‘To keep you safe, my darling.’
‘It is not a lucky charm, Maud.’
‘It is for me; it brought you to me.’
She embraced me passionately, then pushed me away and turned hurriedly to hide her tears.
As for the boys, Henry had just celebrated his sixth birthday and Geoffrey was approaching his fourth, so they were much more voluble – excited by the preparations for my departure, and clamouring for presents on my return. Young William was not yet three and oblivious to it all.
Maud and I, knowing that the truth of their paternity must be kept from them, realized that one day we would find it difficult to explain my constant presence in the household and the permanent absence of their father. For the time being, I had taken on the role of ‘Uncle Hal’ – their mother’s guardian, as designated by their grandfather – but it was not easy, especially at farewells like this one.
Our first port of call was Devizes, where Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, had just completed a castle of palatial quality to rival any in the land. Lord Chancellor under King Henry, he was one of the most powerful men in the country, and clever and ambitious in equal measure. Although Earl Robert had stressed in his messages that he could be trusted only as far as his own self-interest would permit, Roger was known to be a supporter of Maud’s claim to the throne.
Devizes was indeed a castle of imposing proportions, and Roger was no less prodigious – either in girth or presence. His garrison of men was well armed and looked like a formidable fighting force. His private apartments were more like those of a king or a duke: the floors were covered with large rugs and the walls with tapestries of equal scale; his high table gleamed with silver plate; and a huge gold crucifix on an oak pole stood against one wall.
He greeted us warmly, but with some suspicion.
‘Gentlemen, you wished to see me. I am Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, and this is my prior, Roger of Caen.’
The Bishop was a man as round as he was tall, while his prior was as thin as a quill and with the bearing of a man of letters. Both men were scrutinizing us carefully. The Bishop smiled, but with the false grin of an inquisitor.
‘The names Hode and Scaerlette are not familiar to me; they sound neither English nor Norman.’
‘They are from Aquitaine, my Lord Bishop.’
‘I see. And yet, you sound English?’
‘I am English. But before we go further, may I ask you a telling question?’
‘You may ask, but I can’t promise to answer.’
‘I hear you are loyal to the Empress, the Lady of the English?’
The old Bishop hesitated.
‘That is a discourteous question for a complete stranger to ask.’
He was right. I decided I should avoid needless prevarication, and make a clean breast of it.
‘You are right; I apologize. My real name is Harold of Hereford, made Earl of Huntingdon by King Henry Beauclerc; I am Commander of the forces of Empress Matilda. For obvious reasons, when travelling in England I use a name from my home in Aquitaine. This is the commission appointing me, with her seal.’
I handed him my roll of vellum, which he studied carefully before handing it to his Prior. He was still sceptical, so I outlined my background – in particular that King Henry had acknowledged me as his bastard son before ennobling me as an earl. He knew both the Earl and Bishop of Norwich and had heard of my mother and her work on the cathedral. He seemed reassured and ordered that wine and cold cuts be served.
‘I am relieved that you appear to be who you say you are. Stephen is suspicious of everyone; these are dangerous times. Yes, I do believe that the Empress’s claim is stronger than Stephen’s. The squabbling among the lords is getting worse, Normandy is in turmoil and Stephen has given Northumbria to Henry of the Scots, despite routing them in battle. Even his supporters think he is losing all respect. How can I be of service to you?’
‘I need a true assessment of the sympathies of England’s magnates, both temporal and spiritual.’
The Bishop paused. I was reminded of Earl Robert’s warning about the man’s strong streak of self-interest and imagined him to be calculating how he could profit from the answer to my question.
‘Stephen has called the royal court to gather at Oxford, a burgh that is growing in importance, on the feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, on the 24th of June. Tell me, are you known here in England?’
‘Hardly – and not at all as the Earl of Huntingdon.’
‘Good, then if you and your man would like to adopt your Aquitaine names, you could join my retinue. It is the first court Stephen has called for some time and will be a perfect opportunity to test the mood in the realm.’
‘Thank you, Bishop Roger. That is very generous of you.’
‘But we should be careful. I hear that Stephen doubts my loyalty and may challenge me. Also, we should check at Oxford, but I think Stephen granted the Earldom of Huntingdon to Henry of the Scots, as part of the settlement brokered by Cardinal Alberic. But it wouldn’t be the first time a title has been granted twice!’
The Bishop gave us lavish chambers to reflect my rank as an earl of the realm, and we waited as his retinue prepared for the journey. We had a long time to kick our heels, as the court’s date was another three weeks away.
Early the next day, as I enjoyed the fresh air of an English summer morning, the Prior approached me as I crossed the castle bailey.
‘Good morning, Earl Harold.’
‘Good morning, Prior Roger.’
He had the same expression as the Bishop had sported the day before – the disingenuous grin of the interrogator.
‘Tell me, my Lord – if I may be so bold. Your mother, Estrith, Abbess of Fécamp, was one of King Henry’s many mistresses?’
