Lion Heart

by Justin Cartwright

  The food arrives with a carafe of red wine.

  ‘House plonk,’ my host says, ‘but after the first few glasses it is just about drinkable. Right, where was I? Oh yes, the so-called archive. Come up to our place next weekend. Do you shoot?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  I am relieved to be able to tell the truth; I recognise a test question from a long way off.

  ‘Jolly good. Got a gun?’

  ‘Not here. Mine’s in Scotland.’

  Technically this gun is not mine. It was given to me on permanent loan by my aunt. It may even be the gun that my aunt’s husband, Sandy, used to blow his brains out. I always felt it was too delicate a question to ask her. I learned to shoot on the job, with clays and then with the grouse on the beaters’ days and on informal shoots.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Huntingdon says. ‘We have quite a lot. Too many. I’ll get my secretary to send you directions. And I will ask her to give you directions to the museum in Ashby too, just in case you want to drop in. My father’s coronation robes are on display there, by the way. My wife donated them. She didn’t ask me, as it happens. Come up for the weekend. Friday evening. How are the razor clams? My fishcakes are jolly good.’

  I find myself succumbing to his charm. He has a kind of holy innocence, no doubt the product of years of privilege, but innocence all the same. A lifetime of secretaries and farm agents and nannies and – I see on Wikipedia – three wives has made him a sort of human cork, bobbing, unsinkable, on life’s waves. He tells me he is a ‘working hereditary’, meaning that he was kept on when the House of Lords was reformed. He is one of ninety hereditary peers who were elected because of their expertise or diligence. His expertise is in the working of the European Union: he loathes it. He sees a Britain happily free of the rest of Europe, giving full rein to its own glorious history, unique talents and generally special qualities. I wonder if this history encompasses Richard the Lionheart, who cared so little for England. In Huntingdon’s opinion, the European Union is an enervating force trying to stamp out individuality in favour of uniformity.

  We start on another carafe of wine. It does get better after a few glasses. I am already drunk and amusing myself by thinking of implausible outrages committed by the Europeans, from banning mince pies, because they contain no minced meat, to refusing curved bananas, and on to demand that Latin names be displayed for the fish sold in fish and chip shops. All these are Euromyths, dreamed up by the tabloids.

  Getting drunk with an elderly peer is working wonders for my state of mind.

  I can see the time on one of the little monitors dotted around to keep the lords in touch with what is going on in the chamber. It’s four o’clock. When we leave the restaurant, a little unsteadily, Huntingdon tells me he must be in the chamber soon. He has to alert the world to some dastardly plan by the French to increase subsidies to their peasant farmers at our expense.

  ‘Goodbye, dear boy. It was wonderful to meet you. And we look forward to seeing you at the weekend.’

  He shakes my hand warmly, and I watch him marching purposefully into battle, just like the first Earl of Huntingdon at Acre.

  On the way out, I pass beneath the baleful presence of the triumphant Richard on his horse, his massive sword raised in triumph. My father thought it was a magnificent statue and brought me here to look at it when I was thirteen and about to be incarcerated at Pangbourne College, to have my small, sensitive testicles coated with shoe polish.

  I must find my way to Oxford in a haze of bonhomie, which I know will wear off soon and become a headache. On the train I realise we have not spoken much about my father, although he has made approving noises, a bit like a seal barking. And for the first time in weeks, I haven’t thought of Noor for hours on end. Now, rapidly becoming remorseful, I struggle to bring my fuddled brain to bear on Noor, as though she needs my full attention and love. She hasn’t written to me. Surely she has access to email? I have emailed her, but the emails have failed. I try to imagine why she is not able to contact me. And I try rather forlornly to remember and re-create the happiness of our weeks together. I remember her body recoiling in the shadow of Kerak; she didn’t say it, but I think she was afraid of going on assignment.

