‘Do you like game pie?’
‘I love it.’
I say this hoping in some way to inflate my credentials: Look, here’s a chap who eats grouse and venison and woodcock. He’s not just some vegetarian wonk.
‘We have bread-and-butter pudding for afters. Venetia likes with-it food,’ he says rather wistfully. ‘When she’s away, I relapse, I am afraid. Mind you, we do both like a good curry.’
After dinner he takes me into the small study and produces a thick, padded manila envelope.
‘This is the manuscript that I thought might interest you. I have had a copy made for you to take away. It looks to me like a map, but you will know, or find out, I am sure.’
Very carefully he slips out the manuscript.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘this is my grandfather’s, the Robin Hood fanatic’s, handwriting. It tells you where he bought the manuscript in 1908. And this is a copy for you.’
It is just one sheet with about five lines on it, some unreadable.
‘What do you make of it?’ Huntingdon asks.
‘If it’s a forgery, it’s a very good one. I think it is right for the period, and I think it uses carbon ink, which fades, and is used in everyday correspondence, rather than for illuminated addresses, like the addresses to Saladin in the Bodleian that I was shown. It needs X-raying and some other tests, but I will come back to you when I have what’s readable translated. Is that all right with you?’
I try to feign academic detachment. It seems to be the outlines of a simple map.
‘Absolutely fine. You can take the copy away with you, of course, but please, don’t show it to dealers or experts. In my time I have popped quite a few family heirlooms, and my experience is that the dealers are all posh crooks, either trying to buy your heritage cheaply or trying to inflate the value for their commission. And the experts always think that whatever you show them would be better off inside a museum, looked after by them. They don’t really believe in individuals holding on to important objects or rare manuscripts or master pictures.
‘Now, Richard, I said I had a proposition to make to you. Would you like to do a trial stint as a researcher for me? I have a number of speeches to deliver on Europe over the summer, which I would like you to research, and possibly you could make policy suggestions. You would have access to the Lords and to the parliamentary archives and so on. You strike me as a chap with a very good mind, well above my level, I can assure you. How do you feel about Europe?’
‘Ambivalent.’
‘That will do. We draw the line at Europhiles with mad eyes staring out towards a future European super-state. Can you consider it?’
‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
‘Good boy. It’s not frightfully well paid, but for someone like you it should be interesting. I will pay you £30,000 a year and your initial contract will be for six months, to see how you get on. Something tells me you are going to be a great find. Now, how about some bread-and-butter pudding? I even have custard.’
‘I would love to give it a try. The job I mean. And the bread-and-butter pudding. But I have to tell you, I have never had a proper job.’
‘Sometimes I think working in organisations deadens the mind. Everyone begins to sound the same. First thinking is what we need. I’ll get my parliamentary secretary to sort it all out. She’s a wonderful woman; couldn’t live without her. Her name is Elaine, by the way. Can I give her your number?’
‘Of course.’
When I get home to Kensington, nodded in by the doorman, I spend the next hour or so writing out, word by word, the faded and indistinct words from the photocopy. I come across a few words I recognise, ‘yglise’, for ‘church’ as Huntingdon said, is one of them, and ‘tesaur’ is another. Parts of the original manuscript were obviously scuffed and the ink has faded. There are many words I am unfamiliar with. It might never have been sent to the intended recipient – perhaps Hubert Walter – or it could have been a copy that remained in the baggage of Henry of Huntingdon.
One word puzzles me particularly: it looks as though it might be a person’s name: ‘Chasluç’. I have the strong intuition that I am getting closer to the hiding place of the True Cross. Now I need to discover who ‘Chasluç’ was.
33
Richie
Dearest Noor,
I am very sorry it has taken me so long to reply. I should have written sooner, but I have been – as usual – deep in research and writing and also I have been offered a proper job working in the House of Lords as a researcher. I start in a few weeks. It’s all slightly eccentric.
