PENGUIN BOOKS

ANARCHY

Stewart Binns began his professional life as an academic. He then pursued several adventures, including that of a schoolteacher, specializing in history, before becoming an award-winning documentary-maker and latterly an author. His television credits include the ‘In-Colour’ genre of historical documentaries, notably the BAFTA and Grierson winner Britain at War in Colour and the Peabody winner The Second World War in Colour.

He also launched Trans World Sport in 1987, Futbol Mundial in 1993, the International Olympic Commitee Camera of Record in 1994 and the Olympic Television Archive Bureau in 1996.

Currently Chief Executive and co-founder, with his wife Lucy, of the independent production and distribution company Big Ape Media International, Stewart has in recent years continued to specialize in historical documentaries including a series on the Korean War, the history of Indo-China and a major study of modern Japan.

His first novel, Conquest, was published in 2011, followed by Crusade in 2012.

Stewart’s passion is English history, especially its origins and folklore. His home is in Somerset, where he lives with his wife Lucy and twin boys, Charlie and Jack.

Acknowledgements

To all those who have made this possible – dear friends, loving family, dedicated professionals – I will always be grateful.

With much love and grateful thanks.

THE TWELFTH-CENTURY DOGES OF VENICE

Ordelafo Faliero (1102–1117)

Domenico Michele (1117–1130)

Pietro Polani (1130–1148)

Domenico Morosini (1148–1156)

Vital II Michele (1156–1172)

Sebastiano Ziani (1172–1178)

Orio Mastropiero (1178–1192)

Enrico Dandolo (1192–1205)

THE COMNENI EMPERORS OF BYZANTIUM

THE TWELFTH-CENTURY PRINCES OF ANTIOCH

THE TWELFTH-CENTURY KINGS OF JERUSALEM

THE TWELFTH-CENTURY HOLY ROMAN EMPERORS

1. Birthright

When I think back to my arrival on this earth, I still smile at the convoluted circumstances of my birth. I was born surreptitiously, in Constantinople, in the most auspicious of surroundings, in the Blachernae, the private palace of Alexius I, the Emperor of Byzantium. Strangely, I had two ‘mothers’: Estrith, my real mother, and Adela, who briefly performed the ostensible role of my mother to all but a few who knew the truth of my conception and confinement. Even more bizarrely, when Adela, my surrogate mother, died only a few years later, Estrith, my birth mother, adopted me in a pretence designed to protect her status as a nun. It was a charade that survived until her death.

I arrived in the mid-summer of 1098, at the beginning of the Great Crusade. My two mothers were part of the English contingent to the Holy Land, led by Edgar the Atheling. Edgar was the rightful Cerdician heir to the English throne in 1066 – an inheritance first denied him in his tender years by Harold of Wessex and then by William the Conqueror and his Norman horde.

Edgar had finally become reconciled with the Conqueror and had befriended Robert Curthose, William’s firstborn, who became Duke of Normandy when his father died. When the Great Crusade was called, Robert led the Norman contingent and asked his friend Edgar to join him as head of a small force of Englishmen.

My father, Sweyn of Bourne, was part of Edgar’s contingent: a noble knight, of whom I have no real memory, only cherished stories passed on to me by my mother. He was killed when I was still a boy at the fateful Battle of Tinchebrai in 1106.

The secret that disguised my birth was contrived to protect my real mother, Estrith. She was only allowed to be present on the Great Crusade because of her status as Abbess of Fécamp and through her role tending the sick and wounded. The fanatical leaders of the crusade, most of whom were Christian zealots, would not have taken kindly to an abbess of the Church conceiving a child and giving birth in the middle of the holy crusade to liberate the sacred places of Palestine.

On the other hand, Adela was a warrior and an acknowledged Knight of Islam. But more importantly she was married to my father, Sweyn, and thus, as the spouse of a Latin knight, was allowed to accompany him on campaigns. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, never consummated, and agreed between them to allow Adela to fulfil her desire to fight as a warrior – a secret known only to those closest to them. They were more like brother and sister, and both hailed from my family’s ancestral home: Bourne in Lincolnshire.

During a particularly treacherous skirmish with the Seljuk Turks in the Holy Land, Adela was badly wounded by an arrow, and Sweyn and Estrith became separated from the Christian army and had to hide in the desert. Estrith had also taken an arrow and had to be kept alive by Sweyn’s skills as a battlefield physician. It was during these days alone, when both thought death was imminent, that a tender moment became a loving embrace and, against all the odds, I was conceived. Amazingly, thanks in large part to Sweyn’s gifts as a soldier, both survived and made it back to the Christian camp.

Sadly, Adela’s wounds were more severe, which ultimately led to her death. But she survived long enough to act out the role of being my mother and to make it back to England, before dying in desperate circumstances at Westminster. She was buried in Bourne; my real mother, Estrith, told me the whole story many years later, a beautifully poignant memory I will cherish forever.

