Odo had committed a cardinal sin – he had begun to act in a way that threatened the authority of the King. William ordered his immediate arrest. Robert gave me the task, thinking that it would only add to the ignominy of Odo’s seizure that his captor should be an English prince.
Even though my escort of 120 men was significantly outnumbered by Odo’s garrison, he rode out to meet us with a small group of knights. Most of the population of Rochester had gathered to watch the confrontation.
I asked Sweyn to read out the charges.
‘Sweyn of Bourne, read the King’s warrant!’
He delivered it in perfect Norman French.
‘Odo of Bayeux, you have plotted sedition against the throne and impugned the King’s honour in the eyes of his lords. William, King of England and Duke of Normandy, commands that you be taken under arrest to his donjon in Rouen, where you will be held at the King’s pleasure. Your lands and titles are forfeited to the King forthwith.’
Sweyn then took the bridle of Odo’s horse and made to lead him away.
‘Take your hands off my horse, boy.’
Sweyn’s response was immediate and authoritative.
‘You are in no position to issue orders to me.’
He then pulled hard on the horse, making Odo jolt back in his saddle.
‘What is your name? You disgrace a fellow Norman in front of these English peasants?’
I could see that Sweyn was seething at Odo’s contemptuous attitude towards his English subjects. I glanced at Edwin to be sure he was aware of the potential flashpoint.
‘I am not Norman, I am English; these “peasants” are my people and yours. You are under arrest by royal warrant of the King of England.’
Sweyn tugged once more on the horse and made to lead the once mighty lord away in disgrace, at which point Odo’s knights drew their swords. My men reciprocated immediately and a vicious melee ensued with men hacking at one another in a frenzy.
Sweyn had the eminent good sense to pull Odo and his mount away, with Edwin and Adela protecting his rear. Odo seized the opportunity to dismount, and ran for the protection of his keep. A large man, he was no match for Sweyn, who jumped from his horse and ran him down within ten yards.
As Sweyn closed in on Odo, the cleric drew his seax and lunged at his young pursuer. But Sweyn was too quick for him and kicked the blade from his hand with a deft swing of his boot. At the same time, he smashed his mailed glove into Odo’s face, inflicting considerable damage to the Bishop’s noble features. His nose was broken and blood poured from his mouth. He staggered backwards before Sweyn put him on his back with another heavy blow, dislodging several of his teeth.
As Sweyn stepped over him, sword in hand ready to strike, Odo raised his hand in meek submission, wiping the blood from his mouth as he did so.
I had stayed with the melee to make sure it could be contained, but as soon as Odo raised his hand his men relented.
Edwin and Adela helped Odo to his feet and led him to his keep to get help for his battered face. He said nothing, but he stared long and hard at Sweyn with a look that was a blend of fear and respect.
We gave Odo time to gather some belongings and bid farewell to his family before Sweyn led my conroi and escorted Odo’s to Rouen. As the disgraced Bishop left for Dover, he gave me a gift for Robert. Looking like a butt of wine wrapped in cloth, it was put into one of the carts in my baggage train.
‘Give it to the young Count. It is embroidery, the finest you will ever see, a record of his father’s great victory at Senlac Ridge. It has taken the fine seamsters of Kent over a year to make. I was going to present it to the King myself, but that is no longer possible. When Robert is King of England, he should hang it around his hall at Westminster to remind him of what our generation did to win this kingdom for him. You can also tell that young knight of yours that when I have settled my differences with the King, he will face me again in very different circumstances.’
‘My Lord Bishop, he was only doing his duty.’
‘Perhaps so, but not with any measure of respect.’
Despite the rebuke from Odo, I was proud of Sweyn. He was now eighteen and no longer looked like a callow youth, but had the bearing of a mature knight and nobleman. He had acted firmly, as he was required to do, and had not been intimidated by the second most important man in the kingdom. Odo was in disgrace and could expect no courtesies – thus, none had been given. The swift and ruthless way in which Sweyn had dealt with Odo’s physical challenge impressed all who witnessed it and word spread quickly about his adroitness at close quarters and the power of his punch.
Bishop Odo, imposing warrior of Normandy, one of the most fearsome of William’s supporters, left England for seclusion in Normandy. He would not be released from captivity during the King’s lifetime. William had acted decisively against his closest ally – but it was the act of a king whose power was in rapid decline and who feared everyone around him.
‘Our boy did well, did he not, Edwin?’
‘He did, sire.’
‘Adela, you must be proud of your husband?’
‘I am, my Lord. It is a shame the King had not ordered his execution; if he had, I could have been the one to deliver the fatal blow!’
Our tour of duty of the King’s fortifications continued throughout the spring. England, as always at that time of year, was resplendent. We travelled to the south-west, to Montacute in Somerset and on to Exeter, Wells and Glastonbury. As we progressed, at every turn we witnessed a land beginning to prosper. Fields which the farmers had brought under their care were full of wheat and barley, and meadows that remained untamed were carpeted with wild flowers. There was game aplenty in the forests and the rivers teemed with fish.
It felt good to be alive.
