Crusade

by Stewart Binns

  The work had brought many people to the burgh, including craftsmen from Normandy and beyond. Although still a small island of modest civilization in a sea of death and desolation, it was beginning to resemble the burghs of the south.

  Early the next day, as we were preparing to leave, Adela suddenly stopped herself in the middle of mounting her horse and spoke to Sweyn.

  ‘Do you recognize that woman – the one on horseback, in a nun’s habit?’

  ‘My God, she looks just like Torfida.’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘How old was Estrith when we last saw her at Ely?’

  ‘Thirteen, I think.’

  ‘So, how old would she be now?’

  ‘In her mid-thirties.’

  ‘Well, could it be her?’

  Sweyn began to smile as he realized that Adela may be right.

  ‘It just might be.’

  The two of them ran off towards her, with Edwin and myself in their wake. Sweyn got the question out first.

  ‘Madam, may we ask you your name? We think we may know you …’

  ‘I am Adeliza, a sister of Whalley Abbey. And you, sir?’

  ‘I am Sweyn of Bourne … I am sorry … we thought we recognized you.’

  ‘Who did you think I was?’

  Still convinced she was right, Adela interrupted with a mix of excitement and impatience in her voice.

  ‘We thought you were Estrith of Melfi, the daughter of Hereward of Bourne.’

  The nun looked around nervously to be sure no one was listening.

  ‘Come, let us go somewhere where we can talk quietly.’

  The nun ushered us away behind the huts where the masons lived, where she was sure no one could see or hear her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to be so careful … It’s Adela, isn’t it?’

  Both in a deluge of tears, the two women fell into each other’s arms.

  ‘I recognized you and Edwin; Sweyn I didn’t recognize, he was so young when I saw him last. And you, sir, should I recognize you?’

  ‘I am Edgar – we have met before, but it was a long time ago.’

  Edwin helped the nun with more details as Adela added Sweyn to their embrace.

  ‘This is Edgar, Prince of this realm.’

  ‘My apologies, my Lord, I intended no disrespect.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. I am just Edgar. These are my good friends – like your father was and, I hope, you will be too.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I am Hereward’s daughter, Estrith of Melfi, not Adeliza of Whalley. I travel incognito; the Normans have forgotten who I am, but I don’t want anything to remind them.’

  Adela launched into all sorts of reminiscences. Realizing that there was a lot to talk about, I suggested we ride out into the woods beyond the River Wear so that we could relax and exchange our stories at leisure, well away from the din of the masons’ labours. Our escort came with us but respectfully kept its distance.

  Adela soon resumed the eager questioning.

  ‘We went to Launceston and heard the terrible news about Gunnhild. It must be hard for you not to have your sister with you.’

  ‘It is, but her suffering was so great, her passing was a mercy. I have tried to make my own way ever since. Our guardian, Robert of Mortain, was a good man, a typical Norman – uncompromising and strong-willed – but he was kind to us and we grew to like him. When Gunnhild died, he let me leave, which I appreciated greatly.’

  Adela explained that, although we had pleaded with him, he refused to tell us where she was.

  ‘I’m not surprised. That was his way; he’d made me a promise and that was the end of it. He’s dead now; I heard he was banished to Normandy after his support for Odo’s rebellion in 1088 and died there a couple of years ago.’

  ‘We searched high and low for you, but could never find you.’

  ‘I would have been in Normandy at that time. I did take Holy Orders and I am an ordained nun, but my skill is masonry.’

  Although we were all intrigued to know how a nun became a mason, Sweyn was the first to voice the other question we all wanted to ask.

  ‘Forgive me for asking you something that may be painful for you to answer, but we all think about him every day. What can you tell us about what happened to your father?’

  ‘Don’t be afraid to ask, he was like a father to you as well. Sadly, I can’t give you an answer. I wish I could. What happened in St Etheldreda’s Chapel will haunt me to my dying day, as it did Gunnhild, even in the agony of her death throes.’

  We had found a place to sit in a beautiful glade. Even though it was late February, the bright sun of a crisp, clear day had dried the grass. Estrith got up and started to pace around, probably so that she could turn away from us should she want to hide the anguish on her face.

  ‘At the end of the siege and the awful carnage, William had my father flayed close to death. We were dragged into the Chapel, where a terrible confrontation began. William demanded that our father renounce the Oath of the Brotherhood of St Etheldreda, the solemn vow that all the defenders of Ely had taken. When he refused, the King was on the verge of striking him down with our father’s own weapon, the Great Axe of Göteborg, when there was a blinding burst of sunlight. The King was transfixed for a moment, then he staggered from the Chapel and suddenly collapsed, clutching his chest. He was carried away and we were locked in, alone with our father, who was on the brink of death. It was pitiful … he was in such pain and we were just girls with no idea what to do … but he survived … he was so strong. We nursed him as best we could, until he regained some strength …’

  She turned away for a while, fighting back the tears. The glade fell still, with only the faint babble of the distant Wear breaking the silence.

