‘Hello. Stephen, hello.’
‘I see the dog is taking you on a walk, Mark.’
‘I would have died years ago without him. It’s a consensual arrangement.’
‘A retired High Court judge,’ says Sephen when he has gone by. ‘Richard, can I ask you, as your old tutor and great admirer, to listen to what I have to say?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your quest, as you quaintly called it last night, is troubling you, because it has no obvious outcome. Is that more or less what you were saying?’
‘That is exactly what I was thinking.’
‘Perhaps it is a diversion. You should write about your experiences in Jerusalem and your quest to find the Holy Cross in any way you like. Use your imagination. From what you have told me, it’s about belief. The power of fiction at its best is to make the reader believe, to enter into, what you, the writer, are writing. That’s all it is. By reading, and giving his consent to be beguiled, the reader becomes complicit with the writer, to some extent creating his own fiction. You have a wonderful opportunity. Even if it turns out not to be the True Cross, and even if there is no neat outcome, you can write about that. You must free yourself. Dear Richard, nothing could give me greater pleasure and satisfaction than to be able, before I die, to read the book I know you are capable of.’
We are standing near the ninth tee of Trebetherick Golf Club, the wind blowing in from the estuary; Betjeman is at rest two hundred yards away. I feel treacherous tears welling again. Even now I wonder if my treatment in hospital has altered me for ever at the cellular level, somewhere the emotions arise. Stephen’s hand on my arm is shaking. His thick grey hair is flying wildly. His cheekbones and the surrounds of his mouth are raw from the wind so that he has a cadaverous look, as if prefiguring his death.
‘Thank you, Stephen. Thank you.’
‘Shall we go home?’
I take his arm under the elbow, in the way we were taught at Boy Scouts to escort a blind person across a busy street. I did not have the opportunity to put it into practice as I never saw a blind person and, anyway, the streets were rarely busy.
19
January 1193, Marseilles
Marseilles was a busy port. From Pisa and Genoa, Venice, Milan, Corfu, Rhodes, Acre, Alexandria, Constantinople and Brindisi, ships from the modest to the magnificent docked. The Crusades had led to an increase of commerce and traffic and there was a constant bustle around the quays, and the markets on the quaysides; the huge warehouses, which looked like rural barns, were full of goods for onward transit. A new world of trade and commerce was emerging in the counting houses, factors’ offices and merchants’ storerooms. All the languages of the Mediterranean were spoken here, including Arabic. The merchants and factors were highly organised. In order to cope with the many nationalities and the complex agreements, Latin had become the language of trade.
The sailing season was officially closed for the winter; the sea could be violent and the winds could rip sails; galleys powered by slaves could be swamped. But this did not deter the few brave, or desperate, captains who set sail for home when they saw a break in the weather. Ox- and horse-drawn carts departed at all hours on the first stage of the long journey inland, as far as Paris and Antwerp and Rouen and La Rochelle, Dieppe and Amsterdam. Glassware, silks, spices, Flanders cloth, skins, wheat, wine carried in tuns, and much more, were loaded and unloaded.
On the 15th of January, a large sailing ship docked. It was rumoured that it carried knights who had come from Acre and Corfu. This mysterious ship had a high prow, which made it capable of crossing the Channel to England, but at this time of year there was no question of leaving the Mediterranean through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Bay of Biscay: the prevailing winds made that impossible.
An armed guard from the Templar commanderie waited for the five knights who were escorting the precious cargo to disembark. These men were among Richard the Lionheart’s most loyal knights. They had taken the cross and they had all fought at Richard’s side in Messina, in Cyprus, in Jaffa, in Acre, in Arsuf and in Ascalon. They had about them a sort of dignified sanctity: a third of their fellows had died of disease, drowning or wounds over the past two years, and they had seen death and blood and massacre. All of them bore scars. But they had received Almighty God’s grace by entering the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, so fulfilling their vows.
Word had got out that the Templars were receiving these important knights, who were on the business of a king. Rumours were circulating furiously around the quays. Henry of Huntingdon understood that rumours were dangerous. In truth, only the Master of the Templars knew their business. But here in Marseilles, not even the brotherhood of the one hundred leaders of the crafts and businesses of Marseilles, which had its own courts and regulations, would dare to offend the Templars by asking questions. The Templars were very powerful and in Marseilles, which was in practice an autonomous state, they were particularly potent.
