Stewart Binns - Anarchy

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Anarchy: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Anarchy
The Making of England
Ruthless brutality, greed and ambition:
The year is 1186, the thirty-second year of the reign of Henry II.
Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London, has lived through long Henry’s reign and that of his grandfather, Henry I. He has witnessed the terrifying civil war between Henry II’s mother, the Empress Matilda, and her cousin, Stephen; a time so traumatic it becomes known as the Anarchy.
The greatest letter writer of the 12th Century, Folio gives an intimate account of one of England’s most troubled eras. Central to his account is the life of a knight he first met over fifty years earlier, Harold of Hereford.
Harold’s life is an intriguing microcosm of the times. Born of noble blood and legendary lineage, he is one of the nine founders of the Knights Templar and a survivor of the fearsome battles of the Crusader States in the Holy Land.
Harold is loyal warrior in the cause of the Empress Matilda. On his broad shoulders, Harold carries the legacy of England’s past and its dormant hopes for the future.
Stewart Binns’
is a gripping novel in the great tradition of Conn Iggulden and Bernard Cornwell, and is the third in
trilogy, following
and
.

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I spent over an hour there reflecting on my heritage. It was an eerie place for me. Norwich was one of the largest burghs in the realm and I had lived right in its heart in the cathedral precincts. Alone, deep in an almost impenetrable wildwood, surrounded by the ghosts of my ancestors, I began to realize why my mother had suggested my itinerary. There was something unsettling about the wildwood – it seemed challenging, putting me on my guard – but it was an emotion to draw strength from, to meet the challenge, not a feeling of which I should be afraid. Many people thought that when the wind blew, making the trees groan and their leaves shrill, it was the Green Man talking to them. I listened hard. It was not a threatening voice, though certainly primordial, but soothing, reminding me that it was ageless, like nature itself.

Our next port of call was Pennard Hill near Glastonbury. I left my men in the burgh and rode east. My mother’s map was easy to follow and precisely accurate, as I had known it would be. The glade was also just as she had described it: an idyllic natural dene flanked by tall oaks, limes and elms. From its edge it was just possible to glimpse the ancient Tor of Glastonbury.

The two oaks in the centre marked the resting places of my grandmother Torfida and my mother’s twin sister, Gunnhild. The older tree, planted fifty years ago, was already over seventy feet tall, the smaller one at least fifty feet in height. It was a chastening thought to imagine that the two trees had once been tiny saplings. I spent two nights camped in the glade between the pair of oak trees, thinking about the two women and drawing strength from what they had endured and achieved. Like the people of Bourne, both women had died in pain, but their resting place was strikingly tranquil. They were now far removed from their suffering, and I found that calmed my anxieties.

Hereward had always said that Torfida was a seer like her father. I hoped it was true and that, from her grave, she would be able to imbue me with some of her wisdom. I carved my own personal tribute into the two trunks of the trees, in honour of Torfida’s precious memory. I wrote in Latin, something I knew my grandmother would appreciate – my mother had taught me Latin, just as Torfida had taught her. On Gunnhild’s I carved: Aeternum vale (Farewell Forever), and on Torfida’s: Non est ad astra mollis e terris via (There is no easy way from the earth to the stars).

My next task was more of a challenge. My mother had always wondered where the remote home of the Old Man of the Wildwood might have been. After assimilating everything she had been told by both Hereward and Torfida, she calculated that the spot was two miles due north-west of a milestone on the Fosse Way, sixteen miles from Cirencester, in an area known as Chedworth Wood. Even with this precision, it was a very large area of forest to search. So when I left my men in Cirencester, I told them not to expect me for some time.

When he was banished by King Edward, my grandfather had to forage in the wildwood with no tools, weapons or provisions. So, following in his footsteps, when I arrived in Chedworth I tethered my horse and sallied forth in the clothes I stood up in with just a seax in my belt.

The first few days were full of activity, as I made a camp, built some shelter and found food and water. My military training with the Earl of Norfolk was invaluable; without it, I would not have survived. Once I became settled and felt secure, I began to plan my search.

Drawing on my mother’s inestimable wisdom, I found elevated ground and climbed high into its tallest trees so that I could begin to plot the lie of the land. That took me several days. I then began my search by pacing the large plots of ground I had organized into squares on my ground plan. Despite all my diligence, the exercise was tedious. I had to put my faith in my mother’s research and instincts. But two weeks into my quest, just when my enthusiasm was waning rapidly, I found what I was looking for.

It was as it had been described to me: a small, natural meadow with a fast-flowing stream running through it. At the edge of the meadow, hard against a stony outcrop, were the unmistakable remains of a man-made stone hearth. Little else was visible, other than a few bits of rotting timber that had once supported a lean-to and a few rusty old iron implements half hidden in the ground, more of which emerged as I trampled the undergrowth over the following days.

I stayed in the Old Man of the Wildwood’s lea for over a week. I set traps and strung rabbits, just like he must have done. I lit fires and roasted my game, as he would have. At night I listened to the wind and the noises of the forest. I tried to imagine the violent storm when he first appeared just yards from Hereward, a fateful meeting that my grandfather had described to my mother in vivid flashes of memory. I thought about their long and profound conversations together, enfolded in the heart of the wildwood. It was a calming and reflective experience, one that I will never forget.

Did my pilgrimage to my family’s burial grounds fundamentally change me? Did I feel the presence of the Green Man, or understand what he represents? Did I absorb any of the wisdom of the Old Man himself? The answer to all of those questions is probably, ‘Yes, a little.’

But what I certainly found was a strong sense of humility. I felt meek in the face of the power and complexity of the natural world that surrounds us, and humbled by the memories of the deeds of my family. Most importantly, I understood that from humility comes strength – something that now dawned on me for the first time in my life. I realized that trying not to be overawed by things that we ought to find daunting is an arrogance that leads to weakness. Having a real sense of one’s own frailties and anxieties, and knowing how to deal with them, is the solid foundation of courage and strength.

I was reminded of the five abiding truths embodied by the Talisman, truths that my mother had repeated to me over and over again but which I was only now beginning to understand: the need for discipline, to control the darkness within us; the value of humility, to know that only God can work miracles: the basis of courage, to overcome our fears and anxieties; the purpose of sacrifice, to forfeit ourselves for God and for one another; and the power of wisdom, to understand the Talisman itself and not to fear it.

My passion for my homeland also became stronger through my vigils at the graves of my family in their resting places. Even though I admired the great cathedral of Norwich, and all the other Norman architectural triumphs being built all over England, they were not part of my heritage. My heritage was the fens, heaths and forests of old Saxon England and the uplands of our Celtic cousins.

In the Old Man of the Wildwood’s glade, time stood still; not even mighty cathedrals and colossal mottes and baileys will stand the test of time like nature itself. As I reflected on that, my ambition to preserve our folk heritage and protect our ancient liberties, just as my family had done, was made steadfast.

Conscious that I alone was the inheritor of that tradition, I had found the responsibility overwhelming just a few weeks ago in Norwich, but now I was reinvigorated to realize that I could find a way to make my contribution to England’s future.

I was now ready to collect my men from Cirencester and begin the search for my own destiny.

~

Fulham Palace, 6 October 1186

Dear Friend,

Thank you for your letter, which arrived yesterday. The politics of Rome leave a lot to be desired – I don’t envy you. I’m glad my packages offer some welcome distraction; I hope your life continues to prosper and the politics of Mother Church are not too distressing. All is calm here, except for the usual tensions between York and Canterbury. The Bishop of Rouen often asks me to act as intermediary – not easy, as I’m sure you know.

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