“Your pardon, Father,” she said, avoiding Swan’s gaze less she burst out laughing. “As you say, Latin was never my strong point, and I’m confident Rodrick and Bronson will ensure we follow the route.”
The cleric sighed resignedly. “But I want you to recognise the historic places you will pass through, so you’ll appreciate them more. I wish I was young enough to accompany you.”
It came to her then that the inconvenient and daunting journey ahead of them was an adventure few women ever got the chance to experience.
Swan must have been thinking the same thing. “It’s a happy coincidence,” she said as Père Rigord took his leave. “Our common ancestor, Ram de Montbryce travelled through Rome on his way back from Constantinople.”
“Yes,” Grace replied, “in the company of your grandfather, Caedmon, and my grandfather, Baudoin.”
Bronson came to stand behind Grace and put his hands on her shoulders. “Our grandfather wrote of his travels in a codex. My father still has it, though the ink has deteriorated over the years and most of it is barely legible.”
Rodrick came to his feet. “We should keep a journal of our travels as we journey to Rome. Then we can pass it on to our children.”
The notion pleased Grace. “Good idea. We’ll become as famous as Sigeric.”
Archbishop Theobald du Bec sliced the air one way then the other as he made the sign of the crucifixion over the codices Rodrick had procured for the journey. The cleric had been impressed with the journals during the audience he’d granted them in his apartments at Canterbury, especially when it had been explained how the priest at Ellesmere had personally sewn together the quire of blank manuscript pages. Rodrick chuckled inwardly. The old priest had been overjoyed at the idea when they’d suggested it.
He wondered why the Archbishop had insisted they begin their trek in Canterbury and follow Sigeric’s route exactly. In normal circumstances, they’d have crossed the Narrow Sea to Normandie further south and been able to visit their kin at Montbryce, Alensonne and Belisle en route.
From Canterbury they would have to cross from Dover to Calais and thence journey south east, and would be mostly reliant on abbeys for hospitality.
He brought his mind back to the interview. Theobald had opened the codices and was preparing to read Père Rigord’s Latin inscription. “Rodrick Rambaud de Montbryce et Bronson FitzRam et Suannoch Ascha FitzRam et Grace Mabelle Carys de Cullène peregrinati sunt,” he intoned. “Good, good, yes, indeed, you are pilgrims.”
To Rodrick’s surprise he beckoned his secretary and dictated a benediction. The monk dipped a quill and scratched the blessing into each codex. “Benedicti ab Theobaldo Archiepiscopo Cantuariensis sunt.”
“A high honor, your Excellency,” he said. “We thank you.”
Under his breath he whispered what each of them was no doubt thinking.
Why can’t he simply give us the dispensation?
“Go now,” Archbishop Theobald commanded, waving at them as if they were troublesome gnats, “I’m told the winds are favorable for your crossing to Calais.”
They bowed their way out of his presence and mounted their horses for the short ride to Dover and the longboats ready to take them and their entourage across the Narrow Sea.
Despite the calm waters, Rodrick’s gut rebelled as soon as the boat left shore. “This is something else I’ve inherited from our great grandfather,” he lamented. “Ram de Montbryce suffered terribly from seasickness. He apparently struggled to keep the bile from rising in his throat when he was crossing from Normandie to England with William the Conqueror at the outset of the invasion.”
Swan shivered. She had dreaded this voyage, but not because Rodrick had forewarned her of his malady.
He looked forlorn. She wasn’t used to seeing weakness in him. He was her strength. If he faltered on this journey—
“I’m aware you’d rather be tending Cob than looking after me.”
“No. I was thinking of the wreck of La Blanche Nef.”
He put his hands over hers on the side of the boat. “Whenever I make this crossing, I think of that fateful night and the horror of it for your grandparents.”
She huddled deeper into her cloak. “It happened before I was born, and I regret I never met them. It’s four and thirty years ago, and I shudder at the terror they endured in the dark, cold waters, the desperate screams of hundreds in their ears.”
Rodrick gestured to Bronson and Grace standing together near the prow. “He’s thinking of it too.”
It wasn’t a good beginning to their odyssey. By the time they arrived in Calais, Rodrick was pale and weak, Bronson morose, and Grace short-tempered. Swan was relieved they planned to spend the night at Witsant, a Flemish fishing village south west of Calais. However, there was nowhere to lodge and they continued on to Guînes where they were welcomed at the Abbey of Saint Léonard.
Swan and Grace shared a musty pallet in a nun’s cell; Lucia slept on the stone floor. Rodrick and Bronson camped in the abbey grounds with their entourage. Swan fretted all night because Rodrick was sleeping outdoors after the terrible day at sea.
Halfway
Guînes, Flandres,
November, One Thousand Eleven Hundred And Fifty Four, Anno Domini.
Nigh on three score years have passed since my grandfather, Caedmon Brice FitzRam, traveled through France and Italy on his way back from the First Crusade. He wrote a detailed account of his travels in a codex which is now in my father’s hands. I never met my grandfather, but I learned a great deal about him from his journal, timeworn as it is.
