Maud and I were immensely proud of him, such that any sense of loss regarding the throne of Westminster diminished each time we saw him. Our only concern was for our other two sons; we strove as hard as we could to ensure that, as Geoffrey of Poitou and William of Nantes, they had their own destinies and domains on the borders of Normandy.
Although England’s civil war continued throughout the 1140s, it became less damaging and destructive. Maud and I found relative contentment; we had established a new headquarters at Devizes and enjoyed its tranquil setting. As each year passed, Stephen’s position became weaker: he had lost Normandy for good, and he knew that Henry Plantagenet was rapidly approaching the age when he could challenge him for his English crown.
The march of time was becoming ever more prominent in our lives. Stephen was approaching his fiftieth birthday, and Maud and I were not getting any younger. The moment was approaching when the next generation would be dictating affairs.
One by one, our loyal followers were no more. The Christmas of 1143 was not a happy one: our loyal friend, Miles of Gloucester, now the Earl of Hereford, was killed by a stray arrow in a hunting accident in the Forest of Dean. Four years later, our dear kinsman, Robert, Earl of Gloucester, the bravest of the brave, developed a fever in his castle at Bristol from which he never recovered.
His funeral proved to be a watershed for Maud.
Before the service, the irrepressible Brien FitzCount announced that he would be retreating from the trials of being a castellan and a soldier. He intended to pursue a life of contemplation with the Benedictines of the Priory of the Holy Trinity at Wallingford.
During the service for Robert’s interment at St James’ Priory in Bristol, which was his own foundation, Maud hid her tears behind her veil. But she recovered her composure sufficiently to deliver a moving valediction to her half-brother, her friend and her most steadfast supporter.
‘This realm has produced no braver man. No Saxon, Celt or Norman was a better warrior. All praise to a mighty Englishman, a son of a proud Norman family!’
Maud’s words seemed to reflect a new England – a land where both Englishman and Norman could be proud of their heritage. As she delivered her eulogy, I hoped it would herald a better England: Maud’s England, an England ruled by our son, Henry Plantagenet.
We returned to Devizes, where Maud gradually recovered from her grief at the loss of Robert. As the Christmas of 1147 approached, she asked me to walk with her in the meadows of the burgh. Such walks revealed so much about Maud. She knew everyone we passed by name, and the mutual warmth between her and the local people was touchingly sincere.
But on that day, she was in a pensive mood.
‘Hal, let’s spend the winter making sure our castles are in the hands of strong men with well-armed garrisons. Then, when we are sure that Henry’s legacy is safe, let’s return to Argentan and spend as much time as we can with the boys before we lose them to their destinies. We can take them to St Cirq Lapopie and show them our little piece of Heaven.’
I could sense Maud’s mixed emotions. She was weary of the interminable struggle against Stephen, but optimistic about Henry’s future. I was sorely tempted by the prospect of returning to St Cirq Lapopie and felt much the same as she did.
‘Henry is England’s future and we have the chance to help him become a King we can be proud of, a King every Norman, Celt and Englishman would be honoured to call their Lord.’
‘Hal, I am so fortunate to have found you. I was captivated from the moment I saw you on the road from Anjou. The circumstances should have told me that you were a madman, intent on doing me harm. But I knew straight away that you could be my saviour. My time with Geoffrey had been so awful as a pawn of his and my father’s ambitions, but in you I found someone who cared only for me and my future.’
‘We have both been lucky. For me it has been a remarkable journey, the most important part of which was to fall in love with you. We will have many more years together, let’s relish everything we have shared together and everything yet to come.’
Epilogue
Fulham Palace, 31 October 1187
Dear Thibaud,
I am sorry to have taken so long to deliver this final chapter, my friend, but I have only been able to dictate in short interludes. I am finding it difficult to breathe, a terrifying ordeal to endure.
Pray for a sudden death when your time beckons.
Also, there has been another distraction. Following the death of King Henry Beauclerc, our lord of many years, we have a new ruler, Richard, called Lionheart; a propitious name for a young man we all hope will become a fine monarch. What’s more, for reasons you will of course now know, it is news that would make our storyteller very happy. Richard was crowned here at Westminster a month ago, to great rejoicing, for he is of noble Norman descent, but also carries the blood of old England, not only through his maternal grandmother, Edith of Scotland, but also, as you now know, through Harold of Hereford, his covert grandfather.
Harold will now be reunited with his beloved Maud in Heaven; they will both be very contented.
I so wish I could have delivered this account to you in person, but God in his infinite wisdom had other plans. It is All Hallows’ Eve, such a melancholy time. But how appropriate! Next year they will be able to honour me on this night.
Well, I have written what I needed to write; the saga is complete. Accompanying this epistle is the precious casket and its contents that William of Malmesbury entrusted to Harold. I have kept it secure in the abbey vaults since Harold, in turn, entrusted it to me at our first meeting, nearly half a century ago. The last time I saw him, he was at pains to ask that the casket and his account should be kept together for posterity’s sake, so it seems appropriate that it should be deposited in the Vatican Vaults with his manuscript. You know how important it is, as it precedes our account and gives our story its crucial beginning.
