I could breathe well enough, had no blood in my mouth and had not pissed any, so I prayed that the blade had not torn into my innards. I managed to get to my feet and staggered unsteadily to the camp. I could feel the bleeding start again, but it was the least of my concerns. The sun was high; it was midday, and very hot. I saw nothing at first – no horses, no signs of the camp – but then I tripped. To my horror, the obstacle I had fallen over was Rodor.
His lifeless face, covered in the dirt of the ground, was pointed towards me at a contorted angle, his eyes gawping, frozen in pain. He had several arrows protruding from his back, his sword was still sheathed and his shield was nowhere to be seen. Then I saw Modig a few feet away; he had suffered a similar fate, but his eyes were at rest. Although I could feel every movement open my wound even wider, I turned to peer into the trees for the others.
At first, I could find no trace of them, but then I saw the bottom of a shoe protruding from the side of a tree trunk. It was Godric, and close by were Penda and Leax. All three had been hacked to pieces. I turned away, unable to dwell on the scene. The anguish I felt in my heart was now far greater than the pain of my wounds, and I sank to the ground in despair. I was holding my stomach with my left hand; it was covered in fresh blood. I needed to take off my hauberk to try to dress the wound, but there was no sign of Anna, Theodora and Alun, which was a much greater priority.
I could see marks in the dirt nearby, which looked like the impressions of someone being dragged along the ground; I hauled myself up to follow the spoor. After about twenty yards, I came across a sight even more horrifying than the ones I had already seen.
In a torture by crucifixion, Alun had been stripped naked and tied to a tree by two of its branches. He had been emasculated and his eyes had been gouged out. He was covered in blood and his head was lolling to one side. I was certain he must be dead. But as I cried out his name, there was a slight movement of his head. By the time I limped over to him, he was spitting blood from his mouth and beginning to speak.
‘They were Armenians, not Muslims, and they had Kipchak bows and Phrygian caps. They must have been mercenaries on their way to the Holy Land. Perhaps it was a chance encounter; perhaps someone saw something, but they’ve taken everything, including the women.’
I cut him down as carefully as I could, but his lukewarm body convulsed in spasms of searing pain. I gently lowered him to the ground and supported his head against the trunk of the tree.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear them coming; I fell asleep on my watch.’
‘Don’t be sorry, they came from behind us. You would not have seen or heard them. We were all awake, but they were among us before anyone saw anything. They slaughtered the men before they could draw their weapons.’
‘Did they harm the girls?’
‘No, but they took them. I’m so sorry. I know you and Anna had become lovers, I saw you come back to the camp with her just before dawn.’
‘I must try to find them.’
‘They have been gone for at least three hours, and they took our horses and everything worth stealing. They will be miles away by now. I can hear that you are in pain, Ranulf. Are you injured?’
‘Yes, I am dazed from an arrow that smashed my helmet. And I have a stomach wound.’
‘They must have stumbled across you as they were leaving. Let me help you get your hauberk off.’
‘No, let’s try to make you comfortable.’
Alun shivered even more profusely and winced in pain.
‘There’s no point, my maker awaits me; the meeting will be soon.’
My friend suddenly grasped my hand tightly and pulled me towards him.
‘There is something I must tell you before I die… and something I must give you.’
Alun adjusted his position and took a couple of deep breaths. His breathing was shallow and all colour had left his face. His head turned, as if searching with his absent eyes for the direction of my face; he grabbed my arm in a desperate, pitiful gesture. The faintest of smiles creased his face before another tremor of pain took it away. He took another breath and started to speak.
‘First, you must make me a promise.’
‘Of course.’
‘You must go back to Richard and find a way to reconcile yourself with him.’
‘But he banished me.’
‘I didn’t suggest it would be easy, but you must find a way. You’re a resourceful man and an excellent soldier – find a way, please!’
Without hesitating, I agreed; I had no choice.