When it became obvious that Estrith was pregnant with me, a devious plan was concocted to protect her and maintain the facade of the ‘marriage’ between Sweyn and Adela. Adela’s wound was serious and would not heal, so it was agreed that both she and my mother would immediately return to Constantinople, long before her pregnancy could be noticed, where I could be born in secret in Emperor Alexius’ private apartments. When the three of us returned twelve months later, to all but a select few it seemed perfectly plausible that Adela, wife of Sweyn, had given birth to me and had returned with her husband’s child, both lovingly cared for by Estrith, whose nursing skills had led her to be christened the ‘English Angel’.

Estrith, Sweyn and Adela were all part of a secret brotherhood, the Brethren of the Blood of the Talisman, formed in homage to all those who went before them and resisted the Normans in the final redoubt at Ely in 1071. The founding members of the Brethren were: Estrith of Melfi, Abbess of Fécamp; Adela of Bourne, Knight of Islam; Sweyn of Bourne, Knight of Normandy; Edgar the Atheling, Prince of England; Edwin of Glastonbury, Knight of England and my grandfather’s standard-bearer at Ely; and Robert, Sovereign Duke of Normandy.

My grandfather, Hereward of Bourne, and my grandmother, Torfida of the Wildwood, were guardians of the Talisman, an ancient and mysterious amulet that many believe possesses great powers. My grandmother died shortly before Ely, but my grandfather survived the siege and lived on for many years. Before he died, he shared the details of his life with the two Johns of Constantinople: Prince John Azoukh and Prince John Comnenus, who later became the Emperor of Byzantium.

For many years, no one knew what had happened to Hereward after Ely. It was only years later, when the Brethren travelled to Constantinople with the Great Crusade, that his whereabouts became clear. He had made a diabolical pact with William the Conqueror after the fall of Ely, which forced him to leave England forever. He had to assume a new identity as Godwin of Ely and served with the elite Varangian Guard of John Comnenus’ father, the Emperor Alexius. After quickly rising through the ranks to become Captain of the Guard, he became the Emperor’s close friend and confidant.

When he retired, he chose to live in his own remote eyrie, high in the mountains of the Peloponnese in Greece, his whereabouts unknown to anybody except the Emperor Alexius and his local governor – that is, until the Brethren arrived in Constantinople with the crusaders. The Latin Princes and the senior members of their entourage were summoned to the Blachernae to swear an oath of loyalty to the Emperor, during which Estrith noticed that he was wearing the fabled Talisman, given to him many years before by its guardian, Hereward, a man he knew as Godwin of Ely. Later, in a private audience with Alexius, the link was made and a great circle of fate was closed. Alexius summoned Hereward back from his beloved eyrie and he was reunited with his family and the survivors of Ely.

Hereward became a member of the Brethren and accompanied them on their traumatic excursion to the Holy Land, after which he returned to his mountaintop. But to the immense joy of Estrith, she and I, still a babe in arms, returned with him, where we stayed for many months. Throughout my childhood, my mother passed on the minute details of our stay and the many stories of my grandfather’s deeds and those of his followers. They are wonderful memories, many of which I now pass on to you.

After the Great Crusade and our time together with my grandfather, we returned to England, where my mother rekindled her passion for architecture by resuming her career as a churchwright – a skill she had to hide behind the pectoral cross of an abbess. She worked for the rest of her life as one of the senior churchwrights on the new cathedral at Norwich, where I grew up. The building is finished now, but my mother only saw it half built; she died in 1126, in an outbreak of scarlet fever. Nevertheless, she saw the completion of the presbytery and its magnificent vaulted roof, her pride and joy.

Although I was intrigued throughout my childhood by the inexorable rise of the mighty walls of the cathedral, and despite being in awe of the skills of its masons, carpenters and churchwrights, my yearnings soon turned to more martial pursuits, especially when I began to approach adulthood. I dreamed of emulating the deeds of my father and grandfather, both of whose exploits were well known – especially those of Hereward, who was by then a legendary figure, spoken about with hushed reverence.

No one in Norwich knew that we were related to Hereward and Sweyn; my mother preferred her anonymity, especially as she worked so closely with master masons and senior clerics, all of whom were Normans. Although the pain of the Conquest was becoming a thing of the past, resentment was never far beneath the surface within the English community and we had to be careful lest our lineage antagonize our Norman masters, or become a rallying call for our English friends. Still, my heritage resonated strongly in my heart.

I first made contact with young Englishmen who were determined to keep alive the dream of liberty from Norman rule through some of the masons working on the cathedral. Although the senior masons were Normans, most of the junior ones were English. They were intelligent and articulate, but were denied further progress because of rigid Norman control of the masons’ hierarchy. This caused bitter resentment. Several of them would meet in Lion Wood on Sundays. Their women and sisters would prepare food, and they would share stories of the English resistance from the past, air their grievances and talk about how England could plot a way to freedom.