I can’t bear to think of you suffering so much. Please tell me how the operation went. At the moment I am staying in Haneen’s new apartment which I think I mentioned to you. Has she told you about it? I am sure she has. From the balcony I can see Hyde Park, a bit of it anyway, and in the distance I can often see the Household Cavalry taking their horses out for exercise. Sometimes they go out in their full ceremonial outfits to escort dignitaries. It’s magnificent, but I can’t help wondering what the point is of riding around London dressed up for a cavalry charge.
Yesterday I was handed a piece of parchment, with some words in Old French. It looks like it is a map, and I have a feeling this will provide the link I have been looking for to where Richard’s knights, who were escorting the True Cross from the Holy Land, left it. Trust me, before you denounce me as a fantasist, the evidence is mounting up.
Darling Noor, I am living in the belief that we will meet again soon. It keeps me going. At the same time I feel helpless, but every day I try to send you my love in some way, and I hope it arrives safely in the land of the moose. It’s the secular version of prayer.
Get better, my dearest sister, and think of Jerusalem when you are feeling low. I do.
Richie xxx
34
Philip is Humiliated
1198. Richard the Lionheart, King of England, Duke of Normandy, is winning the battle with Philip Augustus, King of France. He routs Philip’s forces outside his own Castle of Gisors. Richard is so eager to get at Philip that a chronicler writes: He looked like a starving lion who had caught sight of his prey. In the scramble to retire into the castle, Philip falls, humiliatingly, into the river. Richard loves to tell the story of how Philip had a dunking before being hauled out of the water half drowned. By the autumn of the year, Philip seeks a truce; he is prepared to make concessions. In truth he has no option. In November a short truce is agreed.
Richard takes his fast boats up the Seine to meet Philip. For some unexplained reason – perhaps because Philip is nervous in the presence of the ferocious, red-haired Richard – he remains seated on his horse. They agree to separate meetings with the papal legate, Peter of Capua, as mediator. He is renowned for his sonorous and emollient speeches, dressed up in the kind of sanctimonious humility that Richard detests.
At the first meeting with Peter of Capua, at Château Gaillard, Richard refuses to compromise: all his lands must be restored. Peter argues that while war continues the Kingdom of Jerusalem will remain in danger; his master, Pope Innocent, is particularly keen to launch another Crusade. Richard is angry. He stands up and advances on the legate.
‘Let me remind you, if it had not been for Philip’s malice, which forced me to return, I would have been able to recover the whole of Outremer. And later, when I was falsely imprisoned, he conspired to keep me there so that he could steal my lands. It is wrong to make peace or a long truce while my enemy still holds lands and castles taken unjustly and illegally.’
Peter of Capua, his hands clasped piously, makes an ill-advised comment.
‘Ah, sire, how true it is that no one can have everything he wants. The Holy Land demands that we all make sacrifices.’
Richard, barely containing his anger, sits down. He says he will accept a five-year truce.
‘I will allow Philip to retain the castles he holds, but not a foot more.’
‘Sire, I will take your proposals to Ph
ilip Augustus. I have, sire, another matter on which His Holiness has asked me to speak to you.’
Richard turns to his counsellors. After a few moments he turns back to Peter.
‘What is it he wants?’
‘His Holiness asks that you release the Bishop of Beauvais, the cousin of Philip Augustus. He is both anointed and consecrated, and it is wrong to keep such a man under lock and key.’
William the Marshal, a famous knight and close friend of Richard, later writes that the Bishop of Beauvais was the man Richard hated most in the whole world.
‘By my head,’ Richard shouts, ‘by God’s legs, he is de-consecrated for he is a false Christian. He has accused me of killing Conrad de Montferrat, who I had appointed King of Jerusalem; he has maligned me all over Europe. He has been his perfidious cousin’s lapdog. It was not as a bishop that he was captured, but as a knight, fighting and fully armed, a laced helmet on his head. Sir hypocrite, what a fool you are. If you were not an envoy I would send you back with something to show the Pope, which he would not forget. Nor did the Pope lift a finger to help me when I was imprisoned and needed his assistance to be freed. And now he asks me to set free a robber and an incendiary who has never done me anything but harm. Get out of here, Sir traitor, liar, trickster, corrupt dealer in churches, and never let me see you again.’