  Ed is excited by my invitation to a shoot. In the City, shooting was big. It betokened a devil-may-care attitude to money – after all, you can’t take it with you – and a manly attachment to what is elemental and deep-seated, and also a lack of squeamishness. This squeamishness, best demonstrated by the anti-hunting brigade, is the touchy-feely way of looking at the world, an attitude which is dragging the country down. How often I heard this kind of thing up on the moors as the grouse whistled towards the butts, by their deaths lending backbone to a decadent people who couldn’t punch the skin off a jar of custard or stamp on a cockroach.

  For some reason I don’t fully understand, Ed wants me to look the part; he offers to lend me his Porsche. I protest unconvincingly. On my way north – all shooting is north – I head for Ashby de la Zouch, where a destroyed castle of the Hastings family, Lord Huntingdon’s family, lies. Here the third Earl of Huntingdon was jailer to Mary Queen of Scots.

  I park the Porsche outside St Helen’s Church in Ashby and head for the Hastings Chapel. Here some scraps of Crusader flags are on display, but it is not clear which Crusade they belong to. Still, I find it moving that these flags were carried, a thousand years ago, to the Holy Land and brought back home; they may have survived Hattin or been flown at Acre. The particular Earl of Huntingdon who built this church was beheaded by Richard III. I recall Mark Rylance: I will shortly send thy soul to heaven.

  The castle, ruined by Cromwell’s men, is a Huntingdon possession acquired much later; it had nothing to do with our Henry, Earl of Huntingdon. The museum is in a modest house. I speak to the curator; yes, she has some documents and parchments from the time of the Third Crusade. She takes me to a locked cupboard and brings them out. They are written in a florid, antique prose, which means that they are probably Victorian. A third letter, in Anglo-Norman French, appears to be from Henry of Huntingdon to his wife. He says that he has landed that day at Marseilles – ‘Marselha’ in the langue d’oc. It is dated 15 January 1193: Huntingdon assures his wife that he will now be home before the Feast of St John, Midsummer. He adds ‘je n’en mantirai’ – ‘trust me’ – a very contemporary promise.

  The librarian makes scans of the letter, so that I can study it with my dictionary to hand. I offer a donation of £10, which she says is very generous. My bona fide is assured by the fact that I am staying with the family over the weekend.

  Late in the afternoon I pause at the gates of Huntingdon’s house. Some way down the drive I can see the house. It’s pretty grand, a classical building, in the style of Palladio, as I have discovered on Wikipedia. It looks a bit like a bank, only more domestic. The drive is long and straight, bordered by oaks. Just before the house I cross a clear stream by a beautiful stone bridge. My professional opinion is that the stream almost certainly holds brown trout. Lord Huntingdon appears at the top level and sets off down the lichen-mottled steps. He walks stiffly, placing his feet carefully like a man in a dinghy. He is wearing a tweed jacket over a mustard-yellow, V-necked jumper.

  ‘Welcome. Did you have a good journey? I’ll take your luggage. Park your car round the side, under the magnolia. Tea is waiting. And I have put you in the best draws for tomorrow.’

  I have no idea what a magnolia looks like, but there, beside a wing of the house, is a huge, glossy tree of broad leaves like dark green spatulas, which must be the magnolia. Huntingdon has made it up to the first level with my bag, and I pick it up and follow him up one more level of steps and into the house. The most recent Countess comes forward rather grudgingly.

  ‘This is my young friend Richard Cathar, darling. He is the son of my friend from Oxford, Alaric. I told you about him. And Richard, this is my wife Venetia.’

  She must be thirty years younger than the earl. She is blonde and wiry with a
n unnatural tan. She is wearing a cashmere poncho and tight white jeans and short brown boots. It is the Argentine polo look, favoured by the young royals.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I haven’t had time to change; just been for a ride. Tea is ready. And I believe that David is going to show you the archive. Did you say you had looked at the stuff we sent to Oxford?’

  ‘Yes, I have had a quick look through it.’

  ‘His father was a great chum of mine. Great chum.’

  ‘Yes, so you have said.’

  She goes ahead to summon tea.

