Stewart Binns - Anarchy

‘Thank you, sire.’

‘I have one final thought: before we left, I remember looking towards the north-west and saying to Prince John that I would like to go to England one day. Your grandfather had spoken very eloquently of the Wodewose of England’s wildwoods. Would you like to go back to your grandfather’s eyrie to see if the Wodewose protects his grave?’

‘I would indeed, sire.’

‘I will arrange for an escort for you – local men from the Peloponnesian theme. They will take you to the Governor of Messene, Basil of Nemea. He is a good man and will give you a guide to take you up the mountain. I hope Leo of Methone is still there. He will be able to tell you much more about your grandfather’s life.’

‘Sire, I am most grateful to you. Your kindness is more than generous.’

‘Not at all. Thanks to your grandfather, I came to understand what courage and wisdom mean – and that they have to be earned.’

‘Indeed, sire, my journey is only just beginning.’

‘I’m sure it will be a successful one. When you get to your grandfather’s resting place, the grave is not marked, but it is easy to find. You will see a small plateau in front of the rocks against which he built his shelter, and over by the lake a semi-circle of rocks breaking the ground, where we sat to hear his story. To the right of that, three strides away, is a hollow big enough for a man; that is where he lies. Give him my warmest greetings when you get there.’

‘And mine’, added John Azoukh.

‘I will, sire.’

‘One more thing, Harold of Hereford.’

The Emperor handed me a small casket.

‘My father gave you a small dowry when you were a child. This is for your child – it is the least I can do for a family that has meant so much to my own family. When your child becomes the Guardian of the Talisman, he or she will need it. And remember, you and your family will always be welcome here.’

I knelt, kissed the imperial ring of John Comnenus, and bowed deeply to Prince John Azoukh.

As the two men left, I reflected that I had met earls, princes and doges, then kings and now an emperor. What next? I wondered as Eadmer and I were escorted out of the Blachernae.

John Comnenus had provided a small troop of Peloponnesian escorts – twelve good men, well armed and immaculately turned out – and we sailed for Messene, a port on the south coast of the Peloponnese.

My grandfather had chosen one of the most remote places in the Empire for his retirement refuge. He had led the Varangian Guard in a great victory against the Pechenegs at Levunium in 1091, after which he was garlanded through the streets of Constantinople. He was fifty-five years old by then and his many injuries, scars and broken bones were getting the better of his ageing body. His eyesight was not as keen as it once was, and his reactions were slowing. Alexius wanted to award Hereward a huge pension and vast estates in gratitude for his faithful service. He refused the offer, content with a modest casket of silver and a small plot of land in the western Peloponnese that was entirely virgin territory, almost all of which comprised Mount Foloi – a heavily wooded, rugged mountain with commanding views to the west and out to sea.

Some fifty miles north from Messene, it was both a picturesque and nostalgic journey. We crossed hills thick with forests of pine and deep river valleys that trickled water down to the sea in summer but were torrents in the winter. Of all the family shrines I had visited – whether the several in England or the family graves in the Lot – this was the last and most important.

When we arrived at the little church in the clearing at the foot of the mountain, it was just as my mother had described it: a plain stone chapel at the edge of a glade with small round windows, a solid oak door and a simple wooden hut behind the nave for the resident priest.

Governor Basil had given us a man who knew the mountains well. He told us that Leo of Methone was still in residence, but that he was now quite old and not as much in control of his faculties as he had once been. We called out for him. Our escort dismounted and began to scour the church and its surroundings for the priest.

After a few minutes, Leo appeared from the woods with his head covered in fine muslin. He was carrying several honeycombs, and muttering to himself.

‘Honey – good for an old man’s digestion!’

I walked up to him and offered my hand, but the old man walked straight past me.

‘Good evening, Father. I am Harold of Hereford–’

I decided not to continue, as it was obvious that the old priest was unaware of my presence.

‘Mixed with a little wine, makes me sleep.’

He then paused and walked away, back towards the woods he had come from, still gabbling at no one in particular.

‘Pretty little bees, don’t sting Father Leo. Pretty little bees…’

He was met by two local women, who took him tenderly by the arm and led him towards his simple wooden shelter. One of them looked as muddled as the old priest, while the other had the appearance of a witch, with long grey hair halfway down her back. She spoke bluntly to me.

‘Don’t mind him. He’s a holy man, just a bit confused.’

‘I understand. Please take good care of him. We are going to the top of Mount Foloi – we just thought we would tell Father Leo.’

‘He won’t mind. Help yourself, but it’s a big climb. An old man from the far north used to live up there – a hermit, a man as big as a house, with scars on his scars. People say it’s haunted. No one goes up there any more.’

‘So I believe. We just want to survey the summit; the Governor may want to build a lookout there.’

‘Suit yourself. But beware, these hills are sacred places; the oak forests over there are the home of centaurs and sprites. You should stay away from there, not even imperial troops can protect you from the mighty creatures. The sprites will lure you with pretty girls, but they belong to the centaurs who will hunt you down with arrows as long as a man.’

‘What happened to the old hermit?’

‘They say that a few years ago some imperial troops, like these men, came here and killed him because he was a necromancer who was riding with the centaurs and frightening the locals.’

Leaving the local women and a bewildered Leo of Methone in our wake, we made steady progress up Mount Foloi until, late in the day, we reached the flat top of the mountain. Everything that I had been told about my grandfather’s special place was true. Even at dusk, far to the west, it was possible to see the sparkling iridescence of the Mediterranean. We seemed to be far above the clouds, and yet the air was only a little cooler than the boiling heat of the hot summer’s day we had left lower down.

It was August 1127: how many scorching days like this did my grandfather endure? Perhaps he enjoyed them – after all, he had suffered far worse on his many campaigns for the Emperor. But what of the winter? At that height, abundant snows must have fallen on his modest shelter, and the nights must have been as cold as the frozen wastes of Hibernia. But he was used to that – he had survived winters in the icy Pennines and even led a campaign against William, Conqueror of the English, in the depths of one of England’s harshest winters.

True to the Emperor’s words, no trace of human occupation could be seen. The mountain looked as it must have done when Hereward first saw it: remote, tranquil and spellbindingly beautiful. If it was haunted, it was possessed by benign spirits. Perhaps the Wodewose, our Green Man of legend, did keep watch over England’s fallen hero?

I could see all the places John Comnenus described and easily found the hollow where my grandfather’s body lay. I approached it with some trepidation, like a pilgrim reaching his destination after years of steadfast travelling. We made camp and, while our escort busied themselves, I sat and stared at my grandfather’s resting place.