Fierce and ill-disciplined, and clearly only interested in the spoils of war, they were the antithesis of the professional soldiers I had trained and fought with. By the look of them, there was no doubting their ability to fight; what was more questionable was their loyalty to anything other than their own self-interest. Indeed, they were the kind of men towards whom it would be unwise to turn one’s back – unless provided with adequate protection from comrades who could be relied upon.
Large, gnarled, unkempt, scarred, fearsome and formidable were just some of the words that sat well with them. They carried a range of weapons and armour, both conventional and unusual, but all designed to inflict maximum harm on an opponent. They wielded swords of varying designs and lengths, axes, clubs and maces and a multitude of spears, javelins and lances, some longer than a man.
Many of them were sappers and siege engineers, skilled in designing and building a range of ballista, all vital to the successful execution of siege warfare. The archers and arbalests formed separate elite forces, each of which was dedicated to a peculiar fusion of deadly accuracy aligned with brute strength. The two groups of bowmen did not mix – in fact, each was contemptuous of the other. But their two contrasting trajectories, used in parallel in battle – one slower but toweringly high, the other flatter but speedier – made a crushing impact on an enemy.
I counted a force of around seven hundred men. It was not a huge army, but clearly an efficient one.
The Earl sat high in his saddle as he surveyed the scene. The army had made camp, but it was a disorganized muster of tents. Horses were picketed in small groups, and field kitchens were scattered everywhere. Latrines were notable by their absence, the River Garonne seemingly offering the only sanitation. Earl Harold glanced at Father Alun, then surveyed the surroundings with a look of contempt.
‘What a buggers’ muddle! It is to be hoped they are only besieging small garrisons of burghers and merchants. In open battle in the field, this rabble would be cut to pieces.’
The Earl was right. As individuals or in small groups, these were formidable men, but together, they were an army in name only.
We rode right up to Duke Richard’s tent unchallenged and were only asked to name ourselves after we had dismounted and were within ten paces of his standard, which was flying stiffly in the westerly breeze. Godric spoke to the Duke’s standard-bearer in Norman.
‘Tell your lord that he has guests.’
‘And who might they be?’ was the curt reply.
‘An Earl of England and his men.’
The man pulled back the canvas door of the tent with a flourish and disappeared inside. He had not saluted Earl Harold, nor had he proffered a courtesy of any sort. The Earl looked down at the ground, clearly unimpressed. The rest of us shuffled uneasily, embarrassed that our ageing lord had been unacknowledged and left standing outside the Duke’s tent.
It seemed like an age passed before a dishevelled knight emerged from the tent. He looked flustered and had hardly finished adjusting his armour and clothing. He blinked in the bright light and bowed to Earl Harold.
‘My Lord, Duke Richard asks if you will join him in his tent. He is on campaign, sire, so begs forgiveness for our frugal appearance.’
Earl Harold stepped forward and beckoned to Father Alun and myself to follow him.
‘Worry not, Sir Knight, in my lifetime I’ve seen the inside of enough campaign tents to house a multitude of armies.’
Duke Richard’s tent was, despite the caveat, remarkably luxurious. Although the interior was dark and musty, the walls were richly decorated with embroideries, and thick oriental carpets covered the floor. Incense hung in the air, together with the odour of attar of roses and perfumed candles. It was more like a lady’s boudoir – and a lady of dubious repute at that – than a general’s campaign tent.
The sounds of splashing water, female laughter and male merriment wafted from behind a curtain at the back of the tent. The Duke was obviously entertaining young women, even though the hour had barely passed midday. Once again, the Earl looked displeased.
When the Duke finally emerged from behind the curtain, only a chemise covered his nakedness. His hair was wet and matted and he had the unsteady gait and slurred speech of a man who had consumed more than his fair share of alcohol. Despite his tousled state, he was the epitome of his much-lauded reputation. He had the golden hair of a lion, his beard a little darker with a tinge of auburn, and his eyes, although a little bleary from drinking, were a distinctive emerald green. He stood prodigiously tall with a lean, muscular frame and broad shoulders. He was strong and lithe, the envy of any man and an object of desire for any woman.
‘Welcome to my tent, Earl of England. Your name, sir…?’
‘I am Harold of Hereford, Earl of Huntingdon, formerly commander of the armies of your grandmother, the Empress Matilda.’
‘Well, well, we are…’ and he swayed a little, appearing to forget what he was trying to say before slurring, ‘… honoured.’
The Earl said nothing, he just breathed deeply, trying to remain calm.
The Duke shook his head, in an attempt to clarify his thoughts. He squinted at Earl Harold and then pointed at him in a sudden gesture of recognition.
‘I have heard of you.’ He started to snigger and staggered a little. ‘Yes, of course, is it not true that you did more for my grandmother than organize her army? Were you not her tup, cuckolding my grandfather for years?’
I looked at Father Alun, astonished at what I had just heard. The Earl stiffened, and he took another deep breath.
‘You are impudent; you should show the Empress more respect.’
The Duke started to laugh heartily.
‘Forgive me, Earl Harold, I have had a little wine with my breakfast. Will you not join me? I am washing the earthiness from some Bordeaux girls in my chamber; they will be more than acceptable when the stink is gone from them.’
The Earl did not answer; he just turned and headed out of the tent.
As he passed the Duke’s equerry, he bellowed at him, ‘Tell your lord that I will come back when he’s sober.’
We found lodgings in Bordeaux that night. Earl Harold did not join us for dinner, preferring his own company, weighed down by a sombre mood born of anger and sadness.
Later that evening, over a cup of the highly regarded local wine, I asked Father Alun about the accusation Duke Richard had made.
‘The story is well known at court, but the Earl has never spoken about it. Matilda was a beautiful and remarkable woman – the daughter of a king, the wife of an emperor and later a count, and then the mother of a king – there are many stories about her, good and bad. Who knows which are true?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think that as our mission unfolds many things will be revealed to us.’
‘Another evasive answer, Father Alun, another test of my patience.’
‘The Earl will soon leave us and return to his home. He will go there to die. It is important to him to know that we will carry out our mission in the way that he hopes.’
‘I would be much more likely to carry out my mission successfully if I knew exactly what it was and if I knew all the background to it. I am hearing more and more stories: legendary families, England’s sacred cause, mysterious amulets. And now I hear that the Earl was Empress Matilda’s lover! You treat me like a child. Why can’t I know the truth of it all?’
Father Alun smiled at me benignly.
‘All in due course, my friend, all in due course. Until young Richard can be persuaded of the Earl’s proposal, some things must remain unsaid. Have another cup of this excellent wine. There is no finer grape in the world than the ones produced in this region.’
Although I was frustrated, I realized that Alun was protecting not only the confidences of Earl Harold but also, it seemed, vital information about Duke Richard’s lineage and England’s history. I let matters lie.
Alun was right; the wine was good. We had several more cups and my impatience subsided, to be replaced