Peter of Capua flees to Gisors, rightly afraid that, if he stays a moment longer, Richard will have him castrated. Richard goes to his chamber and has all the shutters closed and flings himself on the bed in a paroxysm of rage and resentment, brought on by his reminder of the many injustices done to him while he was imprisoned.
N’est pas mervoille se j’ai le cuer dolant,
Quant mes sires met ma terre en torment.
It is no revelation that my heart is sad and pained
When my own sires despoil my lands.
The bitterness of ‘Ja Nus Hons Pris’ has seeped into his bones, like rainwater into porous stonework.
William the Marshal is sent in to speak to Richard. He tells his king that Philip will never hold the castles he has taken illegally; without lands the castellans will not be able to sustain themselves. Richard simply has to blockade these castles to take them.
‘They will fall into your hands, sire, like ripe plums.’
Richard is duly soothed. Some suggest that his rage is a tactic. Others believe his rage is not only real but easily understood. William the Marshal takes the credit for being able to talk the King round. They have known each other since they were jousting in Poitiers as adolescents.
Soon Richard is back on the warpath, planning to bring to heel the perennially troublesome half-brothers, Aimar, the Viscount of Limoges, and Ademar, the Count of Angoulême, who are Richard’s vassals. He sends Mercadier south to lay waste to their lands. Without lands, there is no hope of survival. Fear, devastation, and starvation are to be visited on them. Mercadier knows only one way to fight a battle, and that is with utter ruthlessness and unsparing cruelty. But Richard is not content to leave the work to Mercadier. He has a score to settle with Viscount Aimar, but more importantly he is on the trail of the True Cross, which will vindicate him. His revenge on Aimar will be all the sweeter when he has retrieved the Holy Cross, sancta croitz, and he can parade Christendom’s most sacred relic throughout the streets of Rouen. It is the cause of great bitterness to him that he has not been given his due for having defeated Saladin and for securing the coastal towns of the Latin Kingdom. He knows that the True Cross will be a potent symbol of his success. As he wrote to Saladin: The cross, which for you is simply a piece of wood with no value, is for us of enormous importance.
In great splendour, Richard progresses towards Chinon where he spends two nights. His mother is at Roncevaux, near by, and he visits her there. Then he goes on to Loches, one of the most important castles he has recovered. He basks in the restoration of his empire and the welcome from his grateful subjects. They don’t see themselves as English in any way, but as Angevins, and Richard is their lord. There is a growing realisation that Richard has won the war and they are eager to demonstrate their undying allegiance as ostentatiously as possible.
Richard can have no other reason for heading towards the negligible castle of Châlus-Chabrol in Limousin when Mercadier and his routiers – as the chroniclers report – have already wasted Limoges’s lands.
35
Father Prosper
My dear Richard,
I thank you for your email, with scan of a document which you suggest may be a map or diagram written by Henry of Huntingdon in 1194. Even from the copy I can agree that the original was written on vélin, which is ‘vellum’ in English.
As you said, it is necessary to look at the original document under the conditions of science, using X-ray and ultraviolet to be certain; but by appearance, I am confident that it could be a manuscript from the time of the Third Crusade. The words that you are trying to translate are a mixture of Anglo-Norman French and Occitan. A man like the Earl of Huntingdon would most probably have written in Anglo-Norman French.
Here are some of the words you wanted me to confirm: ‘amagat’, means ‘hidden’, sometimes written as ‘amagada’. ‘Tesaur’ is ‘trésor’, ‘treasure’, as you know; ‘relicar’ is ‘reliquary’, ‘soterror’ and ‘aterror’ are variants of ‘enterrer’, ‘to bury’, and all your other translations except one are correct. Maybe the one important thing I can tell you is that ‘Chasluç’ is the Occitan name for ‘Châlus’. Châlus-Chabrol is where your Richard was killed. I have not had the pleasure of reading Dan Brown, but this seems to be his territory, from what I understand. It is definitely not my ‘bag’ as your father used to say. These mystical treasures are always found in a grotte profonde, as your manuscript suggests.
