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 KINGS OF FRANCE

THE TWELFTH-CENTURY RULERS OF CYPRUS

Prior to 1184, Cyprus had been part of the Byzantine Empire since the division of the eastern and western parts of the Roman Empire, in 395. It remained Byzantine despite frequent Arab and Muslim raids and incursions, which caused great destruction and major loss of life.

In 1185, Isaac Comnenus, the great-grandson of John II Comnenus, Emperor of Byzantium from 1118 to 1143, inveigled his way into position as the island’s ruler, declaring himself Emperor in 1189.

1. Old Man

When I first saw the old man, it was as if I was looking at an apparition, a venerated image held in my memory since childhood.

As a boy, I had been told the stories about England’s ancient heroes many times: the great King Harold and his mighty housecarls, who fought to the death at Senlac Ridge in a valiant attempt to defeat the Conqueror’s Norman army; the gallant defenders of the Siege of Ely, the last of the brave souls who had defied Norman rule; and the most courageous of them all, Hereward of Bourne, the leader of England’s final rebellion, about whom people still spoke with hushed reverence.

These men of legend wore their hair and beards long, carried the round shields of Saxon tradition and went into battle wielding their fearsome battleaxes. But they were from another time, a distant memory. Senlac Ridge had happened over a hundred years ago, and even though there were a few old men alive who claimed that their grandfathers could remember Hereward and the early days of the Conquest, no one really believed them.

Now everyone trimmed their hair and beards like our Norman masters. We wore Norman clothes, with their elaborate embroidery and rich colours, and we carried Norman weapons and armour. To all intents and purposes, we were Normans – except in our hearts, which still coursed with English blood.

But the old man in front of me did not resemble a Norman. Apart from his age – he must have been well into his seventies – he was the epitome of the English heroes of the past. Of a winter’s eve, when I had sat by the fire and listened to my father tell me tales of Old England and enjoyed the ancient ballads sung to me by my mother, in my imagination I had conjured images of formidable warriors just like the man I now faced.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a prodigious mane of silver-grey hair flowing down the back of his heavy cloak. His hoary beard fell in gentle waves and came to rest on his chest. His weapons and armour, unmistakeably Old English, shone with a lustre born of diligent care. With eyes that were clear and sharp and skin that, although wrinkled and weathered, glowed with ruddy health, he was the living embodiment of a little boy’s fantasy of heroes long gone.

But he was a contemporary lord and, by the look of the heavy seal on his ring and the ermine trim to his cloak, an earl of the realm. As far as I knew, all our lords were Normans. How was it possible for a man to be a Norman earl and yet appear to be the embodiment of England’s past?

It was September 1176. I had been summoned to Wolvesey Castle in Winchester by the royal warrant of the man I served, Henry Plantagenet, King Henry II. I was part of the King’s retinue at Westminster and commanded a squadron of his cavalry. I had been dubbed a knight of the realm, which, as an Englishman, was as high as I could hope to rise in the military hierarchy of the Norman army. I was twenty-five years old and needed only to complete another eight to ten years’ service before having sufficient savings to buy a small estate and live out my days in relative comfort. I would have needed a wife, of course, and I had already begun to cast my eye over suitable young ladies within London’s merchant families.

Again, I was hindered by my kith and kin. The ladies of the court were almost all from Norman families and, in the main, beyond the reach of a lowly Englishman like me, no matter how eligible I may have thought I was. However, many of London’s merchants were Englishmen who had managed to make their wealth by cosseting the Norman elite. So, one of their daughters was the finest bride a young buck of my modest lineage could hope for.

Life’s course seemed fixed for me; I had done well, especially for an Englishman, and, as often as I could, I remembered to tell myself to count my blessings. But a life with a secure future is not necessarily a contented one. I often yearned for more, but what ‘more’ might be was never clear to me. When the yearnings became stronger, I made them go away by convincing myself that everyone wanted more in their lives – money, women, adventure, fame – and that it was childish to crave unattainable rewards.

Although I could make the hankerings disappear for a while, they would always come back, especially during the long cold winters in our meagre barracks in Westminster. Being a professional soldier appeared to offer a life of adventure and reward, but it was usually monotonous and dreary. Apart from occasional skirmishes against the Welsh princes, when we would reinforce the King’s garrisons at Glastonbury and Gloucester, we spent most of our time providing the King’s bodyguard and enduring the endless tedium of court ceremonials.

