have been others, but I’ve managed to slowly rid myself of male suitors over the past two years.’
‘And now you are content?’
‘No, my feelings are locked away, dormant.’
She smiled again, this time holding my gaze without embarrassment. I was beginning to feel aroused, in a profound way that I had not experienced for a long time, and, to my delight, knew that the old fire still burned in both of us.
‘When I heard that I had missed you, after you called last year, my heart missed several beats. I’m very pleased you came back.’
‘So am I.’
‘How long can you stay?’
‘I have to meet the King at Antwerp. We sail for England in the second week of March.’
‘Will you stay until then?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell me, besides your left hand, have you lost any other parts of your anatomy?’
It felt like we had been playing a teasing game of sexual chess, and I had just been put into checkmate.
It was a good game to lose.
Over the next few days we consummated our reborn passion many times; it was gloriously debauched and decadent. It was as if the years had not passed and we were in Aquitaine again.
Although Negu broke her vows in every way imaginable, she was very adamant about the morality of it. For her, being a nun was about the good deeds done by the nuns of Hildegard’s foundation, about the beauty of the music they sang and about the knowledge and wisdom she had acquired at Rupertsberg. Chastity was a nonsensical rigour imposed by the Church. Negu had no doubt that Hildegard would have approved.
As for my part, I was simply happy to have fallen in love again – and with a woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.
Although we were discreet, rumours abounded within the community and Negu was summoned to see the Abbess. It was the ideal moment for me to reveal the future that the King had promised to make available to us in England.
Negu had, of course, remembered Alun. I explained to her how he had become a close friend and adviser to the King, and I described the tragedy of his death. When I told her that the Lionheart had promised to create a foundation in his honour, and that she could be part of it, she leapt with joy at the prospect.
‘We follow the rule of St Augustine of Hippo here. I have reached the rank of Conventual Prioress, one level below an abbess, so I can govern a priory of nuns in my own right.’
‘Whose permission do you need?’
‘I don’t need anyone’s sanction – except God’s, of course – but I do need the funds to buy the land, and some women to come with me.’
‘Well, if you can bring the nuns, the King will provide the geld.’
‘There are fifty women here who will follow me to the ends of the earth. Finding some monks, and an abbot to lead them, should be easy along the Rhine; there are dozens of monasteries, most of them overcrowded.’
‘In that case, what are you waiting for?’
‘Nothing, my love. The conversation with the Abbess should be fairly straightforward. When she starts asking difficult questions, I’ll be able to tell her I’m leaving.’
‘How long will it take you to be ready to leave with your monks and nuns?’
‘About three months.’
‘That will give me enough time to make good the offer from the King. I will send three ships to Antwerp to collect you, at the beginning of June; I’ll give full instructions to the Master of the Harbour before I leave.’
As I made my way north from Rupertsberg, I reflected on the strange paradoxes of life. Had the Lionheart not been captured in Austria and imprisoned on the Rhine, I would never have seen Negu again.
Fate plays its hand in strange ways.
31. Return of the King
The Lionheart spent his remaining time in Germany and the Low Countries building on the friendships he had won by his performance at Speyer. Many in Europe now realized that his deeds in the Holy Land had been misrepresented by those with an axe to grind. Word travelled to realms far and wide that, in truth, he had been the only Christian leader to act with courage and tenacity against Saladin.
We sailed from Antwerp on 11 March, aboard a ceremonial fleet sent by Queen Eleanor. After a pause to wait for the winds and tide on the coast, we arrived at Sandwich, in Kent, on the morning of 13 March 1194, an auspicious day for all of us. It was the Sabbath, and we rode to Canterbury to give thanks for our safe arrival.
News spread quickly that the King had landed. At Ash, close to Sandwich, people rushed out to wave as we rode through. Astute as ever, the Queen made sure that heralds rode ahead of us to announce the King’s return. From Wingham onwards, especially at Littlebourne and Canterbury itself, the scenes were reminiscent of his coronation five years before; every hamlet, village and burgh gave us a rapturous welcome.
The Lionheart was overjoyed, and turned to me with a broad grin on his face.
‘I have just cost these people a quarter of their livelihood!’
‘I told you they loved you, sire.’
It was true; he was the Lionheart, their King, a man who shared their blood. If only they knew just how much.
When we reached Westminster, where the people lined the route cheering wildly, we were greeted with heartening news. Prince John had hidden himself away in Normandy on hearing the news of his brother’s release, leaving his supporters in England isolated. As a result, all those who had plotted with him against the King had capitulated and declared their loyalty to the Lionheart; all save one. The garrison at Nottingham refused to believe that the King had returned.
Itching for a fight against any traitors he could find, the Lionheart acted quickly.
‘Mobilize my cavalry! Bring the sappers and the Greek fire, we have work to do.’
The siege did not last long. Initially, the defenders refused to surrender, claiming that the man wearing the Three Lions on his mantle was an imposter, sent to trick them. The King was furious and, as he had done all his life, led us in an attack on the barbican.
After the sappers destroyed the heavy oak doors of the barbican with a huge battering ram, the Lionheart pulled down his helmet and charged forwards. He had lost little of his speed and agility and, as usual, it was difficult to keep pace with him.
As he reached the arch of the barbican roof, he suddenly gave the signal to crouch down and, in that moment, a volley of crossbow bolts passed over our heads from the platoon of arbalests he had positioned behind us. A bolt from a crossbow at close quarters is a fearsome weapon and several defenders were taken clean off their feet from the impact, while several others ran for cover.
Then the Lionheart resumed his charge. I could see the look of horror on the faces of the defenders when they realized that the man wearing the Three Lions was indeed their King.
The fighting was ferocious, but brief. The Lionheart made a beeline for a huge sergeant, who took an almighty swing at him as he approached. This was a fatal move against a swordsman as skilled as the King. He simply ducked under the arc of the blade and thrust his own sword deep into the man’s ribs, just below his right arm. The blood spewed across the courtyard and the big man let out a squeal like a stuck pig.
The fight seemed to go out of our opponents at that point, and they began to surrender. There were a dozen or so bodies at our feet, and several injured men. Among the dead was William of Wendenal, High Sheriff of Nottingham and the Royal Forests, a long-time supporter of Prince John.
Frustratingly, despite the loss of their barbican, the defenders within the castle still refused to surrender,