As they disembarked, the knights were wearing their light mail without cuirass. The mail was covered by a plain white surcoat on which was stitched a simple cloth crotz; none of them wore the arms of their captive King because there were many enemies of their overlord here in Provence.
Messengers from Hubert Walter had prepared the Templars for the arrival of their guests. Henry of Huntingdon, William de l’Étang, Gerard de Furnival, Raoul de Mauléon, Bartholomew de Mortemer, Roger de Saci and Master Robert walked beside a wooden box, draped with a brown Flanders cloth. Huntingdon was the only one of the knights heading for England. The others were going to Anjou and Normandy. An outer ring of Templars led them solemnly from the great ship towards a waiting galley. The merchants and factors stopped their work briefly to watch; they had seen many strange sights. It may have looked to them like a religious ceremony, as, in a way, it was. To reach the Templar commanderie, an island fortress, the knights, their escort and the treasure had to travel by boat. The galley moved swiftly, leaving behind the bustle and rumours and spies of the port. The Master himself came out of the castle to greet the travellers, and led the procession through the main gate. As soon as they had shed their mail the knights were seated at a long refectory table, where the Master gave thanks for their safe arrival from the Holy Land, through dangerous waters, and blessed them for their successes against the infidel. Huge fires at either end of the refectory warmed them. Flagons of Provençal wines were brought in by the squires, followed by platters of mutton, and lampreys and beef from the marshlands of the Camargue, known in Occitan as Camarga.
Weary and sick though they were, Huntingdon and his brothers in arms made their way to the chapel of St Bernard de Clairvaux, the patron saint of the Knights Templars. The chapel was devoted to the cult of the Virgin Mary, and Richard’s knights gave thanks on their knees for their safe passage and prayed that the Virgin would continue to protect them on their sacred mission. For two weeks they waited for a message as they rested in the Knights Templars’ care.
Henry of Huntingdon was particularly anxious to set out for home. He hadn’t seen his wife for three years. But, unlike Marseilles, Arles and Toulon were under the suzerainty of the Counts of Provence and the journey to Arles and onward would be dangerous. If it were known that Huntingdon was leading a small group of knights who were escorting precious treasure for Richard, there would be a free-for-all, and the knights would be seen as candidates for ransom, like their sire. The whole world knew that Richard was held in captivity. There was a cloud over England and the Angevin empire.
When the message came and the terms were agreed, and the silver was handed over, the Master of the Templars prepared to provide an escort of twenty knights to ride as far as Arles; Huntingdon’s men were given Templar cloaks and robes and armour for the journey. Their shields, on a black-and-white background, were inscribed with the words: In hoc signo vinces – In this sign you will conquer, the motto of Constantine the Great, the first Christian Emperor, who saw a vision of the cross, the chi-rho, in the sky be
fore the decisive Battle of the Milvian Bridge. The new world that was emerging still had roots in the classical world. The bridge, where Constantine received his revelation, still spans the Tiber, almost one thousand seven hundred years after Constantine’s apocalyptic vision.
For Henry of Huntingdon himself, no challenge was too difficult, no danger too great, but he was apprehensive: to lose the Holy Cross now was unthinkable. The contingent, apparently of Templars, set off well before dawn in a galley; the horses were restless, tied head to tail in a flat barge, before they were led onto the quay and the knights mounted, to ride out beyond Marseilles, away from the marshes and islands and the teeming port. The treasure was in a covered wagon pulled by four horses. Two more draft horses were tethered to the back of the wagon in case they were needed. Only the master of the commanderie knew what was being carried in the large wooden box, secured with metal bands and wrapped in Flanders cloth. Initially the knights followed the route of the Roman Road, skirting the mouth of the Rhône. Roger de Saci rode with his favourite falcon from the Holy Land on the pommel of his saddle. It was in jesses and bells and an Arab hood covered its head.
‘That bird won’t last long in this weather,’ said Huntingdon.