The journey changed him, as I expect this pilgrimage will change me. From my cold and damp tent outside the Abbey of Saint Léonard near Guînes, I dedicate my journey to my grandfather’s memory.
My fervent hope is that Grace and I will receive the dispensation to marry and for a sign the Angel of Death no longer stalks me and mine.
Written by my own hand, Bronson FitzRam.
Guînes, Flandres,
November in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Eleven Hundred And Fifty Four.
Be it known that I, Rodrick Rambaud de Montbryce, am embarking on a pilgrimage to Rome, following the Via Francigena. I do this to obtain a dispensation to marry Suannoch Ascha FitzRam, my second cousin.
I dedicate this journey to my great grandfather, Rambaud de Montbryce, from whom Suannoch and I are both descended. I feel in my bones he would have approved of our marriage.
Pope Anastasius is reputed to be a difficult man. In the event he refuses to grant us permission to wed, I herein declare I will marry her anyway, though it means the loss of my earldom.
I do so swear.
Rodrick de M.
Post Scriptum. I am recovered from mal-de-mer.
Doingt, Flandres
The first three days have gone well.
There is a monolith here known as the Stone of Gargantua. Legend tells of the giant halting his stroll through this grassy meadow bothered by a stone in his shoe. He shook his foot and the stone flew out.
It’s at least twice as tall as I am.
They say the fairies in the woods of Recogne dance around the stone by the light of the full moon. I was reminded of the King Stone. I mentioned it to Grace and told her of my dream. She in turn revealed to me she had dreamt of seeing me by a giant monolith. It took her a while but she admitted when I coaxed her that I was naked in her dream.
Last evening I dreamt of fairies dancing around Gargantua’s Stone. One of them had dark wings.
Bronson FitzRam
Reims,
We have reached the ancient town of Reims and walked in the footsteps of Charlemagne. Swan was fascinated by the tale of the Holy Ampulla told to us by one of the monks at the Saint Remi Basilica. She almost had him convinced to open it up and show us the Saint Chrême brought by the white dove at the baptism of Clovis more than five hundred years ago. At the last he seemed to recollect his wits and remember the sacred oil is used to anoint the kings of
France.
She is one persuasive woman. Anastasius beware!
We walked beneath the Porte de Mars. Inspiring to think of Romans building these structures hundreds of years ago.
Rodrick de M.
Besançon
The four of us looked out today at the Alps to the south of this town, much as Julius Caesar must have done hundreds of years ago. They are a daunting sight. We’ve been on the road ten days since landing in Calais.
Traveling is never easy for women. Despite Lucia’s best efforts, both Suannoch and Grace are feeling the effects of a lack of the comforts they are used to. Neither has complained, but they are short tempered with one another. Rodrick and I try to keep them apart as much as possible.
I have great admiration for the scores of fellow pilgrims who don’t have horses and servants to take care of their needs. Many of them barely have decent covering for their feet. This experience has been a good lesson for William and Stephen.
If we maintain our pace we should be in Rome for yuletide.
May God be with us as we venture into the mountains. It already feels colder than it did traveling south through France.
Bronson FitzRam
Saint-Rhémy-en-Bosses
We gave heartfelt thanks at Mass today. We have reached the safety of the Saint Bernard Hospice. A hundred years ago, Bernard of Menthon, the archdeacon of Aosta, determined to put an end to the dangers posed by brigands harassing travelers in the mountains. This place is a safe haven, well guarded by huge dogs, and we have no fear of being attacked by bandits. The cold is enough to contend with. It will be heaven to sleep indoors this night.
We are only half way to our destination, but I am more convinced than ever that Swan is the woman I am meant to marry. The journey hasn’t been easy, particularly in this season of the year. There were times I feared we might freeze in the mountains. But Swan seems excited by change, adventure, and excitement. She has never lost her optimism and has kept everyone’s spirits up.
She and Grace have both willingly helped many of the pilgrims who are forced to walk, sharing food, clothing, blankets, recruiting some of them to travel with us as servants.
They have wept over those who died en route, offering consolation, as we all did. Young and old, rich and poor, we have become one family. Swan has helped me see things from different points of view. I never gave much thought before to the plight of the poor.
There is no one more suited to be my countess.
Pray God Anastasius sees it the same way.
Rodrick de M.
The Way To Rome
Bronson scratched his bushy beard, complaining loudly about the itching. Grace was grateful she and Swan didn’t have to contend with facial hair on the road.
She eyed the threatening clouds. “Thank the saints the interminable drizzle has stopped. Mayhap in Pavia we might find somewhere to shave off nigh on three sennights of hair from your face. I’ve forgotten what you look like.”
He grimaced. “Me too. Hopefully you are right, though I don’t trust young William’s hand with a razor.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Mayhap I can do it for you?”
He looked askance, but smiled. “Perhaps.”
“When Père Rigord was droning on about these faraway places, I barely paid attention, but now we’re here, I’m glad he gave us some of the history. I particularly want to see the Basilica of San Michele Maggiore. According to him the reconstruction should be nearing completion. It was destroyed by fire one hundred and fifty years ago.”
He winced.
