Crusade

by Stewart Binns

  ‘That is of no consequence, I will bring only a small retinue and we will make camp in your fields. Perhaps I’ll go and see that firebrand Raymond of Toulouse, who has been causing turmoil among the knights of Europe with his campaign to free the Holy Land from Islam.’

  While Duke Robert made his plans to join us on our journey, we brooded on the news about Raymond of Toulouse’s cause.

  We all thought back to the words of Themistius, the Thracian strategoi we had listened to in Sicily, when he talked about a looming holy war between Christians and Muslims. It was a worrying prospect for all of us and particularly unedifying for Sweyn, who had fallen in love with a Muslim girl only for her to be slaughtered by a fanatical father. The fact that we were about to depart for St Cirq Lapopie, the site of her grave, only added to his dismay.

  That night, over dinner, he made his feelings clear.

  ‘I would like to visit the Holy Land, but I don’t want to fight the Muslims; some of them are brother knights and began our code of chivalry, the Mos Militum.’

  Adela was also troubled.

  ‘As far as I know, the Muslim lords of the Holy Land allow pilgrims to visit the sacred sites freely and permit freedom of worship for Christians and Jews. Why would we want to fight them?’

  Edwin, as always, was happy to do what Sweyn and Adela wanted to do, and his view was measured and wise.

  ‘I have no quarrel with the Muslims. We were well treated by Ibn Hamed and his knights, and I have great respect for their culture and learning. To provoke a holy war, just because the lords of the Holy Places are Muslims, is dangerous talk. Isn’t the Holy Land sacred to Muslims too?’

  I was also concerned, but tried to allay their fears.

  ‘Let’s make the journey to St Cirq Lapopie – and, if Duke Robert wants to go and see the Count of Toulouse, then we’ll hear from the horse’s mouth what his campaign is trying to achieve.’

  The journey south was as enjoyable as ever. It was the height of spring and nature was at her most fecund. We travelled well; Duke Robert was not only good company, he brought a small retinue of soldiers and a vast corps of cooks, stewards and butlers with enough provisions to feed a glut of dukes. We progressed like the grand entourage of a Byzantine emperor with all the trappings of a papal convoy.

  The huntsmen went out every day to kill fresh meat, and the stewards bought local vegetables along the way. The butts of wine never seemed to empty, no matter how hard we tried to drain them, and the minstrels sang us to sleep every night.

  It was on one such typically blissful evening that we discovered that Estrith had the most stunning singing voice. Duke Robert was spellbound.

  ‘Where did you learn to sing?’

  ‘My father’s oldest companion was Martin Lightfoot, a man from the land of the Welsh princes. He had a fine voice and would sing to us all the time. He taught me the songs of his homeland and how to sing lullabies. During my novitiate, I learned plainchant and the music of the mass.’

  ‘You have a beautiful voice.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  Every night thereafter, at Robert’s insistence, Estrith became the highlight of the post-prandial entertainment; she always sang unaccompanied and brought a heavenly calm to the entire camp. Even the cooks and stewards stopped what they were doing and sat on the ground to listen. Her songs about the delights of young love and the chivalrous deeds of heroes brought moments of dewy-eyed reflection to even the most redoubtable of Robert’s soldiers. Only the sentries on watch kept their backs to her, but they smiled to themselves as they stood sentinel.

  My thoughts during those precious moments were always of Hereward and Torfida. Their lives were the perfect inspiration for a songwriter, and I felt sure that in the villages of England, far away from Norman ears, songs were being sung that very night about the noble deeds of Hereward of Bourne and his beguiling bride, Torfida of the Wildwood.

  Robert’s fascination for Estrith was all too obvious to everyone – but, like most besotted men, he was sure his feelings had gone unnoticed. At the end of one of her most charming performances, he confided in me.

  ‘Edgar, I want to tell you something in confidence.’

  ‘Of course, I shall be the soul of discretion.’