The bird was crouched, its feathers plumped up.
‘She is strong. If she dies, that will be a very bad omen for all of us.’
From within its hood, the falcon squeaked.
‘You are a mysterious man, Roger.’
‘I trust fate. I love the bird. I want her here, close to me. If she dies it is God’s will.’
Henry had seen many men who clutched at straws after the horrors they had witnessed.
The knights were headed in the direction of Aix, because it was a safer journey; ten miles north of Marseilles they took the road across the Camarga, in the direction of Arles. Wind and rain swept in over the marshlands. There was a low sky of tarnished silver plate above them, and little movement on the road ahead. The horses’ heads hung low and the riders pulled their cloaks tight. Nobody spoke. Henry of Huntingdon gave thanks silently that the day was so foul. Perhaps the Virgin was looking after them. All day they struggled towards Arles. Sheets of rain like a silver curtain drove in from the south. Master Robert sat slumped on his horse, his back bent, his hood pulled across his face, his hands resting on the pommel. He may have been asleep. Now the cart had to be pulled out of a deep rut, and the two extra packhorses were harnessed for the task. It was a frightful, demoralising day. Wet through, cold and exhausted, they finally arrived at the commanderie of Arles. The gates opened onto a courtyard and the horses were taken away to be fed, while the treasure was moved under escort to the chapel by Knights Templars, as if they were conducting a vigil for a hero.
Although Templar rules forbade falconry, Roger de Saci’s bedraggled bird was housed in a chicken coop and fed two dead mice, which it ate quickly and without joy or gratitude, watched closely by Roger de Saci. Henry was surprised it had survived the journey.
‘Did you pray for the bird?’ he asked.
‘I did. As we rode, I was praying to the Virgin for my family and my falcon.’
‘But perhaps not in that order.’
In the Latin Kingdom, de Saci had been an avid falconer. His sire, Richard, also enjoyed the sport. De Saci’s devotion to this bird, with its ruthless eyes, was a mystery to Henry.
The Master, Guillaume Soliers, greeted them as they assembled. He spoke on behalf of all Templars when he beseeched the Lord to aid them in their mission and he thanked them for their noble work in the Holy Land. He reminded the assembled that these men had fulfilled their vows and were bound for heaven and eternal life. During the meal a choir sang the Templars’ own Gregorian chants. After they had eaten, Soliers and the knights retired to discuss the way ahead. The Templars were strong enough to provide an escort, but not far beyond Arles, Soliers said, nothing could be guaranteed. He recommended that they travel as ordinary pilgrims, returning from the Holy Land.
Despite their vows of poverty and service, the Templars had acquired a very high opinion of themselves. You could never be certain where they saw advantage. But it helped Henry’s cause that his relative had been the Grand Master of the Templars in England. Hubert Walter had prepared the way, and Soliers had been receiving intelligence of what lay ahead on their way to Rouen. It was in Arles that they received the news that Hubert Walter was their king’s choice as Archbishop of Canterbury. It pleased them that a brave companion and a justiciar of the realm should receive this honour. They drank to Hubert, and de Saci gave his falcon a lump of meat, impaled on the end of a dagger.
Soliers passed to Huntingdon a message from Hubert Walter, which instructed them to wait before moving north. The message to move out would be ‘stronger than iron’.
He who carries it, and cherishes it
Remembers his friend,
And thus he becomes stronger than iron;
This will be your shield and hauberk.
For ten days they waited. The news from the north was that John and Philip were desperately trying to make gains before Richard was released and many nobles of Richard’s kingdom were trying to decide where their advantage lay. Some were for John and Philip. Master Robert, the clerk, sought information wherever he could; he discovered that the Count of Angoulême was turning towards Philip of France. He noted which castles John had bought or captured. He was watchful and meticulous.
Huntingdon said that he would gladly kill John in combat, if John were man enough to accept the challenge.
‘You know perfectly well that he is a coward. Is that why you will issue the challenge?’ said de l’Étang.
‘He is a coward, and what he is most frightened of is our sire.’