‘I will try. You have my word.’
Alun’s head suddenly fell to one side. He was in a dreadful state; his eye sockets were deep caverns of flesh, from which rivulets of fresh blood still oozed. I desperately wanted to rouse him to hear his story, but knew it was kinder to let him fade away peacefully. I felt my own wound, which was still stabbing me sharply; my head still throbbed, and my vision was less and less focused. I was losing too much blood.
Alun suddenly moved his head and spoke in a thin, laboured voice.
‘Is there any water nearby?’
‘There’s water at the lake, but there’s nothing to carry it in.’
‘Drag me there; I can help you with my legs.’
‘You’re in no condition to be dragged anywhere.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m a dead man; I just need a few more minutes to finish my story.’
I summoned all my strength. With my hands under Alun’s armpits, I started to pull him down the hill towards the lake. It must have been an excruciating journey for him, but he withstood it without complaint. My own agonies were almost unbearable, but they were as nothing compared to what he must have endured.
When we reached the lake, we both collapsed to the ground and recovered our breath for several minutes. Then Alun rolled over and submerged his whole head under the water to drink deeply. The impact of the cold water on his eyes must have seared deep into his brain, but he just shook his head like a dog and asked me to lean him against a nearby rock. He also asked me to rob the body of one of the men so that he could wear their braies to hide the horrors of his mutilation. When he was as ready as his condition allowed, he continued.
‘I haven’t got much time; my life is slipping away quickly. Can you lift me up a little more?’
We were both exhausted, but the one saving grace was the warmth of the Anatolian sun. Had we been cold, Alun would have long since expired. I pulled Alun higher against the rock.
He adjusted his position by lifting himself on his hands and took a long, deep breath.
‘Ranulf, would you sit closer to me and hold my shoulders? The pain is hard to bear; I need your strength to continue.’
I was more than happy to oblige my dying friend. Even though he had no eyes with which to shed tears, his chest heaved and there were sobs in his voice. I held him as tightly as my diminished powers allowed.
‘I have told you how Earl Harold was entrusted with the manuscript containing the exploits of Edgar the Atheling and his loyal brethren. Eleven years before we met at Wolvesey, Earl Harold had decided to repeat what Prince Edgar had done with William of Malmesbury and Roger of Caen. He told me he had been inspired by Edgar’s story and knew it was important that his own story be recorded for posterity – not because it was the story of his life, but because of its importance for our history. Now, I am passing it on to you; it is vital that you become its guardian, because I am the only one who knows it.’
‘But I am no more than a minor English knight of low birth, banished by our King.’
‘You must find a way, Ranulf, for me, for Earl Harold, for those who went before him and for England.’
‘I will try, my friend.’
Alun composed himself again.
‘Earl Harold first met Gilbert Foliot in 1139, when he was Bishop of Gloucester. The Earl had been involved in a violent skirmish at Oxford, during which he was badly wounded. Foliot protected him and saved his life. Nearly fifty years
later, the Earl sought out Foliot, who was by then Bishop of London. Foliot was a dying man, but over many days, with the help of his scribes, the story of the Earl’s life was committed to vellum. It was a remarkable story, but one part of it is particularly important and something you must carry with you, for the Lionheart and for England.’
I felt Alun’s hand tighten its grip on my arm as he rested his head on my shoulder; the blood from his eyes started to run down my arm. His head felt heavy and his voice was getting thinner. His end was near.
‘The gossip that Earl Harold was the Empress Matilda’s lover was true, of course. Their affair began at the Earl’s eyrie, St Cirq Lapopie, in the most romantic of circumstances, and they remained close for the rest of their lives; that’s why his home in the Lot was so special to him and is where, I’m sure, he rests in peace.’
Alun gripped my arm more tightly. I sensed a great urgency in his words.
‘Listen, this is the vital truth: all three of the Empress’s children were sired not by her husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, but by Earl Harold. This included Henry Plantagenet, King of England, the Lionheart’s father.’