I sensed danger. He was asking a question to which I felt certain he already knew the answer, so I avoided falling into his trap.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Before I answer that, I need to know your real purpose here.’
His expression was no longer a false smile, more an accusatory frown.
‘My purpose is as I described it to you yesterday – nothing more, nothing less.’
‘I see. I did not mention it to the Bishop last night, as I preferred to have this conversation with you first, but unless you are frank with me, I will have to express my concerns to him.’
‘And your concerns are?’
‘Well, my understanding, from an impeccable source, is that Harold of Hereford, son of Estrith of Bourne, later the Abbess of Fécamp, was conceived in the deserts of the Holy Land during the Great Crusade and that his father was the knight, Sweyn of Bourne.’
I was rooted to the spot, astonished that this stranger should know such intimate details about my life.
‘You need to explain yourself, Prior Roger. Where did you get that information?’
‘From a fellow member of a Brethren of which you must be the only survivor.’
I made a guess, clutching at a remote possibility.
‘Were you confessor to Robert Curthose in Cardiff?’
‘No, but that is a good surmise. I wasn’t exactly confessor to another man – but I was scribe to the man who was his confessor and chronicler.’
I knew then who it must be.
‘Prince Edgar?’
‘Yes, indeed. I was a scribe to William of Malmesbury before I came to Gloucester. In the winter of 1126, he and I travelled to Northumbria – to a godforsaken place called Ashgyll Force – to meet Edgar the Atheling. Abbot William persuaded the Prince to give us an account of his life, and it was my responsibility to commit it to vellum when we returned. It was a fulsome account, running to hundreds of pages, and – if I may say so – a most r
emarkable story.’
‘Well, Prior, then you know exactly who I am and the history of my family.’
‘I do. And also, from its description, I recognize the amulet around your neck. It is the Talisman of Truth. I also know that you visited the Prince just before we did.’
‘Very well, Prior, you have caught me in a lie. I am not King Henry’s illegitimate son, but I am the Earl of Huntingdon, anointed by the old King, and I do command the forces of Empress Matilda. The reasons for the falsehood are convoluted, and it is very important that you are not privy to them. Do you understand?’
‘I understand very well – and I suspect I will sleep easier in my bed if I remain ignorant of the circumstances to which you have alluded.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Now that we have dealt with that, may I interest you in a little excursion to Malmesbury? We have time before we must depart for Oxford, and there is a man there who would be delighted to meet you.’
After arranging with Bishop Roger to meet him in Oxford, Eadmer and I and our four men-at-arms travelled to Malmesbury with Prior Roger.
An ancient but small burgh, with the towering edifice of Malmesbury Abbey at its centre, its modest scale disguised its importance in the ecclesiastical world. Not only did the Abbey house the most important library in Europe – other than the Vatican Library in Rome – but it was also home to England’s most learned sage, the historian William of Malmesbury.
Looking exactly as you would expect a wise man to look – tall, slightly stooped, benign in countenance, eccentric in his mannerisms – he greeted us at the door of his scriptorium as if we were old friends. His eyesight was poor; he fumbled around a little before seating himself and asking us to do the same.
We spent the rest of the day, and well into the evening, exchanging stories and reminiscing about the life and times of England – and, in particular, the role my family had played in those events.
Eventually, he began to tire.
‘I must retire to my chamber. It is late.’
‘Thank you for your time, Abbot William.’
‘Not at all. Thank you, Earl Harold, I know so much about your family and now I’ve met another generation. They would be very proud of you, as would Prince Edgar.’
He got up to leave, but paused and looked at me with a despairing expression.
‘I am pleased that you came, but I know that your presence here in England is because you hope to promote the Empress Matilda’s cause. In that respect, I am sad. I think her cause is just, but the pursuit of her right to rule means civil war.’
England’s finest mind shuffled off to his bed looking disconsolate, leaving me to ponder the truth of what he had said. He was right: a war was coming. In fact, it had already begun – in Normandy and in Northumbria – and now it was about to be unleashed in England’s heartland.
Early the next morning, as we were about to leave for Oxford, Roger of Caen joined us for the journey, but under his arm, he carried a large wooden casket with a heavy bronze clasp.
‘Abbot William would like you to have this.’
‘He is very generous; it is a beautiful chest.’
‘Yes, but what is inside is even more noteworthy.’
I peered in. It contained a thick manuscript, beautifully written in Latin, in blackletter script, with the title ‘De Vita Edgar, Princeps Anglia’.
‘It is the story of the Prince – and of your mother and father and all their brethren – as told to us by him at Ashgyll. Keep it safe.’
I was overwhelmed.
‘I would like to thank Abbot William in person.’
‘There is no need; he is sleeping. He is happy that you should keep it. With a war coming, it should not be made public – it is safer with you. Now, let us go to Oxford.’
