Senlac Ridge. Not only that, the date was the 28th of September 1106, forty years to the day since William’s army had first set foot on English soil at Pevensey Beach.
This time, Beaumont was on the right flank of the King of England, whose wife was English, whose heir was called Atheling, and whose army contained thousands of English foot soldiers; and he was facing a fight to the death with the Duke of Normandy and his Norman army. Over the years, we had witnessed many strange paradoxes in England. Now we were witnessing another one in Normandy.
Robert did not make a speech before the battle. For the first time in his reign, he raised the baculus of his Viking ancestors high above his head and bellowed, ‘For Normandy!’
Robert’s simple but powerful war cry fortified our men, and Henry’s first attack was held — but at a fearful price. A second onslaught followed and then a third, until our numbers had been significantly reduced. The battle had raged for less than an hour and already our lines had become ragged and breached in several places. Then Henry unleashed a sustained cascade of arrows into our ranks, causing yet more confusion and heavy losses.
Robert was already in the thick of the fighting, with Sweyn, Hugh Percy and I taking positions to protect his rear and sides, when disaster struck. Robert of Belleme, thinking that the day was lost, turned and fled, leaving our right flank completely exposed.
Henry grasped the opportunity immediately.
He committed his cavalry and ordered Count Helias to charge, letting loose a horde of knights from Normandy’s neighbours who had many scores to settle.
Our position was hopeless.
Sweyn turned to Robert and shouted at him, ‘We are being overrun; let us get you away before it’s too late.’
Hugh Percy and I beckoned to as many of Robert’s Sybilla Squadron as we could to form a cordon around him and escort him from the field, but he would have none of it.
‘We stand! No retreat!
Moments later, Hugh Percy was unhorsed when his mount took an arrow in its shoulder. He was then beaten to the ground with a huge spiked mace wielded by a Breton knight; he did not move, and seemed mortally wounded. Robert’s horse reared, tipping him off its back, and Sweyn and I dismounted to close ranks around him while the few survivors of his elite cavalry tried to shield us.
We were soon surrounded by a swarm of infantry and knights on horseback, their blades and lances raining blows down on us. I took a heavy blow to the top of my helmet, which brought a painful end to my role in the battle, rendering me unconscious for several minutes.
When I came round, Robert was on his knees with blood streaming down his left arm and face. He was one of only a few of our men left standing in what was a strange calm, disturbed only by the heavy breathing of the living and the moans of the dying.
I could not see Sweyn at first. But then I saw him sprawled in front of Robert, lifeless.
He had taken a Breton lance through his mail and deep into his chest. Blood was still pouring from his wound and forming a pool in the ground beneath him as Robert sank to his haunches and lifted his friend’s limp head on to his lap.
I moved to join them, but was again struck from behind, plunging me into darkness once more.
I never saw either of them again.
I was sent to the coast and put on a ship to England. My status as the Queen’s uncle saved my life, but I was banished from court, all my lands and money confiscated, save for a small allowance from the King, and I was required, under pain of death, to remain within the boundaries of Northumbria for the rest of my days.
William of Mortain was blinded on the King’s orders and confined within the Great Tower in London.
Robert was paraded around Normandy as Henry’s vassal, before being sent to England to be incarcerated at the King’s pleasure, first in Wareham Castle and then, for a while, in the custody of Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, with whom he got on well. When the King heard of this, he sent him to the much less pleasant environs of Cardiff Castle. Apparently, he was not mistreated or locked in a dungeon, but he was allowed no visitors or any communication with the outside world.
Sweyn, our handsome, brave and noble brother-in-arms, was left lying on the battlefield with Hugh Percy and so many other loyal men, to be stripped of their weapons, armour and clothes and left as carrion for the crows.
He had insisted that Hereward was still alive and found his hero, as he said he would; he had married Adela, so that she could fulfil her dream; and he had avenged Mahnoor’s murder. His exploits in the Holy Land were unsurpassed by even the bravest of the Crusaders, and his belief in the ethics of the Mos Militum made him a chivalrous knight of the highest order. His service to Robert and to me was faultless, and he had become a friend and confidant to us both. Perhaps, most importantly, in his brief love affair with Estrith, he had sired Harold, Hereward’s grandson, a boy who, one day, may continue the noble legacy of the children of Bourne.
36. Phantom in the Night
Sweyn’s death meant that our Brethren still had four living members, but it was unlikely that we would ever see one another again. So, what would our testament be? I have spent a lifetime reflecting on that, concluding that, in the end, it will be the scribes who decide.
The last part of my long story happened just a few months ago, when I had a visitor here at Ashgyll Force. In the intervening years I had heard about his mother’s death and had asked the monks at Durham to locate his whereabouts, as I needed to be sure that I could honour a promise I had made many years earlier. However, I had heard nothing in reply.
Then he appeared, like a phantom in the night. I was sound asleep, it must have been three in the morning, and I woke with a start. I could sense a presence in the room and froze, thinking that, at long last, Owain Rheged had tired of my presence and had come for me.
Then a deep, but gentle, voice spoke from the shadows.
‘Prince Edgar, don’t be concerned. I am Harold of Hereford.’
I peered into the darkness; the moon was bright and casting strange silhouettes. I called out to a figure sitting by the window.
‘You mean young Harry? Son of Estrith of Melfi and Sweyn of Bourne?’
‘Indeed, sire.’
‘Show yourself!’
‘I cannot, my anonymity is important to me. I need to tell you some things as a fellow member of the Brethren of the Blood and to obtain your blessing for what I have done and am about to do. My mother made me a full member of our Brethren when I came of age; she said you would be in agreement.’
‘I heard that your mother has died?’
‘Scarlet fever; it devastated Norwich while I was away. She was a wonderful mentor to me and told me all about the Brethren and your lives together. She was content with her lot, and her work meant everything to her. She took enormous pride in helping the great cathedral grow.’
‘Did she give you the casket?’
‘She did. That’s why I’m here — to thank you for the endowment and the gift of land, and also to seek your permission. Duke Robert is still in Cardiff Castle and no one can see him. You and I are the only members of the Brethren at liberty, and I need your sanction.’
‘If I think what you are doing furthers the cause of the Brotherhood of St Etheldreda and our Brethren, then you will have it.’
‘I haven’t got much time. I leave for Constantinople and the Peloponnese as soon as the winds are favourable. My mother told me where my grandfather’s mountain eyrie is. I am going to see it, to spend some time and reflect there. I am sure he is long dead and buried, but I want to be sure he is properly in the ground. I am also going to see the new Emperor, John II, to thank him for his father’s very generous legacy. My mother told me he will give me the fabled Talisman of Truth.’
‘You don’t need my agreement for any of that.’