  ‘Venetia hates the shooting,’ says Huntingdon. ‘We’ve cut the season to only eight full days, plus a friends and family day. That’s tomorrow’s entertainment. Would you like a whisky? I tend to need one about this time of day.’

  ‘Not for me, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Call me David.’

  He pours himself a double from a decanter.

  Through the huge windows, I see that it is becoming darker, one of those late-winter days when the weak sun is doused by the mist and the exhalations of the damp countryside.

  ‘No, Venetia hates the shooting. She prefers polo and horses. She goes off to Argentina. We have an estancia there, not huge, where she breeds polo ponies.’

  Of course, I picture her cavorting with those dashing Argentine polo players. Highly sexed, horse-disfigured hidalgos. It’s widely known that sitting on horses enhances the libido.

  I wonder if my mind has completely recovered from its episode; it seems a little erratic in its opinions.

  Venetia appears again and immediately behind her, pushing a trolley, comes the woman from the village, in a floral housecoat. Thanks to my days as a ghillie, I know that these women are selected from among the locals for their degree of devotion and desperation. They also have a belief in the ancient wisdom that everyone knows their place.

  ‘This is Mrs Wilbraham. This is Mr Cathar, the son of a friend of his lordship.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ she squeaks.

  Perhaps she is disappointed that I don’t have a title. She retreats, sidling backwards for a few steps, like someone receiving an MBE at Buckingham Palace, before turning slowly to see if she is possibly needed on some noble whim.

  ‘What sort of tea would you like?’

  ‘Oh, just builders’. I have simple tastes.’

  ‘What a pity,’ says the Countess.

  ‘What was that, dear?’

  ‘Young Richard likes builders’ tea.’

  ‘Jolly good. Now we have some absolutely terrific lemon sponge bought at the church sale. The only problem, being the laird, as you would say up in Scotland, is that you have to buy a lot of sponge cake. And huge onions. So eat up. Or if you prefer, there are sandwiches. By the way, jolly smart car you have.’

  ‘Sadly, it’s not mine. It’s way above my pay grade. Actually I don’t have a pay grade at all.’

  ‘Too bad. But you look like a bright fellow to me, like your father.’

  ‘Unfulfilled promise, I think is the phrase. I would love some lemon sponge, it looks delicious.’

  ‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating,’ Huntingdon warns.

  It is strange how easily I fall into this familiar and superficial conversation, which often involves dogs and horses, the management of shoots and the bloody useless government. It is a defensive way to converse, one that establishes shared values, while avoiding any form of intellectual pretension.

  After tea – excellent sponge cake – Huntingdon leads me to the archive, which is housed underneath the first floor in a semi-basement that was once, he tells me, a storeroom for food and supplies because it is always cool and dry. He shows me five huge dark wooden cabinets, each with four drawers.

  ‘This is what we call the archive. It’s never been properly catalogued, but I have looked through most of it at one time or another. You’re interested in the Crusader period, aren’t you? My alleged ancestor was on the Third Crusade, you said. There are some papers or parchments, which are probably Victorian, collected by my grandfather. To be honest, I think it was one of these your father lost, nothing too valuable. And here’s a picture of your father and me. I got it out for you. Look at the size of those spliffs. You look quite like your father.’

  In the photograph are two slender young men, with long hair and patterned trousers, standing in a punt, smoking weed. They are smiling, sharing a beautiful cosmic joke. My father never lost that look of satisfaction with his induction into the inner workings of the universe.

  ‘Different times, different zeitgeist. But good times. Good times. I would start on cabinet two if I were you. Cabinet one is mainly estate bills from the nineteenth century. Let me know what you find, and I will arrange with the secretary to print it out for you. You should perhaps stay until Sunday night to do justice to the material? Can you do that? Good show. Dinner will be at seven forty-five. No need to dress.’

  I have brought my new suit, just in case.