I peered at where Alun’s eyes should have been; he could not see the amazement on my face, but he knew what I was thinking.
‘Yes, Earl Harold is the Lionheart’s grandfather. Our King has far more English blood than he realizes, blood which includes that of Hereward of Bourne, his paternal great-great-grandfather.’
Suddenly, everything about my mission made sense: why it was so important to Earl Harold and, of course, to England’s legacy. I had often wondered what could have been so important to persuade such a man to devote his life to a recalcitrant duke from Aquitaine. Now I understood; it was the protection of his family’s pedigree that drove him.
‘Alun, I’m not certain of both lineages, but does this not mean that you and the Lionheart must be relatives?’
‘Yes, but not that close. Our great-great-grandparents were brother and sister: Edgar the Atheling on my side and, on the King’s side, Edgar’s sister. She was Queen Margaret of Scotland, the wife of Malcolm Canmore.’
Alun’s grip on my arm tightened once more.
‘Now, remember these important details. Earl Harold’s story was sent to Rome in the autumn of 1187 by Gilbert Foliot. It was sent into the safekeeping of his friend, Thibaud of Vermandois, Cardinal Bishop of Ostia, who deposited it in the secret vaults of the Vatican Library. He also sent a casket, which contained the manuscript of the life of Prince Edgar, De Vita Edgar, Princeps Anglia, and other precious items, including scrolls and letters…’
Alun paused for a moment.
‘Foliot is now dead and so is Vermandois, but there is a relic, an amulet I have already described to you, that will give you access to the vaults of the Vatican if you want to retrieve the manuscripts. It is the fabled Talisman of Truth, which is now your responsibility, the responsibility for which you were chosen at Wolvesey.’
The weight of responsibility on my shoulders had suddenly become enormous. I was in the middle of remote Anatolia with a dying friend at my side, my comrades were dead and the new love of my life was lost to me in the hands of ruthless brigands. I felt very alone.
Alun started to feel heavier, and his head slipped further down my shoulder. I looked at his eyes and realized that he was shedding tears, but tears of blood. I nudged him a little and he responded slightly.
‘The amulet is hidden in the soil below the tree where you found me. I managed to hide it without the Armenians seeing me. It was given to me by the Earl Harold, its guardian. Now you must look after it. It is called the Talisman of Truth, but it has also been called the Devil’s Amulet, among other things. Guard it well.’
Alun raised his chin slightly and, with a grimace of pain, managed a final intake of breath.
‘Remember what I have told you; guard the talisman well.’
Only moments later, Alun breathed no more. Blood still trickled down his face, but its life-giving essence had gone. I laid him down by the side of the lake and sat with him for some time.
I started to feel very lethargic, but I knew that I must not succumb to the desire to sleep. I roused myself as much as I could, for had I not done so, I would have joined my friends in death. I got to my feet and lit a large fire. After a prolonged struggle, I managed to remove my hauberk. My stomach wound was deep, as I had feared. But as I was still alive, I assumed the blade had not penetrated any vital internal organs. Even so, I had to cauterize it to stop the bleeding. When the fire was hot enough, I poked my seax deep into its hot ashes and waited until it was ready to do its worst.
Without help to do the deed, I lay on my back and positioned the blade. When I let it go, it fell on to the open wound. It was the most painful thing I have ever had to endure. But I had no choice; I had to bear it, if I was to survive.
After the pain had subsided, I resisted the temptation to sleep. I lay still for over an hour until the wound had cooled, then submerged myself in the lake to cleanse my body. I stripped the leggings off one of the men and used the cloth as a bandage to dress my wound. I drank deeply from the fresh water of the lake and made some traps for fish and rabbit, before finally allowing myself to sleep.
It was a fitful, disturbed sleep; my pain and my conscience gave me no respite, and I woke suddenly in a state of remorse and panic. Fortunately, I had snared a fish in my simple trap and I roasted it on the fire and ate it like a hungry dog.
