‘Could that be true, my Lord?’
‘Who knows? The King has so many mistresses … I’m sure most are willing partners. Perhaps she wasn’t. That’s certainly what Owain got into his head. Shortly after the feast, Owain summoned a dozen or so of his followers and rode to Cenarth Bychan. The keep was barred to them, so they dug under the walls – an exercise that took half the night – before slaughtering the garrison and bursting in on Nest and her captor, with whom she had had three children. Like a coward, Gerald of Windsor escaped down the chute of the garderobe and into the pile of shit his shameful behaviour deserved, leaving his wife and children at the mercy of Owain and his men. In a fury fuelled by his killing spree, Owain ripped Nest’s clothes from her and while his men held her down viciously raped her in front of her children. He repeated the humiliation at dawn and again a few hours later, before carrying her off with her children to a remote hunting lodge at Eglwyseg Rocks north of the Vale of Llangollen.’
‘Sir, it’s easy to understand why he’s a hunted man –’
‘Wait, there’s more to the story. Nest agreed to stay with Owain if he let her children return to their father, which he did. She was true to her word and bore him two children. It is hard to believe, but some say she grew to be fond of him. But, regardless of that, when he was finally tracked down in Llangollen by a Norman expedition, Owain escaped to Ireland to avoid the King’s wrath. Nest was reunited with Gerald of Windsor, a man who had been doing penance ever since abandoning his wife.’
‘But, sir, if Owain is in Ireland, why this expedition?’
‘He is not in Ireland. Three years ago, Owain returned to Wales to claim his father’s title as Prince of Powys, his father having been killed by a man he thought was his friend, Madog ap Rhirid. Owain captured Madog, tied him to a stake, blinded him with a hot iron and castrated him with a seax. Owain then declared his loyalty to King Henry and began to attack the other Welsh princes.’
‘So, my Lord, did the King accept Owain’s submission?’
‘On the surface, yes, but the King is shrewd. Let’s just say that Gerald of Windsor is with the King on this expedition. He has his wife back and has done his penance, but he still wants his revenge.’
Olaf’s inference was all too obvious: Owain ap Cadwgan was walking into a trap.
In the early weeks of the expedition, the King was as astute as he was belligerent and systematically bought off the Welsh with land and favours. But not before he hanged a few troublemakers, blinded some miscreants caught hunting in royal forests and tortured a couple of local firebrands to show that he meant business. A large English army and cartloads of English silver were enough to convince even the hardiest of Welsh princes to bow to the great king from the east and retreat to their remote fortresses.
I was witness to these punishments and found the proceedings repugnant. I was not opposed to violence if it was the result of a fair fight – or in pursuit of a just cause – but the almost indiscriminate use of force against those unable to resist was simply an act of cruelty. Nevertheless, the brutality and bribery worked and the King prevailed.
Owain had been told to rendezvous with Henry’s army at Abergavenny to celebrate the success of the expedition. Owain duly arrived with only his personal retinue of about a dozen men, vastly outnumbered by our force. The King had already departed for Winchester, leaving Olaf in charge of three squadrons of his elite cavalry, about seventy-five men.
Olaf greeted Owain ap Cadwgan when he arrived at Abergavenny.
‘Prince Owain. I am Olaf Godredsson, Prince of the Isles and Mann.’
Cadwgan realized that all was not what it should be, and he was ill at ease.
‘Prince Olaf, it is an honour to meet you. I know your father, we met on Anglesey Isle many years ago. I thought I was to meet King Henry?’
‘I’m afraid the King has had to return to Winchester. Affairs of the realm … you understand.’
‘Of course.’ Owain was looking around agitatedly. ‘But what of our celebration and the new arrangement we were going to –?’
Prince Olaf interrupted him before he could finish.
‘Owain ap Cadwgan, Prince of Powys, you are under arrest. Your men may go, but you are now a prisoner of King Henry, held under his authority by Gerald FitzWalter, Constable of Pembroke.’
Owain did not recognize Gerald’s Norman name, nor his new title as Constable of Pembroke. But as soon as the new constable rode forward, he saw that his captor was Gerald of Windsor, Nest’s wronged husband. As Owain’s men began to melt away, Gerald of Windsor issued his orders. He did so calmly and without apparent menace, disguising years of seething hatred.
The Welsh Prince, now alone and defenceless, was stripped of his weapons, armour and clothes before being hoisted on to a pair of crossed timbers usually used for floggings. In his case, his torso faced forwards – the opposite way to that used in a whipping. A large fire was lit nearby while he was bound tightly at the ankles, wrists, neck and forehead. He was asked if he had anything to say, to which he responded by shaking his head as much as his bindings would allow. Then he set his jaw to face what was to come.
Gerald of Windsor nodded to the executioners before issuing his proclamation.
‘For the heinous crimes you have committed against the people of your own land and against the people of England, you are to be executed so that you can face the judgement of God to atone for your sins.’
