first to turn away, scurrying back into the city to hide her tears.
Our small quartet of brothers-in-arms was now a tiny trio: Edwin was losing a son, if a surrogate one; Adela a husband, if in name only; and I was losing a good friend I had grown to admire enormously.
It was October 1085, a time of year that always reminded me of the autumn days around Senlac Ridge. I was only a boy at the time, but my memories are so clear. I was at Westminster when I heard the news of the catastrophic defeat and of King Harold’s death. I knew the Witan would want to proclaim me King — a terrifying thought, because I knew they would abandon me as soon as William got close to London.
Nineteen years had passed since those tempestuous days, but it seemed like many more.
Mahnoor was about the same age as I had been then. I was excited for her; she had made a brave choice to find her own way in life — something circumstances had compelled me to do — but I was concerned for her too; she was so young and naive, with a cruel and vengeful father to hide from.
16. Vengeance
Throughout the winter of 1085 and well into the spring of the following year, there was little of consequence to reflect on in Count Roger’s Sicily. Two more Muslim enclaves embraced Roger’s offer to join his enlightened domain and negotiations, rather than military campaigns, began with Noto and Enna, the last two emirates to resist.
The only incident of note occurred when Suleiman returned from Messina to find his daughter gone. His rage knew no bounds and both Mahnoor’s bodyguards disappeared — consigned, it was said, to a watery grave in Palermo Bay.
Fortunately, by the time the notorious merchant came to see me about two weeks later, accompanied by three unsavoury characters armed to the teeth, he had regained sufficient composure to be civil — at least, to start with.
‘What do you know about the disappearance of my daughter?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’
‘She has been kidnapped by one of your knights. I expect a ransom demand any day now.’
Edwin stepped forward, with Adela close behind.
‘May I remind you that you are addressing a prince of the royal blood?’
‘You may, but it makes no difference to me — let’s put all pretence to one side. One of my daughter’s servant girls finally confessed that she had been talking to an English knight. It didn’t take me long to find out how they had been meeting, and the silk merchant told me what I wanted to know very quickly — I own his premises. So, I require an explanation.’
‘Then you will have it. Sweyn — a Knight of Islam, dubbed by Ibn Hamed, Emir of Calatafimi, and a Knight of Christendom, dubbed by Roger, Count of Normandy — and your daughter Mahnoor are very much in love and have left Sicily to find a life for themselves.’
‘You lie! She would never leave willingly. He must have persuaded her to see him alone, then taken her against her will. Where is she?’
Edwin went for his sword, as did Adela. Suleiman’s three henchmen responded in kind. I raised my hand, signalling Edwin to desist, and tried to keep my poise.
‘What I’ve told you is all I know. The same facts are known to the Count and the Emir. They left with the blessing of both of them.’
‘I know, I have asked them. You lied to them too. You are protecting him. Where has he taken Mahnoor?’
‘I don’t know — and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. If Mahnoor wanted you to know, she would have told you.’
‘I will find her, with or without your help. I hold you responsible, and when I have found them and dealt with them, I will return here and deal with you.’
Edwin drew his sword in an instant and held it under the chin of the nearest of Suleiman’s minders. This allowed Adela to grasp the Saracen merchant around the neck and press her seax to his throat just below his left jawbone.
‘There is no bone between here and your brain. At the right angle, and with almost no pressure, I can make the entire length of this blade disappear into your head. You’ll be dead before you can utter a sound.’
Suleiman was a large man bedecked in gold and precious gems and wearing a fine pale-blue, silk-lined kaftan, tied at the waist with a black sash. His beard was oiled and combed into tight curls. On his head he wore a matching embroidered blue Imamah turban, wound over a skull cap, with its tail hanging under his chin and over his shoulder to finish halfway down his back. He began to sweat but stayed calm.
‘You should be on my side. Isn’t this kidnapper your husband?’
‘Our marriage was over a long time ago, and he goes with my blessing too. He has my loyalty and respect, as does your daughter, and I don’t like you threatening them, or Prince Edgar.’
‘I’ve met your type before, neither man nor woman; they have them as a novelty in the whorehouses in Alexandria. It must be interesting to be able to give pleasure like a man and take it like a woman.’
Adela pressed the tip of her blade hard against Suleiman’s throat, which began to bleed. She then flexed her muscles, as if about to strike, and hissed into his ear.
‘Don’t tempt me, you fat pig. I have also met your type before, and nothing would give me more pleasure than killing you here and now.’
The intensity of Adela’s threat made me shudder and, I am sure, convinced Suleiman that she meant it. She pulled away, drew her sword and joined Edwin in standing sentinel in front of Suleiman’s men.
The Saracen took a couple of deep breaths and got to his feet.
‘This is not over. I will be back.’
Another year passed in the service of the Count, during which — for a while, at least — our habits were in stark contrast: Adela continued her relentless regime to achieve martial perfection, whereas Edwin and I both spent too much time cavorting with dusky young maidens who kept us amused during the balmy Sicilian nights.
To counter the ills of too much good wine and food, we sometimes joined Adela in her exacting routines. When it became clear that her skills, strength and health were improving, and ours were in rapid decline, we decided to be more temperate in our approach to life’s pleasures and more diligent in our devotion to duty. Life was still good and we enjoyed ourselves, but we were more disciplined and used Adela’s impressive regime as an inspiration.
However, in the autumn of 1086 matters in Normandy and England loomed prominently in our lives once more. It was October and I had — as always, when the leaves began swirling to the ground — been thinking of Senlac Ridge. It was now a full twenty years since the battle, but it was no distant memory. Like every Englishman, I thought about it constantly; every day brought fresh reminders of how irrevocably things had changed and how so many of our kin were unable to witness them because they lay rotting in the ground.
It was on typically Sicilian autumn day, warm and sunny with a fresh breeze off the sea, that a messenger from Count Robert in Normandy arrived in Palermo. He brought news of dramatic developments to the north. King William was still not at peace with his neighbours, or with himself. He was still tireless in pursuit of his enemies and in his determination to establish a unique legacy in history.
The King held sway over a huge domain that extended from the heartland of France in the south to his lordship of Malcolm Canmore’s Scotland in the far north. I had been wondering whether, like his predecessor on the English throne, Cnut the Great — King of England and most of Scandinavia, who had hankered after the title ‘Emperor of the North’ — a similar accolade should be applied to William. Even now that he was approaching sixty, his warrior spirit still burned as brightly as it had done when, as a boy-duke half a century ago, he first wielded a sword.
The Danes were being particularly restless and threatening a huge invasion, while William was still fighting to retain control of Maine. To meet the challenge of the Danes, he had, we were told, undertaken a great audit of England to find every piece of land, each property of substance and all potential taxpayers, English or Norman, in order to fund an army the scale of which had never been seen before. The inventory was likened to the imperial