Sweyn returned from Rouen in the summer and we continued our duties with Robert and his inspections around his father’s realm. As time went by, Robert took more and more opportunities to go hunting, taking time to explore each new forest, saying that England had the finest hunting he had ever encountered.
I was left to undertake the detail of the assessments and make regular reports to him. It was an ideal opportunity for me and for my companions to understand the meticulous attention to detail of Norman architecture and military planning, and we thus became absorbed by our work for many months.
Another major setback befell King William in November of 1083. His beloved wife, the diminutive yet formidable Matilda, died in Caen.
The King was inconsolable; he had been faithful to her throughout the entire thirty years of their marriage, while she had borne him ten children. It was Matilda who had held the family together, especially the ever-fractious Robert and Rufus.
We escorted Robert to the interment at his mother’s convent in Caen. The epitaph on her tomb was a perfect summary of what she meant to William and to Normandy:
The lofty structure of this splendid tomb
Hides great Matilda, sprung from royal stem.
Child of a Flemish duke, her mother was
Adela, a daughter of a King of France,
Sister of Henry, Robert’s royal son.
Married to William, most illustrious King,
She gave this site and raised this noble house,
With many hands and many goods endowed,
Given by her, or by her toil procured.
Comforter of the needy, duty’s friend,
Her wealth enriched the poor, left in her need.
At daybreak on November’s second day
She won her share of everlasting joy.
Throughout the entire service, William’s head remained bowed, his shoulders hunched. When he looked up, his eyes had the haunted look of a broken man.
There was much irony in the setting: where once William had towered over his acolytes, he now seemed to exist in their shadow. Their once doting eyes were insincere and, behind them, their machinations to bring about his imminent downfall and likely successor were almost palpable.
At the end, he had to be led away.
Robert announced that he would stay with his father in Rouen for the time being, so we decided that now was the time for us to undertake our journey to southern Italy.
We had become close friends – but while it was important for Robert to stay in Normandy, it was equally vital for me to seek a new challenge.
We parted like brothers.
‘Go well, Edgar. When we meet again, I expect to hear all the stories in detail and anticipate that they will include many tales of conquest – over fearsome warriors and dark, lusty maidens.’
‘I will try my best, Robert,’ I answered with a laugh, before turning to weightier matters. ‘Try and humour your father a little. The loss of your mother may make his temper even more difficult to control, but he is becoming increasingly isolated and will need your wise counsel and support.’
‘Perhaps, my friend … I’ll make the same pledge as you’ve just made to me – I’ll try my best.’
PART THREE
Roger the Great
12. Adela’s Scars
Yet again, Robert was generous in allowing me to recruit a sturdy captain, six men-at-arms and sufficient silver for our expedition to Italy.
We travelled slowly, paying our respects along the way to all those to whom it would be an insult not to – and to many more who may, one day, be useful to us. We were treated with the greatest respect, much of it a result of understandable curiosity about the events we had lived through and witnessed.
Along the way, Sweyn and Adela repeated many times the stories they had heard about the impressive castle at Melfi in Apulia and of the worthy deeds of Hereward’s good friend Roger Guiscard, Count of Sicily.
The Guiscards were typical of the Normans of their day. Roger’s father, Tancred de Hauteville, had been a minor noble with a small estate near Coutances in the Cotentin Peninsula of western Normandy. His only real claim to fame was that, by two wives, over a period of almost thirty years, he sired a large brood of fearsome warriors and beautiful daughters – fifteen offspring in all. His daughters married well above their station in the Norman aristocracy, and no fewer than eight of his sons became counts. Roger was the youngest of them all.
Roger’s older brothers – William Iron Arm, Drogo and Humphrey – led the Norman mercenaries who gained control in southern Italy in the 1040s and, in turn, became Counts of Apulia.
Robert Guiscard, the ferocious sixth son of Tancred, still ruled in Melfi, where his reputation as an intimidating host even to his friends and allies persuaded us to continue on to Sicily, where we knew we would receive a much warmer welcome from his younger brother, Count Roger.
Sicily was unlike anything we had witnessed before. We had seen the wonders of Italy in Turin, Florence and Rome, where the ancient buildings made everything in northern Europe seem so new and brash. But Sicily had, until Robert brought it back under Christian rule only ten years earlier, been occupied by Islamic rulers for 250 years. The architecture was breathtaking, the food exotic, the languages incomprehensible and the customs mystifying.
We wallowed in it – especially Sweyn and Adela, who had during their childhood heard so much about the intoxicating world of Islam and the ancient cultures the Muslim people cherished.
Apart from Sicily’s more intriguing qualities, it was also as hot as a blacksmith’s furnace. We arrived in July 1084 with the temperatures soaring to the point where much of the middle of the day had to be spent in the shade with the necessity for minimal effort of any kind.
Roger’s court was at Palermo, a vast city of great wealth and antiquity. We had never seen so many people; it was much bigger than the great cities of Normandy and France and made Rome look like a small town. The buildings – the Ancient Greek and Roman temples and amphitheatres, the Moorish palaces and mosques of the Muslims and the new Norman fortresses and churches – were so numerous and on such a grand scale that it was impossible to count them or to appreciate their grandeur fully.