I had led my squadron on two of the King’s forays against raiders in the Scottish borders, but the actions had been brief and routine. One had brought but a brief glimpse of the enemy – and, even then, only of their rear ends as they fled into the Cheviots to skulk in their hilltop lairs – and the other had been no more than a hunting expedition, as we ran down and despatched a fleeing band of brigands who were too frightened to stand and fight.

But I had been involved in one serious encounter, one that had won me my knight’s pennon and bloodied me in the forbidding truths of war.

It happened in 1171, shortly after I had been given command of my own conroi of cavalry. They were a motley assembly: a few reliable Anglo-Normans; half a dozen trustworthy Englishmen; and a dubious selection of Welsh, Bretons and Angevins, whose only loyalty was to the purse on offer. We had been sent by King Henry to join a small force led by Raymond FitzGerald, a powerful warlord from Pembroke and second-in-command to Richard de Clare, Second Earl of Pembroke, known to everyone as ‘Strongbow’.

De Clare and FitzGerald were made of stern stuff. The offspring of marriage settlements between Norman lords who had invaded South Wales and the daughters of Welsh princes whose domains had been surrendered, they had been raised on the lawless fringes of the Norman Empire.

FitzGerald was the grandson of Nest, daughter of Rhys ap Tewdwr, who had been described as the ‘Helen of Wales’. Her beauty had led her into the bed of Henry Beauclerc, King Henry’s grandfather. Nothing daunted FitzGerald, and when Strongbow asked him to lead an expedition to Ireland – to begin the conquest of the island on behalf of the King – he took only 10 knights and 100 men, including my conroi of 25 cavalry.

We landed at Baginbun Head on the Hook Peninsula, near Waterford, where we were besieged in our hastily fortified camp by a combined force of Irishmen and Ostmen. Facing an army at least 3,000 strong, we were vastly outnumbered. But when FitzGerald saw their chaotic and ill-disciplined approach, he devised a cunning ploy.

We had rounded up a large herd of cattle shortly after our landing and enclosed them in our compound. I was ordered to set them loose and use my horsemen to drive them headlong into the oncoming enemy ranks. The terrified cattle careened into the enemy like a battering ram, bowling over the front ranks like skittles and scattering most of the rest. FitzGerald then led his infantry in a charge, and they proceeded to cut down the hapless remnants in large numbers.

I then pursued those fleeing the scene; we killed dozens and rounded up many more. Some we ran down on horseback, but when our mounts became exhausted we dismounted and scoured the countryside on foot, inflicting more slaughter. It was the worst bloodletting I had been involved in.

It was one-sided and brutal, and I lost all sense of danger. As night drew in, many of my men receded into the gloom and, save for a few, I became detached from the rest of the conroi. When I checked who was with me, I felt suddenly alarmed that none seemed reliable. My English and Norman colleagues were nowhere to be seen, and I appeared to have only a small contingent of Angevins and Bretons. I became concerned; I had made the fundamental mistake of acting without thinking of the consequences. Then, out of the darkness, a dozen or more Ostmen were upon us in an instant. Instead of coming to my side as a disciplined unit, and despite my orders not to do so, my men scattered in every direction. Fortunately, most of the Ostmen followed them, sensing blood. Even so, I was left with four adversaries, all seething with anger from the mauling they had been given earlier.

I acted without hesitation; my training and discipline took over, and I launched myself at them rather than wait for their assault. For the first time, I realized how effective my years of training had been. I could move with more fluid speed than my adversaries could muster, and my blows were more accurate and powerful. I cut them down without mercy, and although I suffered a few gashes, mostly absorbed by my armour – and one heavy blow to the side of my helmet, which made me reel a little – within a few moments all four men were at my feet, their blood mingling in pools.

There is nothing like fresh blood. It is both disgusting – after all, it signifies pain and death – and captivating, the essence of our lives, like the best of wine. I stared at the ever-increasing flow from the now lifeless bodies and thought about the sons, husbands and fathers I had just killed. All their deeds and memories were now seeping into the ground like water spilled from a pail.

The bodies did not move, nor did they breathe; I was surrounded by the gloom of dusk and the silence of death. I had lost all trace of my men and thought better of stumbling into any more of the enemy, so I found a small gulley to hide in for the night. I did not sleep at first – my heart pumped from the day’s ferment, and my mind was full of thoughts about the drama of the encounter – but eventually I fell into a fitful sleep.

My slumber was full of vivid dreams, the most powerful of which would recur for the rest of my life. It was fanciful, of course, but it seemed so real.

