for us in England.
Negu and I made our way back to Bolton Priory. It was a subdued journey home. We were both full of reflections and memories, and lingered in several places: in Poitiers, with Queen Eleanor; at the Lionheart’s new tomb in Fontevraud; at Rouen and at Westminster. We finally reached Bolton Priory in time to enjoy the best of a beautiful English summer.
The priory was all but complete and Negu and I began to adjust to a tranquil future together in our haven in the valley of the Wharfe. In the midst of that splendid summer, I often thought about the resting places of those whose stories I had come to know so well. Some like Hereward of Bourne, Sweyn of Bourne and Earl Harold of Hereford were at peace on foreign soil. Others like Torfida and her father, the Old Man of the Wildwood, were at rest in English soil in the wildwoods they cherished so much.
When Negu and I took our daily walk in Strid Wood by the Wharfe, our own piece of ancient woodland, through which the Pennine River hurried like a torrent, I always thought about the Wodewose, our Green Man of English legend. Was he watching over us, as King Richard’s ancestors Torfida and her father believed? Did the Wodewose approve of what had been done by them, and by those who followed them, in England’s name?
I derived great satisfaction from being sure that he did.
As for our memories of the Lionheart, we thought of him every time we strolled by the Wharfe, as he had asked us to, and as we sat by the fire in my hall – especially during the long winter nights. We reflected on the happy times, and sometimes on those that had been less than pleasant. We tried not to bury the sad memories; they had been as much a part of our journey as the happy times, and they were good for the soul. We remembered the astonishing effect the Lionheart had on those around him; his companionship and humour; his strength and courage; his fearsome temper and indomitable spirit. We knew we would never meet his like again, but felt honoured that we had known him so well.
In the autumn of 1203, Roger de Lacy came to stay with us. He was about to depart for the Limousin, to become Castellan of the Lionheart’s Castle of the Rock. He had become a good friend and wanted to say farewell. He brought a poem with him, which had been circulating in England for a while. It had been written by Geoffrey of Vinsauf, a Norman poet and a monk at St Frideswide’s Priory in Oxford.
When Lord Roger read it to us, we wept openly. It said everything that could be said about our friend, the noble Lionheart.
John Lackland, the fifth son of Henry Plantagenet, was crowned King of England at Westminster on 27 May 1199. His reign was not a happy one. He presided over the loss of Normandy to Philip of France and the decline of the Plantagenet Empire beyond the Channel.
He was vain and vindictive, and was disliked by his senior magnates and by his subjects. His relationships with the Celtic kings and princes of Ireland, Scotland and Wales suffered greatly, leading him to trust no one and to harbour petty jealousies.
In the year 1212, his inability to inspire affection, as well as the huge taxes he had to levy to pay for his campaigns against the French, led to a revolt by his senior lords, which flung England into chaos.
By then, our good friend, Roger de Lacy, had died. But his son, John de Lacy, the Eighth Earl, had become very close to us; we thought of him as our grandson. Although he was still just twenty years old, he was one of England’s most respected young lords and a leader of the revolt against King John.
Three years later, the rebels had brought the King to his knees and he agreed to settle with them on their terms. Although I was sixty-four years old, when John de Lacy asked me to travel with him to witness the ceremonial confirmation of the agreement between the King and his lords, I was honoured to do so. It was especially appealing as young John was one of the twenty-five lords charged with making sure the King kept to the terms of the settlement.
The deed was signed in the presence of all the magnates of England in a water meadow next to the Thames, at Runnymede, close to William the Conqueror’s fortress at Windsor. It was called the Great Charter of the Liberties of England.
When its terms were read, my heart swelled with pride.
Much of what Hereward and his rebels had fought for at Ely 140 years before, as well as the hopes of his Brotherhood and the dreams of his daughter’s Brethren, had come to pass.
Its principles were based on the Charter of Liberties that Edgar the Atheling had been instrumental in creating for the coronation of Henry I, in 1101.
In the Great Charter, King John agreed to accept that, like any man, he was subject to the law of the land and that all men had the protection of the law, even against a king, if that king’s actions were judged by the law to be cruel or oppressive.
As King John affixed his seal to the Great Charter, I looked at John de Lacy. He was a handsome young warrior. I thought of Hereward at the same age, of Earl Harold and all the others. They would now be content in their resting places; their journey was over, their ambitions fulfilled.
I made my way back to the north to bring the news to Negu. Our journey would also come to an end soon, but we would face it with joy in our hearts.
(Entries are listed alphabetically according to the name most often used in the novel.)
The Ayyubid dynasty was a Muslim dynasty founded by Saladin. It ruled much of the Middle East during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
After the death of Saladin, his sons contested control over the sultanate, but Saladin’s brother, Saphadin, eventually established himself as Sultan, in 1200.
Through the stormy years of King John’s reign, Baldwin occupied himself with running both his extensive estates in England. He died in October 1212 at Burstwick in Yorkshire, and was buried in the chapter house at Meaux Abbey, of which nothing now remains.
Berengere never visited England during King Richard’s lifetime, but she probably did so following his death. She also sent envoys to England to enquire about the pension she was due as Richard’s widow, which King John failed to pay. Although Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine intervened and Pope Innocent III threatened John with an interdict if he did not pay, King John still owed her more than ?4,000 when he died. However, during the reign of his son, Henry III of England, her payments were made.
Berengere eventually settled in Le Mans and became a benefactress of the abbey of L’Epau in Le Mans. She died, in 1230, at the age of sixty-five. Her skeleton was rediscovered during the restoration of the abbey, in 1960. The remains are preserved beneath the stone effigy of the Queen, to be found in the chapter house of the abbey.