Palermo was like a crossroads of all the cultures of the world. Its cuisines, languages, religions and races were so varied, its people so diverse, it was difficult to imagine that they could live happily side by side, but they seemed to. We spent several days gawping at the dark-skinned Muslims and their veiled women, enjoying food rich in spices and exotic herbs and vegetables, and listening to strange tongues such as Arabic, Greek, Hebrew and Berber. Some traders by the port had skin as black as charcoal and came from lands far to the south. They had brought spices so pungent their aroma hung in the air for miles around.
We were soon told that Count Roger had left Palermo to inspect his new castle at Mazara, an important port on the south-west tip of the island. Palermo’s garrison commander advised us not to travel, as the route was treacherous and under threat from Muslim warlords still resisting the Norman presence. As Roger was not due to return to Palermo for several weeks, we decided to make the journey. We had the comfort of seven highly trained men and felt secure in being able either to defend ourselves or to outrun any adversary.
As we left Palermo behind and climbed steadily into the hills of the island’s interior, our journey south began uneventfully. Lower down the hillsides were miles upon miles of citrus and olive groves and the vineyards that produced Sicily’s highly regarded wine. Higher up, the land had been turned to arable use, and higher still it became pasture, providing grazing for goats and sheep.
The Muslim lords of Sicily had introduced elaborate irrigation systems and new farming techniques to the island and, as a consequence, its agriculture had blossomed.
We only travelled early in the morning and late in the afternoon, and spent the hours in the middle of the day sheltering under trees, as near as possible to the small rivers that cut through the hills. There were still thick forests on the highest slopes where the hum of insects was incessant and the peppery smell of pine overpowering.
The first settlement of any significance we came across was the hilltop Muslim fortress of Calatafimi, lying about forty miles south-west of Palermo. The Muslim lords and their garrison had abandoned the stronghold and its interior had been destroyed by fire, leaving only the peasants – Christian and Muslim – to tend their fields, as they had always done.
Nearby was the ruin of a large Roman temple and theatre on the hill of Segesta. The temple seemed to be complete, except for the roof, but its heavy columns provided excellent shade and we decided to camp there.
It was at the end of one of these long afternoons of rest that I found Adela sitting alone, high on the terraced seating of the theatre. I had been thinking about her strange existence, alone in a man’s world, in a contrived marriage to a young man whom she regarded as a little brother and trying to succeed as a warrior when her ambition was well nigh impossible to achieve.
She looked forlorn, but smiled when she saw me.
‘Lord Edgar, do you remember the Roman ruins on the Tyne?’
‘I do – it was where the four of us decided to travel here.’
‘Sire, the Romans must have been like the Normans – warriors, conquerors, builders – their empire was huge and we haven’t yet got to the end of it. They achieved so much. I am nearly thirty years of age and my life has come to nothing.’
‘Adela, please call me Edgar when we are alone. We have been comrades for three years now.’
‘I cannot, sire, you are a royal prince, the heir to the throne of my homeland, and I am the daughter of a peasant.’
‘That is of no consequence any more. My royalty doesn’t mean much now. You, on the other hand, have achieved so much in life and become a knight in all but name.’
‘Not really, my Lord, think of what Hereward and Torfida had done at our age.’
‘You cannot compare yourself with others, especially two people like Hereward and Torfida. They were exceptional, and also propelled by a remarkable destiny whereby the circumstances of history took them on a unique journey. Your fate will be what it will be; there is a limit t
o how much you can change it.’
‘I don’t accept that, sire. If challenges and adventures won’t come to me, I will seek them out until I find my calling.’
‘And what do you think that is?’
‘I don’t know, but I know it’s out there.’
For once, she failed to answer me formally but just turned away to watch the sun dip behind the hills beyond the temple. There were tears in her eyes. She suddenly seemed feminine and vulnerable. I sensed something I had never felt before: she was no longer the driven warrior; she looked lost, almost childlike. I wanted to help her with the immense burden she carried.
‘Do you not have desires like other women, and want to have children?’
‘Yes, but my desires and dreams are so damaged by my memories. I will confide in you because you are so kind, like an older brother, but please keep my confessions private, just between us.’
‘Of course, you have my word.’
‘I occasionally comfort myself, but never with a man, nor, despite the rumours, with a woman. I have to live with what happened to me in Bourne, and so I do.’
‘And what of Sweyn? You share his tent …’
‘Yes, but he never touches me – that would be wrong, he is like my younger brother.’
‘You know I will always be here.’
‘You are very kind, but a simple life is not for me. Since Ely, my dreams have become nightmares, my desires violated, my emotions corrupted; you don’t want to share in any of that.’
‘I have my own nightmares and burdens to live with. I didn’t suffer the kind of ordeal that you had to endure, but I have to face the fact that I should have fought harder for my rightful inheritance and perhaps even died trying to claim the throne, like so many others who sacrificed themselves in my name.’
Crusade Page 12