threw down his sword and fell to his knees. He grovelled at the Lionheart’s feet, attempting to kiss his boots. The King had nothing but contempt for him. He leaned down to pick up the man’s sword, which he used to poke him under the chin, making him get to his feet.
The Gascon continued to plead for mercy. Like all tyrants, once stripped of the means to intimidate, he was a quivering wreck. He wept and wailed, but the King said nothing, his jaw set resolutely. He gestured to a sergeant, who brought a rope. With the help of two men-at-arms, the sergeant tied a noose and secured it to a nearby tree.
Bernard of Bigorre was hanged for his crimes moments later. The King turned away from the scene before the executed man had stopped writhing in his death throes, and gave Godric an order.
‘Strip him of his armour and weapons and have them sent to his family in Bayonne. Give the girl some silver and an escort to Bagneres. Send my proclamation with her that this corpse is to rot where it hangs; anyone who cuts it down will suffer a similar fate.’
The Lionheart had a clearly defined threshold in his mind regarding behaviour he would not tolerate. The Lord of Bigorre had crossed that line and paid the price.
We then crossed the mountains to meet with King Alfonso II, the Lionheart’s old ally. Alfonso had formed a new alliance with Sancho VI, King of Navarre, which further extended Plantagenet influence into Iberia. More significantly, for all of us and for England, Sancho had a daughter who would make the alliance between England and the kingdoms of Iberia much more agreeable and permanent.
The King met her for the first time in Pamplona, at the banquet given in his honour by Sancho at the Palace Real de Olite. When she walked into the hall for the feast, the Lionheart was transfixed, as were we all. She was twenty years old and stunningly beautiful. She looked like a pure Basque of her homeland; in fact, she bore a striking resemblance to the lovely Negu I had met in Gascony. She had the same dusky complexion, strong features and flowing black locks formed into a fashionable chignon held with a clasp of gold. Tied with a dark-blue tasselled silk cord, she wore a stunning ice-blue kirtle, which hugged her voluptuous figure to intoxicating effect.
She was called Berengere, a charming name that suited her perfectly. King Richard’s fascination for the princess seemed to be reciprocated by her, and her father’s beaming smile also seemed to lend approval; the King of the mighty Plantagenet Empire was a fine catch for his little kingdom.
However, I was immediately concerned because of the solemn undertaking that the King had given to Philip Augustus that he would marry his sister Alyse. But Abbot Alun was able to put my mind at rest with some dramatic news, which had been revealed to him by Queen Eleanor when she was released. Not only had King Henry seduced Alyse as a girl, but she had borne him a child, a boy now approaching adulthood, who had been brought up in Blois by her sister Alix, Countess of Blois. The Lionheart had not yet told Philip Augustus, but he would do so when challenged about the promise to marry his sister.
The King was in a hurry to return across the Pyrenees to make the Crusade rendezvous at Vezelay. And so, once again, Abbot Alun’s diplomacy and legal skills were put to good use and a marriage settlement was quickly agreed for the two to marry. It had been a whirlwind betrothal, and Abbot Alun was convinced that the King had already bedded the princess by the time we left, but nothing was ever said.
Richard was irrepressible. He had inherited the most powerful Empire in Europe, had found a wife with whom he could extend his influence into Iberia and with whom he could produce an heir who would add Latin blood to England’s pedigree, and he was about to embark on an expedition to save the heart and soul of Christianity.
Just as the King was invigorated, so I was content. I had shared so much already with the Lionheart and I knew there were great adventures to come, but I was still curious about the things I did not know.
As we rode up the Valley of the Rhone, I asked Alun once again about the background to the mission we were undertaking at Earl Harold’s behest.
‘Alun, is the time now right for me to know of the things that lie behind our journey?’
Alun adjusted his position in the saddle and took a couple of deep breaths.
‘Ranulf, let me tell you what you need to know. First, you must know about my personal commitment to Richard’s cause and that of England.’
Alun then turned to look me directly in the face. I sensed that what he was about to tell me was something deeply cherished, about which he rarely spoke.
‘My father was called Bryn, a sergeant in the service of the Bishop of Durham. He was born in the early 1130s, in Hexham, high in the Pennines. He married a local Durham girl of Anglo-Norse origins called Alditha, and I was born in 1155. I was blessed with a gift for learning and by the age of seven I was being taught by the monks of the cathedral. My father died when I was a boy, but his ancestry was very unusual. Before he died he told me about our heritage.’
I discerned the faintest of smiles begin to soften his face before he took another deep breath and continued.
‘Bryn’s father, Afan, and mother, Carys, both had ancient Celtic names. They were among the last survivors of an old tribe of Celts called the Gul, a final remnant of the peoples who lived in the north from before the time of the Romans. Carys was born sometime before 1120, the daughter of Awel, a princess of the Gul, whose father was Owain Rheged, the last Druid King of the Gul. Her name means “Gentle Breeze”, and she was apparently very beautiful.’
‘So, you are of royal Celtic blood?’
‘Yes, but that’s only half the story. Although Awel was never married to him, Carys’ father was a man of great importance in our history…’
He paused, and I sensed that he was reaching the crux of the story. I readied myself for what he was about to reveal.
‘So, to my great-grandfather; he had sought the remote realm of the Gul on a small estate called Ashgyll, near Alston, high in Northumbria. It was said he chose it because it was the remotest place in England. He lived to a great age after a life full of intrigue, heroism and sadness. Awel comforted him in his last years, and Owain Rheged and the Gul protected him when his few retainers died. Carys, my grandmother, was his only child.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Edgar the Atheling, prince of Old England.’
It took a moment for the significance of Alun’s words to sink in. But then I realized how profound they were.
‘But that means you are the true English heir to the throne?’
‘Well, yes. But that’s now unimportant, because the Lionheart carries enough Cerdician blood to suit us all. That’s why I’m here – to protect the heritage that I carry in my veins. Earl Harold carries the same heritage, and so do you.’
I wanted to ask countless questions, but Alun was in full flow with information I had yearned to hear for so long.
‘In the late 1120s, the great scribe William of Malmesbury travelled to Ashgyll with an apprentice, Roger of Caen. When they returned to Malmesbury, the young monk committed the Atheling’s story to vellum and stored it in their famous library. A few years later, when our mentor, Earl Harold, was in the service of the Empress Matilda, he met Roger of Caen, then Prior of Salisbury. The Prior had guarded the precious story of the Atheling’s life, a document he entrusted to Harold’s safekeeping.’
‘It must tell a story that no one has ever heard. It is something I would give a fortune to read.’
‘You should; and perhaps one day you will. But all that is for another day.’
I smiled to myself, content for now. My decision to accept Earl Harold’s commission had been a good one, and it was now entering a new phase with our journey to the Holy Land. I had learned to be patient – I had been so for a dozen years – and had now been rewarded with the amazing revelation of Alun’s personal commitment to the mission.
I knew there were more revelations to come, but I had learned to trust Alun’s judgement about when it was wise for me to know what I needed to know; so far, it had been infallible.
