mentioned, he remained stony-faced and said nothing. A nonchalant shrug of the shoulders was his only response.
I then unwrapped the Talisman of Truth, the strange relic that I had kept with me since Alun, in his death throes, had hidden it under the tree in Anatolia. Alun had suggested that I should wear it, but I never felt comfortable with the thought and had always kept it firmly hidden from view. I handed the amulet to Claudio; his eyes widened, and his face softened for the first time.
‘I remember Father Alun. He was a clever man and a holy one.’ He then returned the talisman to me. ‘But this is the work of the Devil. We have many other of his works here; this amulet belongs with them.’
‘Monsignor, I am only a messenger. Alun asked me to deliver the Talisman of Truth and the casket you hold to the King of England.’
The Master looked at me, clearly reluctant to let anything leave his archives. At length, he relented.
‘As you wish; the Cardinal left precise instructions that when an emissary came, I was to release the casket.’
He then stood and gestured to me to follow him. Accompanied by the young priest, we passed two heavily armed Papal Guards, who looked more like north Europeans than Italians. We entered the old church at the back of the nave, emerging through a small doorway. After nodding at two more Guards, who stood alert on either side of a second narrow doorway, Claudio led us down a long flight of tight spiral stairs into the crypt.
It was an unnerving, oppressive place, full of eerie echoes, with only two small oil lanterns giving an indistinct glow to its broad arches and vaulted ceilings. The young priest then told me that I must wait with him while Monsignor Claudio went to retrieve the casket.
His footsteps receded as he disappeared into the murk, followed by the ever fainter sounds of heavy doors being opened and closed. After a while, there was a silence so still I could hear myself breathe.
I was disappointed; I had hoped that I would be able to enter the vaults and see their ancient tombs and mysterious relics. Legend said these included objects as old as Rome itself, and treasures that would astonish the world. My father had told me that all the Popes were buried in the vaults, including St Peter himself. I had harboured hopes of seeing all their mausoleums laid out in neat rows. But all I could see were shadowy columns and dark voids.
It was a smaller crypt than I had thought it would be. But the young priest assured me, in a hushed tone, that there was a labyrinth of vaults extending deep underground and for many yards beyond the walls of the nave. Some of the most secretive chambers could only be entered by Monsignor Claudio and the Pope himself, and many had not been opened for decades. He hinted at some of the contents, shaking his head and muttering about ‘precious relics of Jesus’, ‘revelations known only to the Holy Father’ and ‘abominations too awful ever to be revealed’. My appetite was whetted, but I could get nothing more out of him.
After what seemed like an age, Monsignor Claudio returned with the casket, an impressive piece of craftsmanship with a heavy bronze clasp. He placed it gently on a small oak table in front of me. As I moved to look inside – to be sure it contained all the manuscripts Alun had mentioned – I found that it was heavier than I thought it would be, and securely locked.
The Master handed me a small key. But before I opened the casket, he put his hand on mine and blessed its contents.
‘There are remarkable stories in those pages; guard them well.’
Everything was in the casket, bound in immaculate sheaves of vellum, just as Alun had said it would be. I added the Talisman of Truth and closed the lid.
I was required to sign and seal a document to confirm that I had taken the artefact from the vault, then I was led back up into the basilica. As I walked across the nave, Monsignor Claudio called after me.
‘If you would like to return the casket one day, please do so. We will happily take it back. The talisman you carry is not a charm; it is the Devil’s Amulet, and it belongs here.’
I spent a few days wandering the ancient ruins and modern splendours of Rome. It was difficult to imagine what the city had been like in its pomp, because most of the land beyond the Vatican’s precincts was made up of hillocks of debris where cows and goats grazed amidst glimpses of fallen columns the size of trees and blocks of stone as big as a cart.
Occasionally, a piece of a shattered and long-forgotten statue could be seen – a hand, or perhaps a limb, or a disfigured face. The ground was like a midden of the past, where every step I took meant treading on fragments of the once mighty Roman Empire. In certain places, huge buildings were still intact and some were still being used. One in particular, a great circular colossus, bigger than three cathedrals, had towering arches that contained churches, shops and artisans’ workshops. I was told it was once a place for festivals and circuses, where men would fight in front of huge crowds and where early Christians were tortured and killed for their beliefs.
It occurred to me that nothing much had changed over the hundreds of years since.
Autumn was beginning to bite, and I was tempted to stay in the south until the spring. But I knew that our Christmas rendezvous in Normandy beckoned, so I began to travel north. I also wanted to find a quiet place to read the contents of the precious casket. I needed to find a monastery, and a priest whose English or Norman was good enough to help me read the Latin text.
I eventually found the help I needed at the remote Benedictine Abbey of Sant’Antimo, near Siena. I paid a generous price for my lodgings and, in return, two young monks, one from Rouen and one from Gisors, helped me read the manuscripts.
It was an enthralling experience. Surrounded by wooded hillsides and the tranquillity of monastic life amidst the abbey’s vineyards and meadows, we chose a different location each morning and afternoon. I tried to follow the Latin script, but eventually I realized it was simpler just to sit back and listen to the captivating stories of England’s recent kings and to the remarkable exploits of Hereward of Bourne and his descendants. I felt highly privileged – especially having known Earl Harold, the man who united the two dynasties.
I had been a proud Englishman before I heard the accounts, but was even more fiercely so when I finished hearing them. I now felt emboldened to place the Talisman of Truth around the neck of the man who was its rightful recipient: Richard, King of England, the Lionheart, a man who Hereward and Torfida would have been proud to call their King.
When we had finished, I thanked my Benedictine hosts, who knew little of England’s history and cared less for its intrigues. Even so, I swore them to secrecy before making my way north once more.
I arrived in Caen well before the Christmas activities. However, to my horror, there was no sign of the Lionheart. Indeed, nothing had been heard of him since we had left Palestine. Queens Berengere and Joan were there, as was the Grand Quintet, and Queen Eleanor was on the way from Poitiers. A great celebration had been planned; everyone had returned safely from the Great Crusade and, despite Prince John’s malicious endeavours and those of the Count of Toulouse, the Empire was still intact.
But the feast’s host was nowhere to be seen.
Nor did he appear in the New Year.
Anxious for news, Queen Eleanor returned home. Seeking solace, a distraught Berengere went to the nuns at Beauvais. The Grand Quintet sent out messengers in search of information about the whereabouts of the Lionheart. A flurry of responses came in the middle of January; they brought news that would create a sudden sharp turn in my life’s journey and that of my King.
On his way back from the Holy Land, word that the King was travelling through the eastern Alps had reached Leopold, Duke of Austria. He immediately issued orders for the King’s arrest and despatched hundreds of men throughout his domain to hunt him down. The Lionheart escaped from several ambushes and made it as far as a village close to Vienna, by which time he had lost his men in various skirmishes. He had become exhausted and ill with a fever, and sought refuge at a roadside inn. While delirious and unable to rise from his bed, he was arrested by a posse of the Duke’s men.
Stripped of all his weapons, armour and possessions, he had been imprisoned in less than comfortable circumstances in Durnstein Castle, on the Danube. Duke Leopold had allied himself with Henry, the Holy Roman Emperor, and with Philip Augustus, King of the French. They meant to humble the Lionheart and bring his Empire to its knees. Prince John, ever eager for the Plantagenet throne, was their acolyte. Only Berengere’s family in Iberia and William the Lion, King of the Scots – who remembered the King’s generosity in the Quitclaim of
