Stewart Binns - Anarchy

‘So how do we get an answer to our messages?’

‘Ah, that’s easy – homing pigeons!’

‘What are those?’

‘The crusaders learned how to train pigeons from the Muslims; they have a postal service in many of their cities. Pigeonmen keep flocks in London, and I’m sure they will have them in Angers. All Lothar and Eadmer have to do is find a pigeonman and hire one of his birds in a basket. If he leaves the bird with your message outside the palace, the bird has a pouch on its leg for the reply. When released, it will always fly back to the pigeonman’s home nest, where our men will be waiting. In that way, they can stay clear of capture.’

‘How clever! But how do the birds know their way home?’

‘I don’t know – but they always fly home.’

‘You are a resourceful man, Hal. What would I do without you?’

Matilda leaned over to me, kissed me warmly on the cheek, and then skipped back to the farmhouse like a young girl.

Eadmer was right; the situation was becoming yet more complicated. Not only had I devoted myself to Matilda’s cause, but I knew then that I was in very real danger of falling in love with her.

The next day, while Matilda wrote her messages, I briefed Lothar and Eadmer on their tasks.

Lothar was dubious; he had never heard of carrier pigeons. But like the loyal man he was, he just accepted his task dutifully.

Eadmer was more belligerent.

‘The King will be as angry as a snake in a sack. Two years! Is she mad? What are we going to do with her for two years? Don’t answer that… I know what you’d like to do with her!’

‘Don’t tease me, Eadmer. She is our future Queen! There is no possibility of anything between us.’

‘I’ll wager good money that she’ll be in your bed when I get back! I’ve seen the way she looks at you – and the way you look at her. But what concerns me now is a much more important point – my own safety. I’d better have a way out of London and a safe port to depart from. If the King delays his reply to Matilda’s message, he could use the time to seal London and have the ports watched.’

‘I know. I’m sorry I have to ask you to do this. Try to get a pigeonman outside the walls – perhaps in Southwark – and cross the Channel far to the west. Devon might be a good idea. And you could travel south through Brittany, even sail to Aquitaine from there. If the King puts out an alert in Normandy, and Geoffrey does the same in Maine and Anjou, an overland route might be dangerous.’

‘I think you’re right about the route; it’s good advice. I’ll be careful.’

I was relieved that Eadmer was taking my advice seriously. But then he started grinning at me.

‘But what about my wager?’

‘Enough! Take care and come home safely, old friend. I hope to see you again before the summer.’

Lothar and Eadmer left early the next morning. It would be a long and hazardous journey for them – and a long wait for Matilda and me. As I watched them wind their way down the track to the bottom of the valley, I thought about Eadmer’s provocative wager.

In fact, I had been thinking about little else. I had spurned the advances of a beautiful aristocrat once before, and I did not intend making the same mistake again. I made the conscious decision that I would be guided by Matilda’s feelings for me, rather than by mine for her.

If her feelings proved to be platonic, then so be it. But if they became amorous, then I would respond with as much passion as my mortal frame would lend me.

Fulham Palace, 30 May 1187

Dear Thibaud,

Another Sabbath has gone, and another service missed at St Paul’s. I thought the warmth of spring would ease my aches and pains, but alas, no. My scriptorium is cool. I am now wheeled in there every day, as I find it almost impossible to walk.

Anyway, I digress; let us return to Harold of Hereford. This latest bulletin contains the most incendiary part of the tale – the morsel that must, beyond all others, be buried deep in the Vatican’s vaults. I suspect the story of how baby Henry was sired will not prove to be the only example of its kind – whether within or outside the royal bedchamber. But enough of my treasonable musings! I suppose it is one of the few comforts when, at a great age and approaching God’s judgement, one is only answerable to Him and inclined to say what one thinks.

And yet, my friend, I cannot help wondering: how do we judge Harold? You have heard countless confessions, as I have. I’m relieved that Harold has not yet asked for absolution in telling his tale, but would you grant it? Perhaps, at the end, we will know more upon which to judge him. I have already started to pray for his soul.

I am working without respite to complete Hal’s story, much to the chagrin of my aides. I pray to Our Lord to give me the strength to complete my task, for my health is a worry to me. I fear I am in serious decline; pray for me.

Keep well, good friend.

The spring and early summer of 1129 in the Lot were hot and dry. There was no word from either Eadmer or Lothar, and St Cirq Lapopie had few visitors. Life on the estate continued harmoniously. I often looked out over the gorge and the river below, especially at sunset – just as my family must have done on so many occasions – and said to myself, ‘This is Heaven on Earth . ’

It was on such an evening in early May that Maud suddenly appeared behind me. She had been in a good mood all day, helping in the fields and playing with the children of the families on the estate. She no longer looked like an empress: she had the golden skin of the well-to-do wife of a landowner, who does not mind her complexion being darkened by the sun. Her hair had been bleached by the sun and her skin shone with the natural sheen of robust health. She was strikingly handsome before, but now I found her natural beauty more and more irresistible by the day.

When she spoke, her voice was tender and warm.

‘When do you expect them back?’

‘Lothar should be back by now. But Eadmer, not before the end of the month.’

‘I hope they come back with news that my father has disowned me and that my husband wants the marriage annulled. Then I can stay here!’

My heart raced, and I found it hard to speak without my voice trembling. I probably should not have said it, but I just blurted the words out.

‘Maud, that would be beyond my wildest dreams!’

Her face broke into one of her captivating smiles and she ran towards me with her arms outstretched.

‘Oh, Hal, I’m so happy here. What more could a woman want!’

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me passionately. In between hungry kisses, she gasped.

‘It has been so long… I can’t resist any longer… I’ve tried to remember my duty…’

I carried her inside the farmhouse and into her chamber, where Greta was tidying the room. When she saw us coming, she tried to curtsy but was so shocked that she only succeeded in falling over the bed. She excused herself and made a rapid exit.

Maud laughed out loud.

‘See, Greta, he does want me… I think that will be all for tonight!’

Greta giggled and attempted another curtsy, but Maud kicked the door closed before she could execute it.

‘So, my handsome Prince of the Lot, make this poor widow happy!’

We made love all night, only interrupted by a nocturnal dash down the hill to the river for a languorous bathe in its cool waters, after which we made love again on a small sandy inlet by the shore. Sleep brought a halt to our passion as, exhausted, we slumbered on the sand. We had run down the hill naked, so the chill of the night woke us, but not before dawn was glowing softly behind the Lot’s towering crags to the east. We were both shivering from the cold and clambered back up the hill, teasing each other and laughing like young lovers who have just enjoyed their first tryst.