I was standing with the legends of England’s past. It was not clear where we were, but they were all there: the mighty Alfred, King Harold, Hereward of Bourne and many others, all formed into a small, final redoubt of kings, earls and knights. We were on a hill and all around us was an enemy army so large it appeared to be a sea of men and horses. I was behind our legendary leaders, who were taking the brunt of the attack, but suddenly the noble Hereward demanded the attention of King Alfred and pointed to our rear. With a look of alarm, Alfred called to me: Sir Ranulf, look to the rear, hold your position, all England depends on you!

At that point I turned, to be confronted, no more than twenty yards away, by a huge wave of mounted knights. They were a wall of horses and men, armour, shields and swords – a wall so high, I could not see anything behind it. I looked to my left and right and, to my horror, suddenly seemed to be alone. I turned back towards my leaders, who were still there, but their forms were now indistinct, ghostly, as if they were disappearing. But not so the enemy wall. Its men were now within striking distance; I could feel the breath of the huge destriers on my face.

Swords were raised and lances were couched above me. But my response was far from gallant; I lowered my sword, fell to my knees and waited for the blows. However, just when they should have landed, I woke from my fantasy with a jolt of terror and felt the cold sweat of fear all over my body.

It took me many minutes in the dank early morning, in that remote place in Ireland, to regain my composure. I became a warrior that day, and also a man. I discovered what I could do and realized the price that I would always have to pay.

With the return of daylight, I was soon able to find my horse and my men. By midday I had rejoined FitzGerald’s army, where I was treated as a hero.

In hindsight, our actions had been vicious and cruel, but at the time the morality of our actions was not a consideration. Our training as soldiers had become paramount and we had done what we were required to do. The result was that over a thousand of our enemy were either killed or captured. Strongbow returned with a larger army a year later, and King Henry arrived at Waterford with a large fleet shortly afterwards – the first English king to set foot in Ireland. The Irish kings submitted to him in Dublin; the English lordship of Ireland had begun.

I was rewarded for my part in the initial victory at Waterford with my knight’s pennon and a personal tribute from the King.

So, I had done my share of fighting and had killed a few wretched souls in battle. But unlike some of my comrades, it was not an activity that I approached mindlessly. It seemed to me that war was a part of our lives and that soldiers had to fight to keep their kingdom safe and maintain its discipline. Thus it was a means to an end, not an end in itself. Nevertheless, as I had chosen the life of a warrior, I had to excel in my profession in order to survive, and that is what I had always striven to do.

Then, when the direction of my life seemed set and my future predictably clear, came my intriguing summons to Winchester. Did it offer the opportunity for new adventures? I hoped so. I knew I was one of the most highly regarded of the King’s men; my status as commander of a conroi of cavalry attested to that, as did my elevation as a knight. Had I been chosen for a special mission, or just as a mundane messenger for a matter of trivia in the royal household? I feared it would be the latter – except that the old man before me did not appear to be the kind of individual to engage in court trivia.

There had been little prospect of adventure when I was a boy. My father was the local priest of a small community called Heysham on the northern coast, close to Lancaster. His church was an Old Saxon chapel – one of the few built in stone in the entire area – which looked out to sea from atop a rocky headland. He was very proud of his parish and its long history stretching back to the early days of our Christian faith.

He told me that we had Norse blood on both sides of his family and made sure that I was fluent in the Danish languages spoken in the hills to the north and east and across the Western Sea, in Ireland. My mother came from the lands beyond the Great Sands to the north, from a place called Keswick, in the Cumbrian hills, and she was equally proud of her Celtic roots. Hers was a mixed community of Celts and Anglo-Danes, but she was unequivocally a Celt. Her native language was very different from English and Danish; like my father, she made sure that I was fluent in it.

The rule in the house was simple: when we were together, we spoke English; when I was alone with my father, we spoke Danish; and when I was with my mother, it was always Celtic. It was a good grounding in languages, which my father embellished by giving me a strong grasp of Latin and, of course, fluency with the guttural tones of our Norman lords. Latin was difficult, but Norman was less so because, as my father often pointed out, it was based on the language of the Normans’ Viking ancestors, who hailed from the same lands as my Danish forefathers.

We saw Normans only rarely. Twice a year our lord, Henry de Lacy, Lord of Bowland and Baron of Pontefract, would send his steward to collect our taxes. The de Lacys were to be treated with caution. Their domain extended across the entire north-west of the country and as far east as the great keep at Pontefract. Three of the de Lacys had fought with the Conqueror at Senlac Ridge, and the present family had lost none of its forebears’ renowned ferocity. There was a large garrison of their men at Lancaster, whose main job was to patrol the old road to the north, all the way to Carlisle. The family also kept a small force at Preston and another one at Clitheroe.

