Stewart Binns - Anarchy

‘Perhaps I will, but I think I would rather have the geld.’

Jacob the Jew handed the note back to me and passed a flask of wine across the table.

‘Let me go and get you a price. Drink some wine. I will only take the smallest of commissions, just a token amount.’

I did some thinking: our money from Antioch was already substantial, and it made good sense to safeguard our assets in land rather than carry money around. Also, I relished the thought of persuading my mother to retire from her labours in Norwich and live in a place that had meant so much to her father and her extended family. I made an impulsive decision, but one that was very appealing.

Jacob was back within thirty minutes. The wily old fox looked stern for a moment, then broke into a smile.

‘Listen, I will offer you a bargain. With the interest over the years, I owe you eleven pounds and sixteen shillings of silver. But I can get you the estate for seven bezants. So I will give you three bezants in gold and a pound of silver.’

‘And the rest?’

‘My commission, good sir.’

‘You said a token!’

‘It is a hard bargain, but I will add another six shillings.’

‘I’m sure you will also take a commission on the sale of the estate, so you should give me eight.’

‘It’s robbery of a poor old Jew of course, but as you are a worthy knight bringing money to Aquitaine, I’ll give you seven.’

I shook his hand.

I was never sure whether my impetuous investment was a bargain or a swindle, but it gave me a great sense of satisfaction to know that the home that had been so precious to my mother once more belonged to my family.

It took us over a week to reach St Cirq Lapopie, a place that my mother had described to me many times. She talked about the mighty River Lot meandering its way through a deep valley beneath high limestone crags. She told me about the rows upon rows of vines that yield the region’s famous black wine, its acres of plum trees and its endless forests of truffle oaks and walnuts. When we had finished the long climb from the valley floor, I surveyed the landscape that my family had fallen in love with all those years ago. It was indeed idyllic.

Eadmer and I spent the rest of 1124 and the early months of the following year rebuilding the derelict farmhouse and recruiting local peasants to work the fields. We cleared the ground around the graves of the family plot and carved headstones for each of them. It was hard toil, but worth it, as the estate gradually began to regain the prosperity it must have enjoyed in its heyday.

I decided to give Eadmer a share of the estate in recognition of our friendship. My loyal companion seemed content, despite the fact that he was born to be a soldier. He seemed to mellow in the warm climate of the Lot and began to sing to himself and write his own ballads. He had a good voice and learned many tunes from the local itinerant troubadours of the area.

We lived well, enjoyed good hunting, entertained some of the local girls from time to time and slowly began to master the local language. Ultimately, the temptation to make the Lot a permanent home became more and more real. Spring came and we began to see the fruits of our efforts. The earth warmed and nature sprouted in abundance.

The following year produced an even better harvest; by May of 1126, the estate was thriving as it must have done years ago. But then I began to think about my mother – especially knowing that she was nearing seventy years of age. If she was going to enjoy some time in the Lot, I needed to return to Norwich to persuade her to leave her beloved cathedral and retire to Aquitaine.

So, at the end of May 1126, I appointed a good man as manager of the estate, and Eadmer and I began the long journey north to England.

When we reached London, we heard interesting news. King Henry Beauclerc’s only surviving legitimate child, Matilda, who had been married off to Henry V, the Holy Roman Emperor, had just been widowed at the age of twenty-four. Although she remained childless, Henry had declared her his rightful successor. There was great excitement about the King’s declaration among the English population, and dormant pride in the lineage of the old English kings resurfaced.

Although Matilda was the granddaughter of William the Conqueror, her mother was Edith of Scotland. Through her grandmother, Margaret of Scotland, she was a direct descendant of Edmund Ironside and the niece of Edgar the Atheling, the true Cerdician heir to the English throne. Given that King Henry was approaching sixty years of age, there was thus the real prospect of a monarch on the throne at Westminster whose blood was at least half English.

We hurried to Norwich. During the entire journey, I sensed for the first time the very real possibility that I might be able to make a contribution to England’s future – just like my family before me. I had no clear vision of what form it would take, but the prospect was invigorating all the same.

My mood of euphoria evaporated as we approached Norwich. Instead of being busy with the traffic of traders, merchants and pilgrims, the road to Norwich suddenly became one long line of bedraggled humanity. And they were all moving away from the burgh.

‘Scarlet fever,’ was the short answer to our increasingly desperate questions. ‘Norwich is a graveyard.’

My anxieties intensified as soon as we reached the cathedral precincts. Our small house was locked, and the few masons who were still working at the cathedral confirmed that the fever had taken my mother a few weeks earlier. I was handed her churchwright’s tools and instruments and her drawings. I was also given a small handwritten note on vellum.

I took the note to the presbytery. I knew it would be a difficult message to read, and the presbytery was a special place for both of us. It was, after all, where she had helped me with personal doubts before my life’s journey began. The script was a little shaky – I imagined her distressed with fever as she wrote – but it was written with all the elegance of a master calligrapher.

I fear I will not survive this fever; perhaps when I was younger, but not now.

You will soon be the only one of our Brethren left. I hear that Duke Robert still lives, God bless him. I hope his gaolers treat him with kindness, for he is a good man.

I think Prince Edgar too is still alive. If he is, go to him; you will learn much from him. He lives an isolated life high in the hills of the north, but the monks at Durham know where he is. He never had children, and he always looked on you as a son – especially after your father died. Remember to thank him for the inheritance he gave you.

I hope you are reading this safely back in Norwich and that the destiny you were seeking has revealed itself to you. Live long and be happy. I pray that you will be granted the chance to make a difference in this life.

Remember me.

I felt the saltiness of my tears before I realized they had been streaming down my face for several minutes. I looked up and squinted at the ceiling bosses way above my head. I saw the one that my mother had said was modelled on her. Although I could not see it in any detail, I recalled it distinctly: a lissom naked wench cavorting with the Devil. It was how she wanted to be remembered – full of energy and without any inhibition – and I resolved that this was, indeed, how I always would remember her.

My mother’s letter had reminded me of the close ties of the Brethren and exhorted me to seek out Prince Edgar. And so, the next morning, we prepared to set off to the west to find the ancient road to York and beyond.

However, just before noon, horns and drums sounded the impending arrival of an important personage. Assuming it was the Earl or the Bishop, we carried on with our preparations. But moments later, voices started to be raised and amidst the hue and cry shouts could be heard.