  In the picture my father, I have to accept, does look like me. I recognise the eyes, quite widely spaced, and the thin nose. His smile, although a little skewed, is also like mine. When this picture was taken, he and Huntingdon were younger than I am now. I see that they are both wearing Afghan – possibly Pakistani – embroidered waistcoats. Wisdom and deeper understanding were believed to spring from the East. The West, according to Herbert Marcuse, was clapped out, on its last legs; the one-dimensional society could not last. Liberation from the affluent society, from false needs, would free the West, particularly in the matter of repression. Marcuse was big on repression; he spotted it lurking everywhere, but particularly in sexual politics.

  I have two dictionaries with me, Anglo-Norman French and Latin, and I start eagerly – feverishly – on the archives. My plan is to have a quick look through and to put aside anything that may be of interest. I know that Henry, Earl of Huntingdon was already in Acre when Richard arrived. I also know that, although he set sail from Acre in Richard’s ghost ship, the Frankenef, he did not go with him when the King and a few knights turned back and set off from Corfu up the Adriatic in two galleys. We also know that the Frankenef was later seen in Brindisi, but it is unlikely that Henry of Huntingdon and his companions would have struck out for home from there. Marseilles is the obvious jumping-off point, and the letter in the museum seems to confirm that Huntingdon was in Marseilles in January, which could mean that he was planning to make his way via Normandy to deliver the Holy Cross to Rouen before returning home, as he promised his wife. Je n’en mantirai.

  But I need confirmation. Also, I have no idea how big the cross was. Presumably it was the bigger portion of Helena’s cross, which was carried into battle twenty times. The Crusaders triumphed in every one of these battles until the catastrophic defeat at Hattin. In Ridley Scott’s movie, Kingdom of Heaven, the cross is a huge, silver-encrusted and bejewelled object that glints in the sunlight. This film reliquary seems to be a grand version of the one in Barletto, Italy.

  After two hours I have retrieved three documents that could be interesting. One mentions a Templar commanderie on an island beyond the port of Marseilles. It may be that Richard of Hastings, who was Master of the Templars in England between 1160 and 1185 and a relative of Henry Huntingdon, helped them on their way.

  It’s time for dinner. I have put aside the three documents, two on parchment, and one that is clearly a later copy on paper. I go to my bedroom, which overlooks the darkened park, studded with huge trees, and dress hurriedly. I am breathing too fast. I adopt Ed’s remedy and put the plastic bag which contained my new shirt over my head, and breathe in slowly until my hyperventilating stops.

  We take a sherry before dinner in a bigger drawing room, hung with plenty of family furniture and ancestral portraits. The ancestors in grand houses always look smug, as though they have delightful private memories. Their skin is pinkish and their eyes are small. This look may just be the rictus of sitting for a portrait.

  ‘Did yo
u find anything interesting?’ Venetia asks.

  ‘Yes, some very interesting letters, or at least copies of letters. They are not in themselves amazing, but the dates and places mentioned may help me build up a picture of what happened when Richard the Lionheart sailed for home.’

  ‘Did he have important Crusader treasures with him?’

  ‘That’s what I am trying to find out.’

  ‘We have had this stuff under our noses for hundreds of years, but we’ve rather taken it for granted. As one does,’ says Huntingdon.

  We go in for dinner. Candles are burning on a long table. A young woman waits on us. She is studying catering and hospitality at a local college; she comes in to help when the family has visitors. She has that soft covering that is increasingly the norm; her face is creaseless. The first course is a plate of smoked salmon, which I try to hide under a lettuce leaf.

  I ask Venetia about her polo ponies.

  ‘Are polo ponies really ponies?’

  ‘No, they are not ponies, as in Shetlands or anything like that, but they are usually quite compact, so they were called ponies. In Argentina they are often the gauchos’ workhorses, and the best ones are used for polo.’

  ‘Venetia has about thirty at any one time, don’t you, darling?’

  For a moment I think he’s talking about gauchos.

  ‘Yes, I do. I sell them to English players if I can.’

  ‘Loses money of course. When we were married the idea was that it should wash its face. Hasn’t happened so far.’