They were initially wary of me because my mother was one of the few prominent English people in Norwich and thus open to accusations of collaboration with the Normans. However, her deeds in the Holy Land with the English contingent nullified any suspicion and thus I was allowed to join the Sabbath gatherings. Sometimes I wished I could reveal my family history and so gain favour with them, but it would have put at risk my mother’s relationship with the Normans, so I chose discretion.

Some of the men kept weapons in the wood and practised with them. They taught me many things about fighting, especially at close quarters, and how to survive in the wilderness – all of which was a useful supplement to my formal training to become a knight with Hugh Bigod, the Earl of Norwich.

My Sabbaths in Lion Wood continued blissfully for many weeks. My fellow renegades were older than I was – I had just turned fifteen – and keeping their company led me to pretend that I was older than my tender years. There were the thrills of clandestine rendezvous to be savoured and mock fights to be enjoyed. I learned that there was still a secret network of similar young men and women throughout the land, many of whom were descendants of those who fought the Normans on Senlac Ridge, or were part of my grandfather’s resistance movement and the Brotherhood of Ely.

As time passed I was shocked to hear countless stories of brutality and oppression from Norman lords towards the English. Many Normans believed in firm rule, but acted with decency. Indeed, in Norwich we were fortunate that both the Earl and the Bishop were fair in their treatment of the local people. However, in many parts of the country, especially in the more remote areas and the border regions, Norman lords did just as they pleased, regardless of the law and even of human decency.

Their crimes went unrecorded: people disappeared, never to be seen again, and every imaginable cruelty was meted out to the local people, none of whom had any means to defend themselves. Retreat into the wildwood, or escape to the uplands and fenlands, was often the only recourse. Even then, they were ruthlessly hunted down, often for sport, their bodies brought back and displayed like hunting trophies. We were told that one particularly vicious lord in Northumbria kept a pack of wolves in a pit so that he could entertain his guests by throwing English captives into it after dinner. Another liked to disembowel anyone to whom he took a dislike.

In some places, huge tracts of land that had been sequestered by the new Norman lords from their old English landlords had been left to go wild and the villages that once were thriving homes lay derelict. Stories of tyranny and destitution were legion from every part of the country and strengthened our desire to find a way to resist – especially among the young, who knew that their English birthright meant they were unlikely ever to play a prominent role in the affairs of their own land.

I was the only member of the group without a female companion, but I tried to catch the eye of several of the unattached younger girls, sometimes with modest success. But then I could never be sure whether the smile or look returned was simply a gesture of kindness or the more enticing signal I hoped it would be.

Some of the older men began to make serious plans to disrupt the comfortable lives the Normans were leading: poaching livestock to give to the peasants, stealing from granaries to redistribute the spoils to the poor, and there was even talk of mounting raids on small garrisons and linking up with bands of outlaws we knew lived in the remote parts of the wildwood. Not having any real sense of what the risks would be, I was a vociferous advocate of such plans and, to the credit of my companions, was humoured with gracious smiles and only the occasional look of disdain.

However, in September of 1113, the real world suddenly exposed the pretence of our Sundays of sedition. It was late in the afternoon, all the food had been eaten and the usual animated debate about future schemes and plots, fuelled by plentiful flasks of ale, had subsided. The rabble-rousing had been replaced by slumber for most, but a few of the more spirited ones had found discrete spots in the greensward for a little frolicking.

The distinct neighing of horses was the first sign of danger. Hunting was forbidden in the forest and farm horses would not be working on the Sabbath, so horses – especially several of them – signalled impending menace. Then came the animated cries of men-at-arms and the rumbling of hooves. They were Norman cries, and they were coming from all directions. Everyone was soon on their feet and running in panic in different directions.

All I could hear was the impassioned cry, ‘Run!’

I ran as I had never run before. My heart raced; I seemed to have the speed and agility of a stallion and leapt over brushwood and fallen tree trunks as if they were not there. I saw only two Normans, as I passed between them, each several yards from me. The late summer undergrowth was high and helped conceal my dash for safety and, to my immense relief, the two soldiers did not see me. They did not see the young couple who had been romping in the long grass either, but I did – I bowled over the lad as he was pulling up his leggings. His all-but-naked partner was still on the ground, screaming in terror. With shrieks and shouts ringing in my ears behind me, my impetus hardly stalled, I continued my desperate sprint, not really slowing until I saw Norwich’s Eastgate ahead of me.