The pain in my head had lessened and my vision had cleared, so I walked to the tree where Alun had been tortured. I retrieved the relic from its roots; the amulet, tied in a small leather pouch, was just as he had described it.
Hanging from a heavy silver chain was a translucent piece of amber the size of a quail’s egg. It was set in scrolls of silver, each of which was a filigree snake, so finely worked that the oval eyes and forked tongues of the serpents could be seen in detail. At first glance, apart from its size and smoothness, it seemed unremarkable. But when it was held to the light, silhouetted in the baleful yellow glow of its stone was the face of Satan, the horned beast that has haunted men from the beginning of time. Close to the hideous face, trapped in the stone, were a tiny spider and a group of small winged insects, the devil’s familiars. Cutting through the stone was what Alun had said was the blood of Christ, trapping the devil in the stone. It was a streak of crimson, like a bloody Milky Way, which, at a certain angle, obscured the face of Lucifer.
When I examined the talisman, I remembered asking Alun the question prompted by Hereward of Bourne’s colours when they were carried by the Little Quintet during our journey to Angers. Now I truly understood their significance. At that moment I promised myself that, should I survive my current ordeal, I would always wear Hereward’s colours as my own.
Feeling that I was not worthy enough to put it around my neck, I returned the talisman to its pouch and tied it on to my belt. It made me shudder to think that I was now the guardian of this sacred object, but I knew what I had to do, and I knew who the talisman’s next recipient should be. However, I had been dismissed from the service of the man who should wear it with pride; he was several hundred miles away to the south, and I was hardly in a fit state to travel.
I still had to think of a way to discover what had happened to Anna and Theodora, and to their dowry. I needed to get my wits about me and garner my resources. But first, I had to deal with my dead friends.
It took me the rest of that day to drag the bodies to a central spot and to construct some sort of tomb for them. It was a gruesome task, pulling and tugging the bloodied corpses of friends like carcasses in an abattoir. As I only had my seax and sword with which to dig, I decided to build a stone cairn around them as a memorial. The lake shore was littered with rocks, and I set about collecting them to build a final resting place for my comrades. It was a long way from their home, but there were trees and water nearby and I hoped they would think it not too unlike England.
At dusk, with a sickening
discovery, one of my immediate predicaments disappeared. Even though the light was fading, there was no mistaking what I could see. About five yards from the shore, just beneath the surface of the water, three shockingly white, spread-eagled outlines drifted into view. A fourth shape lapped against the water’s edge.
I knew instantly that the bodies belonged to Anna and Theodora and their handmaidens. They were naked and facing downwards, but their female contours were unmistakeable. I sank to my knees and wept uncontrollably. Life was often cruel, but this was unbearable. And what was even worse: I was to blame.
I should have found another way to get them from Tarsus. Perhaps we should have turned back to the sea and taken a ship? But I was driven by my passion to see Constantinople. Then, I had fallen asleep on my watch. Even though the brigands had attacked from another direction, had I been more alert, I might have been able to help prevent the slaughter.
After a few minutes, I got a grip of myself and waded into the water to retrieve the bodies. Their throats had been sliced from ear to ear, and I feared they had suffered other unspeakable indignities. The bodies must have been in the water for some time; their wounds had been washed clean, their bodies were drained of blood and were beginning to stiffen.
I looked at Anna and saw that, despite the pallor of death, she looked serene; I hoped she was at peace. I tried not to think of what had happened to her at the hands of her killers, choosing to remember instead the exquisite pleasures of our night together.
Even though the gloom of night had descended, I used the moonlight to help me finish my task. I made a separate cairn for the four girls. Then, before I rested, I finished my crude mausoleum with a simple cross fashioned from broken branches lying on the ground.
20. Battle of Arsuf
Lionheart moe-4 Page 24