Stewart Binns - Anarchy

I sensed danger. He was asking a question to which I felt certain he already knew the answer, so I avoided falling into his trap.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Before I answer that, I need to know your real purpose here.’

His expression was no longer a false smile, more an accusatory frown.

‘My purpose is as I described it to you yesterday – nothing more, nothing less.’

‘I see. I did not mention it to the Bishop last night, as I preferred to have this conversation with you first, but unless you are frank with me, I will have to express my concerns to him.’

‘And your concerns are?’

‘Well, my understanding, from an impeccable source, is that Harold of Hereford, son of Estrith of Bourne, later the Abbess of Fécamp, was conceived in the deserts of the Holy Land during the Great Crusade and that his father was the knight, Sweyn of Bourne.’

I was rooted to the spot, astonished that this stranger should know such intimate details about my life.

‘You need to explain yourself, Prior Roger. Where did you get that information?’

‘From a fellow member of a Brethren of which you must be the only survivor.’

I made a guess, clutching at a remote possibility.

‘Were you confessor to Robert Curthose in Cardiff?’

‘No, but that is a good surmise. I wasn’t exactly confessor to another man – but I was scribe to the man who was his confessor and chronicler.’

I knew then who it must be.

‘Prince Edgar?’

‘Yes, indeed. I was a scribe to William of Malmesbury before I came to Gloucester. In the winter of 1126, he and I travelled to Northumbria – to a godforsaken place called Ashgyll Force – to meet Edgar the Atheling. Abbot William persuaded the Prince to give us an account of his life, and it was my responsibility to commit it to vellum when we returned. It was a fulsome account, running to hundreds of pages, and – if I may say so – a most remarkable story.’

‘Well, Prior, then you know exactly who I am and the history of my family.’

‘I do. And also, from its description, I recognize the amulet around your neck. It is the Talisman of Truth. I also know that you visited the Prince just before we did.’

‘Very well, Prior, you have caught me in a lie. I am not King Henry’s illegitimate son, but I am the Earl of Huntingdon, anointed by the old King, and I do command the forces of Empress Matilda. The reasons for the falsehood are convoluted, and it is very important that you are not privy to them. Do you understand?’

‘I understand very well – and I suspect I will sleep easier in my bed if I remain ignorant of the circumstances to which you have alluded.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Now that we have dealt with that, may I interest you in a little excursion to Malmesbury? We have time before we must depart for Oxford, and there is a man there who would be delighted to meet you.’

After arranging with Bishop Roger to meet him in Oxford, Eadmer and I and our four men-at-arms travelled to Malmesbury with Prior Roger.

An ancient but small burgh, with the towering edifice of Malmesbury Abbey at its centre, its modest scale disguised its importance in the ecclesiastical world. Not only did the Abbey house the most important library in Europe – other than the Vatican Library in Rome – but it was also home to England’s most learned sage, the historian William of Malmesbury.

Looking exactly as you would expect a wise man to look – tall, slightly stooped, benign in countenance, eccentric in his mannerisms – he greeted us at the door of his scriptorium as if we were old friends. His eyesight was poor; he fumbled around a little before seating himself and asking us to do the same.

We spent the rest of the day, and well into the evening, exchanging stories and reminiscing about the life and times of England – and, in particular, the role my family had played in those events.

Eventually, he began to tire.

‘I must retire to my chamber. It is late.’

‘Thank you for your time, Abbot William.’

‘Not at all. Thank you, Earl Harold, I know so much about your family and now I’ve met another generation. They would be very proud of you, as would Prince Edgar.’

He got up to leave, but paused and looked at me with a despairing expression.

‘I am pleased that you came, but I know that your presence here in England is because you hope to promote the Empress Matilda’s cause. In that respect, I am sad. I think her cause is just, but the pursuit of her right to rule means civil war.’

England’s finest mind shuffled off to his bed looking disconsolate, leaving me to ponder the truth of what he had said. He was right: a war was coming. In fact, it had already begun – in Normandy and in Northumbria – and now it was about to be unleashed in England’s heartland.

Early the next morning, as we were about to leave for Oxford, Roger of Caen joined us for the journey, but under his arm, he carried a large wooden casket with a heavy bronze clasp.

‘Abbot William would like you to have this.’

‘He is very generous; it is a beautiful chest.’

‘Yes, but what is inside is even more noteworthy.’

I peered in. It contained a thick manuscript, beautifully written in Latin, in blackletter script, with the title ‘ De Vita Edgar, Princeps Anglia ’.

‘It is the story of the Prince – and of your mother and father and all their brethren – as told to us by him at Ashgyll. Keep it safe.’

I was overwhelmed.

‘I would like to thank Abbot William in person.’

‘There is no need; he is sleeping. He is happy that you should keep it. With a war coming, it should not be made public – it is safer with you. Now, let us go to Oxford.’

Over the next few days, I read Roger of Caen’s beautifully crafted account – almost without pause for sleep or food. It was a revelation. I was profoundly moved as all my mother’s stories and memories were once more brought to life in vivid detail. When I had finished, I placed my other precious pieces of vellum in the casket: John Comnenus’ record of my grandfather’s words of wisdom to him, the last thing my grandfather had said; and my mother’s letter, written to me on her deathbed.

I handed the casket to Eadmer.

‘We must guard this with our lives.’

Fulham Palace, 12 August 1187

Dear Thibaud,

It is glorious summer here; Fulham has never looked better and the river is full of people bathing and frolicking. Young lovers come to lie by its banks in the late evening.

I forbid my monks to spy on them, but many defy me. I’m too old to be tempted myself, but I do remember the time when I might have had a brief peek! Ah, to be young again…

We are coming to the part of Hal’s story in which I make an appearance. I hope you will not judge me too harshly when I confess that I am proud of the small role I played in helping our young hero fulfil his destiny. Harold of course did not need to remind me of our fateful encounter in Gloucester, when he came to me in 1139, just after I had been installed as Abbot. But, for the sake of completeness, and so that future generations may read the full story of this noble young man’s deeds, I have decided that I will include the details here. I have indulged myself in a little of my storyteller’s imagination and described the encounter in the words Harold might have used. I hope you forgive me, but it seemed the right thing to do.

You are in my prayers every day. I pray for your health and happiness and I also pray that you are able to bring your great wisdom to the Holy See.

We arrived at Oxford in the middle of June. What then followed changed all our lives.