foot. Thus, most of the army departed over the next two weeks.
The particular problems of our return home came as a shock to us all. Although we knew that John was plotting against the Lionheart at home and had enlisted the support of the King of the French, we did not know the full extent of his scheming until reports reached us in Acre at the end of September. It had become a contagion throughout Europe. In order to save face in not being involved in the crucial battles in Palestine, the rulers of the Holy Roman Empire and the French Kingdom had spread stories of Richard’s intransigence, bullying and brutality – especially his execution of his prisoners at Acre.
All the French and German allies had been recruited to the cause. The Count of Toulouse, the kingdoms and principalities of Italy – and even Pope Celestine – were all involved in a war of hateful words designed to destroy the King’s reputation.
Philip of Dreux, Bishop of Beauvais, who had been a close friend of Conrad of Montferrat, toured Europe, railing against the Lionheart. Some of his words reached us in a letter from Queen Eleanor to Berengere.
The King of England betrayed our Lords, Philip of the French and Henry of the Germans, by negotiating with the heathen Saladin behind their backs. He conspired with murderers to have the throat cut of the noble Lord, Conrad of Montferrat, the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and he had the estimable knight Hugh, Duke of Burgundy, poisoned in his own hall. He is a savage man, capable of great cruelty and wicked deceit. Worst of all, he gave away the keys of the Holy City to the infidel.
Rather than reacting with justifiable anger, the King smiled when he heard the Bishop’s words read to him. However, his calm demeanour belied the fact that our route home was beset by difficulties and would have to pass through hostile territory. These were lands stirred up by a hysteria that claimed Richard the Lionheart was not the hero of a valiant war against a mortal enemy in the Holy Land – a war conducted largely on his own when his major allies returned home – but was an evil demagogue who had betrayed Christianity to Saladin, the Devil incarnate.
The King called us all together on Sunday 28 September, and we celebrated mass. Afterwards, he summoned what was, to all intents and purposes, a council of war.
‘Under the care of William, my beloved Berengere and dearest Joan will depart with their households and my personal conrois on Tuesday. My other devoted friends – my Grand Quintet, as Sir Ranulf has dubbed them – will make their own way home by whatever method they think fit. Divided between them, they will carry home what is left of my treasury and belongings. As for myself, I will delay a while. It seems I am a wanted man across Europe and so I will travel home as a devout Knight Templar, Anselm of Poitiers, with only a sergeant and two men-at-arms. We will all rendezvous in Caen, at Christmas at the latest, for a celebratory feast together.’
There were handshakes and embraces all round, and everybody made their final preparations to leave. As I had not been mentioned in the King’s list of departers, I sought clarification from him.
‘Sire, what would you have me do?’
‘How old are you, Ranulf?’
‘I am forty-one, sire.’
‘Do you not want to retire to your estates in England and find a wife? I intend to extend your land when we return.’
‘You are very kind, sire, but I would prefer to serve you a little longer – and certainly until you return to your realm. As for a wife, I have known two remarkable women; I lost one to God and the other to the Devil. I doubt I will ever meet their like again.’
‘Another mystery for me! But I think I remember the one you lost to God. She was the sultry Basque beauty you took to Rupertsberg?’
‘Yes, my Lord; her name was Negu. But she decided to become a bride of Christ instead.’
‘That is indeed a shame, she was very beguiling. And the other… the one taken by the Devil?’
‘I’d rather not say, sire.’
‘I think I know. She was killed by the Devil’s agents, am I right? The Princess Anna, who was killed in Anatolia with Abbot Alun and your men.’
‘It was the worst moment of my life.’
‘I know, Ranulf. You were a different man when you came back.’
‘Sire, please keep that confidence to yourself; it is very important to me.’
‘Of course. I am only too aware of the sorrow of unfulfilled hopes. In my case, sweet Berengere is still not with child. I hope she is not barren; if she is, I’ll have to put her aside and go to the Pope for a new wife…’
He paused, thinking about the implications of what he had just said. Then he returned to the subject at hand.
‘Now, what about the things in the Vatican we talked about; is it not time to retrieve them before I return home?’
‘It makes sense, sire.’
‘I intend to sail up the Adriatic Sea to Venice. I will put you off at Brindisi or Bari, and you can make your way to Rome from there.’
‘Are you sure, my Lord? That will leave you very exposed, accompanied by just three men.’
‘But they are good men; I will be fine, and I think I am capable of looking after myself. Besides, you’re not much use to me with a hook for an arm!’
Although the King was teasing me, in essence it was true. I was only of marginal use in a fight. The King then embraced me warmly.
‘I will miss you, Ranulf. But we will see one another in Caen, at Christmas, when I hope you will be able to show me all those mysterious things I need to see.’
‘I will miss you too, sire.’
We finally left Acre ten days later. Neither of us would ever see the Holy Land again.
The King was adamant that one day he would return. He knew that Saladin was in his mid-fifties and might not live much longer. He also knew that his peace with Saphadin had a finite life of no more than three or four years. He made it clear to Henry of Champagne, the putative King of the Holy City and its patriarch-in-waiting, that he intended to return and lead a new crusade once he had brought stability to his Empire at home.
Although it broke his heart to do so, as a symbol of his intent, he left his beloved Fauvel with Henry, asking him to look after the mighty steed until his return.
Sadly, it never came to pass.
27. A King’s Ransom
It was a lonely voyage across a wild and windy Mediterranean. We were just four poor Soldiers of Christ and the small Genoese crew of a modest trading ship who, thinking us no more than fee-paying cargo, paid us little attention.
When the time came, it was difficult to leave the King. We had been almost constant companions for over fifteen years. Little did I know that our time apart would be far longer than either of us anticipated.
My journey to Rome was uneventful, but enjoyable. I was hailed wherever I went as an heroic crusader – and one with a severe injury to prove my valour. Monks fed me and gave me shelter; families took me in and invited their friends to come and hear my stories; people all along my route gave me food and gifts. I was asked to kiss babies, and some mothers even said they would name their sons after me.
When I reached the Vatican, I asked to speak to Monsignor Claudio, the Master of the Archives, a tall, gaunt man from Padua. He was very suspicious of my intentions and took me into a small garden at the side of the ancient cathedral before sitting me down and summoning a young English-speaking priest.
I used Alun’s name and told him the story of Earl Harold’s scribe, Gilbert Foliot, and of Thibaud of Vermandois, Cardinal Bishop of Ostia, the recipient of the casket. Although he acknowledged all the names I
