We all bowed as the King passed, and we watched him dismount less than ten yards from us. He did not recognize me – indeed, I had not expected he would – but Hugh Bigod did see me and called me over.
‘Harold, I am sorry to hear about your mother.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
‘You have grown, young man. And you’re the colour of a blackamoor. Where have you been?’
‘Many places, my Lord – Venice, Antioch, Jerusalem.’
‘What is the medallion around your neck? It looks important.’
I looked at my feet uneasily.
‘It is nothing, sire. I was given it by the Doge of Venice.’
‘Really! And what does it signify?’
‘Well, sire, I am a Knight Commander of Venice –’
At that point, Eadmer interrupted. He grinned from ear to ear as he spoke.
‘Earl Hugh – if I may be so bold – my Lord Harold is too modest to mention his accomplishments, but I am not. Sir Harold saved the shipwrecked men of a Venetian warship, scaled the walls of Zadar, protected the Lady Livia Michele at the Battle of the Field of Blood, fought at the siege of Tyre and was personally commended by His Majesty, Baldwin II, King of Jerusalem.’
‘Did he, indeed! It is Eadmer, is it not?’
‘It is, my Lord.’
‘How are you?’
‘I am well, sire. Service with Sir Harold agrees with me.’
‘I can see that … young Harold, a Knight Commander of Venice and such a long list of accomplishments. You have done well, Harold of … Forgive me, I mean, Sir Harold.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
The Earl got down from his mount.
‘What are your plans now?’
‘We are going to go north. There is someone I would like to see.’
‘Come with me. I’ll introduce you to the King.’
I gulped a little as Hugh Bigod led me over to the King and told him about my family’s background on the Great Crusade and my recent exploits. I addressed the King in Norman, which pleased him, and was sorely tempted to reveal all the details of my family’s role in the English Revolt and our support for Henry’s brother, Robert, at the Battle of Tinchebrai. But I thought better of it – there was no point condemning myself in the eyes of the King at the first meeting.
Then Hugh Bigod made an audacious suggestion.
‘Sire, while you are here in Norwich, may I recommend Harold as a member of your bodyguard. He is a child of this burgh, much admired by its people.’
The King looked at me with a questioning frown.
‘The Earl is encouraging me to add Englishmen to my bodyguard and retinue. He likes the English. I suppose I do as well, but most are a mystery to me. You speak excellent Norman. Where did you learn it so well?’
‘It is a long story, sire. A very long story.’
‘Is it? Very well – the Earl wants me to stay here for a month, God help me! You will have plenty of time to tell me your story.’
So, to Eadmer’s consternation and to my surprise, I was unexpectedly a member of the hearthtroop of England’s Norman ruler – a son of William the Bastard and a man against whom I had conspired only a few years earlier.
Eadmer was, as usual, blunt in his response.
‘I thought we were heading north to find the true heir to the English throne. Yet now we’re part of the personal bodyguard of our Norman King – the son of the Conqueror!’
‘Well, I was not exactly in a position to refuse – especially after you’d told the Earl about our exploits on behalf of the Venetians. And remember, my grandfather was in the service of the Normans – and even William himself. And the King’s brother, Duke Robert, is the other surviving member of the Brethren of the Blood of the Talisman.’
‘And we’re also Knights Templar! It’s all too complicated for me – it’s little wonder we’re always in trouble!’
‘Let’s just keep our heads down while the King is in Norwich. We may hear something about his daughter, Matilda. If it’s true that she has been declared his successor, then we will have a Cerdician queen on the throne.’
‘But she is also a Norman!’
‘Of course – but half a body of Cerdician blood is better than none at all. And not only that: her uncle is Prince Edgar, and she may allow him to return to court. She may even free Duke Robert.’
‘But the King isn’t dead yet …’
‘No, my friend, but he will be one day!’
During our time with the King, we saw little of him. My main role was to present an English face to the people of Norwich as part of the King’s retinue, which included stewards, apothecaries and physicians. While we helped the Earl and the Bishop restore normal life to the ravaged burgh of Norwich, the King spent most of his time hunting. But he was in good humour, and whenever he passed through the streets and along the roads, he smiled dutifully and offered words of support and encouragement.
As for information about the Empress Matilda, we heard little. However, we did hear a good deal more about the problems the King had been having in Normandy.
Duke Robert’s son, William Clito – a prodigious young man in his mid-twenties, his only child with the lovely Sybilla of Conversano – had already led two rebellions of disenchanted Norman lords against the King and each time had won the support of the King of France and the Count of Flanders. Clito’s rebellions were the main reason why the King refused to release his father from captivity in Cardiff – in fact, many people thought it was surprising that the King had not had Robert executed in retaliation for Clito’s behaviour.
Clito had a strong claim to the throne – especially among those Norman families that remained loyal to his father, Duke Robert. This claim had been strengthened significantly when King Henry’s only legitimate son, William Adelin, was drowned in the White Ship disaster in 1120.
