Anarchy

by Stewart Binns

  One of the Emperor’s stewards handed him a scroll, which he began to read.

  ‘“You have made a good beginning, my Prince. Your father is a great Emperor and an even better man. You seem to have many of his qualities. Follow his advice, live by his example, and you will become a worthy successor. Byzantium will flourish under your reign and you will leave a legacy that will be remembered for generations to come. But remember, you are only a man. Even Emperors are mortal. Lives – even great ones – soon become memories. Learn from the past, but live your life in the present, and hope that the future will benefit from what you do on earth. Remember, once your time is over, it has gone forever.”

  ‘We organized an honour guard for the funeral. Your grandfather was buried facing north-west, towards the England he talked about so fondly. Men of the Varangian Guard dug a deep grave, so that he would never be disturbed, and so that we could place in it all his precious belongings. The priest, a fine man called Leo of Methone, blessed each one as it was arranged around his body.

  ‘Each of the Varangians present then took it in turns to cover the body with the parched earth of his beloved mountain, and Prince John placed a simple wreath of olive leaves on the grave. Afterwards, we ordered that everything on the hilltop be destroyed so that, in keeping with his oath to King William, no trace of his final resting place would ever be found. Leo of Methone then read an epitaph: “Here lies Godwin of Ely, known in a previous life as Hereward of Bourne. No nobler man has ever lived. May he rest in peace.”’

  I wept openly as the Emperor described my grandfather’s resting place at the end of his life’s long adventure. There were also tears in the eyes of the ‘Two Johns of Constantinople’, as they were popularly known. Each stepped forward and embraced me warmly.

  The Emperor then beckoned to one of his stewards to step forward.

  ‘We were going to bury this with your grandfather. But at the last moment, I changed my mind. Your grandfather sacrificed so much in its cause; I must have known that this day would come and someone would arrive to be its new guardian.’

  The Emperor handed me a small pouch of soft leather. It was the Talisman.

  My mother’s detailed description of it came flooding back to me: ‘Hanging from a heavy silver chain, it is a translucent stone the size of a quail’s egg. Set in scrolls of silver, each of which is a filigree snake so finely worked that the oval eyes and forked tongues of the serpents can be seen in detail, the stone is yellow in colour and, at first glance, apart from its size and smoothness, seems unremarkable. But when held to the light, silhouetted in the baleful yellow glow of the stone is the face of Satan, the horned beast that has haunted men from the beginning of time. Close to the hideous face, trapped in the stone like the Devil’s familiars, are a tiny spider and a group of small winged insects.’ It was the most remarkable object; I felt overawed and unsure what to do with it.

  The Emperor saw me hesitate and smiled at me.

  ‘The Talisman of Truth has a new guardian. Why don’t you wear it?’

  It was the obvious thing to do. But such was its amazing pedigree, it hadn’t occurred to me.

  The Emperor took back the Talisman and, as I leaned forward, he placed it over my head, saying these words.

  ‘Harold of Hereford, Guardian of the Talisman of Truth, may it lead you to your destiny and a long and happy life.’

  ‘Thank you, sire.’

  ‘I have one final thought: before we left, I remember looking towards the north-west and saying to Prince John that I would like to go to England one day. Your grandfather had spoken very eloquently of the Wodewose of England’s wildwoods. Would you like to go back to your grandfather’s eyrie to see if the Wodewose protects his grave?’

  ‘I would indeed, sire.’

  ‘I will arrange for an escort for you – local men from the Peloponnesian theme. They will take you to the Governor of Messene, Basil of Nemea. He is a good man and will give you a guide to take you up the mountain. I hope Leo of Methone is still there. He will be able to tell you much more about your grandfather’s life.’

  ‘Sire, I am most grateful to you. Your kindness is more than generous.’

  ‘Not at all. Thanks to your grandfather, I came to understand what courage and wisdom mean – and that they have to be earned.’

  ‘Indeed, sire, my journey is only just beginning.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be a successful one. When you get to your grandfather’s resting place, the grave is not marked, but it is easy to find. You will see a small plateau in front of the rocks against which he built his shelter, and over by the lake a semi-circle of rocks breaking the ground, where we sat to hear his story. To the right of that, three strides away, is a hollow big enough for a man; that is where he lies. Give him my warmest greetings when you get there.’

  ‘And mine’, added John Azoukh.

  ‘I will, sire.’

  ‘One more thing, Harold of Hereford.’

  The Emperor handed me a small casket.

  ‘My father gave you a small dowry when you were a child. This is for your child – it is the least I can do for a family that has meant so much to my own family. When your child becomes the Guardian of the Talisman, he or she will need it. And remember, you and your family will always be welcome here.’

  I knelt, kissed the imperial ring of John Comnenus, and bowed deeply to Prince John Azoukh.

  As the two men left, I reflected that I had met earls, princes and doges, then kings and now an emperor. What next? I wondered as Eadmer and I were escorted out of the Blachernae.