Then I stopped suddenly and dived for cover at the side of the road. The gate was barred by a patrol of mounted Normans, on guard, their distinctive conical helmets glinting in the setting sun. They had seen me, and three of them closed on me at a gallop. I ran again; my only chance was the deep forest, which would be too dense for the horses to pursue me at speed. But this time fatigue soon caught up with me and my lungs started to strain in panic and exhaustion. I stopped, in part to get my breath, but also to see if I could hear my pursuers.

I held my breath to confirm what I suspected, and heard the distinct sound of horses moving through the dense forest, the swish of their riders’ swords slicing through the foliage. They were close, too close for me to attempt to run; they would surely hear my movements. Then I heard the barking of dogs in the distance. A new beast was hunting me – one I could not outrun.

I was agile and had no fear of heights – I had climbed the high scaffolding of the cathedral many times. My only hope was to scale the tallest tree I could find before the hunting dogs fixed on my scent. I disappeared into the heavy canopy of the towering elm just as the Normans appeared in view below. One of them dismounted to take a piss and they began to chat idly about ‘English pigs, will they never learn …’ and other such invective. Although I spoke their language fluently, as many Englishmen did, Norman always sounded guttural and threatening. These were harsh men, sons of an unforgiving race.

Then the dogs and their huntsmen arrived. The hounds yelped, barked and ran around in circles, desperate to be let off their leashes. I was certain they had already sensed my presence and I hunched on my perch, petrified, not daring to breathe. Then came the piercing scream.

Pursued by several riders, the couple I had fallen over as I made my escape stumbled into view. They were bedraggled and exhausted and were soon surrounded by more than a dozen horsemen, including those who had been about to discover me in my lofty refuge. My good fortune was a death warrant for the two lovers. I did not know the girl’s name – she had only been to a couple of gatherings – but the boy was Wulfnoth, an excellent carpenter from Thetford, who had shown me much kindness when I first joined the group.

He was cut down without a moment’s hesitation by a vicious blow from the sword of the first Norman to reach him. He cried out in agony as he hit the ground, blood spewing from a wound that ran from his shoulder to his midriff. More assailants speared him with their lances as he lay on the ground. He lived for what seemed like an eternity, squirming like a snake, trying to avoid the lethal blades. The hounds then bit and tugged at him before, mercifully, his life spent, he lay still. The dogs, rabid for their kill, then pulled him into the undergrowth and began to devour him.

The girl’s demise was just as horrific. She was one of the pretty ones I had smiled at expectantly several times, until I realized she was enjoying Wulfnoth’s amorous attentions. Hysterical after witnessing the slaughter of her lover, she ran around in a circle, her head in her hands, wailing. When the first Norman dismounted, she seemed to gather herself and tried to escape, but an ever-tightening circle of men and horses made that impossible. One by one they dismounted, their mood changing from animated ferocity to a more measured menace.

I suddenly felt ashamed that I did not know the girl’s name; perhaps it was better that I did not, given what I was about to witness. She began to plead with them, in English and Norman, but they just sniggered. She said she worked in Bishop de Losinga’s kitchen and that he would condemn them to Hell if they harmed her. It made no difference. As they circled her, leering and taunting, she tried to compose herself and took deep breaths, hoping to reason with them. It was all in vain.

They slowly stripped her and mauled her, flinging her from one to the other, before throwing her on to the ground and invading her body in every possible way. The humiliations lasted for at least an hour, at the end of which the girl was barely conscious. Perhaps that was a good thing because, having sated their lust, one of them knelt over her and sliced her throat from ear to ear, leaving her to die in a pool of blood.

I learned a lot about the savagery of men that day. I turned away from the spectacle many times, but kept looking back, callously fascinated by their cruelty. I realized how terrifying it must be to live as a woman in a world where women could be treated so brutally. Now I understood why my parents and grandparents had fought so courageously against evil and lawlessness. I vowed to espouse their cause with all my heart and soul, and to fight for freedom and justice for all men and women, wherever they are denied.

It was all but dark when the Normans moved off towards Norwich, allowing me to clamber down from my sanctuary. I did not dare look for the grisly remains of Wulfnoth, but I felt compelled to pull the girl into the undergrowth. I turned her on to her side and tried to arrange her hair around her face in a token gesture to restore her modesty. She was at peace, her ordeal over. I gently pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a now serene profile that gave no hint of what had just happened to her. I vowed to remember her like that – not as I had seen her, contorted by the torment of the assault. I retrieved her clothes and covered her with them, before finally spreading a cloak of leaves over her. It was all I could do.

For what seemed like half the night, I hid in the undergrowth, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. It must have been near to dawn when I ran to our modest abode in the shadow of the mighty cathedral. Thankfully, the sentries had gone and the old gatekeeper let me in at the burgh’s Eastgate. He looked distressed and pleaded with me to get off the streets.

My mother was waiting for me, slumped at her churchwright’s table, a nearly exhausted candle barely flickering. I rushed into her welcoming arms, feeling more like a frightened child than a confident young man hoping soon to become a knight of the realm.