The news about the activities of William Clito made me reflect on the sad circumstances of Duke Robert’s imprisonment. Twenty years of incarceration must have been a living hell for Robert. Once Duke of mighty Normandy, and a hero of the Great Crusade, he had spent the last decades of his life languishing in an austere and remote keep on the fringes of the kingdom. I thought long and hard about how I might be able to see him and at least take him some news of my mother and the exploits of his son. I hoped that my role as a knight with the King’s bodyguard might offer at least the beginnings of an opportunity.
I could sense the King becoming impatient with his mission to Norwich during its third week. He had hunted almost every day and had clearly become bored with the surrounding countryside and its game. I recommended Foxley Wood to him, an area of ancient forest I knew well, about twenty miles north of Norwich on the road to Fakenham. I knew the hunting was good there and would offer the King fine sport. He decided to ride out, accompanied by his retinue. He enjoyed an excellent day’s hunting, and stayed overnight.
After supper, the King called me over and asked me to tell him the story of my adventures in Venice and the Holy Land. I made the account as brief and as lively as possible, which he seemed to find interesting, and I then explained to him that my mother had been part of Edgar the Atheling’s English contingent on the Great Crusade. I added that I was about to journey to the north to find him and inform him of my mother’s death.
The King smiled at me.
‘He’s not easy to find. He lives at the ends of the earth – a desolate place called Ashgyll Force, in Northumbria. He was a good friend of my brother; I like to know where he is at all times, so that I can keep an eye on him.’
‘Thank you, sire.’
‘You can send him my greetings. He was very obliging to me in arranging my first marriage to his niece, Edith. And he helpe
d draft my Coronation Charter.’
‘It would be an honour, sire.’
Hugh Bigod then told the King more detail about my mother and her work as a churchwright, which led to the usual complications about my ‘real’ mother, Adela, and her time fighting in the Great Crusade with my father. Yet again, I went through the contrived story that I had told so many times about Estrith and Adela and which of them was my birth mother. But as I did so, I could see Bishop Everard whispering in the King’s ear. The new bishop was an unknown quantity to me. He was an English-born Norman of modest birth from Wiltshire; he had the look of a weasel about him and made me feel uneasy. I was right to be concerned. The Bishop had not gone hunting but had stayed in the camp, drinking mead, and had clearly consumed a large quantity of it.
The King’s mood darkened as he spoke.
‘My Lord Bishop tells me that he was your mother’s confessor before her recent death.’
I glanced at Hugh Bigod, who looked worried.
‘Apparently, the estimable Estrith, Abbess of Fécamp, was your birth mother after all. Not only that, she was a woman of … let’s say … some spirit.’
‘Sire, forgive me, I am at a disadvantage here. But whatever was said by Estrith on her deathbed should be between her and her Maker.’
Hugh Bigod came to my defence.
‘I agree, sire – this is a private matter. The good woman, who saved many lives in the Holy Land, is not long in the ground.’
The King looked at Bishop Everard. Rather than relenting, the prelate just smirked.
‘It is not a private matter if it involves a threat to the King himself.’
I began to look around, to see if I could locate Eadmer and our horses. He had also sensed danger and now caught my eye. He nodded in the direction of the trees to the west.
The Bishop continued.
‘The title “Abbess of Fécamp” was given to her by the King’s shamed brother, Robert, as a contrivance. She had never even been to the nunnery. Is it not also true that you were conceived out of wedlock in the desert and that the story you’ve just told us about the woman Adela is a lie?’
I had little option but to now speak the truth.
‘My Lord King, my mother was a remarkable woman. She was ordained, but her passion was church architecture – and in order to pursue that, she hid behind her nun’s habit. I make no apologies for that. Yes, I was conceived in the desert, in extremis, when my parents faced almost certain death. But it was in a tender and loving tryst with my noble father, Sweyn of Bourne. I make no apologies for that either.’
The Bishop was now warming to his devilment.
‘Talking of your father, I have been making some inquiries. Is there not another family connection in Bourne? Your father was Sweyn of that village, but your mother, Estrith, was one of a pair of twins, the other being Gunnhild. Were they not Estrith and Gunnhild of Melfi?’
‘They were, my Lord.’
I managed to remain courteous, but I could feel a great swell of rage rising in me. I was tempted to draw my sword and bring a painful end to the Bishop’s tirade.
‘Were they not the daughters of Hereward of Bourne, the infamous outlaw – a man who had the temerity to challenge the King’s father, our mighty lord, William, Conqueror of the English?’
The King’s face blackened in fury. Hugh Bigod looked down at the ground in despair.
‘There is more, my Lord King. This man’s father fought with your brother against you at Tinchebrai. I am sure he is an infiltrator in your camp. There has been trouble in Norwich before – from the English masons, his friends. I would swear on the Bible that he was one of the conspirators.’
Hugh Bigod made one last attempt to defend me.
