Stewart Binns - Anarchy

But perhaps that’s heresy. I crave your indulgence, my friend, for the musings of an old priest; don’t tell your friends in the Vatican.

I enclose another bulletin for you. Harold’s story continues, and his destiny takes him to far-flung places. He has an important pilgrimage to make, back to Hereward’s mountain lair in the Peloponnese. His journey there will reaffirm his stubborn streak of Englishness – he is a tenacious young man! – and enable him to close the circle of his family’s history.

When the dust of the desert began to settle, Eadmer and I began to talk once more about our future with the Order. Like me, he understood the life of a warrior, but when it became mixed with the passions of religious faith, he was at a loss to understand what was expected of him.

He was clear about our next move.

‘Let us retrieve our purse in Antioch, travel to Aquitaine to see if you can claim your family inheritance, and then journey home to Norwich. You could buy an estate for your mother to retire to – and I could buy a farm and settle down.’

‘Eadmer, I doubt that you will ever settle down. But if you do, I wager it won’t be for many years yet.’

Our discussions about the future continued through the summer of 1124, a period that passed without incident, during which we spent most of our time training new recruits to the Order. Then, in August, we were called to the King’s Great Hall in Jerusalem to meet with Hugh de Payens, the other founding members of the Order and a few of the recent senior recruits. The King presided over the meeting, but it was the Grand Master who did all the talking.

‘Brothers, I have some excellent news. His Majesty King Baldwin II, Lord of Jerusalem, has agreed to join our Order as an honorary lay member. He will not take the same vows, but he has pledged his lifelong support to us and to our mission.’

There was applause from all the brothers. Ceremonial embraces were exchanged with the King before Hugh continued.

‘I am also honoured to tell you that our Order has reached the second stage of its life – our coming of age. Where we were once a handful, we are now a legion. We cannot any longer rely on the generosity of the King’s Exchequer; we must earn our own way in life. Godfrey will stay here to continue our work in the Holy Land, but I will travel to Rome to seek recognition from His Holiness and be granted the honour of being placed under his direct authority.’

I glanced at the King at that point and saw him move uneasily in his chair.

‘The rest of you will travel throughout Europe to build our own Templar foundations and communities. We need land, we need money, we need weapons and armour – we need to be independent and in charge of our own destinies. Find benefactors; recruit lords and bishops to our cause; build churches, farms and granaries; train churchwrights, artisans and craftsmen who can create homes for our brothers to live in and chapels for them to worship in. We will function like the great monasteries – they will be our model.’

The Grand Master looked at us all with the intensity that was his mark. It was as if he was the Saviour himself sending his fishermen disciples to be ‘fishers of men’.

‘Do this in the name of our Brotherhood, The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ of the Temple of Solomon. Amen.’

Eadmer and I had been given our passage out of the Holy Land – without having to confront our problems with the Order or examine our increasing misgivings over the behaviour of our leader.

We tried not to leave in too much haste. But within a few days we had made our way to Antioch where, in clear breach of our code, we retrieved our money from the moneylenders. We packed away our Templar’s garb and sat in one of the city’s many taverns in the lee of its walls and enjoyed a flask of Cypriot wine.

We were unsure how to deal with the task with which we had been charged – especially as the Grand Master expected that I would concentrate on spreading the Templar gospel to England. Given that we had already determined to travel to Aquitaine to visit my grandfather’s family home in the Lot, we agreed that a decision about our future as Templars could wait for a while. We bought new clothes and armour – more befitting chivalrous warriors of some standing – and set sail for Narbonne, following in the footsteps of my family.

In Narbonne, we bought sturdy Norman destriers from a trader with stables in the shadow of the Cathedral of St Justus and St Pastor, then headed north and west via Carcassonne to Toulouse. It was late September and the first autumn rains had freshened Aquitaine’s parched earth following a long hot Mediterranean summer. The fields were full of peasants harvesting the black grapes of the countless vineyards, and gathering the prune plums for which the region was renowned.

But there were also many abandoned farms and deserted villages, and we had frequent encounters with soldiers in full armour travelling along the roads. We soon learned that Toulouse and Poitiers had been at war for several years and that, after recent success, the Count of Toulouse had now turned his attention to a confrontation with Provence.

I thought about home. Although England had to live with the heavy hand of Norman rule, at least it was at peace. Life was far from pleasant for many, and the Normans were still harsh foreign rulers; nevertheless, they brought order and security, something I felt sure the good people of Aquitaine would relish in their current circumstances. I remained committed to the cause of England’s freedom, but realized that any future struggle for the rightful heritage of our people would come at a high price. The Normans had been there too long; their fortifications were too powerful; their presence was permanent; and the outcome of any future fight for justice would have to involve an unlikely compromise that accommodated the Norman minority as well as the English majority. In some ways, I was relieved that any potential conflict seemed to be a distant prospect.

Toulouse was one of Europe’s leading centres of money-lending and finance. Counts, kings and popes would raise money there, and traders would travel from all over the region to its thriving markets. The usurers were easy to find – mainly Jews or Lombards, they occupied both sides of the main street leading to the Cathedral of St Sernin.

Our promissory note bore the name ‘Jakob il Ebreo di Siena’. It was dated and promised in the name of ‘Edwin of Glastonbury’ – my grandfather’s standard-bearer and member of his extended family, who was killed in battle on the Great Crusade. Everyone in Toulouse seemed to know Jakob the Jew of Siena and we were soon sitting at his exchange table as he unfolded our note.

He did not speak for a long while. A man of some age, with a long white beard and shock of hair under his kippa hat and long robe, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper as he held the faded piece of vellum to the light.

When he finally spoke, his accent betrayed his roots in the County of Tuscany.

‘This is a lot of geld, my friend. But you are not Edwin of Glastonbury. I remember him well; he was a fair young Englishman. Are you his son?’

‘No, I am Harold of Hereford, the son of Sweyn of Bourne – a sworn brother of Edwin. He and my family had an estate near Cahors, at a place called St Cirq Lapopie. It originally belonged to my grandfather, Hereward of Bourne.’

‘I know the estate well, and the famous English family who owned it. The estate has been sold several times since Edwin came to me and is now abandoned again…’

The old man paused, sensing an opportunity. His eyes widened.

‘Perhaps you would like to buy it and return it to prosperity. You have more than enough money here.’