‘Thank God you’re safe. I have been sick with fear, thinking you had been caught. Or worse …’

I told her what had happened, laying the blame at Hugh Bigod’s door.

‘There has been mayhem here too, but they were not the Earl of Norwich’s men. They came from London on the King’s orders. Somebody had sent word about treason among the masons, and the King sent a squadron of his cut-throats to deal with it.’

‘We only talked … it was only bluster. Why would anybody tell the King?’

‘To gain favour, for money, out of jealousy – there are many temptations to seduce the feeble.’

‘It must have been an Englishman.’

‘Or an Englishwoman! Earlier, there were four masons’ bodies swinging from the scaffolding of the nave. They had been dragged from Lion Wood and hanged on sanctified ground. I hear that there are many more bodies in the wood. Most of the surviving masons are in hiding. There has been trouble on the streets all day – even usually calm people who avoid trouble are incensed. The houses of some of the Norman merchants have been burned and also the houses of the Jewish goldsmiths.’

‘The Earl must have been involved.’

‘I don’t think so. He is furious and has had the bodies cut down. He called out his retinue and ran the King’s squadron out of the burgh. The Bishop has already left for London to protest to the King. I know that the Bishop and the Earl are both Normans, but they are better men than that and would not commit such brutality.’

It was then that my mother told me what had happened to my second mother, Adela, at Bourne all those years ago, when she was abused by King William’s henchmen in an act of vengeance following the Siege of Ely.

‘My poor boy, I’m so sorry that you saw what you saw today. Adela was scarred for life by her experience, but it also made her determined to fight for what is right. I hope the same thing happens to you.’

‘Don’t doubt that, mother. You have told me about evil many times and now I’ve seen it for myself. I will never forget.’

I never did forget. And while I did not blame the many Normans I knew in Norwich – who were not the kind of men who would commit such atrocities – I knew then with an unwavering certainty and a renewed passion that the English cause my family had defended over forty years would also be my cause.

My mother had recognized my warrior ambitions from an early age – after all, she was her mother’s daughter, both of whom had lived adventurous lives in the company of warriors – and had sent me to be trained as a knight as soon as I was old enough. I continued my training with Hugh of Bigod, until a year had passed since the trauma of Lion Wood and calm had returned to Norwich.

Paradoxically, although I was still determined to challenge our Norman masters one day, the only way I could acquire the skills to become a warrior was by undergoing the training regime of our Norman lords and become a knight of their realm. So, in 1114, at the age of sixteen, I accompanied King Henry Beauclerc on a punitive expedition against the Welsh, who had been causing mayhem in the Marches.

I was spoiling for a fight, and soon found one. But it was not the breath-taking adventure I had imagined.

2. Atrocity in the Marches

King Henry’s major concern in 1114 was the situation in Wales. Both during the period of Norman rule and under the English kings before them, the Welsh princes were a thorn in the side of English magnates – especially those on the western borders, and those who had built fortifications within Wales to try to pacify them. Norman lords had been murdered, their families abducted and tortured, their women raped and mutilated. The Welsh also fought amongst themselves, and there were hostile feuds between those princes who had made alliances with the English kings and those who had not.

In Mid Wales, Madog, son of Rhirid ap Bleddyn, had been blinded and mutilated by his cousin Owain ap Cadwgan, who was the most notorious of the Welshmen that King Henry was determined to subdue. This act of revenge between cousins led to an outbreak of tribal bloodletting. In the north, the King of Gwynedd, Gruffudd ap Cynan, had been raiding the lands of the Norman Marcher Lord Richard, Earl of Chester, who had complained to the King, as had Gilbert FitzRichard, Lord of Ceredigion.

Henry Beauclerc had had enough and decided to teach the Welsh a lesson. With himself at its head, a large force advanced deep into Wales. He split his soldiers into three main armies, each over 2,000 strong, including archers and heavy cavalry. In the south, Gilbert FitzRichard commanded an army from Cornwall and South Wales. In the north, Richard of Chester advanced to Penant Bachwy, while the King led the third group into Merionethshire. Alexander, King of the Scots was with the King, in large part to demonstrate to the Welsh that the Scots had succumbed to the power of the Norman King of England and had accepted Henry as their overlord.

I had been taken to Wales in the King’s retinue as a favour to my mother, granted by Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, one of the main benefactors of the new cathedral at Norwich. I was put under the care of Olaf Godredsson, heir to the Kingdom of the Isles and Mann, who had lived at Henry’s court since he was a boy, as part of the King’s treaty with Olaf’s father, Godred Crovan.

