Stewart Binns - Anarchy

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Anarchy: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Anarchy
The Making of England
Ruthless brutality, greed and ambition:
The year is 1186, the thirty-second year of the reign of Henry II.
Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London, has lived through long Henry’s reign and that of his grandfather, Henry I. He has witnessed the terrifying civil war between Henry II’s mother, the Empress Matilda, and her cousin, Stephen; a time so traumatic it becomes known as the Anarchy.
The greatest letter writer of the 12th Century, Folio gives an intimate account of one of England’s most troubled eras. Central to his account is the life of a knight he first met over fifty years earlier, Harold of Hereford.
Harold’s life is an intriguing microcosm of the times. Born of noble blood and legendary lineage, he is one of the nine founders of the Knights Templar and a survivor of the fearsome battles of the Crusader States in the Holy Land.
Harold is loyal warrior in the cause of the Empress Matilda. On his broad shoulders, Harold carries the legacy of England’s past and its dormant hopes for the future.
Stewart Binns’
is a gripping novel in the great tradition of Conn Iggulden and Bernard Cornwell, and is the third in
trilogy, following
and
.

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I spoke softly, my voice sounding strange to my ears after our prolonged silence.

‘Well done, everyone. Otto, light the lantern. Eadmer, take out your lodestone; Eynsham is to the north-west.’

Maud’s almost miraculous escape from Oxford convinced her supporters and many throughout England that she had, after all, a divine right to the throne. Although Stephen continued to attack for several years, Maud’s New Wessex held firm. Henry Plantagenet made more frequent visits to our western domain and was tutored in the arts of war by Earl Robert and myself in Bristol. Geoffrey’s control of Normandy meant that young Henry’s intellect could be schooled by the most learned men in Rouen. By the time he was sprouting stubble on his chin, he had the strength of an ox and the mind of an ecclesiastical scholar.

With piercing grey eyes, a fresh freckly complexion and a russet-red mane, he was said to be a living likeness of his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror. But of course, I recognized in him his paternal great-grandfather, Hereward of Bourne. Either way, it was a prodigious pedigree. Barrel-chested, with powerful forearms, he was a born warrior. But he was also charming and considerate, and was well liked by all who knew him.

Maud and I were immensely proud of him, such that any sense of loss regarding the throne of Westminster diminished each time we saw him. Our only concern was for our other two sons; we strove as hard as we could to ensure that, as Geoffrey of Poitou and William of Nantes, they had their own destinies and domains on the borders of Normandy.

Although England’s civil war continued throughout the 1140s, it became less damaging and destructive. Maud and I found relative contentment; we had established a new headquarters at Devizes and enjoyed its tranquil setting. As each year passed, Stephen’s position became weaker: he had lost Normandy for good, and he knew that Henry Plantagenet was rapidly approaching the age when he could challenge him for his English crown.

The march of time was becoming ever more prominent in our lives. Stephen was approaching his fiftieth birthday, and Maud and I were not getting any younger. The moment was approaching when the next generation would be dictating affairs.

One by one, our loyal followers were no more. The Christmas of 1143 was not a happy one: our loyal friend, Miles of Gloucester, now the Earl of Hereford, was killed by a stray arrow in a hunting accident in the Forest of Dean. Four years later, our dear kinsman, Robert, Earl of Gloucester, the bravest of the brave, developed a fever in his castle at Bristol from which he never recovered.

His funeral proved to be a watershed for Maud.

Before the service, the irrepressible Brien FitzCount announced that he would be retreating from the trials of being a castellan and a soldier. He intended to pursue a life of contemplation with the Benedictines of the Priory of the Holy Trinity at Wallingford.

During the service for Robert’s interment at St James’ Priory in Bristol, which was his own foundation, Maud hid her tears behind her veil. But she recovered her composure sufficiently to deliver a moving valediction to her half-brother, her friend and her most steadfast supporter.