Harold’s story is now recorded for posterity. His remarkable family is not only blessed with an illustrious past, but also a fascinating future. As for the Church, the scandalous early history of the Knights Templar contained in these pages is vitally important. Many have suspected it. But now we have the testament of one of the Nine Founders to verify the hypocrisy behind their high moral virtues, and the immorality of the wicked and duplicitous Hugh de Payens. I know you will use the testimony wisely.
Below are Harold’s parting words to me in 1176. Over the past ten years, I have replayed our final conversation in my head many times, but now I must commit it to vellum. As an old man, I have gained much comfort and solace from my memories – and especially from my memories of this remarkable man. I will see him in my mind’s eye once more as his story draws to a close.
‘So Maud and I left for Argentan in the spring of 1148. It was a great relief; we could watch our boys grow into men and live in peace. St Cirq Lapopie continued to be our secret place, and we spent many happy days there. Eadmer and Greta lived there permanently, as did Otto and Berenger when they became too old to be Maud’s bodyguards. They both married local girls and started their own families. I was proud to be part of a community at St Cirq Lapopie that was not unlike the one my grandfather had founded; that made me very happy.’
‘But surely that is not the end of your story? This is 1176, over twenty-five years later!’
‘There is nothing more for me to tell you. The rest is Henry Plantagenet’s story – and you know that as well as anyone.’
‘And thanks to you, I now know much more. Did you ever tell him that you were his father?’
‘No, I was sorely tempted – and Maud said she would be
happy for me to tell him when he came of age – but I decided it was a dangerous piece of information, both for him and for England. I decided that I would remain his uncle and guardian; that sufficed. The most important thing was to watch him grow and to be his mentor.’
‘And you and Maud continued to be happy?’
‘Yes, indeed. She never returned to England. When Henry was crowned King Henry II in 1154, Maud was over fifty years old and did not want to cross the Channel. By then, we rarely went to St Cirq Lapopie; it was too far for her. She was sad not to be in Westminster Abbey, but I was there to see our son crowned and I reported back to her with every detail. By then, Henry had married the indomitable Eleanor of Aquitaine, a woman his equal in every respect and someone I am privileged to call my daughter-in-law. Thus Henry took the titles King of England, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Anjou.’
‘And now, Henry has added Ireland and Scotland to his empire.’
‘Yes, my grandfather always said that both Scotland and Ireland would eventually come to be ruled from Westminster. Thankfully, Henry rules wisely and I am proud that the great Anglo-Norman empire Maud and I dreamed of has come to pass. Henry’s domain extends from the Highlands of Scotland in the north to the Pyrenees in the south, and from Flanders in the east to Kerry in the west.’
‘He has been a good King.’
‘I’m pleased that you think so. I’m proud of him. Normans still dominate this land – that will last many lifetimes – but, thanks to Henry, this is a fairer land for Norman and Englishman. He has curtailed the excesses of the earls and barons, introduced courts to administer justice and fair trials by twelve lawful men, and put an end to the excesses of the Church.’
‘You lost Maud in 1167, I think.’
‘I did; we were very happy until the end. There were sad times of course – especially as we watched Henry struggle to keep his vast empire together, or when he and Eleanor squabbled. We also lost Geoffrey and little William very early: Geoffrey was only twenty-four when he died, and William just twenty-seven.
‘Maud became quite frail, but she never lost that smile – the one that could melt my heart even from her deathbed. We spent her final years in Rouen, at the Priory of Notre Dame du Pré, a foundation tied to her endowment at the Benedictine Abbey, at Bec. She found tranquillity there and spent her time caring for the sick, as well as helping the monks with their pastoral work. It was the monks of Bec who stood around her as she died, singing gently as she went to meet her Maker. As she breathed her last, she squeezed my hand and I leaned forward so that I could hear her. She whispered faintly just six words: “Our son is King of England.” I wept only briefly; it was not a moment for tormented anguish, more a time to reflect on the life of a remarkable woman.’
‘She was indeed an extraordinary woman. But she was also fortunate to have met you, Harold of Hereford. Thank you for allowing me to hear your story.’
‘You are very kind, Abbot. But it is a story that had to be told – and it could only be told to you, Gilbert Foliot. I hope it has not been too onerous.’
‘It has been a privilege; I will make sure it is written down and committed to the archives.’
‘But not in my lifetime, good Bishop, nor in the lifetime of my son.’
‘Of course not. When it is written, I will find a way of getting it into the Vatican Vaults; they have a library there that is almost a thousand years old.’
‘I am very grateful to you. But let me add a couple of things before we are done.’
‘Which are?’