  ‘The King didn’t return for several days. When he did, he brought Robert of Mortain with him. He dragged us out of the Chapel, slamming the door behind us, leaving the two of them alone. What happened then is known only to the King and my father, and anyone they chose to confide in. Earl Robert put us in a cart and we were heading to Cornwall within minutes. Ely was soon lost in the distance, but the air was still ringing with our howls and screams.’

  Estrith resumed her seat next to us, more composed now that she had recounted the worst part of her story.

  ‘Although there are all sorts of stories and rumours, most people think William had my father executed and buried in secret, just like King Harold. He must have assumed that if his martyrdom could never be verified, nor his grave identified, it would make his memory less potent for the English. Earl Robert would never confirm or deny anything – except to say that the King had made one concession, which is that Gunnhild and I would be spared and placed under his care.’

  Sweyn then made clear his unshakeable belief about Hereward’s fate.

  ‘He is alive, and one day we’ll find him.’

  Estrith looked at him with a kindly, almost motherly expression.

  ‘He would be almost sixty years old by now. It is hard to imagine he’s still alive, given all that he suffered in his life. But I admire your faith, Sweyn. If he is to be found, then I’m sure you’re the man to do it.’

  She started to sob and Adela put her arms around her. After a while, she continued her tale.

  ‘At first, life in Cornwall was a living hell. We hated all Normans, especially William and his henchmen such as Earl Robert, and refused to speak to him or anybody in his household. He lost patience with us and locked us in a cell, feeding us through a hole in the door. After several months and a harsh winter, Gunnhild became delirious with fever and I decided to compromise. I don’t think she ever fully recovered from that ordeal and feel certain it hastened her untimely death. We were released from the cell, given a guarded chamber, and life slowly became more tolerable. As we conceded more, Robert gradually allowed us more comforts until eventually we became part of his household. Strange as it may seem, we grew to respect him; we could have had a much worse jailer.’

  I looked
at Adela, sitting side by side with Estrith. They were two remarkably strong women who, by sheer willpower, had succeeded against huge odds – one terribly traumatized who became a knight in all but name, the other similarly damaged, who, behind the facade of a learned nun, became a churchwright. Both had embraced professions that I thought were the exclusive preserve of men. I could not resist the obvious question, at the same time changing the subject to a less emotional one.

  ‘How did you learn the skills of masonry?’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly a mason. I don’t have the skills – I’m not very good with my hands – but I help the master masons with their calculations. My mother was fascinated by architecture and mathematics, and I have inherited her passion. She and Hereward travelled all over the world and she saw all the great buildings of Byzantium, Greece and Italy and learned their secrets – except, they’re not secrets. They are strict formulae which determine how buildings are constructed.’

  Adela was hanging on her every word.

  ‘And the masons accept you?’

  ‘A little. All the churchwrights are men, so I have to be careful not to claim to be one. I go by reputation and recommendation, which is why I started in Normandy, where all the great churches are being built. Some of the old masons there remembered my mother, which helped me at first. Because of my nun’s habit they see me as a well-educated sister of the Church who has a gift for calculating, rather than as a churchwright. But, without thinking about it, they do let me help with the design.’

  ‘So, why are you here?’

  ‘This new church is going to be very special. William of Calais wants it to be the finest building in England. When I heard about it, I came to help.’

  ‘And you were welcomed?’

  ‘Yes, I was lucky to be recommended by Walkelin, Bishop of Winchester; his church has just been completed, and I did a lot of work on the vaulting for the roof. I specialize in the calculations to make the roof strong. Although I work with the master mason, I spend most of my time with the carpenters, because they make the timber frames that support the roof. Winchester has a big roof, and the beautiful stone vaulting above the nave is only decorative; the real work is done by less attractive but very sturdy oak beams above the stonework, which carry the weight of the outer roof. The design is very elegant and precise.’

  I sat and watched Estrith holding court, her audience rapt. I had heard that Torfida could enthral people in the same way and that Estrith looked just like her. She was certainly a handsome woman. She had unblemished skin, the colour of rich cream, dark eyes and black hair, now greying a little at the temples, and her face had a serenity that was disarming. She possessed a slim figure, but her feminine curves were still apparent despite her heavy nun’s soutane.

  Most charming of all was her intellect and aura of mystique. A woman of mature years, she had been raised by a mother with remarkable gifts, who had passed on to her as many of them as possible, and an equally extraordinary father. They must have been an amazing inspiration through astonishing and traumatic times.

  Since childhood, she had continued to learn. She had devoted her life to acquiring knowledge and ideas, enjoying nothing more than sharing her wisdom with others.

  I watched her with growing wonder – a vision of beauty and someone I hoped would become a permanent fixture in our lives.

  22. The Twenty-third Psalm

  After much discussion and soul-searching, Estrith decided to relinquish her opportunity to help bring to life William of Calais’s dream for Durham Cathedral and instead travel to London with us. From there, assuming that King Rufus did not have an unpleasant surprise in store for us, we would go to Normandy to resume our service with Duke Robert.

