The whole gathering was in high spirits, and the cavernous chamber echoed to the sound of loud, raucous laughter. William Marshal was feeling exhausted, but elated, after his first experience of fighting in earnest. He was reliving the day in his own mind, when his train of thought was interrupted. William de Mandeville, the heir to the Earl of Essex, called out to him from across the table.
“Marshal, I beg of you, will you grant me a gift out of friendship?”
The young man was surprised by the request, but replied politely.
“Willingly! What would you have?”
The answer came in a loud roar.
“A sword perhaps. Or failing that an old horse bridle!”
The room erupted in laughter. Mandeville was making the point that William had alone amongst the Chamberlain’s knights, failed to profit by this afternoon’s success. It was a salutary reminder that his profession was now arms. And its rewards were the equipment and ransom of those he had defeated. It was a lesson that the Marshal would take to heart. He never needed to be told anything twice.
September 2003 – Making a Friend
So that was it, Tom thought to himself. His grandmother was gone as well now. Just left to the tender mercies of his mam. And about to be thrust from his comfortable primary school into whatever awaited him at the seniors. Tom was a withdrawn boy. Apart from the weekends spent watching TV with his grandparents, he had led a lonely life. His mother was unpredictable. If she was happy with her love life, or full of vodka, then Tom was the best thing since sliced bread. If she was neither then he knew to watch out.
The situation had made the young boy retreat into an inner world. He would be described as a bit of a daydreamer. And he had no wish to share his family circumstances with anyone else. He felt too ashamed.
Tom was inside himself at present. Wandering slowly up the school driveway, he tried to make sense of what information he’d been able to glean about the establishment he was about to attend. Some people had given him the impression it wasn’t too bad. Others had conveyed a vision of a cross between bedlam and a World War II battle scene. Tom wasn’t even sure what he was here for. His mother had never had a job. Neither had any of her so-called boyfriends. The young boy assumed his would be a life on benefits. Didn’t need any sort of education for that.
As he reached the main building he saw lots of children standing in excited groups. Some of the other boys looked huge, almost men. He saw a few people he knew but he was in no mood for small talk. There was a low wall in front of the entrance. Just one person was sat there. Tom plonked himself down, but said nothing. He was taciturn, even at the best of times. The two’s silence contrasted sharply with the enthusiastic clusters of schoolchildren renewing their acquaintances after the summer holidays. Then a bell was heard piercing through the low level chatter. Tom turned in the direction of the sound of the bell and saw that his companion was a young girl. Couldn’t see much of her face, too much long black hair. But he sensed she wasn’t happy. Despite his own worries, he thought some reassurance might be in order. Tom found his voice.
“We might as well try it out.”
He detached himself and shuffled towards the entrance. But the girl from the wall didn’t follow. God, he thought. She’s even worse than me. He stretched out his hand.
“Come on. Best get moving.”
July 1182 A.D. – Armenia – Crossing the Plain
The summer sun was beating down on the young lad who was only eleven years old. He was nervous and becoming ever more so. It was the first time he had ever moved more than a mile or so, outside the walls of his home city. Ani, his birthplace, was situated in the north of Armenia. Yenovk had lived a quiet life there. His father was an academic, a scholar at the largest church in the city. He studied ancient Christian texts and worked with other clerics to relate them to current Church teachings. The work paid well, so that there was always plenty of food on the table. His mother was at home all the time, always bustling around the kitchen and he had the constant companionship of his two younger brothers and an elder sister.
But more recently, the boy Yenovk had become gradually aware, of a sense of tension seeping through his small household. He remembered whispered, private conversations between his parents. His father’s friends were forever visiting. Sometimes he could hear raised voices, from the men’s animated conversations in the outside courtyard. And then he received the shock news. They had to leave the city, and make their way hundreds of miles west, to a different place entirely. Cross the plains to the coastal settlement at Antioch.
Yenovk had desperately sought an explanation from his parents, or sister. But all he had been told was that God required it of them. In actual fact, the reason was a little more of this earth. Ani had once been the most powerful city in Armenia. It was the resting place of over 200,000 souls. It was an important commercial city, controlling trade routes between Byzantium, Persia, Syria and Asia. It was also an important centre of Christianity. Known as ‘the city of a thousand and one churches’. But for the last hundred years, Ani had found itself under the control of the Islamic dynasty of the Kurdish Shaddadids.
Usually, the Islamic rulers were fairly tolerant of the practices of their Christian subjects, who massively outnumbered them. But periodically, the more zealous of the Christians would appeal to Georgia for help in overthrowing their Muslim masters. The last appeal had resulted in a close call for the Shaddadid Kurds, when seven years earlier they had only just repelled a large, determined Georgian army. The city was awash with rumour that a plot was being hatched for another appeal. The ruling dynasty had threatened dire retribution against anyone found involved with such a scheme. Yenovk’s father was no fighting man, but he was a fervent Christian. There was some evidence that he and his colleagues at the church had been involved in subversive discussions.