‘That’s nonsense! I recommended Harold –’
But the King raised his hand to stop the Earl in mid-sentence, and I saw him gesture to his constable on his right. I took my only chance and made a run for it. It was dusk and if I could make it to the trees, I had a chance. Chaos broke out behind me as men barked orders, swords were drawn from scabbards and horses were untethered. Eadmer was right in front of me and I followed him as he disappeared into the undergrowth.
Arrows imbedded themselves in trees all around us and I felt at least two cut through the air close to me. Our horses were only fifteen yards away. We covered the ground at breakneck speed before mounting in a single bound. But, as we did so, four mounted knights burst through the undergrowth and were soon on top of us, swords drawn.
Fortunately, my horse reared up in panic and stalled the Normans’ charge, which bought me a few vital seconds to raise my axe. I caught my nearest adversary with a heavy blow into his left shoulder. His mail coat absorbed some of the blow, but I could feel my blade sink into the soft flesh beneath, which immediately began to spew blood through the mangled rings of his armour.
He stared at me with a look of surprise – shocked that I had been able to strike him so quickly. But his expression immediately changed to one of horror as the pain I had inflicted, delayed for an instant, told him how badly he was hurt. He began to turn his head to stare at his wound. But before he could complete the action, he fell from his mount and landed in a tangled heap on the ground.
Eadmer had managed to put ten yards between himself and our opponents. While I tried to find a way to extricate myself from the three surviving knights, an arrow from Eadmer’s bow whistled past my horse’s ear and hit one of them square in the chest. At that range, even with the protection of good-quality mail, the arrow must have embedded itself deeply into the man’s body. He too hit the ground with a heavy thud.
One of the two remaining knights grabbed my reins, but a well-aimed blow from my axe took off his hand at the wrist, while Eadmer’s fearsome charge in our direction persuaded the stricken man’s comrade to lead his horse away rather than continue the skirmish.
We could hear more pursuers approaching at a gallop and so turned to make our escape. We knew Foxley Wood well and were easily able to outpace them.
Eadmer waited until we were out of immediate danger to state the obvious.
‘You should listen to me sometimes!’
‘I know. Perhaps next time …’
‘I knew it would get us into trouble; now we are fugitives in our own land.’
Two days later, we were moving north on the ancient road to York at Falkingham. I had never been beyond the Trent before and was amazed at the difference between my home in East Anglia and the north.
Apart from the major roads and burghs, where there was a semblance of normality, the countryside was devoid of life; villages were derelict and fields were overgrown, slowly returning to wilderness. I had heard about King William’s atrocities in the northern earldoms, and now here was the stark evidence before my eyes. Even on the main roads, people travelled warily and stories abounded of outlaws and brigands hiding in the wildwood beyond the reach of Norman law.
Thoughtfully, Eadmer waited a few days before raising the subject of what he had heard in Foxley Wood.
‘I always knew Abbess Estrith was a remarkable woman and that your family had had many adventures. But I would never have guessed any of what I heard –’
‘I find it hard to believe myself sometimes. At least there is now no need for secrecy any more.’
‘How many more twists and turns are there?’
‘A few, my friend.’
I smiled at my good and loyal companion.
He smiled back, but followed it with a typical rejoinder.
‘I’m sure there are. And I’m sure they will get us into all kinds of trouble!’
I knew we had to reach Ashgyll Force quickly – I gambled that the King would assume I did not have the audacity to trav
el to see Prince Edgar, having told him of my original destination. I soon realized the King had been right: Ashgyll Force was at the edge of the world, in one of the most godforsaken places I had ever seen. High in the Pennines, we followed the River Wear west from Durham, via the small hamlet of Wolsingham, and left any semblance of civilization at Frosterley, where a few intrepid miners still dug for the local marble. After their meagre cottages disappeared behind us, there was nothing but thick forest, eventually giving way to bleak windswept moorland. It was mid-summer, but the rain came down in swirling clouds – even a warm sunny day became swallowed in a dank gloom of mist within minutes.
In order to protect Prince Edgar, I left Eadmer with the horses about a mile away and approached Ashgyll Force in the middle of the night. It was important not to be seen – or to leave any evidence of our visit.
The Prince was asleep when I clambered into his chamber. I was careful not to alarm him. When he eventually woke with a jolt, I spoke softly to him.
‘Prince Edgar, don’t be concerned, I am Harold of Hereford.’
‘You mean young Harry? Son of Estrith of Melfi and Sweyn of Bourne?’
‘Indeed, sire.’
‘Show yourself!’
‘I cannot, my anonymity is important to me and to you. I need to tell you some things as a fellow member of the Brethren of the Blood and obtain your blessing for what I have done and am about to do. My mother made me a full member of our Brethren when I came of age; she said you would be in agreement.’
‘The monks of Durham brought me the news two days ago that your mother has died –’
‘Scarlet fever; it devastated Norwich while I was away. She was a wonderful mentor to me and told me all about the Brethren and your lives together. She was content with her lot, and her work was everything to her. She took great pride in helping the great cathedral grow.’
Anarchy Page 21