They drank to their incomparable king. They praised his bravery and good nature and his singing voice. They were full of bitterness for the traitors who had taken him prisoner, men who themselves had sworn to aid all who had taken the cross. They had lost their souls for gold. The knights swore that there would be a price to pay. Bartholomew de Mortemer recited some lines of Richard’s ‘Ja Nus Hons Pris’:
They knew full well, barons and my men,
Of Normandy, England, Gascony, Poitou,
That I have never had a vassal
Whom I leave in prison for my own gain;
I say it not as a reproach to them,
—But a prisoner I am!
Mortemer wished them eternal damnation:
After my death they will be called to account.
In the dark of night, Henry of Huntingdon prayed, as he did every night, to the Virgin that she might guide them to deliver the Holy Cross to Rouen, the very cross on which her son was crucified, and then he prayed that she should permit him to go home, his vows fulfilled, his sacred task complete. He was longing to see his wife and children and his lands again. But the message to move out did not come for two months. And the King himself was not to be released until the following year:
I grieve greatly for myself; for them still more.
20
Port Meadow
Stephen has set me free. I am happily writing my account of Richard and the Holy Cross.
Emily emails me. She has a new boyfriend, actually more of a partner. She felt she owed it to me to tell me. They are living together. He knows about me. They have no secrets. Would I like to meet him?
No, I fucking well wouldn’t. And in this respect, at least, she doesn’t owe me a thing. She wants to buy me out of the unsold flat in Hackney. Her boyfriend has a legacy and he is offering to put up half the asking price; taking into account the outstanding mortgage, he is prepared to pay me £10,000. And – great news – he has a very good eye, and believes he can smarten up the place relatively cheaply.
I email my congratulations, and accept the offer. I write: I am very happy for you, which is both ungrammatical and untrue. I have detected, I think, an attempt to make me jealous; she wants some sign from me. She doesn’t want to think that our many months toget
her have left no traces on me.
It is a long email. Her partner is in music. He specialises in finding promising young acts, like Speed Wheels, who I have never heard of. Her writing is going well. She has submitted a short story to a competition. She has also sent it to an agent.
This picture of an interesting and creative lifestyle could be translated by the cynical – me – as meaning that her boyfriend has some money left to him by his granny, which he is squandering, and that she is heading inevitably for literary rejection, so that she will have to take the teaching diploma and embark on a career, an important component of which will be eating biscuits in the staff room as refuge from the delinquent pupils. And her partner will eventually become a minicab driver or go into garden design, laying turf for lawyers. But I am happy about the money.
I end on an upbeat note: He’s a very lucky man, and I think your offer is fair and generous. I append my address and my bank details to speed up the transaction.
I have been in an ecstatic phase, jumping out of bed to get back to my narrative, my novel, my historical biography, my picaresque, my reverie – call it what you want.
Ella and I went for a walk on Port Meadow yesterday. It was the first time we had met since I was discharged from hospital.
A large part of the meadow was under water. Swans and ducks and geese were making merry, where earlier cows and ponies – some of them Shetlands – had grazed calmly. At any moment Noah might appear in his DIY ark. It seemed happily disorderly to me – ducks swimming about everywhere – but then, how would these birds, with their tiny brains, distinguish between flooded grassland and legitimate, bona fide lake or river? Or Mount Ararat. A whole new world had opened up to them.
Ella was heavily disguised in dark glasses and a hooded jacket. The fact that we had done nothing wrong, apart from the solitary kiss, which took place at a time when my mind was disturbed, suggested that she felt some sexual tension between us. Of course, she was recently my shrink and I was just an irresponsible lay person, helpless against the forces of derangement. Also, she had shown me the path out of the dark forest. But now her nervousness began to inhibit me. The water was just below the bridge as we crossed the river – it was running alarmingly strongly, and contributed to the sense of Old Testament disorder. We walked through the wet afternoon to the Perch. She went ahead of me into the pub, presumably as a precaution against running into somebody who would report her to the BMA for consorting with a lunatic. I followed a few minutes later, as though I had arrived separately. This was her neurotic plan. The pub was empty, apart from a barmaid polishing glasses, and two young men looking at their phones. Somewhere off stage was the sound of plates being stacked. The atmosphere was torpid. We ordered red wine.
Lion Heart Page 18
