The Lionheart pondered for a while before speaking.
‘I’m very fond of that sword, or should I say “Excalibur”? But if it will buy us the use of Tancred’s war galleys, then let’s make use of it. I think Abbot Alun is right; the man is an upstart little bastard, he’ll believe it’s Excalibur and he’ll crow about it across the Mediterranean. Alun, as it’s your fiendish scheme, you can handle the negotiation.’
Blondel picked up his lute and broke into song. The stewards served some of Sicily’s rich wine, and we celebrated Alun’s wicked scheme. As we were drinking, Alun turned to me with a broad grin on his face.
‘Do you know who sponsored Geoffrey of Monmouth to write the story of Arthur?’
I answered honestly; I had no idea.
‘Robert, Earl of Gloucester, the bastard son of Henry I, the Lionheart’s great-uncle, who fought with Earl Harold in the Empress Matilda’s civil war against Stephen of Blois. Earl Robert heard the story of Arthur from the Welsh bards and asked Monmouth to write it down for posterity. Small world, is it not?’
When I was first introduced to Alun, when he was just ‘Father’ Alun, I was told he would be Archbishop of Canterbury one day. I had realized many times how astute that prediction was; this was another such occasion.
Alun’s devious plan worked perfectly.
Tancred was beside himself when offered Excalibur. Alun presented the offer with great aplomb and persuaded the Sicilian King to loan his entire fleet to the Crusade for a whole year. He opened his shipyards to the Lionheart to commission more ships, and also threw in a handsome geld: a hundred gold bezants and a chest of silver denarii, all of which were secured for a single sword.
The good Abbot’s next task was to deal with the thorny issue of the Lionheart’s betrothal to Princess Alyse. With Berengere’s arrival imminent, the problem had to be resolved quickly.
Abbot Alun’s first move was to include provision for Philip’s army in the new fleet that had been hired, for which the French King had little choice but to be grateful. He then called a discreet meeting just for Philip and Richard. He did not give me a full account of what transpired, just the detail of the vital moment.
When the encounter reached boiling point and Philip was about to fly into a rage, the wily Alun produced a beautifully scrolled letter from an admiring nephew to a famous uncle. It was from ‘William’, Alyse’s bastard son sired by Richard’s father, Henry Plantagenet. Now almost a man, he was writing from Blois, asking his uncle if he might join his service in Paris as a knight.
I can only imagine the look on Philip’s face. He had known about Henry’s seduction of Alyse, but the news about William was of a different order altogether. Not only was William his nephew, but the boy was Richard’s half-brother; a marriage between the Lionheart and Alyse was now out of the question.
Alun did, of course, promise to be extremely circumspect about the letter. He also had another palliative to soothe Philip: he offered him 10,000 pounds of silver to ease the disappointment.
Alun had amazed us all yet again.
A few days later, as the Lionheart and the Grand Quintet relaxed over several flagons of wine, Robert Thornham asked Alun when he had received the letter from young William.
His reply was equally astonishing.
‘I didn’t, the letter is undated; William wrote it before we left. I brought it with me. I thought it might be useful.’
So, by February 1191, all was well in Sicily. Tancred could caress his Excalibur, and show it off to his friends, and Richard and Philip’s passage to the Holy Land was secure.
16. Fauvel
The beautiful Berengere arrived in Palermo at the end of March. The excitement surrounding her landfall was multiplied when it was known who her mentor for the journey had been.
When the Lionheart sent word to Poitiers in the autumn that Berengere should be despatched to Sicily, none other than Queen Eleanor herself had undertaken to escort the young princess. Despite her great age, and having suffered the travails of bearing ten children during her lifetime, she had crossed the Pyrenees with winter nigh, crossed back again and then, in the depths of winter, traversed the Alps. She took only a small retinue of cavalry and a light baggage train and made the entire journey without a single complaint – except to bemoan the slow pace of her escort. Hannibal the Great would have been proud of her; on the other hand, it was anybody’s guess what Berengere made of her mother-in-law to be.
A great feast was held to greet the Lionheart’s intended bride. Philip Augustus did not attend – perhaps out of pique, or perhaps out of diplomacy – for he was already at the harbour at Messina preparing to sail for Antioch. Queen Eleanor did not dally either; within three days, she was making her way back to Aquitaine. For some old campaigners among the Lionheart’s senior commanders, there was a sigh of relief, as rumours had circulated that she intended to join the Crusade. The stories that surrounded her participation in the Second Crusade of 1145 were legion and caused unease. It was said that she had led a brigade of Amazons, but that the presence of women had cursed the entire venture – especially because their leader was the mother of the Devil’s Brood. Some even said that she was the Devil’s succubus and that she had entered the dreams and drained the potency of the crusaders, as well as diminishing the powers of her husband, King Henry.
As the Lionheart bade his mother farewell, he faced another dilemma. It was Lent, not a time appropriate for weddings. Not only that: his fleet was ready to sail. Dozens more ships had been arriving in Sicily throughout the winter to add to his own formidable fleet. The ports could not cope, and it was time to leave. Richard decided to resolve the dilemma by taking Berengere with him.
Later, with his fiancee snuggled in his lap, he declared his intentions to us over dinner.
‘We will be married in Jerusalem, by the new Patriarch. I shall appoint him.’ He then turned to Alun. ‘A job for you, perhaps, to preside over the holiest place in Christendom?’
‘I think not, sire, I’d rather preside over the holiest place in England, at Canterbury, where I can keep my eye on you.’
In early April, the weather was fair and the fleet was ready to depart. On the eve of the embarkation, we all attended a feast as guests of King Tancred in his fine hall at Palermo. With Excalibur hanging on the wall above him in pride of place, a bizarre guest appeared.
The heavy oak doors to the hall suddenly opened, followed by a cold gust of wind. As two guards rushed to close the doors, the silhouette of a reedy outline appeared in the doorway. The guards moved towards the figure, but it stared at them with piercing green eyes and a steely resolve; they hesitated. He announced himself as Joachim of Fiore, a renowned mystic from Calabria. He carried a staff that was little more than the spindly branch of a tree, wore neither crucifix nor sandals, and was dressed in rags. He was at least sixty years of age, and was all but bald, with a long scrawny grey beard that was home to the residue of all the meals he had eaten for the last month.
The Lionheart, uninterested, turned away; he fixed his gaze on the beautiful Berengere. But Tancred ushered the man in and said it would be wise to listen to him. The old ascetic raised his hand to demand silence in the hall and approached the high table.
He spoke like an orator.
‘I will address the one they call “Lionheart”.’
The King turned, annoyed at being interrupted.
‘I am Lionheart.’
‘You are famous before your time, young King. Are you worthy of the fame?’
The King, disarmed by the old man’s showmanship, smiled.
‘I doubt it, old man; the Abbot Alun here tells me that none of us can know if we are worthy until we stand before God on Judgement Day.’
‘Your Abbot is a wise man, be sure to listen to him.’
‘Do you have wisdom for me and my friends?’