Olaf had been made constable of the King’s cavalry for the expedition into Wales, an assignment that filled him with pride. A man in his mid thirties, nicknamed ‘The Red’ or ‘Bites your Leg’ based on his bright red hair and diminutive stature, he was, despite first impressions, a kind and thoughtful man and an excellent soldier. He did tend to bellow his orders and to intimidate those around him, but those close to him knew him to be loyal and generous to all who served him. He was also a brilliant horseman and cavalry officer, particularly fond of mass charges in close formation.

I joined the army at Oxford and my status as a junior knight of the realm meant that Olaf made me a messenger in his personal troop. He seemed to like me – especially after I was able to stumble through a conversation in Norse with him, and I explained my Norse ancestry on my mother’s side. It was Olaf who told me about Owain ap Cadwgan on our long march to Wales.

‘Is this your first expedition?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen, sir.’

‘That’s about right, let’s hope you learn from it. Do you want to join the King when you are of age?’

‘I’m not sure, my Lord. I just know that I must find what awaits me in the world.’

‘So, you believe in destiny?’

‘I do, sir. My mother taught me that we each have a destiny, but that most people don’t find theirs and live their lives unfulfilled and resentful.’

‘Your mother is very wise. Perhaps you can win your colours chasing this rogue, Owain ap Cadwgan?’

‘Sir, what has he done to annoy the King so much?’

‘Well, the King wants to teach several of the Welsh princes a lesson, but this one is a particular villain. A long time ago, when William Rufus was King, a young Welsh princess, Nest, daughter of Rhys ap Tewdwr, King of Deheubarth, was captured by Arnulf of Montgomery – one of the King’s most ferocious warriors – and brought to the King’s court. She is still very beautiful, but as a young woman she caught the eye of everyone at court – especially young Henry, now our Lord King, Henry Beauclerc. She bore him a child, rumoured to be the renowned Robert, Earl of Gloucester, before he tired of her and married her off to Gerald of Windsor, Lord of Cenarth Bychan. Five years ago, Owain ap Cadwgan heard about the beautiful Nest at a drunken feast and became obsessed by her, particularly given that she had become a concubine of the Normans. He convinced himself that Henry Beauclerc had raped her and that she was now trapped in a remote castle by her equally rapacious Norman husband.’

‘Could that be true, my Lord?’

‘Who knows? The King has so many mistresses … I’m sure most are willing partners. Perhaps she wasn’t. That’s certainly what Owain got into his head. Shortly after the feast, Owain summoned a dozen or so of his followers and rode to Cenarth Bychan. The keep was barred to them, so they dug under the walls – an exercise that took half the night – before slaughtering the garrison and bursting in on Nest and her captor, with whom she had had three children. Like a coward, Gerald of Windsor escaped down the chute of the garderobe and into the pile of shit his shameful behaviour deserved, leaving his wife and children at the mercy of Owain and his men. In a fury fuelled by his killing spree, Owain ripped Nest’s clothes from her and while his men held her down viciously raped her in front of her children. He repeated the humiliation at dawn and again a few hours later, before carrying her off with her children to a remote hunting lodge at Eglwyseg Rocks north of the Vale of Llangollen.’

‘Sir, it’s easy to understand why he’s a hunted man –’

‘Wait, there’s more to the story. Nest agreed to stay with Owain if he let her children return to their father, which he did. She was true to her word and bore him two children. It is hard to believe, but some say she grew to be fond of him. But, regardless of that, when he was finally tracked down in Llangollen by a Norman expedition, Owain escaped to Ireland to avoid the King’s wrath. Nest was reunited with Gerald of Windsor, a man who had been doing penance ever since abandoning his wife.’

‘But, sir, if Owain is in Ireland, why this expedition?’

‘He is not in Ireland. Three years ago, Owain returned to Wales to claim his father’s title as Prince of Powys, his father having been killed by a man he thought was his friend, Madog ap Rhirid. Owain captured Madog, tied him to a stake, blinded him with a hot iron and castrated him with a seax. Owain then declared his loyalty to King Henry and began to attack the other Welsh princes.’

‘So, my Lord, did the King accept Owain’s submission?’

‘On the surface, yes, but the King is shrewd. Let’s just say that Gerald of Windsor is with the King on this expedition. He has his wife back and has done his penance, but he still wants his revenge.’

Olaf’s inference was all too obvious: Owain ap Cadwgan was walking into a trap.

In the early weeks of the expedition, the King was as astute as he was belligerent and systematically bought off the Welsh with land and favours. But not before he hanged a few troublemakers, blinded some miscreants caught hunting in royal forests and tortured a couple of local firebrands to show that he meant business. A large English army and cartloads of English silver were enough to convince even the hardiest of Welsh princes to bow to the great king from the east and retreat to their remote fortresses.

I was witness to these punishments and found the proceedings repugnant. I was not opposed to violence if it was the result of a fair fight – or in pursuit of a just cause – but the almost indiscriminate use of force against those unable to resist was simply an act of cruelty. Nevertheless, the brutality and bribery worked and the King prevailed.