  John Comnenus had provided a small troop of Peloponnesian escorts – twelve good men, well armed and immaculately turned out – and we sailed for Messene, a port on the south coast of the Peloponnese.

  My grandfather had chosen one of the most remote places in the Empire for his retirement refuge. He had led the Varangian Guard in a great victory against the Pechenegs at Levunium in 1091, after which he was garlanded through the streets of Constantinople. He was fifty-five years old by then and his many injuries, scars and broken bones were getting the better of his ageing body. His eyesight was not as keen as it once was, and his reactions were slowing. Alexius wanted to award Hereward a huge pension and vast estates in gratitude for his faithful service. He refused the offer, content with a modest casket of silver and a small plot of land in the western Peloponnese that was entirely virgin territory, almost all of which comprised Mount Foloi – a heavily wooded, rugged mountain with commanding views to the west and out to sea.

  Some fifty miles north from Messene, it was both a picturesque and nostalgic journey. We crossed hills thick with forests of pine and deep river valleys that trickled water down to the sea in summer but were torrents in the winter. Of all the family shrines I had visited – whether the several in England or the family graves in the Lot – this was the last and most important.

  When we arrived at the little church in the clearing at the foot of the mountain, it was just as my mother had described it: a plain stone chapel at the edge of a glade with small round windows, a solid oak door and a simple wooden hut behind the nave for the resident priest.

  Governor Basil had given us a man who knew the mountains well. He told us that Leo of Methone was still in residence, but that he was now quite old and not as much in control of his faculties as he had once been. We called out for him. Our escort dismounted and began to scour the church and its surroundings for the priest.

  After a few minutes, Leo appeared from the woods with his head covered in fine muslin. He was carrying several honeycombs, and muttering to himself.

  ‘Honey – good for an old man’s digestion!’

  I walked up to him and offered my hand, but the old man walked s
traight past me.

  ‘Good evening, Father. I am Harold of Hereford –’

  I decided not to continue, as it was obvious that the old priest was unaware of my presence.

  ‘Mixed with a little wine, makes me sleep.’

  He then paused and walked away, back towards the woods he had come from, still gabbling at no one in particular.

  ‘Pretty little bees, don’t sting Father Leo. Pretty little bees …’

  He was met by two local women, who took him tenderly by the arm and led him towards his simple wooden shelter. One of them looked as muddled as the old priest, while the other had the appearance of a witch, with long grey hair halfway down her back. She spoke bluntly to me.

  ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a holy man, just a bit confused.’

  ‘I understand. Please take good care of him. We are going to the top of Mount Foloi – we just thought we would tell Father Leo.’

  ‘He won’t mind. Help yourself, but it’s a big climb. An old man from the far north used to live up there – a hermit, a man as big as a house, with scars on his scars. People say it’s haunted. No one goes up there any more.’

  ‘So I believe. We just want to survey the summit; the Governor may want to build a lookout there.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But beware, these hills are sacred places; the oak forests over there are the home of centaurs and sprites. You should stay away from there, not even imperial troops can protect you from the mighty creatures. The sprites will lure you with pretty girls, but they belong to the centaurs who will hunt you down with arrows as long as a man.’

  ‘What happened to the old hermit?’

  ‘They say that a few years ago some imperial troops, like these men, came here and killed him because he was a necromancer who was riding with the centaurs and frightening the locals.’

  Leaving the local women and a bewildered Leo of Methone in our wake, we made steady progress up Mount Foloi until, late in the day, we reached the flat top of the mountain. Everything that I had been told about my grandfather’s special place was true. Even at dusk, far to the west, it was possible to see the sparkling iridescence of the Mediterranean. We seemed to be far above the clouds, and yet the air was only a little cooler than the boiling heat of the hot summer’s day we had left lower down.

  It was August 1127: how many scorching days like this did my grandfather endure? Perhaps he enjoyed them – after all, he had suffered far worse on his many campaigns for the Emperor. But what of the winter? At that height, abundant snows must have fallen on his modest shelter, and the nights must have been as cold as the frozen wastes of Hibernia. But he was used to that – he had survived winters in the icy Pennines and even led a campaign against William, Conqueror of the English, in the depths of one of England’s harshest winters.

  True to the Emperor’s words, no trace of human occupation could be seen. The mountain looked as it must have done when Hereward first saw it: remote, tranquil and spellbindingly beautiful. If it was haunted, it was possessed by benign spirits. Perhaps the Wodewose, our Green Man of legend, did keep watch over England’s fallen hero?

  I could see all the places John Comnenus described and easily found the hollow where my grandfather’s body lay. I approached it with some trepidation, like a pilgrim reaching his destination after years of steadfast travelling. We made camp and, while our escort busied themselves, I sat and stared at my grandfather’s resting place.

  I read John Comnenus’ account of the words of advice he had been given by my grandfather: ‘Lives – even great ones – soon become memories. Learn from the past, but live your life in the present, and hope that the future will benefit from what you do on earth. Remember, once your time is over, it has gone forever.’