One of the executioners then cupped Owain’s chin firmly in the palm of his hand and, without a moment’s hesitation, took out one of his eyes with the sharp point of his seax. Gerald, now less in control of his emotions, spat in Owain’s face and hissed at his prisoner.
‘We will let you keep one eye for now, so that you can see what we are going to do next.’
Owain, screaming in pain, blood trickling down his face from an empty eye socket, shouted back at his tormentor.
‘Yes, and so that I can still see your wife writhing beneath me. She hated me at first, but soon couldn’t get enough of it!’
Enraged by that, Gerald took his seax and thrust it through Owain’s cheek until it exited on the other side.
‘Do you have anything more to say, you filthy pig?’
Owain tried to speak, but it was impossible. Blood was filling his mouth and cascading down his chest. The executioners then tied lead weights to their victim’s testicles before, like a slaughterer preparing sweetbreads, slicing them off with a slow and deliberate sawing motion. They then did the same to his manhood, before throwing his excised genitals on to the fire.
I had to look away, as did many around me.
Gerald then leaned forward and slowly pulled his seax from Owain’s face. The man was still conscious but was now convulsing in pain, hardly able to focus on his captor just inches from his face.
‘This is for Nest, the Helen of Wales.’
With that, Gerald thrust his seax deep into Owain’s remaining eye and continued to thrust until it met the wooden post behind the back of his head. Owain’s ordeal was over but, as a final indignity, his body was cut down, covered in goose grease and cast on to the fire, where it roared and crackled as it was immolated by the flames.
It was a gruesome end. What beasts we are to one another.
Our journey back to England was a sombre occasion. Olaf was helpful to me as I came to terms with what I had seen.
‘It is a kind of justice. Not, I grant you, what Christ teaches, but cruel punishments are as old as history. My great-grandfather was the first in my family to convert to Christianity, but he only did so because he had to make an alliance with the English. He would have had no hesitation in killing a man or having him maimed. Not much has changed today. If kings didn’t
act firmly, there would be anarchy.’
I hesitated, knowing that my family had always believed there was another way.
‘I know, my Lord, but I wish it could be different.’
3. Waking the Dead
After the expedition to Wales, I realized that there was much I had to learn about the world and myself. I still had some way to go before winning my knight’s pennon, but I was not happy at continuing to serve under our Norman masters. So, I decided that just as both my parents and grandparents had undertaken great journeys in search of their destinies, I should venture to the counties of the Christian princes in the Holy Land to find what fate would make of me. After much debate and still with reluctance, my mother eventually succumbed to my pleadings, but at a price I found hard to accept.
‘You may not go before your eighteenth birthday.’
‘But that’s almost two years away – an eternity for someone of my age.’
‘You’ll just have to bear it.’
She was blunt and to the point. The terms of her hard-struck bargain continued.
‘In the meantime, you will return to Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, to train with his men. He’ll toughen you up – he’s a hard taskmaster.’
And thus, just over eighteen months later, with my side of the bargain completed, I was ready to embark on my own personal crusade to the Holy Land. My training with the Earl’s men had indeed toughened me up, and I had made full use of the intervening months to find a local sweetheart. In fact, I had found several and felt that my education in the art of love was as complete as my schooling in the art of war.
I was soon to be proved wrong in both respects.
I had been born blessed with much good fortune. Not only had I been born into an illustrious family, I had also been left a significant sum of money. The Emperor Alexius had endowed me with ten gold Byzantine bezants to celebrate my birth and Edgar the Atheling had left me some carucates of land, sufficient to provide a good annual income. All in all, I was a man of some substance. I was able to recruit for my expedition a sergeant-at-arms, two men-at-arms and a groom. All were good men, vetted by my mother as entirely trustworthy and each sworn to keep me safe.
Eadmer was my sergeant: a man in his thirties, a local lad from Norwich, fair-haired, broad and strong of arm. He had served in the Earl of Norfolk’s retinue all his life, was an excellent all-round soldier, honest and loyal, and had fought with the Earl on several campaigns against the marauding Scots and on the Marches against the Welsh princes.
His two men were Toste and Wulfric, brothers from Lincoln, men from my ancestral county and very much in Eadmer’s image and trained by him. Both were short, lean and had the look of a dark Celt about them – the result, they said, of a maternal grandparent from the wilds of Cumbria. They too were experienced soldiers in the service of the Earl.
My groom, Alric, was not a soldier but wished he were and acted like a veteran of countless campaigns. He was a kindly soul, attentive and considerate and a good companion. His girth was prodigious, but so too was his humour; he could cook, tend a steed and find food and provisions where none seemed available. He was an ideal quartermaster for a troop of soldiers.
All my many advantages in life came with equal burdens. I had to live with many expectations, both real and imagined. The more my dearest mother told me about the heroic deeds of my father and grandfather, the more I realized how great a responsibility I carried. Could I emulate what they had achieved? Would I make them proud?