‘Firstly, the inscription on Maud’s tomb: “Great by Birth, Greater by Marriage, Greatest in Her Offspring. Here lies the Daughter, Wife and Mother of Henry.” And secondly, the thing that gave her the most satisfaction at the end of her life: the name Henry often used, which was “Henry FitzEmpress”. There was no greater comfort she could have had at the end of her life.’
‘And how have you spent the years since Maud’s death?’
‘Mostly at St Cirq Lapopie – especially in the last few years, when it has been harder to travel. The estate thrives; we have a monastery and a community of over a hundred souls. My old friends have all gone now, buried in the family plot there, but their families keep me young and take care of me.’
‘That reminds me: do you want me to regard your account as your testament before God?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do – although my family has never been particularly religious.’
‘No, indeed; I remember all that Old Religion heresy and the Wodewose nonsense! But we must let God be the judge of that. As far as my authority as a Bishop of Christ extends, I will grant you absolution subject to the following penance. You are to make a pilgrimage: you must go to the tomb of St Etheldreda at Ely; she will be pleased to hear your prayers.’
I blessed Harold of Hereford and, as I did so, I remembered one small point of detail to complete the story.
‘What became of the Talisman of Truth? Did you give it to Henry?’
He put his hand into the neck of his smock and pulled out his Venetian medallion together with the fabled amulet.
‘He wore it on his early expeditions to England, before he became King. But by the time he was crowned, he already understood all it had to say to him. So now I am its guardian again.’
‘And what will you do with it? Should it not go into the Vatican Vaults where it belongs?’
‘No, Gilbert, it disappeared into the vaults of the Monastery of Monte Cassino for decades. I don’t want it lost again. Besides, it still has work to do. After I have done the penance you have been kind enough to give me, I am going to give it to a man who will be King one day; he may need it. He is only nineteen but is currently in Aquitaine, putting down revolts for his father. His exploits have already earned him a legendary name.’
‘May I ask who he is?’
‘Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, “The Lionheart”, my grandson. He and his ancient “great-uncle” are going to have a conversation about chivalry, brotherhoods and amulets.’
Thus ended my conversation with the remarkable Harold of Hereford.
He strode back across the courtyard of my Palace in Fulham, just as purposefully as when he had arrived all those weeks ago. I never saw him again, nor did I hear any reports of his death. But he must have died by now; I assume he’s buried at St Cirq Lapopie with his friends and family. Or perhaps he found a mountain eyrie, or a lair in the wildwoods, like his father and grandfather before him?
He was not the most godly of men. In fact, I suspect that deep down he was a heathen – closer to his pagan myths of seers and amulets than to our Lord God. But he was a good man, all the same. When he had gone, I found the most beautiful silver crucifix by my bed. It had an inscription on the back in English: ‘Heaven Awaits, Gentle Scribe.’
My dear friend, I hope that you continue to bring your wisdom to the Holy See for many years to come. I will pray for that until my dying breath.
Pray for my soul.
Yours in God,
Gilbert
Codicil
Fulham Palace, 15 November 1187
Eminence,
May I introduce myself; I am Father John, scribe to my Lord, Gilbert Foliot.
I thought you would want to know that Bishop Foliot died in his sleep two days ago, on Friday 13 November. His end was peaceful. Although his breathing became difficult, he bore it with his usual stoicism.
He was a great man of the Church here in Engl
and, much loved and much admired. His knowledge, as you will know, was immense and his gift for words beyond equal. He acted at all times with diligence and integrity. He won universal admiration within the Church for his wisdom and piety.
I am proud to say that I am one of his protégés here at Lambeth, and I pray every day that I can become half the man he was.
Before he died, he asked me to let you know that he had recently heard some news about Harold of Hereford, but that he could not verify it. It seems that Harold did his penance, as the Bishop had asked him, and that he had then travelled to Aquitaine to see Duke Richard. The bearer of the news, a trader from Bordeaux, said that Harold was still alive some time later, but was not sure of the year. No word has been heard of him since.
Typically, Bishop Gilbert was thrilled to hear the news; such was his thirst for knowledge.
We will miss him.
A mass will be said for him every day here at Fulham until the festival of Christmas. He asked in particular that we remember you in our prayers and commended us to pray for all the important work you do for the Church.
Yours in God,
John
Postscript
Henry II, Henry Plantagenet (5 March 1133 – 6 July 1189), ruled England for over thirty-five years, from 25 October 1154 until his death in 1189.
After his mother, Empress Matilda, left England in 1148, the young Henry continued her struggle for succession to the English throne. Shortly after he married Eleanor of Aquitaine in 1152, he invaded England with a large army. His rival, King Stephen, lost his own son, Eustace, to a sudden illness in 1153, leaving the possibility of a compromise between the King and young Henry. This was enshrined in the Treaty of Wallingford, agreed shortly after Eustace’s death: Stephen would retain the throne until his death, whereafter he would be succeeded by Henry.
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