Over the next few days, I read Roger of Caen’s beautifully crafted account – almost without pause for sleep or food. It was a revelation. I was profoundly moved as all my mother’s stories and memories were once more brought to life in vivid detail. When I had finished, I placed my other precious pieces of vellum in the casket: John Comnenus’ record of my grandfather’s words of wisdom to him, the last thing my grandfather had said; and my mother’s letter, written to me on her deathbed.
I handed the casket to Eadmer.
‘We must guard this with our lives.’
Fulham Palace, 12 August 1187
Dear Thibaud,
It is glorious summer here; Fulham has never looked better and the river is full of people bathing and frolicking. Young lovers come to lie by its banks in the late evening.
I forbid my monks to spy on them, but many defy me. I’m too old to be tempted myself, but I do remember the time when I might have had a brief peek! Ah, to be young again …
We are coming to the part of Hal’s story in which I make an appearance. I hope you will not judge me too harshly when I confess that I am proud of the small role I played in helping our young hero fulfil his destiny. Harold of course did not need to remind me of our fateful encounter in Gloucester, when he came to me in 1139, just after I had been installed as Abbot. But, for the sake of completeness, and so that future generations may read the full story of this noble young man’s deeds, I have decided that I will include the details here. I have indulged myself in a little of my storyteller’s imagination and described the encounter in the words Harold might have used. I hope you forgive me, but it seemed the right thing to do.
You are in my prayers every day. I pray for your health and happiness and I also pray that you are able to bring your great wisdom to the Holy See.
Yours in God,
Gilbert
27. The Good Abbot, Gilbert
We arrived at Oxford in the middle of June. What then followed changed all our lives.
The burgh was in chaos. There were men and horses everywhere; it was a sultry day and tempers were frayed. There were too few beds and only about half the stables needed – either Stephen’s royal household had miscalculated, or the lords and bishops had brought far bigger entourages than had been agreed.
Our host, Bishop Roger, had brought a retinue of more than thirty assorted bodies, most of them armed. If he was typical, there could well have been over 500 visitors to the modest burgh. He introduced us as Englishmen who had been raised in Aquitaine, and said that we were now in his retinue as professional soldiers. Thankfully, no eyebrows were raised by our presence and we moved around unnoticed.
A certain calm descended in the afternoon as men filled the taverns and forgot their frustrations, leaving the stewards to try to sort out the sleeping arrangements. Stephen’s Royal Chamberlain, aware that the King was due to arrive that evening, convened a meeting of all the stewards in order to resolve the problems with the accommodation. But rather than produce a solution, it created chaos.
The Chamberlain began the meeting by producing a list of those magnates who were required to give up their planned lodgings in Oxford and move to whatever could be found in the villages around the burgh. In most cases, that was little more than a barn, cowshed or open field. The indignation among those on the list bordered on fury. Word spread like wildfire and soon reached the taverns, where jests became taunts, banter became brawls, and fisticuffs became sword fights.
Eadmer and I were with Bishop Roger’s Constable and some of his senior knights when our tavern suddenly turned from a merry haunt into a gladiator’s arena. Our neighbours, the men of Earl Alan of Richmond – a Marcher earl from Northumbria who, up to that point, had been quietly drinking ale – suddenly made straight for us, swords drawn. Their attack seemed premeditated, rather than provoked by the general melee.
Roger’s Constable bellowed at
a group of his knights.
‘Get the Bishop back to Devizes! Don’t hesitate, and don’t let any man stop you!’
We were outnumbered, three or four to one, and Roger’s Constable was cut down by almost the first blow. Eadmer gathered our men in a close circle around us and tugged at my cloak.
‘Let’s get out! This is an ambush.’
He was right. We turned to fight our way towards the rear of the tavern. There were men and weapons everywhere – so many and so much, that it was difficult to strike a blow. Even so, seaxes were doing damage and maces were being wielded overhead. The tavern’s whores were caught in the scrimmage, all shrieking in horror, and many were cut down.
We managed to reach the rear door of the tavern, where we tried to join the many who were pouring out like water from a pump. I saw a knight about to club Eadmer with his mace and ran him through with my sword.
Almost at the same instant, I felt the searing pain of several blades. A blow to my shoulder pushed me into the heavy timber of the tavern doorway. I remember my head striking the door jamb, then nothing else for some hours.
When I came round, my men-at-arms had laid me out on one of the tables in what appeared to be a refectory. I was covered in blood from a gash to my forehead, and had suffered deep wounds to my side, shoulder and thigh, which physicians were already binding with bandages, making no sound as they did so.
When I looked around me, I saw a figure standing in the shadows, dressed in the black habit of the Benedictine’s monastic order and wearing an Abbot’s crucifix. In my confused state, I pieced together a jigsaw of memories from the tavern in Oxford, and realized that Eadmer must have managed to get me away to the sanctuary of a nearby abbey. I struggled to raise myself upright, and bellowed at the hooded figure.
‘Away with you, priest, I have no need of you!’
The Abbot did not appear shocked by what he probably assumed was the anger-laden fear of a dying man. His reply was gentle.
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