Yenovk’s father was unsure as to what, if any charge was to be levelled against him. But he had decided it was too dangerous to remain. He would need to move his family to the Christian stronghold at Antioch. And so Yenovk found himself perched precariously on a horse with his youngest brother, some twenty miles outside the safety of Ani’s walls. His mother was walking slowly alongside. Another five families accompanied them on their journey. Thirty or so weary travellers.
The convoy was making its way slowly across the windswept plain. Several families huddled together to provide as much protection as they could. Two of the strongest men were riding at each side of the column acting as lookouts. As the afternoon sun started to drop down towards the horizon, one of them observed some strange shapes, silhouetted against the dull blue of the late summer sky.
He called out to his companion, his arm pointing into the distance, in the direction of his gaze. The other man spent a few minutes watching carefully, then turned his look back, white faced.
“Soldiers. Hordes of them.”
The two men, rode back to the main column and instructed everyone to stop. The men were all scholars, not fighters and prepared themselves calmly to meet the advancing troops. All they could do was state their case. Plead that they were Christian refugees, seeking a safe passage to Antioch. Yenovk fervently hoped that this would suffice. He hoped in vain. The soldiers were Turks. They had no need for the men of the party, who were swiftly and clinically put to the sword. The women and children were separated and led away in different groups. Yenovk would never see his mother again. His happy childhood had come to an sudden end.
January 1183 A.D. – France – The Apprentice
The boy had never known his mother or his father. His master had told him that his mother had died giving birth to him. Childbirth was a hazardous business for medieval women. Apparently it had been a fatal one for Raoul’s mother. His father had never appeared in his life. But actually the boy felt fortunate.
For as long as he could remember, he had been an apprentice to the blacksmith. The craftsman had no children of his own. But Raoul did not think of him as a
father figure. It had been made clear to him since he was very young that this was a business transaction. Raoul was expected to become an apprentice to the smith, in return for his lodgings and keep.
The blacksmith’s shop where Raoul worked was nestled at the bottom of a narrow lane. All the nearby houses were timber constructed. The buildings were already starting to lean towards each other, creating a dark, oppressive and claustrophobic atmosphere. Several other blacksmiths occupied the lane. And there were also armorers, together with helmet and sword makers who benefited from their proximity to the blacksmiths.
Although he was only thirteen, six days of Raoul’s week consisted of hard physical labour. Inside the shop, the furnace reached up to the boy’s chest. The heat was fierce. Welcome in winter, intolerable in the heavy humidity of high summer. It was winter now, and Raoul enjoyed the warmth from the fire as he kept its heat strong by working a large pair of leather bellows.
Two men stood beside him, waiting for the glowing metal in the furnace to reach exactly the right temperature. They had done this many times before and they knew the exact moment to swing the molten lump to the floor with a long pair of tongs.
They broke off a piece of the glowing heap on the floor of the shop and lifted it onto a large wooden anvil. Taking up huge hammers they swung them down with an explosive, rhythmic motion. Gradually the lump of metal lengthened out. The blacksmith’s shop was making wire at the moment. The next stage in the process was for one of the men to hold the metal still, whilst his companion carefully drew it through a small hole using a set of pliers.
When the wire formed it was Raoul’s job to take it along the street to the armorer. It was he who was to pound the wire into links. These would form the basis for a suit of chain mail for one of the knights in the castle.
It was a hard, backbreaking life for a youth yet to become a man. Raoul lived for the Sabbath and some respite from his back-breaking duties. On Sunday he rose later and had the morning at leisure before he made his way to his church that lay just within the city walls.
Inside, peace washed over the congregation. The quiet was in stark contrast to the cacophony that was Raoul’s constant companion during the working week. There were no pews or benches on which to sit, and like most Raoul had to sit on the straw laden floor. The more wealthy members of the church had brought cushions on which to recline. They also had metal hand warmers, to ward off the worst of the winter’s cold.
Raoul always made sure to get to the church well before the service started. He savoured the peace that the sanctuary of the church provided.
One murky day in January as Raoul was sitting peacefully on the floor of his place of worship, a bell rang out, denoting the start of the service. The priest entered the church followed by a procession of choir members and clerks. A Gregorian chant rose melodically from the body of the choir. The group sang in unison. The regular rhythmic sounds echoed around, reaching every nook and cranny in the chilly room.
One of the choir members had a portable organ on his back. The bellows were operated with one hand and the small keyboard with the other. The instrument accompanied the chant, weaving its melody around the choir’s words.
The priest approached the altar. He was dressed in an elaborate robe. The altar was full of religious objects to support the service. They were all finally crafted in silver and gold. Standing in front of them, surrounded by the singers, the priest made an impressive sight.
He commenced the service. The entire liturgy was in Latin. Although the congregation had little idea of the meaning of the words they were intimate with the rhythms of the prayers. They knelt, stood and gave responses at the appropriate places.
Finally, after half an hour or so, it was time for the sermon. The priest needed to get his point across clearly so he switched to French. That day the subject of his talk was poverty. He went over the parable of the rich man. He made the suggestion that it would be harder for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.