Owain had been told to rendezvous with Henry’s army at Abergavenny to celebrate the success of the expedition. Owain duly arrived with only his personal retinue of about a dozen men, vastly outnumbered by our force. The King had already departed for Winchester, leaving Olaf in charge of three squadrons of his elite cavalry, about seventy-five men.

Olaf greeted Owain ap Cadwgan when he arrived at Abergavenny.

‘Prince Owain. I am Olaf Godredsson, Prince of the Isles and Mann.’

Cadwgan realized that all was not what it should be, and he was ill at ease.

‘Prince Olaf, it is an honour to meet you. I know your father, we met on Anglesey Isle many years ago. I thought I was to meet King Henry?’

‘I’m afraid the King has had to return to Winchester. Affairs of the realm … you understand.’

‘Of course.’ Owain was looking around agitatedly. ‘But what of our celebration and the new arrangement we were going to –?’

Prince Olaf interrupted him before he could finish.

‘Owain ap Cadwgan, Prince of Powys, you are under arrest. Your men may go, but you are now a prisoner of King Henry, held under his authority by Gerald FitzWalter, Constable of Pembroke.’

Owain did not recognize Gerald’s Norman name, nor his new title as Constable of Pembroke. But as soon as the new constable rode forward, he saw that his captor was Gerald of Windsor, Nest’s wronged husband. As Owain’s men began to melt away, Gerald of Windsor issued his orders. He did so calmly and without apparent menace, disguising years of seething hatred.

The Welsh Prince, now alone and defenceless, was stripped of his weapons, armour and clothes before being hoisted on to a pair of crossed timbers usually used for floggings. In his case, his torso faced forwards – the opposite way to that used in a whipping. A large fire was lit nearby while he was bound tightly at the ankles, wrists, neck and forehead. He was asked if he had anything to say, to which he responded by shaking his head as much as his bindings would allow. Then he set his jaw to face what was to come.

Gerald of Windsor nodded to the executioners before issuing his proclamation.

‘For the heinous crimes you have committed against the people of your own land and against the people of England, you are to be executed so that you can face the judgement of God to atone for your sins.’

One of the executioners then cupped Owain’s chin firmly in the palm of his hand and, without a moment’s hesitation, took out one of his eyes with the sharp point of his seax. Gerald, now less in control of his emotions, spat in Owain’s face and hissed at his prisoner.

‘We will let you keep one eye for now, so that you can see what we are going to do next.’

Owain, screaming in pain, blood trickling down his face from an empty eye socket, shouted back at his tormentor.

‘Yes, and so that I can still see your wife writhing beneath me. She hated me at first, but soon couldn’t get enough of it!’

Enraged by that, Gerald took his seax and thrust it through Owain’s cheek until it exited on the other side.

‘Do you have anything more to say, you filthy pig?’

Owain tried to speak, but it was impossible. Blood was filling his mouth and cascading down his chest. The executioners then tied lead weights to their victim’s testicles before, like a slaughterer preparing sweetbreads, slicing them off with a slow and deliberate sawing motion. They then did the same to his manhood, before throwing his excised genitals on to the fire.

I had to look away, as did many around me.

Gerald then leaned forward and slowly pulled his seax from Owain’s face. The man was still conscious but was now convulsing in pain, hardly able to focus on his captor just inches from his face.

‘This is for Nest, the Helen of Wales.’

With that, Gerald thrust his seax deep into Owain’s remaining eye and continued to thrust until it met the wooden post behind the back of his head. Owain’s ordeal was over but, as a final indignity, his body was cut down, covered in goose grease and cast on to the fire, where it roared and crackled as it was immolated by the flames.

It was a gruesome end. What beasts we are to one another.

Our journey back to England was a sombre occasion. Olaf was helpful to me as I came to terms with what I had seen.

‘It is a kind of justice. Not, I grant you, what Christ teaches, but cruel punishments are as old as history. My great-grandfather was the first in my family to convert to Christianity, but he only did so because he had to make an alliance with the English. He would have had no hesitation in killing a man or having him maimed. Not much has changed today. If kings didn’t act firmly, there would be anarchy.’

I hesitated, knowing that my family had always believed there was another way.

‘I know, my Lord, but I wish it could be different.’

3. Waking the Dead

After the expedition to Wales, I realized that there was much I had to learn about the world and myself. I still had some way to go before winning my knight’s pennon, but I was not happy at continuing to serve under our Norman masters. So, I decided that just as both my parents and grandparents had undertaken great journeys in search of their destinies, I should venture to the counties of the Christian princes in the Holy Land to find what fate would make of me. After much debate and still with reluctance, my mother eventually succumbed to my pleadings, but at a price I found hard to accept.