I cannot tell you much more. But considering what you have sent to me I think you must show the original to an expert at the British Museum and I attach the email address of my colleague, Dr Keith Philpott. He has the most advanced equipment in Europe. Let me know if you wish that I should send him a note to introduce you.
Our friend in Toronto has been released from hospital. Will you see her?
Amitiés,
Prosper
36
The Death of Richard the Lionheart
Now ‘Chasluç’ makes sense. It is ‘Châlus-Chabrol’, and that is where Huntingdon and his companions must have hidden the True Cross. They could not go on to turbulent Normandy with the cross because Philip was closing in on Rouen. But by 1199 things are different and Mercadier and his routiers have pacified and laid waste to large swathes of the south, and Richard is ready to reclaim his treasure.
The story of Richard’s siege of Châlus-Chabrol was told by Richard’s almoner, Abbot Milo, who was present, to Abbot Ralph de Coggeshall, who in turn wrote:
During Lent Richard took advantage of the opportunity of peace with King Philip to lead an army of his own against the Viscount of Limoges. Moreover, there are some people who say that a treasure of incalculable value was found on the Viscount’s land. The King ordered him to hand it over; and when the Viscount refused, the King’s anger was further aroused. Then he devastated the Viscount’s land with fire and sword as though he did not know that arms should be laid aside during Lent. At last he came to Châlus-Chabrol.
Yes, at last he came to Châlus-Chabrol – to reclaim his treasure.
The castle was occupied by only thirty-eight men and women. While his sappers undermined the castle walls, Richard’s bowmen fired at anyone who appeared above the parapet. It wasn’t a big castle and surrender before the walls collapsed was increasingly likely. Surrendering early might lead to clemency, but holding out to the end would certainly lead to disaster. The acrimony between Philip and Richard had seen an increasing number of atrocities against prisoners, and these included castration and blinding.
As darkness was falling on 26 March 1199, Richard left his red tent, wearing no armour except for a helmet. A rectangular shield held in fro
nt of him by four men in armour was all he had for protection. Richard carried a crossbow, a weapon he loved, hoping for a little target practice. But there was only one possible target, also equipped with a crossbow, high on the parapet. His name was Pierre Basile. He was taking the occasional potshot at the besiegers below, and using a frying pan as a shield. The lone defender was providing light entertainment; the besiegers particularly appreciated the frying pan as a comic prop in this comedy of a siege.
Pierre Basile aimed at Richard the Lionheart. Richard applauded and then – just too late – ducked behind the shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder. The reports say that he made light of it and walked back to his tent calmly so as not to cause alarm, although it is hard to see how, with an arrow protruding from his shoulder, he could not have caused consternation. The bolts on these crossbows were shaped like an arrow, or like a ragged artichoke. Pierre Basile may have had the bigger, defensive crossbow, which was much heavier. But it seems unlikely that one of these struck Richard. If it had, he would not have been able to walk away; it would have shattered his whole shoulder.
Back in his tent Richard tried to pull the bolt out by the wooden shaft; the shaft came away, leaving the iron (or lead) bolt deeply embedded. Mercadier summoned his own doctor to the King. By torchlight – it was now late into the night – the surgeon removed the bolt with great difficulty. One report says that Richard had become very fat; whether his obesity or inept surgery was to blame, the result was great trauma to the tissues. Almost inevitably septicaemia or gangrene set in. Richard knew that he would die. He sent a message to his beloved mother, asking her to come to his bedside. He wrote immediately to William the Marshal and to Hubert Walter. He ordered William to take command of the castle and the treasury of Rouen. Rouen and much of Normandy would again be vulnerable once Philip heard of his death. There is a story that he ordered up some local women to pleasure him, perhaps on the widely held principle that sex was a defence against death. William the Breton describes him as indulging in ‘the joys of Venus’.
Lion Heart Page 24
