Before he arrived, Negu and I made our preparations to put Earl Harold’s precious casket to rest. Two nights before the service, we stayed up late, drank some wine, and then made our way to the place where the altar slab would be laid. I had borrowed one of the masons’ spades and, while Negu held a lantern, I dug a deep hole for the lead box and its casket and placed it in the earth.
I covered it with a piece of linen and then a heavy shroud of sackcloth, and began to replace the soil and rubble. It was an emotional moment, tinged with a strong sense of melancholy. It marked the end of a long saga for Hereward and his family. Their legacy lived on, of course, embodied in the King himself, but it felt as if their personal journey was now over. They had fulfilled everything England could have expected of them, and they could now rest in peace.
I assumed that one day, perhaps many generations hence, the casket would be found. I smiled to myself, imagining the look of astonishment on the faces of those who would then read its contents.
Negu knelt down beside me and held my hand.
‘I am very proud of you, Ranulf. You have served your King as well as any man could have done. You have also done a great service to Earl Harold and his family, and to your country. I am lucky to have met you, and even more fortunate that you came back to find me.’
‘Thank you, my darling. I am the lucky one. What a life I have had! And now I have even more to look forward to, with you.’
On the day of the ceremony, Roger de Lacy and several local knights and burgesses accompanied the Archbishop of York. He placed a clay ampoule of holy water and a cross in the earth before the stone slab was laid, and then consecrated the ground so that mass could be said.
As the mass came to an end, and the Archbishop gave his final blessing, Negu and I gripped each other’s hands tightly
But we had even more reason to celebrate. Hereward and his descendants were all at rest, and now their story had been enshrined in a holy place.
It was a fitting location. The mighty Einar, one of Hereward’s loyal companions who died during the Siege of Ely, had been born only a few miles away, at Skipton. Not only that: Hereward would have passed by this very spot on his journeys to and from York during his campaigns against the Conqueror, in 1069.
We could not have chosen a better place.
Our life of bliss continued into 1196 when, in May of that year, a squadron of the King’s Guard at Westminster rode up from Skipton. They looked splendid in their royal finery and immediately stirred in me fond memories of my time with the King.
‘Sir Ranulf, greetings; I am Thomas, Captain of the King’s Second Conroi at Westminster.’
‘Welcome to Bolton Priory, Captain. You are an Englishman?’
‘I am, and proud of it. The King is encouraging Englishmen to join his Guard, thanks – if I may say so – to you, Sir Ranulf.’
‘Well, I’m gratified to hear that. But how can I help you?’
‘The King has sent word from Rouen. He requests that you join him there before Midsummer’s Day. He has a commission for you.’
‘I hope it is not a crisis?’
‘No, indeed, his campaign against the French is going well. I believe he wants you to help him with a new fortification.’
‘Then tell him that I will be with him directly and will be honoured to serve him again.’
‘We are to wait and be your escort; we are billeted at Skipton.’
‘Very well, I’ll need two days to organize a few things here and to clean my weapons and armour.’
‘We will wait for you at Skipton, but there is no need to prepare your old weapons. The King has sent you new arms and a fine bay destrier.’
The Lionheart had been generous, my new weapons and armour were of the finest quality – even William Marshal or Mercadier would have been proud to own them. He had also been thoughtful – he had remembered that my colours were those of the redoubtable Hereward – and had sent me a new shield and pennon in the gules, sable and gold of legend. He had even made sure that the back of the shield had a cross-member to which I could peg my false arm and hook.
Negu had been at the nearby village of Giggleswick when my summons arrived, and I had mixed feelings about telling her of the King’s command. I was torn between my duty to the King I revered and my desire to remain in the paradise that was Bolton and Negu.
But she saw the situation much more clearly and was adamant about what I should do.
‘The King gave you two years; he’s been true to his word. If he has sent for you, he needs you. You lose nothing. I will still be here, and so will the Priory – hopefully a little bigger than it is now.’
‘But the campaign may go on for years. And if he wants me to help build his fortifications, I could be there until doomsday!’
‘Well, that would not be ideal. But you are his sworn retainer; you have little choice. If needs be, I will come out and join you.’
‘But what about Bolton?’
‘Magnus is more than capable of taking care of the priory on his own. Why don’t we give it two years? And then, if you’re still there, I will join you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course! I survived for fifteen years without you, so I can surely manage two more. If there is no change at the turn of the century, when you will be approaching fifty years of age, I’m sure the King would let you go and allow you to return to Bolton.’
Despite Negu’s reassurances and the clarity of her pragmatism, it was difficult to leave Bolton. I had to remind myself of my duty to the King. I also remembered my promise to Alun when he was dying, and my original mission from Earl Harold.
Throughout my journey to Portsmouth, I was haunted by the contrast in my emotions between my current summons to serve King Richard and my first journey to Westminster, as a young recruit, to join the service of his father. As a callow youth, every step was a stride into an exciting new world and I feared nothing: now, every step took me further away from Negu and I had far too much to lose to countenance fearless bravado.
It was only when we had passed Rouen and reached a huge loop in the Seine at Thuit, twenty-five miles to the south-west, that I saw what the Lionheart had in mind for me. On the far side of the bend, on the eastern bank, hundreds of artisans and peasant labourers were constructing a burgh of some size. Above the bustle, on a limestone precipice 300 feet above the valley, another large group of men were hewing rock to level the top of the crag. I knew immediately that this was going to become my obsession for some time to come.
When I saw the King, he was the epitome of health and vigour.
‘Ranulf, my dear friend, I am so pleased to see you. How is Negu? And how is the foundation?’
‘She is blooming, my Lord, and the priory is growing by the day.’
‘You don’t mean she’s pregnant?’
‘No, sire, that would make life rather difficult for us—’
‘Neither is Berengere. Sadly, there have been no more pregnancies. But let us dwell on easier matters; I will tell you about my plans here.’
He took me to his campaign tent which – unlike the headquarters for a battle, full of commanders and lieutenants – was heaving with master masons and sappers.
‘I have been able to win back Normandy’s heartland from Philip. But before I push on to secure the Vexin, I must make Rouen safe from attack.’
He strode over to a large table, on which lay a broad sheet of vellum and an assortment of rules, set squares and compasses.
‘I’ve looked at ground in the border area between Normandy and France. It’s no wonder the Norman dukes found it so difficult to keep their south-east border secure; the Seine cuts through it like a knife through butter. I intend to build a monolith on the river so resilient that it will blunt any knife, no matter how formidable. Come, let’s