Over the years, as my father and I made our monthly visits to the burgh of Lancaster so that he could attend meetings of the local clergy, I had watched the many foreign masons build the new stone castle at Lancaster. Slowly, but relentlessly, it loomed over us like the monstrous edifice of giants, built to remind everyone that what had happened to our land in the distant past – and the result of those events – was an everlasting reality.

My father had told me many times about the devastation of the north by the Conqueror, as he punished the local populace for their rebellion of 1069. Tens of thousands were killed and the farms laid waste. For three generations the lands north of Chester and the Humber were abandoned, the fields becoming a wilderness. Only within my lifetime were people rebuilding the villages and ploughing the ground again. Lancaster was one of the many places that were beginning to flourish in the uneasy truce between Norman and Englishman.

Almost no one believed that the Normans would ever relinquish control of our lives, but that did not prevent us from cherishing our English language and folk memories. As a boy, I had feared our Norman masters and thought of them as a different breed. But after several years of serving with them and for them, I had come to realize that they were not very different from us at all.

Most importantly, we English knew that our King, the formidable Henry Plantagenet, although a Norman in words and deeds, also carried enough English blood to make him as much ‘one of us’ as he was a Norman. His mother, the Empress Matilda, who had styled herself ‘Lady of the English’, was a direct descendant of the ancient Cerdician kings of England and Wessex, tracing her lineage all the way back to Alfred the Great. That simple fact of genealogy was so important to us; despite its daunting Norman facade, it made our blood a living part of the inheritance of our kingdom.

We also took great comfort in the fact that King Henry ruled an empire far bigger than either England or Normandy, making us all feel part of a mighty dominion of many peoples, languages and traditions, a vast realm of which we could all be proud. Not only that, but after several generations, our Norman rulers had come to adopt many of our customs and all could now speak English.There were so many of us, and so few of them, that they had no choice; our mother tongue had become the customary language, while the Normans kept to their own idiom among themselves and at court. Even so, Latin was always the language of government, both secular and spiritual.

My father knew that a good education afforded me one of the few routes to any kind of future. The Church, especially one of the great northern monasteries, was the objective he set for me. He worked tirelessly to make sure I had the intellectual gifts and personal discipline to succeed – so that when it came time for me to be subjected to the rigours of examination by the all-powerful abbot and his inquisitors, I would be ready.

Now, in the Great Hall at Wolvesey, I faced a similarly intimidating encounter.

‘I am Harold of Hereford, Earl of Huntingdon.’

When the dignified old man spoke to me, he reminded me of my father (especially when he used to mimic the austere tones of the Abbot of Rievaulx, an imposing man typical of his Norman kind). The Earl spoke in English, without any hint of a Norman accent, confirming my assumption that I was in the presence of a man of my own kin.

‘My Lord, I am Ranulf of Lancaster, in the service of our King, Henry Plantagenet.’

He looked at me with an intensity that was disconcerting. He did not speak for what seemed like an age. I wondered whether I was supposed to bring a message or say something else. It was not that being in nerve-racking circumstances was a new experience for me. The King and his earls often bellowed in my direction, and even directly at me. It was part of the life of an officer in the King’s retinue; I had become accustomed to it.

I was one of only three Englishmen to have been accepted into the elite bodyguard, an accolade my father was both shocked and dubious to hear about. He had long accepted that a path in the service of our spiritual Lord was not one I would follow, but my submission to our temporal lord, King Henry, was difficult for him to accept. He had little time for men of violence, especially for those in the pay of our Norman rulers.

But the life of a warrior had become an inevitability for me. Even as a young boy, it was obvious I was stronger than other boys of my age. I could outrun them, throw further than they could, and I was able to wrestle the toughest of them to the ground. I was not the biggest boy in the area, although bigger than most, but I could intimidate anyone. It was not that I was fearless, but I enjoyed physical challenges, especially those involving the thrill of victory. Wrestling matches and children’s trials of strength soon developed into military training with the men of the area and, by the age of fourteen, I was a fully accepted member of the local fyrd.

I was soon nominated to train with Lord de Lacy’s garrison at Pontefract and in less than two years had been accepted into the King’s elite bodyguard. Life since then had been good. I was taller than most men, strong of arm and – so I was told by several female acquaintances, admittedly some more discerning than others – was handsome ‘in a craggy sort of way’. My Celtic heritage gave me dark-brown hair, but the English blood in me gave me eyes the colour of honey and meant that every summer my tresses were bleached fair by the sun.