Often, I had my own private doubts and anxieties. But regardless of whether or not I could live up to my own expectations, my own journey was about to begin. Both my grandparents and my parents had done remarkable things, some of which had changed the course of history. They had fought and died for freedom; they had bound themselves together for the greater good; and they had set an example of how lives should be lived and justice should be served.
I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the burden of responsibility I carried.
Two days before I was due to leave Norwich, I went to the presbytery of the cathedral that my mother had helped design. Desperate for inspiration, I sat and stared at the huge vaulted ceiling way above me. The ribs of its arches were covered in gold leaf; its bosses were elaborately carved and beautifully painted with the faces of gargoyles, Satan’s familiars and a host of mythical beasts and sundry saints and martyrs. It was a thing of wonder. I sat there for several hours, craving a steadfastness that did not materialize.
Sometime later, with darkness almost obscuring the architectural wonders and the cathedral falling silent from the bustle of the day, my mother appeared and eased herself on to the bench beside me.
‘What troubles you, Harold?’
‘Nothing, I’m fine –’
‘You don’t mean that. What is it?’
I hesitated, embarrassed that private doubts were bearing down on me. My mother did not probe, but simply joined me in staring upwards as her masterpiece began to disappear in the gloom of the advancing evening.
She stood and offered her hand.
‘Come, let me show you something.’
My mother then took a lantern and led me high up through the passageways of the huge walls of the presbytery until we were at roof level, close to the decorated bosses of the vaulted ceiling.
‘There … the third and fourth ones along on the right.’
She pointed with her mason’s dividers, a tool that always hung from her belt, at the brightly painted images.
‘The nearest one is Wodewose, the Green Man of legend – a mythical figure your grandfather talked about a lot – and the next one is your great-grandfather, Torfida’s father, the Old Man of the Wildwood. They look alike, don’t they? That’s my doing; I designed them as a tribute. Torfida is over there with my twin sister, Gunnhild.’
‘And my father?’
‘Yes, he’s the handsome knight further along.’
‘And you?’
‘Yes, I’m there as well, but I’m not telling you which one. It’s a little rude.’
‘It’s not like you to be bashful.’
She smiled mischievously. Although I was her son, and she always behaved discreetly, she had never hidden from me her healthy appetite for the pleasures of the flesh.
‘I suppose you’re right. Well, I’m the naked strumpet over there, cavorting with the Devil.’
‘Very appropriate! I hope you haven’t got me up here?’
‘Of course I have – you’re the babe in arms, over there in the corner, being offered up to God by the handsome knight. Do you see? It’s Hereward, based on my memory of you being sworn into the Brethren in the Holy Land by my father.’
As she led me down through the walls again, she continued the story of my heritage.
‘I think your great-grandfather was the embodiment of all that the Green Man represents: our links to our ancient heritage and beliefs, and to the importance of the natural world and our place in it. He was a seer, and my father always believed that my mother inherited many of his gifts.’
‘What about the Talisman? Do you think it carries mystical powers?’
‘I don’t know for certain. I first saw it around the neck of an emperor, and he wasn’t the first great ruler to wear it. But it’s not a trinket or a charm – for good or evil – more a stone of destiny.’
‘I know it’s supposed to carry eternal truths, and I’m supposed to go and collect it from the Emperor himself one day. But first I have to deal with my fears … I’m hardly a worthy inheritor as the guardian of such an important amulet –’
‘Harry, it’s your birthright, your responsibility. I can help you, but you have to come to terms with it in your own way.’
‘I know, but after years of yearni
ng to begin my own adventure, I’m suddenly overawed by the prospect.’
‘That’s understandable …’ She paused to gather her thoughts. ‘But listen, this is what I think you should do. Travel via Bourne, visit the grave of dearest Adela and reflect on what happened to her and the horror that took place in that village all those years ago. When you do, think about what happened to those young people in Lion Wood. An experience like that gave Adela great strength and courage.
‘Then move on, take your companions to Glastonbury and lodge them in the burgh. Go off on your own to where my mother and sister are buried. Spend some time there. It will allow you to think. It is a beautiful place. I can draw you a map to help you find it. Try to absorb some of your grandmother Torfida’s empathy and wisdom, and think of what Gunnhild and I lived through with your grandfather at Ely. Then go to Cirencester and leave your men there. Seek the humble forest home of the Old Man of the Wildwood, where Torfida was raised. Its exact location is unknown, but I think I can give you some clues, based on what my mother and father told me. It is where our story begins, deep in the wildwood of the Wodewose. Hereward discovered his destiny there, you might find yours.’
I liked her plan. Leaving Norwich would not be easy, and parting from my mother would be even more painful. But her advice had offered me the chance to undertake a spiritual journey and meet a personal challenge that would help me come to terms with my fears.
Thus, in the summer of 1116, I rode off westwards with my four retainers towards Bourne. I had lived my life in the shadow of my mother’s marvellous achievement at Norwich and overawed by the doughty deeds of the rest of my grandfather’s clan. Now it was time for me to write my own chapter in the family history.
Anarchy Page 4