  I knew then what I had to do. I had completed my journeys in the footsteps of my family, now I had to return to England to find the path to my own destiny.

  Fulham Palace, 10 April 1187

  My dear Thibaud,

  Spring is here in London – rejoice!

  I don’t think I could survive another winter like the one we have just had. Sadly, my health is not improving, and I’m feeling more and more lame.

  Back to a man who knows more than most about the trials and tribulations of this earthly existence. I warn you, my friend, his account will spare no details in giving you the measure of Hugh de Payens, founder of the Knights Templars. As their Grand Master, he seems to encapsulate all that they have since become: superficially worthy and pious, but underneath dangerous zealots who obey no one but themselves. Use the information within these pages as you see fit to undermine the malign influence the Templars have within the Church; I certainly will.

  Given the intimate details of the story at this point, I have made the decision to use only a single scribe for this part of Harold’s story. I have chosen Father John; he is a good scribe and the finest of men. His discretion can be relied upon. With only one monk to write the account, I fear my pace has slowed down a little. But at least I have been getting a little more rest – I was often tempted to go on too long into the night by using the next scribe’s stint with the quill. Mercifully, I am now getting some sleep.

  But time is of the essence; onwards with my account.

  Yours in God,

  Gilbert

  18. The White Tower

  After leaving the Peloponnese and travelling via our safe haven at St Cirq Lapopie to check on the harvest, Eadmer and I reached England in March, 1128. All had been well on our estate and I travelled with a lightness of heart and sense of contentment, the like of which I had not experienced before. The bezants that John Comnenus had given me were sufficient to allow us to travel like lords and live luxurious lives, but, for the time being, we chose not to. We preferred to travel alone – in part, because I was still unsure about my sympathies for the values of the Knights Templar. I had neglected the task I had been charged with in Jerusalem and realized that one day there would have to be a reckoning. We were also renegades in England so when we arrived at Dover, we adopted new identities as mercenaries from Aquitaine – Robyn of Hode and his sergeant-at-arms, William of Scaerlette, names I borrowed from villages in the dukedom.

  Eadmer was still composing ballads and his singing was improving all the time. Not only was his voice soothingly melodious, but his lyrics were usually thoughtful and sometimes amusing. Most of his songs were based on our adventures – usually with a good deal of poetic licence – and included the ‘Ballad of the Lonely Knight of Venice’ and the ‘Ballad of the Siege of Tyre’, in both of which Eadmer, the doughty sergeant-at-arms, was at least as much of a hero as Hal, the worthy knight.

  London was agog with stories when we arrived. King Henry had secured a marriage arrangement with Fulk, the Count of Anjou, for his widowed daughter, the Empress Matilda, to marry Fulk’s son and heir, Geoffrey. Although he was only a boy of fifteen, he was handsome and virile and, it was assumed, would produce a son and heir to continue the Norman dynasty. An alliance with Anjou and Maine was also vital to the defence of the King’s hold over Normandy – especially in view of the persistent threats from William Clito.

  There had been many suitors for Matilda’s hand. An empress in name, still only twenty-six years old, and the nominated heir to the throne of an ageing King of England, she was the most coveted prize in Europe. Besides all those inducements, she was also a woman of great beauty and charm and had a fine mind and ready wit. Princes and lords came from realms far and wide, but the King turned them all away. He knew what he wanted – a son that suited his purposes and an alliance with Normandy’s strongest neighbour. So it was done.

  London also brought us news of our friends, the Knights Templar
. I was still a Templar – indeed, a founding member – but I had managed to put them to the back of my mind. I had a new purpose now, and it was not focused on the zealotry of the Templars.

  Hugh de Payens had been in England for some time and had become the source of fascination. The Order had firmly established itself as the military guardians of the Christian States of the Holy Land. As Grand Master, Hugh had acquired almost messianic status in the minds of many; young men from all over Europe were rushing to become ‘Knights of Legend’, as they were being hailed. The Order’s wealth had become immense. They had been granted lands, and some lords had even left their entire estates to the Templars in their wills, believing it would earn them forgiveness for all their sins in the Kingdom of Heaven.

  The Grand Master had been all over England and Scotland accepting grants of land and money and collecting recruits. He had been to see King Henry, who had given him a cartload of gold and silver, the like of which had not been seen since the days of the Danegeld. According to the local gossip, Hugh was still in London with his new recruits and a vast fortune, staying in the crypt of the small Saxon church All Hallows by the Tower.

  Although I was reluctant, I knew it was an ideal opportunity to bring to an end my relationship with the Templars. I also knew it might be a task fraught with danger. Hugh was a powerful man, made even more so by the Pope at the recent Council of Troyes, where he had granted the Templars their own Religious Rule as a fully fledged Order in the eyes of God and the Church.

  I sought Eadmer’s opinion. He was typically blunt.

  ‘Stay away from him; it’s a thing of the past, from another place. We’ve moved on.’

  ‘But we’ll have to deal with it sooner or later. The Templars have reached every corner of Europe.’