  Our somewhat unusual quartet of brothers-in-arms had become a yet more peculiar quintet that now included two women, one of whom was a churchwright disguised as a nun. Nevertheless, I was delighted that Estrith had joined us. She was an intimate link to Hereward and Torfida, the only blood relative still alive. She carried their wisdom – and, indeed, their mystique.

  For our meeting with King Rufus, I persuaded Estrith to change her allegiance from sister of Whalley Abbey to a Scottish foundation, where there were unlikely to be any Norman links. She decided that St Andrews in Fife had a reputation worthy of her, and thus she became a holy sister of St Andrews, Scotland.

  When we arrived in Westminster, the head of our escort went to the King’s palace to announce our arrival, only to be told that he was too busy with affairs of state to see us and that we were free to return to Normandy at our leisure. Relieved not to be cross-examined by an irate King, we continued on to Normandy as quickly as we could.

  Once in Normandy, we agreed we would make a plan for the future. We were getting older. I was over forty, Edwin three years older; neither of us had wives or children, and the shallow pleasures of casual sex had become less and less appealing. Adela was in her fortieth year and still searching for some kind of fulfilment. Only Sweyn was in his prime, but since the death of Mahnoor he lacked the energy he had shown before and hardly ever glanced at a woman.

  When we reached Rouen, we realized why Rufus had been too busy to see us. Yet again, he was fomenting trouble with Duke Robert, but this time without any real success. Robert’s patient tolerance of his brother’s aggression had won him many admirers, while his astute governance and restrained rule of the dukedom had brought it growing prosperity. Once again, he let his brother’s bravado wash over him and calmly carried on being Duke. A very frustrated King Rufus eventually returned his attention to England, where he continued to fester and plot new acts of devilment.

  When we introduced Estrith to Duke Robert, he was intrigued by her and fascinated to hear the detailed account of his father’s famous encounter with Hereward at Ely. The siege was still a popular subject with the storytellers, both Norman and English, even though almost fifteen years had passed.

  There was an ever-growing number of different versions of what had happened in the denouement of the siege, some highly fanciful. The Norman accounts tended to take the view that William had meted out due justice to a troublesome outlaw by killing Hereward with his own hand, while the English liked to think that somehow or other the great English hero had escaped and was still living an idyllic existence with his family deep in England’s Bruneswald.

  Duke Robert was ignorant of the true events that had unfolded.

  ‘I had heard that my father had collapsed at Ely, but he would never talk about it, or mention what happened to your father.’

  ‘My Lord Duke, I have thought about those moments in St Etheldreda’s Chapel every day of my life and I still can’t decide what happened. Was the blinding light an act of God, created by Him through St Etheldreda on behalf of the worthy cause of the Brotherhood? Was it the power of the Talisman of Truth, the ancient pagan amulet my father always wore? Or was it simply a coincidence, when the sun suddenly appeared from behind a cloud? My soul tells me it was an act of God, my heart says it was the Talisman, and my head says it was a coincidence. My mother spent her life wrestling with conundrums such as these.’

  ‘Whatever it was, it affected my father very much and brought on a spasm of pain that put him on his back for over a week. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what happened when he finally returned to the Chapel – but, whatever it was, it made Hereward into England’s hero and confirmed my father’s reputation as the most ruthless man in Europe.’

  I had always thought that Robert secretly admired Hereward – as he would anyone brave enough to challenge his father.

  Then, quite suddenly, Estrith walked up to the Duke and touched his hand, something that protocol did not allow, even for a sister of the Church.

  ‘Sire, please understand, I don’t have any ill will towards you or any other Norman. King William is dead, my father is almost certainly dead, the past is the past – it is over.’

  Robert was not offended, nor did he pull away. He placed his hand over hers, and the so
n of England’s conqueror and the daughter of his nemesis embraced. It was as if they were playing out the final act in the drama that was Ely. Tears ran down Estrith’s cheeks and Adela put her hand to her face to hold back her sobs; all of us had tears in our eyes and lumps in our throats.

  Robert took a deep breath and, with a fidget of mild embarrassment, changed the subject.

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘Estrith would like to go south to St Cirq Lapopie. She hasn’t seen her surrogate aunts, Ingigerd and Maria, in over twenty years.’

  ‘Do you think I could come with you?’

  Robert’s response was like a bolt from the blue, leaving all of us shocked – not unpleasantly so, but certainly surprised that a sovereign duke would want to travel with a small and insignificant band such as ours.

  ‘But what about your dukedom and your quarrelsome brothers?’

  ‘Normandy more or less runs itself these days, and I’ve got the powerful barons nicely balanced in a kind of harmony, which they accept through gritted teeth. Most of them dislike Odo so much, they are mainly preoccupied with keeping him at bay. As for my brothers, Rufus needs Henry if he’s to be strong enough to unseat me in Rouen, but Henry is content building his strength in the Cotentin. He may ultimately have eyes for Normandy, but he’ll want England first, so Rufus is the one in his way, not me – at least, not yet.’

  We all looked at one another and nodded our approval and, as head of the St Cirq Lapopie household, Edwin made the formal response.

  ‘My Lord, it would be our honour to receive you at our humble home on the Lot. But, sire, it is only a modest farmhouse.’