Stewart Binns - Anarchy

My groom, Alric, was not a soldier but wished he were and acted like a veteran of countless campaigns. He was a kindly soul, attentive and considerate and a good companion. His girth was prodigious, but so too was his humour; he could cook, tend a steed and find food and provisions where none seemed available. He was an ideal quartermaster for a troop of soldiers.

All my many advantages in life came with equal burdens. I had to live with many expectations, both real and imagined. The more my dearest mother told me about the heroic deeds of my father and grandfather, the more I realized how great a responsibility I carried. Could I emulate what they had achieved? Would I make them proud?

Often, I had my own private doubts and anxieties. But regardless of whether or not I could live up to my own expectations, my own journey was about to begin. Both my grandparents and my parents had done remarkable things, some of which had changed the course of history. They had fought and died for freedom; they had bound themselves together for the greater good; and they had set an example of how lives should be lived and justice should be served.

I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the burden of responsibility I carried.

Two days before I was due to leave Norwich, I went to the presbytery of the cathedral that my mother had helped design. Desperate for inspiration, I sat and stared at the huge vaulted ceiling way above me. The ribs of its arches were covered in gold leaf; its bosses were elaborately carved and beautifully painted with the faces of gargoyles, Satan’s familiars and a host of mythical beasts and sundry saints and martyrs. It was a thing of wonder. I sat there for several hours, craving a steadfastness that did not materialize.

Sometime later, with darkness almost obscuring the architectural wonders and the cathedral falling silent from the bustle of the day, my mother appeared and eased herself on to the bench beside me.

‘What troubles you, Harold?’

‘Nothing, I’m fine–’

‘You don’t mean that. What is it?’

I hesitated, embarrassed that private doubts were bearing down on me. My mother did not probe, but simply joined me in staring upwards as her masterpiece began to disappear in the gloom of the advancing evening.

She stood and offered her hand.

‘Come, let me show you something.’

My mother then took a lantern and led me high up through the passageways of the huge walls of the presbytery until we were at roof level, close to the decorated bosses of the vaulted ceiling.

‘There… the third and fourth ones along on the right.’

She pointed with her mason’s dividers, a tool that always hung from her belt, at the brightly painted images.

‘The nearest one is Wodewose, the Green Man of legend – a mythical figure your grandfather talked about a lot – and the next one is your great-grandfather, Torfida’s father, the Old Man of the Wildwood. They look alike, don’t they? That’s my doing; I designed them as a tribute. Torfida is over there with my twin sister, Gunnhild.’

‘And my father?’

‘Yes, he’s the handsome knight further along.’

‘And you?’

‘Yes, I’m there as well, but I’m not telling you which one. It’s a little rude.’

‘It’s not like you to be bashful.’

She smiled mischievously. Although I was her son, and she always behaved discreetly, she had never hidden from me her healthy appetite for the pleasures of the flesh.

‘I suppose you’re right. Well, I’m the naked strumpet over there, cavorting with the Devil.’

‘Very appropriate! I hope you haven’t got me up here?’

‘Of course I have – you’re the babe in arms, over there in the corner, being offered up to God by the handsome knight. Do you see? It’s Hereward, based on my memory of you being sworn into the Brethren in the Holy Land by my father.’

As she led me down through the walls again, she continued the story of my heritage.

‘I think your great-grandfather was the embodiment of all that the Green Man represents: our links to our ancient heritage and beliefs, and to the importance of the natural world and our place in it. He was a seer, and my father always believed that my mother inherited many of his gifts.’

‘What about the Talisman? Do you think it carries mystical powers?’

‘I don’t know for certain. I first saw it around the neck of an emperor, and he wasn’t the first great ruler to wear it. But it’s not a trinket or a charm – for good or evil – more a stone of destiny.’

‘I know it’s supposed to carry eternal truths, and I’m supposed to go and collect it from the Emperor himself one day. But first I have to deal with my fears… I’m hardly a worthy inheritor as the guardian of such an important amulet–’

‘Harry, it’s your birthright, your responsibility. I can help you, but you have to come to terms with it in your own way.’

‘I know, but after years of yearning to begin my own adventure, I’m suddenly overawed by the prospect.’

‘That’s understandable…’ She paused to gather her thoughts. ‘But listen, this is what I think you should do. Travel via Bourne, visit the grave of dearest Adela and reflect on what happened to her and the horror that took place in that village all those years ago. When you do, think about what happened to those young people in Lion Wood. An experience like that gave Adela great strength and courage.

‘Then move on, take your companions to Glastonbury and lodge them in the burgh. Go off on your own to where my mother and sister are buried. Spend some time there. It will allow you to think. It is a beautiful place. I can draw you a map to help you find it. Try to absorb some of your grandmother Torfida’s empathy and wisdom, and think of what Gunnhild and I lived through with your grandfather at Ely. Then go to Cirencester and leave your men there. Seek the humble forest home of the Old Man of the Wildwood, where Torfida was raised. Its exact location is unknown, but I think I can give you some clues, based on what my mother and father told me. It is where our story begins, deep in the wildwood of the Wodewose. Hereward discovered his destiny there, you might find yours.’

I liked her plan. Leaving Norwich would not be easy, and parting from my mother would be even more painful. But her advice had offered me the chance to undertake a spiritual journey and meet a personal challenge that would help me come to terms with my fears.

Thus, in the summer of 1116, I rode off westwards with my four retainers towards Bourne. I had lived my life in the shadow of my mother’s marvellous achievement at Norwich and overawed by the doughty deeds of the rest of my grandfather’s clan. Now it was time for me to write my own chapter in the family history.

Bourne was a hive of activity. Its fields were verdant with crops, fruits and vegetables; its artisans and retailers were busy servicing the needs of its farmers and those travellers who chose to visit the village on their way along the ancient road to the north, which ran nearby.

To my dismay, the old Saxon church was being pulled down when we arrived. The new lord, Baldwin FitzGilbert de Clare, a descendent of one of the Conqueror’s most trusted henchmen, had decided to build a new abbey church in grand Norman style to accommodate a community of Arrouaisian monks he wanted to bring from Flanders. Such was the intended scale of the new abbey, FitzGilbert had ordered that all the old Saxon graves be ploughed over. Thankfully, the local villagers, horrified by the thought, had removed all the human remains from the cemetery in the dead of night and reburied them deep in Bourne Wood.

Delighted to meet a descendant of Hereward, several of the locals were happy to escort me to the hidden burial ground, where they left me to pay my respects. They had built a small pile of stones, a shrine to the memory of Adela of Bourne and all the villagers who had been slaughtered at the hands of Ogier the Breton – murders that had been ordered by William the Conqueror in an act of vengeance for Hereward’s continuing opposition to his rule. Almost the entire village had perished – except the young boy Sweyn, later to become my father, who escaped to hide in the forest, and a young Adela and two companions. They had been raped and abused by the Normans for several days until my grandfather rescued them. The dead included my great-grandparents: Leofric, Thegn of Bourne, and his wife, Aediva.