‘Be good to one another and honour all your deeds and duties.’
That evening, at the feast to close the Council of Nottingham, Blondel sang the chansons of the troubadours. They included the ‘Ballad of Robyn of Hode’, which had become a favourite with the army. I smiled nostalgically, because I now knew from reading Earl Harold’s story that it had been composed by his faithful companion, Eadmer, and that the deeds described in the ballad were those of the Earl himself.
Blondel also sang the King’s lament, ‘No Man Who’s Jailed’, which he performed beautifully and captivated the audience. I looked at the King, and saw the pain of those many months in captivity pass fleetingly across his face; our memories of Trifels were still raw.
On 17 April 1194, the Sunday after Easter, in the presence of his mother, Dowager Queen Eleanor, and William the Lion, King of the Scots, the Lionheart had his coronation reaffirmed at Winchester. All the prelates, earls, barons and knights of the realm came to pay homage to the greatest warrior in Europe.
Flanked by the Grand Quintet and led, with his sword held high, by William the Lion, the King wore the royal crown and full regalia as he walked from his royal chamber in St Swithun’s Priory into the cathedral to be blessed by Godfrey, Bishop of Winchester. Prayers were said for his campaign against Philip and the French, after which a splendid feast was held in the cathedral cloisters.
The mood was jubilant, a celebration for the return of a King they thought they had lost.
It was a heartwarming moment for me too, and so reminiscent of the Lionheart’s original coronation on that wonderful September day in 1189. The occasion was not as grand, but much more poignant.
So much had happened in the intervening years. I looked at the King’s imposing but elegant frame and watched as the guests stared at him, in awe of his presence. Many had tears in their eyes; so did I.
Following the coronation celebrations, while the Lionheart made his way to Portsmouth to assemble his fleet, I obtained his permission to travel to St Paul’s to retrieve Earl Harold’s casket.
I wanted him to read its contents before he left for France and, if he could be persuaded, to wear the Talisman of Truth during his campaign against Philip.
I arrived back in Portsmouth on May Day with the burgh in the midst of the ancient festival. The King was enjoying lunch with Queen Eleanor when I arrived; I was honoured that she spoke to me directly.
‘Sir Ranulf, I have heard how important you were to the King in Germany. I owe you as much as he does, which is a great deal.’
‘Ma’am, it is a privilege to serve you and the King.’
‘I hear that you are taking some time away from his retinue to begin a foundation in the north. Perhaps I could visit it one day. I have never been beyond the Welsh Marches, but the King tells me the weather can be unkind.’
‘Not to someone with your constitution, ma’am.’
The Lionheart smiled at my fawning over his mother.
‘So, you have finally brought the casket?’
‘Yes, sire. I left it with your steward.’
‘I will look forward to reading it.’
I knew that the King’s Latin was excellent, so I waited expectantly for several days in the hope that he had begun. I saw him daily as he busied himself, in his typically meticulous way, with every detail of the preparation of the fleet, but nothing was mentioned.
He and his quartermasters counted every component of his siege engines. All the reams of quarrels and arrows were accounted for and loaded and every horse, soldier and sailor was placed on a roll call which was read every morning. I decided he was far too busy to spend hours reading two manuscripts of vellum as thick as a man’s thigh.
But then, on 10 May, just two days before his embarkation, he summoned me to join him for dinner at the new hall he had had built at Portsmouth Harbour. To my surprise, the Dowager Queen was with him.
‘Ranulf, welcome; sit and eat with us.’
Until the stewards cleared away the dishes, leaving us with just wine and cheese, normal conviviality ruled during the meal. Then his senior steward brought in the casket, placed it next to the King and opened its lid.
‘Well, my friend, I started these reluctantly; there are so many pages. It was only out of respect for Alun that I persevered. But, eventually, they became compelling.’
‘I know, sire; my Latin is not as good as yours, so I struggled to grasp the details.’
‘But you knew what they contained from Alun?’
‘Yes, but he was only able to impart the barest outline as he lay dying.’
‘I now understand why you and he drew such inspiration from these stories. They are remarkable.’
‘That is why I wanted you to read them before we went our separate ways.’
‘I have told the Queen the gist of what these pages contain.’
She looked at me sternly.
‘Sir Ranulf, who else knows what is in the manuscripts?’
I decided not to mention the two young Tuscan monks sworn to secrecy at the monastery of Sant’Antimo.
‘Just the three of us, ma’am.’
‘Well, that is how it must remain.’
I felt the strength in her that overpowered everyone who met her. Her next question was typically shrewd.
‘Can we be sure the contents are a true account?’
‘I believe so, ma’am, there are too many worthy scribes involved for them to be false.’
‘I want the casket and its contents burned, but the King is prevailing upon me not to do so. He says they are too important to be destroyed.’
The King was quick to offer reassurance.
‘Of course they are, mother. Earl Harold is my grandfather and I am a direct descendant of Hereward of Bourne, the bravest man this island has ever produced. We should be proud; apart from his courage here in England fighting the Conqueror, he fought with the Normans of Sicily, was Captain of the Emperor of Byzantium’s Varangian Guard and was a friend of El Cid.’
‘Yes, yes, Richard, but the stories in those manuscripts must never be told.’
‘Why not? Sweyn of Bourne, Earl Harold’s father and my great-grandfather, was one of the heroes of the First Crusade; he took the lance intended for Robert Curthose at the Battle of Tinchebrai!’
‘Yes, so you told me, but he conceived Earl Harold in the desert with Hereward’s daughter, Estrith, who was an Abbess of the Norman Church!’
‘Well?’
‘That makes him the bastard child of a nun and a peasant boy from Lincolnshire! Not only that: this account says that all three of Empress Matilda’s children were sired by Earl Harold, not by Geoffrey of Anjou.’
The Queen’s point suddenly hit home with the King, whose judgement had become dulled by the excitement of his newly found lineage. He looked saddened.
‘Perhaps we should burn them, after all.’
The Queen slammed closed the lid of the casket.
‘Of course we should. Not only was your grandfather a bastard, whose own grandfather’s English Brotherhood fought Norman rule until their dying breaths, but he cuckolded Geoffrey of Anjou and fathered Empress Matilda’s three sons, all of them bastards! One of whom was my husband and your father!’
She was livid, furious that the purity of her noble blood had been sullied.
‘Our family is full of peasants and rebels! What’s worse, I’ve been tupped by one of them and have borne him eight children!’
She drew a deep breath and calmed herself down. Then she looked the Lionheart in the eye.
‘Bastards don’t become kings any more; your legitimacy as ruler of this Empire could be challenged by all and sundry, if these pages were ever to be revealed.’
The King looked forlorn.
‘I suppose you’re right. It appears that our great Plantagenet Empire is not even Plantagenet.’