  ‘I am very fond of Estrith.’

  ‘We all are; she is wonderful.’

  ‘No, I mean, I’m very fond of her! I have been ever since you introduced her to me in Rouen.’

  I decided to stop teasing him.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, the clues are well hidden, of course, but there are some small hints: hanging on her every word; staring at her like a lovesick boy; beaming at her with your head tilted to one side like an imbecile whenever she appears; and generally following her around like an unweaned pup would follow its mother … And these are just some of the less noticeable ones!’

  ‘Oh … is it that bad?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘I make no excuses; I can’t get her out of my mind.’

  ‘Robert, she’s a nun.’

  ‘I know, but will you speak to her for me?’

  ‘No, I will not, she’s a nun and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But she only became a nun so that she could be accepted by the masons.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Please speak to her for me. If she’s a committed bride of Christ, then so be it, but I have a feeling she isn’t … I can hear it in her voice.’

  ‘The answer is still no.’

  ‘I can’t sleep at night!’

  ‘Robert, you’re the Duke of Normandy and she’s a nun. You could be excommunicated!’

  Robert was in no mood to listen to my objections, and continued to press his cause.

  ‘Just ask her about her feelings for me! That’s what friends are for.’

  I tried to think of a way to distract him from his feelings for Estrith,

  ‘Look, when we get to Cahors, we’ll spend a few days whoring. They’ve got dusky beauties from the south there, and big, blonde, Germans – you can fill several beds with a selection of them.’

  ‘I don’t want an assortment of whores, I want Estrith.’

  As one of the most powerful men in Europe, Robert was used to getting what he wanted. Despite his easy-going manner, it was obvious that he would not be denied.

  I decided to capitulate.

  ‘Very well, I’ll speak to her.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘No, it’s late, and she’s asleep.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Good, it’s agreed. Tomorrow it is.’

  Robert, Duke of Normandy and lord of all he surveyed, walked off with a spring in his step like a love-struck adolescent.

  I smiled as he went. I also felt like a boy again, charged to be a go-between for a pair of novice lovers.

  The next day, during one of our stops to rest the horses, I took Estrith to one side.

  ‘I have to broach a somewhat delicate subject with you.’

  ‘That means it’s about sex.’

  ‘That’s an unusually frank response for a nun.’

  ‘Do I shock you?’

  ‘No … well, yes.’

  Estrith’s candour was a revelation. She had never given the slightest hint of being anything other than a pious nun. I pressed on, searching for the right words.

  ‘Actually, the “delicate subject” does not concern me.’

  ‘What a disappointment, I’ve never bedded a prince …’

  Estrith sensed that her bold statement had discomfited me. She paused before continuing.

  ‘The habit is real and I have taken the vows, but they are a means to an end. My passion is building churches, not praying in them. As for my womanly passions, I have them like anybody else – perhaps a little more than most.’

  I understood her plight. To make her way in the worl
d as a woman, she had only two choices: to marry a man of substance or status, which in itself would mean her husband would almost certainly constrain her options, or take Holy Orders and devote her life to Christ and worthy causes, a choice that meant she would adhere to the demands of chastity and charitable servitude. She had chosen the latter, but only to further her real objective, which was to express her talents and fulfil her destiny.

  ‘Your honesty has made it easier for me. My mission doesn’t involve a prince; it is a duke who desires you.’

  ‘I feared so. He’s not very good at disguising his feelings.’

  ‘No, indeed not … but there it is.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you have had to act as ambassador. I confess, it’s not the first time an intermediary has approached me on someone else’s behalf – though not usually a royal prince. I don’t regret my denial of my vows, but they’re not real – I took them so that I could do what I want to do. It may not be very virtuous, but I ask you – in my place, what would you do?’

  ‘So, what shall I tell my impatient duke?’

  ‘Although I’m flattered to be pursued by the Duke of Normandy, the answer will have to be no. It’s perhaps best that you suggest that it’s more to do with my devotion to God than my preference for handsome young masons over rather diminutive and somewhat rotund dukes.’

