to prosperity. You have more than enough money here.’
‘Perhaps I will, but I think I would rather have the geld.’
Jacob the Jew handed the note back to me and passed a flask of wine across the table.
‘Let me go and get you a price. Drink some wine. I will only take the smallest of commissions, just a token amount.’
I did some thinking: our money from Antioch was already substantial, and it made good sense to safeguard our assets in land rather than carry money around. Also, I relished the thought of persuading my mother to retire from her labours in Norwich and live in a place that had meant so much to her father and her extended family. I made an impulsive decision, but one that was very appealing.
Jacob was back within thirty minutes. The wily old fox looked stern for a moment, then broke into a smile.
‘Listen, I will offer you a bargain. With the interest over the years, I owe you eleven pounds and sixteen shillings of silver. But I can get you the estate for seven bezants. So I will give you three bezants in gold and a pound of silver.’
‘And the rest?’
‘My commission, good sir.’
‘You said a token!’
‘It is a hard bargain, but I will add another six shillings.’
‘I’m sure you will also take a commission on the sale of the estate, so you should give me eight.’
‘It’s robbery of a poor old Jew of course, but as you are a worthy knight bringing money to Aquitaine, I’ll give you seven.’
I shook his hand.
I was never sure whether my impetuous investment was a bargain or a swindle, but it gave me a great sense of satisfaction to know that the home that had been so precious to my mother once more belonged to my family.
It took us over a week to reach St Cirq Lapopie, a place that my mother had described to me many times. She talked about the mighty River Lot meandering its way through a deep valley beneath high limestone crags. She told me about the rows upon rows of vines that yield the region’s famous black wine, its acres of plum trees and its endless forests of truffle oaks and walnuts. When we had finished the long climb from the valley floor, I surveyed the landscape that my family had fallen in love with all those years ago. It was indeed idyllic.
Eadmer and I spent the rest of 1124 and the early months of the following year rebuilding the derelict farmhouse and recruiting local peasants to work the fields. We cleared the ground around the graves of the family plot and carved headstones for each of them. It was hard toil, but worth it, as the estate gradually began to regain the prosperity it must have enjoyed in its heyday.
I decided to give Eadmer a share of the estate in recognition of our friendship. My loyal companion seemed content, despite the fact that he was born to be a soldier. He seemed to mellow in the warm climate of the Lot and began to sing to himself and write his own ballads. He had a good voice and learned many tunes from the local itinerant troubadours of the area.
We lived well, enjoyed good hunting, entertained some of the local girls from time to time and slowly began to master the local language. Ultimately, the temptation to make the Lot a permanent home became more and more real. Spring came and we began to see the fruits of our efforts. The earth warmed and nature sprouted in abundance.
The following year produced an even better harvest; by May of 1126, the estate was thriving as it must have done years ago. But then I began to think about my mother – especially knowing that she was nearing seventy years of age. If she was going to enjoy some time in the Lot, I needed to return to Norwich to persuade her to leave her beloved cathedral and retire to Aquitaine.
So, at the end of May 1126, I appointed a good man as manager of the estate, and Eadmer and I began the long journey north to England.
When we reached London, we heard interesting news. King Henry Beauclerc’s only surviving legitimate child, Matilda, who had been married off to Henry V, the Holy Roman Emperor, had just been widowed at the age of twenty-four. Although she remained childless, Henry had declared her his rightful successor. There was great excitement about the King’s declaration among the English population, and dormant pride in the lineage of the old English kings resurfaced.
Although Matilda was the granddaughter of William the Conqueror, her mother was Edith of Scotland. Through her grandmother, Margaret of Scotland, she was a direct descendant of Edmund Ironside and the niece of Edgar the Atheling, the true Cerdician heir to the English throne. Given that King Henry was approaching sixty years of age, there was thus the real prospect of a monarch on the throne at Westminster whose blood was at least half English.
We hurried to Norwich. During the entire journey, I sensed for the first time the very real possibility that I might be able to make a contribution to England’s future – just like my family before me. I had no clear vision of what form it would take, but the prospect was invigorating all the same.
My mood of euphoria evaporated as we approached Norwich. Instead of being busy with the traffic of traders, merchants and pilgrims, the road to Norwich suddenly became one long line of bedraggled humanity. And they were all moving away from the burgh.
‘Scarlet fever,’ was the short answer to our increasingly desperate questions. ‘Norwich is a graveyard.’
My anxieties intensified as soon as we reached the cathedral precincts. Our small house was locked, and the few masons who were still working at the cathedral confirmed that the fever had taken my mother a few weeks earlier. I was handed her churchwright’s tools and instruments and her drawings. I was also given a small handwritten note on vellum.
I took the note to the presbytery. I knew it would be a difficult message to read, and the presbytery was a special place for both of us. It was, after all, where she had helped me with personal doubts before my life’s journey began. The script was a little shaky – I imagined her distressed with fever as she wrote – but it was written with all the elegance of a master calligrapher.
I fear I will not survive this fever; perhaps when I was younger, but not now.
You will soon be the only one of our Brethren left. I hear that Duke Robert still lives, God bless him. I hope his gaolers treat him with kindness,
for he is a good man.
I think Prince Edgar too is still alive. If he is, go to him; you will learn much from him. He lives an isolated life high in the hills of the north, but the monks at Durham know where he is. He never had children, and he always looked on you as a son – especially after your father died. Remember to thank him for the inheritance he gave you.
I hope you are reading this safely back in Norwich and that the destiny you were seeking has revealed itself to you. Live long and be happy. I pray that you will be granted the chance to make a difference in this life.
Remember me.
With all my love,
Your Clandestine Mother,
E
I felt the saltiness of my tears before I realized they had been streaming down my face for several minutes. I looked up and squinted at the ceiling bosses way above my head. I saw the one that my mother had said was modelled on her. Although I could not see it in any detail, I recalled it distinctly: a lissom naked wench cavorting with the Devil. It was how she wanted to be remembered – full of energy and without any inhibition – and I resolved that this was, indeed, how I always would remember her.
16. Fugitive
My mother’s letter had reminded me of the close ties of the Brethren and exhorted me to seek out Prince Edgar. And so, the next morning, we prepared to set off to the west to find the ancient road to York and beyond.
However, just before noon, horns and drums sounded the impending arrival of an important personage. Assuming it was the Earl or the Bishop, we carried on with our preparations. But moments later, voices started to be raised and amidst the hue and cry shouts could be heard.
‘It’s the King!’
‘King Henry is here!’
As I turned round, I was astonished to see a vanguard of cavalry ride into the cathedral precincts. Behind them, flanked by Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norwich, and Everard of Calne, the new Bishop of Norwich, was Henry Beauclerc, King of England, followed by his resplendent retinue. He had aged a good deal since I had last seen him in Wales, over ten years earlier, but he still had the air of a supremely confident ruler and the easy manner of a man at the centre of attention every moment of his life.
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