I tried not to be vain, but if I ever got the chance to look at myself in a lady’s mirror or in still water, I was content with what I saw. More importantly, I never seemed to have trouble finding female companions – a mighty godsend to a professional soldier far from home.

After what seemed like an eternity, the old warrior spoke again.

‘Your record in service to your King is to your credit, Sir Ranulf. Where sits your ambition?’

It was an unexpectedly direct question; I was thrown a little by it, and also by his piercing gaze.

‘To continue to serve England, my King and my Lord.’

‘That is a predictable but trite answer, young man. What about your real ambition?’

I was nonplussed. I had not expected questions like these, and I realized I was not properly prepared for the encounter. The Earl raised his hand and glanced at the two sergeants standing either side of him. They immediately bowed to him and took their leave. The Earl then walked over to the hearth and sat by the fire. I noticed that he appeared sprightly enough, but that he had a distinct limp and his face showed the hint of a wince of pain with every step. He sat down heavily and was suddenly less austere as he relaxed in front of the glowing embers. He stared into the flickering light almost absent-mindedly.

There was another pause.

‘Join me by the fire.’

I remained standing, feeling sure the invitation did not extend to informality. I was wrong.

‘Sit, boy!’

Gradually the relaxed setting put me at ease, and I finished with something of a flourish as I described my pride in being selected to serve the King.

‘You have done well. I am told you are a fine soldier, the most highly regarded Englishman in the King’s guard.’

‘My Lord Earl, that is not the highest of accolades. There are only three of us in the King’s retinue—’

‘Do not be too modest. The King’s Constable holds you in the highest regard.’

He stared at me again, but this time more gently, almost benignly.

‘I had a stroke of great good fortune as a young knight, but I also had my future forged by tragedy and hardship. Are you prepared to face the same, should an opportunity come your way?’

I realized immediately that there was a challenge in the offing. I began to feel my heart race a little as the Earl continued.

‘I am looking for a special man, one who can carry a burden for me. The load is exceptional and it involves many years of devotion and almost certainly much sacrifice. Are you ready to be examined to determine whether you are that man?’

I had no idea what to say. A brave man would have said ‘yes’ immediately; perhaps a wise man would have said that his answer depended on the nature of the challenge. I knew it was unwise to vacillate, so I gulped hard and chose the former option.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘A brave answer, Sir Ranulf, but possibly an imprudent one. You and I will soon find out whether your choice was wise.’

The Earl looked up to King Henry’s huge war banner above the fireplace. Emblazoned with England’s two lions rampant, quartered with the fleur-de-lis of his French ancestors, it was meant to be a war banner that all in his realm could follow.

‘I have one more question for you. I understand you have Celtic, Danish and English blood. Yet you serve a Norman king. How does that sit with your heritage?’

‘It sits comfortably, my Lord. The King carries English blood as well. He rules this land justly; that is all a man can ask for.’

He smiled broadly.

‘Very good, young knight. A fine answer.’

I felt a shiver of anticipation and not a little apprehension. What was this burden I was going to be asked to carry?

I had no fear about facing an examination of my worthiness, but I wondered why my heritage was important. I was intrigued and excited. Was this my chance to play a part in the future of England? If it was, nothing on earth would prevent me from grasping it.

With a little difficulty, the Earl pushed himself up from the large carved-oak chair. I jumped to attention as he stretched to his full height.

‘There will be times when you will regret accepting this challenge. After I leave this room, the examination will begin. It will take several weeks; at the end of it, we will both know whether you are the man I seek. Many men have accepted my challenge. All have failed.’

He turned and began to walk away into the shadows of the Great Hall, the flicker of the fire dancing on the back of his long, dark cloak. After a few strides he spoke again.

‘In a few minutes, a knight called Máedóc will come for you. You will be under his command for the duration of the tests. He is Irish, from Limerick, formerly champion to the warlord Dermot O’Brien. When his lord was blinded by his cousin, Donal the Great, King of Thomond, he sided with the Anglo-Normans. Don’t cross him; you will regret it.’

Then he stopped and turned his head towards me before speaking for the last time.

‘Good fortune, Ranulf of Lancaster.’

After the echo of the Earl’s heavy footsteps had waned, the hall became silent once more. I turned to stare into the fire. Its embers had died to a faint glow and I felt a sudden shiver.

Winter was coming … and so was my test.