  Passing on Estrith’s rejection to Robert was not easy, but her suggestion of a somewhat ambiguous phrasing made her response more palatable for the Duke.

  ‘Robert, I’m sorry to tell you that her calling to follow Christ is sincere. It was not an easy conversation to have with a woman who has taken Holy Orders; she was flattered that you desire her, but she has asked that you respect her calling.’

  ‘Damn! I was certain she was a woman of the world. What am I going to do now? I won’t be able to look her in the eye.’

  Robert’s concern was one that I privately shared.

  Despite my worries, it was Estrith who found a way to restore the ease and mutual respect of their friendship. She handled the next encounter with Robert very well.

  The following evening, when it was her turn to sing, she walked up to him, curtsied and, with a charming smile, asked him to choose what he would like her to sing for him. The warmth of the gesture took away any embarrassment Robert might have felt, and the evening passed as pleasantly as any other.

  However, it took me several days to get over the forthright honesty of Estrith’s response to Robert’s request. I now saw her very differently; my feelings for her had been transformed from admiration to fascination.

  There had been little rain and, three days later, we sweltered beneath a searing sun as we crossed the Dordogne at the ancient bridge at Souillac. The lush green of the countryside became a little less verdant and the dust of the road a lot more tiresome. Our tranquil journey was becoming less so, and it was a comfort to know that the cool breezes of the Lot would soon bring some respite from the heat.

  The last two days of the journey became a cause for concern. Suddenly, the trickle of travellers passing us going north ceased – a sure sign of problems ahead. Robert sent men down the road to find out what was wrong. They returned the next morning with the bad news.

  ‘Sire, the road is deserted all the way to Cahors, where the city gates are closed and men are patrolling the walls. Trade on the Lot is prohibited. It’s putrid fever, my Lord. No one may enter or leave the city.’

  Robert looked at me quizzically. I had not heard of putrid fever either, but Estrith had.

  ‘The Greeks call it typhus. It’s a plague.’

  She immediately rode off.

  I called after her. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To help! Putrid fever is a killer.’

  Adela then called to her.

  ‘If you have the skills to help, we must ride to St Cirq Lapopie. It’s only twenty miles from Cahors; they may need your help there.’

  Estrith stopped and swung her mount round.

  ‘I’m sorry, Adela, I wasn’t thinking straight. You’re right.’

  Robert beckoned to us to go, saying that he would follow on with his retinue as quickly as he could.

  Within minutes, we were off at a gallop with Adela in the vanguard.

  Our anxiety grew as we travelled upstream. Every small settlement along the banks of the river was deserted, and we met no one on the road.

  Adela kicked on even harder.

  When we reached St Cirq Lapopie, we were met by an appalling sight. The farmhouse and barns of the main house and all the small cottages of the surrounding community were no more than charred shells. There was no sign of life, human or animal, only the buzz of flies and the hum of crickets.

  We all cried out for Maria and Ingigerd, and Adela and Sweyn jumped off their horses. They started to kick at the scorched timbers, hoping to find a clue as to what had happened.

  I looked around and noticed that Edwin was nowhere to be seen, while Estrith was peering towards the edge of the fields to the south, next to the forest.

  ‘I think I can see graves over there, just below the big oak. I think there are lots of small crosses.’

  She was right. I could see them too. I was about to point them out to Sweyn and Adela when Edwin appeared from the trees to the east. Behind him, limping slightly and looking very frail, was an old man. He looked like a hermit – his grey hair and beard were long and knotted and his clothes, no better than rags, were hanging loosely on his wizened body.

  ‘This is Old Simon. He lives in the woods, and has done so since before we came here thirty years ago. He was old then; I can’t imagine how old he is now.’

  All he could say in English was, ‘Sorry, Master Edwin, sorry,’ which he kept repeating.

