Stewart Binns: Lionheart

‘Why you? And why did you accept so readily?’

‘England is in my blood, as it is in yours. We have come a long way since the dark days of the Conquest. I want that progress to continue.’

‘Father, your response poses more questions than it gives answers.’

‘I can tell you just one more thing. The Earl told me that his mission needs two special men. One of them must be wise without equal, the other must be brave beyond any other. I know I am not the brave one. But so far, it looks like you may just be the man the Earl is looking for. Let’s hope that together we can live up to his expectations.’

The pain in my legs kept me awake for most of the night, which gave me the chance to contemplate how I was going to extricate myself from the dire circumstances in which I had found myself. By the morning I had made no real plan, but I had reached the conclusion that I would have to fight my way out of my predicament.

Father Alun was at my side when Máedóc and his men burst into my room. He had bound my feet tightly but it was still almost impossible for me to walk, and then only with searing pain.

Máedóc scowled at the young monk.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Sir Ranulf is not able to continue the tests.’

The towering Irishman turned his withering glare towards me.

‘Then you have failed the tests.’

‘So be it. If I may trouble you for my weapons and my horse, I will be on my way back to Westminster.’

‘I thought you were a weak-willed little twat as soon as I saw you.’

I chose to ignore the insult and limped past him. As I reached the door, Máedóc’s men blocked the way. I paused, but they did not step aside.

Father Alun admonished them.

‘Let Sir Ranulf go, his challenge is over. He is free to leave.’

Máedóc rounded on the monk and struck him across the face with the back of his hand.

‘No one gives orders to my men, except me.’

With blood spewing from his mouth and splattering the floor, Father Alun landed on the ground with a heavy thump. Máedóc’s men still blocked the doorway. With a leer on his face, Mochán glanced down at the monk. As he did so, I seized the opportunity to pull his seax from his belt and thrust it hard under his chin. He froze, as did his two companions.

I looked Mochán in the eye.

‘Walk backwards through the door and tell your two friends to step aside.’

I saw Mochán’s eyes turn towards Máedóc, who must have nodded his assent, because he began to move through the doorway as I had asked. It was excruciating for me to walk, and I stumbled several times. But I made sure to keep the blade firmly embedded in the soft skin of Mochán’s throat. Then I saw my hostage’s expression change and heard Father Alun caution me with a gurgled cry that he managed to spit from his blood-filled mouth.

‘ Sir Ranulf! ’

I knew what the warning meant and quickly swayed to one side. As I did so, Máedóc’s sword passed within a hair’s breadth of my ribs and impaled Mochán through his belly. Without uttering a sound, he fell backwards and landed in a heap on the floor. Máedóc, shocked at realizing that he had killed his companion, let go of his weapon, which remained deeply embedded in Mochán’s stomach.

I seized my moment and sank my seax into the lumbering Celt’s throat until it exited at the other side. The giant man stood motionless for several moments as blood gushed from his neck like a stream of piss and ran down the wall next to him. Unable to say anything, he just stared at me incredulously. Eventually, his eyes lost all ability to focus; he took one faltering step forwards and fell over like a massive oak tree succumbing to the woodsman. The spew of his blood tracked his fall, leaving an arc of crimson on the wall and a rapidly growing puddle under his head.

Óengus and Fáelán looked at one another. They both drew their swords.

Father Alun, despite his prone position and the blood pouring from his mouth, was quick to remind them that killing me would also require them to kill him. And should they do so, the Earl would be certain to hunt them down without mercy. The monk had made a crucial intervention for, with only a seax in my hand and almost no agility at my disposal, my prospects were miserable.

The two Irishmen quickly realized the realities of their situation. They took one look at their stricken companions and sheathed their swords. Moments later, with neither a glance nor a word in my direction, they were gone.

I thanked the good monk profusely before the pain and exertion got the better of me and I fell to my knees.

The next morning, despite Father Alun’s exhortations, I was on my horse and making slow progress towards London and the comforts of the garrison physicians at Westminster. Sitting was one of the few positions that was relatively painless; as long as I kept my horse at a steady pace, my progress was not too uncomfortable.

When I reached Farnham, I decided to rest with the monks at Waverley Abbey. It sits in an idyllic position by the River Wey and was an ideal place for me to recuperate and reflect on my recent misfortune.

It was early on the morning of the fourth day at Waverley when my life changed irrevocably. I was feeling much better. My feet and legs were still raw but, with the judicious use of a couple of sticks, they could bear my weight with only moderate discomfort. I was using the abbey cloisters to attempt some exercise while several Cistercian brothers, looking resplendent in their pristine white habits and black scapulars, were sitting in devout prayer and contemplation.

All was quiet, save for the gentle clack of my sticks and the soft shuffle of my bandaged feet – until, that is, heavy footsteps made a purposeful approach from behind me. With a wince of sudden pain, I made a slow turn just as my visitor spoke in his loud and distinctive voice.

‘Ranulf of Lancaster, is that you?’

The unmistakeable voice belonged to the last man I wanted to see: the Earl of Huntingdon, the instigator of the torture I had been subjected to in Winchester. Scurrying in his wake were Abbot Henry, the head of the Waverley community, Father Alun and a sergeant-at-arms with a small retinue of men. It looked like a posse seeking my arrest, but I was in no position to resist.

Rather than looking stern, the Earl smiled warmly as he neared.

‘I am so relieved that you appear to be recovering. What a dreadful ordeal you were put through. Please accept my apologies.’

Despite the warmth of the Earl’s greeting and his expression of regret, I was still wary of his motives.

‘My Lord, I accepted the challenge in good faith. But you left me at the mercy of a madman.’

‘I know, Father Alun has told me. I am very sorry. I wanted the challenge to be stern, but not an opportunity for brutality. We have tracked down Máedóc’s two accomplices. They are simple souls, but they will spend a year in Winchester’s dungeons before they are shipped back to Ireland in chains. They admitted that Máedóc was a malevolent soul, and they also explained that he wanted the opportunity for himself. He was determined to make sure that no one came through the ordeal until, eventually, he planned to offer himself for the role.’

‘Did he know what the opportunity was, my Lord?’

‘No, but he assumed it would be lucrative in some way.’

‘If I may ask, sire, is it a challenge where success will be rewarded?’

‘It may be, but there is no guarantee of that. More importantly though, it will add greatly to the vigour of a man’s soul.’

‘Then, my Lord, I am sorry I failed the examination.’

‘But you did not fail, Sir Ranulf. I want to offer you the role that so many have striven for.’