‘Exactly.’
My head was spinning by the time the King turned to me.
‘What do you think, my old friend? You’ve carried these secrets for long enough.’
‘It is difficult to answer, sire. England’s story means so much to me, and I am proud of what has been done by the men and women in those manuscripts.’
The Queen flashed a mien of anger that was fierce enough to make a flower wilt.
‘It’s got nothing to do with Sir Ranulf. If I had my way, his head would come off and the secret would die with him!’
The King stared into his goblet of wine and looked at his mother.
‘Worry not, Ranulf, the Queen doesn’t mean it. You are an old and trusted friend. I will think about it overnight. Come back tomorrow morning.’
Although I was reassured by the King, I had no doubts that the Dowager Queen had meant exactly what she had said.
I saw the King early the next day. He was already dashing around the harbour issuing orders with a dozen scribes, sappers and stewards in his wake.
He took me to one side.
‘Ranulf, I need your trust in this. I have told the Queen that I have done the sensible thing and that the casket and its contents have been destroyed. However, I cannot bring myself to do it. It is my story and I care not a jot for my legitimacy as King or otherwise; let any man try to take this Empire from me. After all, there was no greater bastard than William the Conqueror. I want the manuscripts preserved so that one day, perhaps, the real story can be told.’
‘Sire, tell me what you want me to do and it will be done.’
‘My Senior Steward has wrapped the casket in plain sackcloth and put it on a good sumpter. Take it with you and when you lay the slab of your new altar at Negu’s priory, protect it well in lead and bury it deep in the ground. It matters not if it isn’t found for a thousand years, but one day the deeds of Hereward’s Brotherhood and Edgar’s Brethren will finally be revealed to all.’
‘Your third cousin would be thrilled to know of your decision.’
‘Is that my relation to Alun?’
‘Yes, your great-great-grandparents were brother and sister; Edgar the Aethling on Alun’s side and Margaret of Scotland on your side.’
‘Astonishing! You always said I would fall in love with England.’
‘Go safely, sire.’
‘Thank you. I go first to Berengere; I’m afraid she is not well, and I fear she may not be able to give me an heir.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, my Lord.’
‘My mother says I should divorce her, but I am too fond of her for that.’
‘I will pray that all may be well.’
‘Thank you, we all pray for that.’
‘There is one more thing, sire.’
I took out the leather pouch containing the Talisman of Truth.
‘I hoped you would wear this?’
‘I will, at all times and with great pride, my friend.’
It was a moment of mixed emotions for me. I was elated and relieved that I had finally completed my mission for Earl Harold, but I was also saddened to think that my astonishing adventures at the right hand of the most noble and courageous man in Christendom were at an end.
I also thought of Alun, at rest in what I hoped had become a place of beauty for him in Anatolia, cleansed of the horrors of his death. He would be so proud of the Lionheart, and so proud of England under his new reign.
32. Bolton Priory
I met Negu and her little band of brothers and sisters at Sandwich in early June 1194. She had brought Magnus, a very austere-looking prior who seemed to take his devotions very seriously, and in their wake, like a badelynge of ducklings, walked thirteen tonsured monks and nine wimpled nuns. All were under thirty years old and – other than the prior – were a good-humoured bunch.
Negu was in good spirits and, thankfully, England was at its best for our journey, with long June days and warm sunshine, so I did not have to make excuses for the weather in the north. That would have to come later.
The Lord of Bowland’s land by the Wharfe was a paradise. The river was wide and full of trout, and the meadows by its banks were flat and fertile. Its high ground extended on to wild moorland but was perfect for hardy upland sheep. Skipton, only five miles away, was a small, remote burgh, but it had a good market and a robust garrison to keep us safe from the occasional raiders who still roamed the wastes of the far north.
We chose our ground for the priory’s buildings, and after employing local carpenters to build us temporary wooden buildings we began the process of buying stone and hiring masons. Good masons were not difficult to find, because many of the cathedrals and castles begun by the Normans two and three generations ago had now been finished, or were nearing completion.
Negu brought a nest egg of geld from Germany, most of it given to her by local bishops who prized her charms. I had inherited a significant sum derived from the income of Earl Harold’s lands in Nottinghamshire. Roger de Lacy’s generosity continued, and he gave us a hundred pounds, while the Countess of Aumale donated thirty pounds and Hugh, the Castellan of Skipton, a further twenty pounds. By late October, the footings had been dug and the foundation level of local millstone grit was in place. It was a sight to behold, and we were very proud of it.
The community of young Germans were happy in their new surroundings; they soon made themselves popular with the locals by bringing much-needed work and trade, and by offering vital succour for the sick and needy.
I began the construction of a hall for myself on higher ground, to the north of the priory. But until it was ready, Negu and I enjoyed our trysts together in the seclusion of the nearby woods, or hidden in the gorse of the desolate moors. Our excuse was the search for medicinal herbs, but I was aware that this arrangement caused Negu some anguish, and she often reminded me that the subterfuge could not continue indefinitely.
When the hall was completed, Negu felt that she could finally relinquish her obligation to her mentor, Hildegard, and to her order of nuns. She gave up her habit and renounced her vows in a solemn gathering of her Bolton community. Her companions understood her reasons, and there was only support and understanding from them.
Freed from her obligations, we were able to rekindle the passion we had shared at our reunion in Rupertsberg. Becoming intimate again proved a delight; our couplings were not quite as frenetic as in the early months, but they were just as fulfilling.
When we had first met, as young lovers, we were both finding our way in the world, using whatever gifts we had been granted to better ourselves, and our love was an all-consuming passion. Now, we had both achieved so much in life, and our rediscovered love was much more mature – still passionate, but based on the wisdom that comes with a lifetime of experience.
Winter came and went, and the building work on the priory made rapid progress. The walls of the nave had risen to a height of almost four yards, and the community’s refectory and accommodation were nearing completion.
In the summer of 1195, Geoffrey Plantagenet, Archbishop of York, the Lionheart’s illegitimate half-brother, came to bless the foundation stone of our altar.