‘This realm has produced no braver man. No Saxon, Celt or Norman was a better warrior. All praise to a mighty Englishman, a son of a proud Norman family!’

Maud’s words seemed to reflect a new England – a land where both Englishman and Norman could be proud of their heritage. As she delivered her eulogy, I hoped it would herald a better England: Maud’s England, an England ruled by our son, Henry Plantagenet.

We returned to Devizes, where Maud gradually recovered from her grief at the loss of Robert. As the Christmas of 1147 approached, she asked me to walk with her in the meadows of the burgh. Such walks revealed so much about Maud. She knew everyone we passed by name, and the mutual warmth between her and the local people was touchingly sincere.

But on that day, she was in a pensive mood.

‘Hal, let’s spend the winter making sure our castles are in the hands of strong men with well-armed garrisons. Then, when we are sure that Henry’s legacy is safe, let’s return to Argentan and spend as much time as we can with the boys before we lose them to their destinies. We can take them to St Cirq Lapopie and show them our little piece of Heaven.’

I could sense Maud’s mixed emotions. She was weary of the interminable struggle against Stephen, but optimistic about Henry’s future. I was sorely tempted by the prospect of returning to St Cirq Lapopie and felt much the same as she did.

‘Henry Is England’s future and we have the chance to help him become a King we can be proud of, a King every Norman, Celt and Englishman would be honoured to call their Lord.’

‘Hal, I am so fortunate to have found you. I was captivated from the moment I saw you on the road from Anjou. The circumstances should have told me that you were a madman, intent on doing me harm. But I knew straight away that you could be my saviour. My time with Geoffrey had been so awful as a pawn of his and my father’s ambitions, but in you I found someone who cared only for me and my future.’

‘We have both been lucky. For me it has been a remarkable journey, the most important part of which was to fall in love with you. We will have many more years together, let’s relish everything we have shared together and everything yet to come.’

Epilogue

Fulham Palace, 31 October 1187

Dear Thibaud,

I am sorry to have taken so long to deliver this final chapter, my friend, but I have only been able to dictate in short interludes. I am finding it difficult to breathe, a terrifying ordeal to endure.

Pray for a sudden death when your time beckons.

Also, there has been another distraction. Following the death of King Henry Beauclerc, our lord of many years, we have a new ruler, Richard, called Lionheart; a propitious name for a young man we all hope will become a fine monarch. What’s more, for reasons you will of course now know, it is news that would make our storyteller very happy. Richard was crowned here at Westminster a month ago, to great rejoicing, for he is of noble Norman descent, but also carries the blood of old England, not only through his maternal grandmother, Edith of Scotland, but also, as you now know, through Harold of Hereford, his covert grandfather.

Harold will now be re-united with his beloved Maud in Heaven; they will both be very contented.

I so wish I could have delivered this account to you in person, but God in his infinite wisdom had other plans. It is All Hallows’ Eve, such a melancholy time. But how appropriate! Next year they will be able to honour me on this night.

Well, I have written what I needed to write; the saga is complete. Accompanying this epistle is the precious casket and its contents that William of Malmesbury entrusted to Harold. I have kept it secure in the abbey vaults since Harold, in turn, entrusted it to me at our first meeting, nearly half a century ago. The last time I saw him, he was at pains to ask that the casket and his account should be kept together for posterity’s sake, so it seems appropriate that it should be deposited in the Vatican Vaults with his manuscript. You know how important it is, as it precedes our account and gives our story its crucial beginning.

Harold’s story is now recorded for posterity. His remarkable family is not only blessed with an illustrious past, but also a fascinating future. As for the Church, the scandalous early history of the Knights Templar contained in these pages is vitally important. Many have suspected it. But now we have the testament of one of the Nine Founders to verify the hypocrisy behind their high moral virtues, and the immorality of the wicked and duplicitous Hugh de Payens. I know you will use the testimony wisely.

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