She was contrite. “Forgive me. I’m like a tutor. You were there when the priest lectured us. This is where Louis the Third was crowned.”
He rolled his eyes, but they reined their horses to a halt as the Basilica came into view. “It’s not what I expected,” she said. “Very different from Norman architecture. The façade is flat.”
Bronson cleared his throat as he came to assist her to dismount. “According to Père Rigord this is Romanesque architecture.”
She glanced at him sharply.
He winked. “See. I was listening.”
This was the best part of the day. The comforting pressure of Bronson’s hands at her waist renewed her spirit no matter how tired she was from the day’s travel. He lifted her as if she were weightless, pulling her to his body as he set her on her feet. The kiss they shared had become part of the ritual—chaste, yet sensuous, innocent yet full of promise. She would never admit it to him, but she loved the softness of his beard on her face.
“Truly?” Swan asked incredulously.
“Truly,” Rodrick replied.
“This is the place?” she asked again.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he reiterated.
They stood together on the ferry crossing the river Po, gazing through the rain at the town of Piacenza.
“It’s hard to believe,” she murmured, leaning into him, held in history’s grip.
He confirmed what he had told her minutes ago. “The Council of Piacenza was where Pope Urban proclaimed the call for the First Crusade in response to the Byzantine Emperor’s pleas for help. More than thirty thousand religious and lay attended the Council—so many they had to hold it outside the town.”
“And my grandfather answered the call,” she murmured.
He nibbled her ear. “Perhaps it was your destiny to come here,” he whispered.
“Perhaps,” she said hoarsely, lost in thoughts of what she knew of her grandparents. “I don’t believe it was a call to fight the Turks my grandfather answered. He was lost, and hoped the Crusade would be a way to come to terms with his bastardy.”
“And he was right. You are a perceptive woman,” he replied.
The northern part of Italy is different from England. Most of the towns are communes and the people band together to defend and govern themselves within fortified walls. In some of them, however, the defensive towers of different families suggest there is conflict within the walls.
In Borgo San Donnino we saw an interesting sight at the front of the cathedral—a statue of Saint Peter pointing in the direction of Rome. There is an inscription. “I show you the way to Rome.”
Pilgrims are welcome in this region, especially now when only the foolhardy like the four of us attempt this journey. We are tired of being cold and wet. But Rodrick and I have chosen well—Swan and Grace are both strong women. It’s fortunate we brought a large contingent of guards. There are few of the fairer sex among the pilgrims, and the best of men can be driven to depravity by the lack of female companionship. There have been times I’ve wanted to take Grace down from her horse and make love to her there and then. My grandfather wrote of his longing for his wife. I have my love with me as my constant companion, and sometimes I think it is worse than being apart. I want her but cannot touch her.
I will forever cherish the memory of standing with Grace on a hillside in Pietrasanta looking out over the Mediterranean Sea. Even in winter it is strikingly beautiful. My grandfather remarked it was unlike any body of water he’d seen before.
I told her the Romans arrogantly called it Mare Nostrum, ‘Our Sea’. We talked of empires. The mighty Roman Empire crumbled in this very region hundreds of years ago with the overthrow of the last Emperor. The Norman Conqueror must be twisting in his tomb now the empire he won for his people will soon pass into the hands of the Angevins with the crowning of Henry Plantagenet.
I fear we will miss that historic ceremony.
Bronson
I would love to revisit this region in summer. Surprisingly, we have encountered many Normans who came here generations ago. In Gimignano we sampled Vernaccia wine, an excellent vintage from ancient vines growing on the fertile hills. We drank too much, but it was good to relax and enjoy ourselves. Swan became very amorous and I was tempted to whisk her away to some secluded spot and make love to her. It is difficult to spend every day with the woman I love and not touch her intimately, but our monks are ever vigi
lant.
They grow saffron here too and Swan insisted we take a supply with us. She guards it like gold.
Gimignano was called Silvia in Roman times but the name was changed after Saint Geminianus saved the town from Attila the Hun.
Attila the Hun! I have much to learn about history.
We are nearing the end of our journey. There are reports from pilgrims leaving Rome of great unrest in the city. King William of Sicily is openly hostile to the Pope. Frederick Barbarossa stirs up trouble. The barons fight with each other and with the Pope and raid the countryside, even robbing pilgrims on their way to the tombs of the Apostles.
The people of Rome are in open revolt under the leadership of Arnold of Brescia.
Anastasius is apparently ill.
None of this news bodes well and has dampened our spirits.
Rodrick
His Holiness
La Storta
Fourth Day of December
Much has happened since our arrival yesterday at this last station outside Rome. We sent our monks ahead to inform Oddone Frangipane we were nearing the city. He has returned with them and a large armed brigade to accompany us to his home.
The flamboyant Roman has brought the astounding news of Anastasius’ death only yesterday. Another Pope has been elected in his place who has taken the name Adrian, the fourth Pope to do so.
According to Oddone, this Pope has long insisted serfs be allowed to marry lawfully without the consent of their lords.
This alone would seem to augur well for us.
Another surprising thing is he’s an Englishman, Nicolas Breakspear, born in Abbots Langley.
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