The boy looked over the priest’s shoulders, to the contents of the altar. He contrasted the wealth there to the abject misery he encountered, every day in the city’s lanes. Raoul wasn’t so certain that the priest had the moral high ground. The wealth of the Catholic Church of Rome was legendary and was on clear display throughout the Kingdom of France. And yet apparently there was no problem with any of the Church’s representatives on earth obtaining salvation.
The service over, Raoul left the quiet of the church and made his way home through the narrow streets. As he turned into his lane he passed the storefronts of the silver and goldsmiths. He had seen inside these shops on many occasions. The quiet working of the precious metal could not be further from the ferocious hammering of the blacksmith’s assistants. Just as in church, the young boy couldn’t help making a contrast, this time of his life, with that of the skilled craftsmen who worked here.
He wondered about the value of the goods in the store. And remembering the fine artefacts in the church tried to calculate how much they would have cost. Yet again, he wondered at how the Catholic Church with those riches, could have a priest who praised poverty in his sermons.
March 2006 – Café in Mosul
Something had broken irreparably in Malik’s father when his brothers died. He was a beaten man. The three years since the horrific shootings had not seen Hakim’s situation improve. He spent all his days lazing listlessly around the house, listening to the radio, reading the local newspaper or watching TV. But nothing much interested him. His pre-invasion life had revolved around the Museum, but he hadn’t returned. The only work he performed was in looking morosely through the boxes he’d retrieved on the day of the looting.
Malik had spent the first few months trying to engage him in conversation. But nothing worked. Paula had tried just as hard, if not harder, but with the same amount of success. Then they’d basically given up and left him to his own devices. It looked like Hakim was a lost cause.
That was until today. Malik had decided to have one of his sporadic efforts to see if he could awake his father from his bereavement stupor. Just as with his previous attempts, any try at conversation was one sided. Malik was relating a story that he’d picked up from some older boys that he’d met in the Internet cafe in the city centre.
“You know Ali, from the next street. The tall boy of about eighteen with the spotty face and straggly beard?”
The older man did not acknowledge the question. So Malik had no idea whether his father knew the spotty boy or not.
“Well, the story going round is that his mosque is recruiting for young committed Muslim men to go to a madrassa in Pakistan”
Again nothing. But Malik ploughed on regardless.
“Then the rumour is that they are to be trained up in the high mountains, to wage jihad in Afghanistan with the Taliban. To fight the cursed American invaders and take some revenge for their attacks on the Followers of the Prophet, Peace be unto Him.”
At the last comment, something seemed to switch on. His father looked towards him with a glance that approached if not interest, then something slightly above indifference.
“To fight?”
“Yes, with the Taliban. In the south of Afghanistan, west of Kandahar.”
Suddenly an idea flashed unbidden into Malik’s mind. Instinctively, he knew this would get a reaction.
“And when I’m eighteen that’s where I’m going.”
His father looked at him steadily. Hooded, deep brown eyes, burning with intensity. And then a strange thing happened. A slow smile spread itself gradually across his face.
“Thank you my son.”
January 2007 – English Class
Chloe was well into her fourth year at senior school. She was in the second term of year 10. There was no sixth form at her school, so she was in the second oldest year group. Chloe was sitting at her desk in her favourite class, English Literature. It was the only subjec
t in which she had any interest, or showed much ability. The public library was only a few hundred yards from her door, and ever since the start of the seniors, Chloe had been a frequent visitor. Her vocabulary wasn’t too bad.
Her favourite teacher was Mr Craven. He was glad to find a keen student and had spent time with her recommending books. He had taught her two years ago and was now taking the top set for their GCSE years. Chloe had surprised herself by being selected for this group. She was far from achieving that level in any other academic subject. And she absolutely loathed science and maths.
That morning Chloe was sat in the lower floor classroom, behind one of the ancient wooden desks. Unusually for a class at her school, even one of the top sets, calmness reigned. They were engaged in a discussion of their set text, Golding’s Lord of the Flies. Chloe had thoroughly enjoyed most of the book. The descent into darkness seemed terribly believable to her. Chloe could even relate to the children in the book, although they were from a different background. And of course they were all boys. But she wasn’t satisfied with the ending. It seemed unsatisfactory to her that a rescue ship appeared from nowhere. Didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the story. A bit contrived, unrealistic if you like.
She had felt so strongly that she had spoken up in class when Mr Craven had asked for comments on the ending.
“Excellent, Chloe. I was hoping someone would bring up that very point.”
She felt her face flushing. She wasn’t used to this sort of public praise. Her teacher went on to explain that this sort of literary technique was known as ‘Deus ex machina’. It meant literally, God out of the machine. Her teacher explained that the phrase derived from classical Greek plays, where actors would be lowered by crane into the theatre to resolve a plot line. Chloe wasn’t completely focused on the explanation. She was just amazed that she’d managed to make a contribution without being laughed at.
The Furness Secret Page 4