‘You may not go before your eighteenth birthday.’

‘But that’s almost two years away – an eternity for someone of my age.’

‘You’ll just have to bear it.’

She was blunt and to the point. The terms of her hard-struck bargain continued.

‘In the meantime, you will return to Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, to train with his men. He’ll toughen you up – he’s a hard taskmaster.’

And thus, just over eighteen months later, with my side of the bargain completed, I was ready to embark on my own personal crusade to the Holy Land. My training with the Earl’s men had indeed toughened me up, and I had made full use of the intervening months to find a local sweetheart. In fact, I had found several and felt that my education in the art of love was as complete as my schooling in the art of war.

I was soon to be proved wrong in both respects.

I had been born blessed with much good fortune. Not only had I been born into an illustrious family, I had also been left a significant sum of money. The Emperor Alexius had endowed me with ten gold Byzantine bezants to celebrate my birth and Edgar the Atheling had left me some carucates of land, sufficient to provide a good annual income. All in all, I was a man of some substance. I was able to recruit for my expedition a sergeant-at-arms, two men-at-arms and a groom. All were good men, vetted by my mother as entirely trustworthy and each sworn to keep me safe.

Eadmer was my sergeant: a man in his thirties, a local lad from Norwich, fair-haired, broad and strong of arm. He had served in the Earl of Norfolk’s retinue all his life, was an excellent all-round soldier, honest and loyal, and had fought with the Earl on several campaigns against the marauding Scots and on the Marches against the Welsh princes.

His two men were Toste and Wulfric, brothers from Lincoln, men from my ancestral county and very much in Eadmer’s image and trained by him. Both were short, lean and had the look of a dark Celt about them – the result, they said, of a maternal grandparent from the wilds of Cumbria. They too were experienced soldiers in the service of the Earl.

My groom, Alric, was not a soldier but wished he were and acted like a veteran of countless campaigns. He was a kindly soul, attentive and considerate and a good companion. His girth was prodigious, but so too was his humour; he could cook, tend a steed and find food and provisions where none seemed available. He was an ideal quartermaster for a troop of soldiers.

All my many advantages in life came with equal burdens. I had to live with many expectations, both real and imagined. The more my dearest mother told me about the heroic deeds of my father and grandfather, the more I realized how great a responsibility I carried. Could I emulate what they had achieved? Would I make them proud?

Often, I had my own private doubts and anxieties. But regardless of whether or not I could live up to my own expectations, my own journey was about to begin. Both my grandparents and my parents had done remarkable things, some of which had changed the course of history. They had fought and died for freedom; they had bound themselves together for the greater good; and they had set an example of how lives should be lived and justice should be served.

I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the burden of responsibility I carried.

Two days before I was due to leave Norwich, I went to the presbytery of the cathedral that my mother had helped design. Desperate for inspiration, I sat and stared at the huge vaulted ceiling way above me. The ribs of its arches were covered in gold leaf; its bosses were elaborately carved and beautifully painted with the faces of gargoyles, Satan’s familiars and a host of mythical beasts and sundry saints and martyrs. It was a thing of wonder. I sat there for several hours, craving a steadfastness that did not materialize.

Sometime later, with darkness almost obscuring the architectural wonders and the cathedral falling silent from the bustle of the day, my mother appeared and eased herself on to the bench beside me.

‘What troubles you, Harold?’

‘Nothing, I’m fine –’

‘You don’t mean that. What is it?’

I hesitated, embarrassed that private doubts were bearing down on me. My mother did not probe, but simply joined me in staring upwards as her masterpiece began to disappear in the gloom of the advancing evening.

She stood and offered her hand.

‘Come, let me show you something.’

My mother then took a lantern and led me high up through the passageways of the huge walls of the presbytery until we were at roof level, close to the decorated bosses of the vaulted ceiling.

‘There … the third and fourth ones along on the right.’

She pointed with her mason’s dividers, a tool that always hung from her belt, at the brightly painted images.

‘The nearest one is Wodewose, the Green Man of legend – a mythical figure your grandfather talked about a lot – and the next one is your great-grandfather, Torfida’s father, the Old Man of the Wildwood. They look alike, don’t they? That’s my doing; I designed them as a tribute. Torfida is over there with my twin sister, Gunnhild.’

‘And my father?’

‘Yes, he’s the handsome knight further along.’

‘And you?’

‘Yes, I’m there as well, but I’m not telling you which one. It’s a little rude.’

‘It’s not like you to be bashful.’

She smiled mischievously. Although I was her son, and she always behaved discreetly, she had never hidden from me her healthy appetite for the pleasures of the flesh.

‘I suppose you’re right. Well, I’m the naked strumpet over there, cavorting with the Devil.’

‘Very appropriate! I hope you haven’t got me up here?’