  Estrith went to give him some water, but he backed away and would not come closer to us than a few yards.

  Adela began to talk to him. He spoke a language from the Pyrenees Mountains to the south, which was very different from the language of Aquitaine, and only Adela understood it.

  The fever had spread from Cahors, where hundreds died. When it came to St Cirq Lapopie, Ingigerd and Maria made sure that the people did not get too close to one another and families were told to eat in their own homes. But it made no difference. Within a month, the whole community had gone – more than eighty people. Maria died in the first week, but Ingigerd was almost the last to succumb, even though she was almost sixty years old and quite frail.

  Lime pits were dug and used to bury the bodies, but the last few went unburied and Old Simon was too scared to go near the houses to lay them to rest.

  ‘That accounts for the human remains over there.’ Sweyn pointed to the main house. ‘That was Ingigerd’s chamber. What’s left of her is lying in the corner.’

  It was about a week later that the human scavengers came. Wild men from the Central Massif, who had heard about the putrid fever, came and looted everything and then burned every building to the ground.

  Old Simon had stayed in the forest and kept his distance. But just before she died, Ingigerd had sent the last fit person, a little boy no more than five years old, to him with a scroll, asking him to keep it until any of the family returned.

  He now laid the scroll on the ground and walked away, repeating to himself, ‘Sorry, Mistress Adela, sorry.’

  Sweyn went to retrieve the scroll and read it to us. It was written in Norse, Ingigerd’s native tongue, a language nobody in the Lot would understand, but one of several languages that Torfida had always insisted was spoken within their household.

  I hope this message reaches one of you, one day. I told Old Simon to keep it under the stone where he hoards those boars’ tusks he likes to collect. I knew you would look there, if you found him dead.

  A terrible plague has descended on us, here and all around us. Maria has already died and my time is not far off. This fever shows no mercy. We have heard that Emma and Edgiva and their families have been taken from us and, worst of all, our beautiful daughters, Gw
yneth and Wulfhild, and all our grandchildren. What has happened to us is too much to bear. My only comfort is that with my death will come the end of my despair.

  Sweyn had to stop. He sank to his knees in anguish, and Adela wailed and cursed God for taking her entire family away.

  Edwin went to Sweyn and helped him to his feet while Estrith tried to comfort Adela. I quickly did some distressing arithmetic. Of Hereward and Torfida’s original extended family of eighteen, these four were now the only survivors – and each was childless. After all the years of peril they had lived through, six had died in a month, along with all their children. Who would now pass on the family’s heritage?

  Sweyn regained his composure and finished Ingigerd’s message.

  I pray that you all find what you so bravely search for and that there are many more adventures to add to the ones we shared together. The deeds to St Cirq Lapopie and our chest of silver are buried in the forest. Old Simon knows where, but in case he is also dead, its location is ten yards to the north, directly between the two oaks we planted in memory of Hereward and Torfida.

  With all my love,

  Inga

  Nothing much was said for the rest of that day. We all found places to be quiet and reflect on all that had happened. Sweyn went to sit by Mahnoor’s grave, Edwin and Adela walked among the crosses in the meadow by the trees, and Estrith sat on the rocks high above the river to watch the sun go down.

  After a while, I joined her. She had tears in her eyes.

  ‘I am such a pale shadow of my parents. One was the most remarkable woman I have ever known; the other was England’s greatest hero. I loved them very much and I cherish their memories, but they left me with a terrible burden. I want to be like them, but I can’t be. I have neither my mother’s intellect nor my father’s courage.’

  ‘You do yourself a disservice. How many people, men or women, could do what you do as a churchwright – maybe a handful in Europe? As for courage, when you heard about Cahors, you didn’t hesitate to rush off to help and accept what was almost certainly a sentence of death.’

  ‘I just feel unfulfilled. Hereward and Torfida knew what their destiny was and never wavered. I have no idea what mine is, or where to find it.’