Stewart Binns: Crusade

I wondered if I would ever see her again.

I left Scotland knowing I had to put the past behind me and abandon the fight to become the rightful King of England. That hope had been extinguished when Hereward and the Brotherhood accepted William as King in their struggle for liberty at Ely.

On that long voyage to Flanders, I steeled myself to the future and began to find a tenacity that had eluded me for so long.

Robert Curthose had to live with the sobriquet ‘Shortboots’ all his life. The Normans like to attach monikers, either in mirth or ridicule, and, in truth, Robert was not very tall, so ‘Shortboots’ he became. Robert did not get on well with his father, or his father with him. They could not have been more different – Robert took after his diminutive and taciturn mother rather than his towering and domineering father.

He was King William’s firstborn and, even as a young man, became de facto Duke of Normandy while his father was busy massacring the English in his new domain.

I had liked him when I was taken as hostage to Normandy after William took the throne. Our friendship blossomed and he soon became the salvation of my second submission to the King after I had decided to swallow my pride and let self-preservation rule my emotions. I faced the prospect with dread, but William was unusually gracious when I humbled myself before him at Caen.

He allowed me to keep a retinue and gave me enough land and titles to maintain my status as a royal prince. It was a far better deal than I could have hoped for, but one made by him not through generosity, but by way of expediency. I still represented a beacon of hope to any disgruntled Englishman and anyone else with a grudge against him – and there were many of those – so it was significantly in his interest to keep me close by and for me to declare my fealty to him.

He still seemed fit, but his hair was turning grey and his girth much expanded. As for his temper, it was much the same – simmering some of the time and frequently volcanic in his outbursts.

Robert held the title Count of Normandy and I was fortunate to travel with him throughout the domain he ruled in his father’s absence. He was the perfect teacher of Norman ways. Although he was much calmer and more considerate than his father, he was forthright and disciplined; he expected obedience from his subjects and dealt firmly with miscreants. I learned quickly.

The months passed and I became more contented than I had ever been in my life. We hunted well and I ate and drank like a Norman lord – in large quantities, with only a modest regard for quality. Their appetite for women was similarly less than discerning, the priority being the frequency of the conquests rather than their worth.

But I did not complain too much. His father denied Robert the chance to take a wife, fearing that an alliance with another royal house would make his son too powerful, so I chose to stay single also; consequently, we could debauch ourselves as much as we liked.

William still styled himself as ‘Duke’ when in Normandy, and when he returned from England – which was usually two or three times a year – his relationship with Robert worsened. Only the intervention of Robert’s mother, the formidable Matilda, kept the peace.

To Robert’s great dismay, his father seemed to favour his thirdborn, William Rufus, especially after his second son, Richard, died in a hunting accident in 1074. His name was the clue to William’s preference. Rufus ‘the Red’ was tall and fair – like his father and their Viking ancestors – whereas Robert took after his mother, whose stature was so meagre it became the subject of common jests.

Robert and I were both in our mid-twenties, Rufus nineteen. Understandably, he wanted to join us on our drinking and whoring excursions, but Robert would not hear of it and Rufus became more and more annoyed at the rejections. I tried to reason with Robert.

‘He’s your brother and good company, let him come.’

‘No, I’ll not have him running to my father or, more importantly, my mother with exaggerated stories of our adventures. He’s a prick, that’s all that needs to be said.’

Robert’s increasing distance from his father threatened to explode into violence in 1077. It was also the year when a boy called Sweyn appeared at Robert’s court in Rouen – a boy who later, as a man, would be as influential in my life as Hereward of Bourne. By coincidence, he was also a son of Bourne.

I had not met him before but I recognized the knight who brought him to court. They rode into Rouen’s keep together, the knight carrying the colours of Toulouse. The boy, although far too young, was dressed as a sergeant-at-arms. I strode over to greet them.

‘You must be Edwin of Glastonbury; you stood with Hereward during the revolt.’

‘I am, my Lord Prince. It is good to see you again; a few years have passed.’

‘Indeed. And who is the young man?’

‘Let me introduce Sweyn of Bourne. Sweyn, it is your privilege to meet Prince Edgar, the rightful heir to the English throne.’

Sweyn looked confident, spoke clearly and bowed deferentially to Edgar.

‘My Lord Prince, it is an honour to meet you at long last. Our paths almost crossed in England, but I was only a boy then and you would not have remembered me.’

I smiled to myself. Sweyn, so obviously still a boy, clearly thought of himself as a grown man. He was of average height and not particularly broad, but was lean and had a determined look about him. His clothes were plain but good quality, as were his weapons. He was dark-haired and tanned, and could well have passed for a man from Aquitaine rather than an Englishman.

‘Stewards, take the horses of our noble guests. Edwin, Sweyn, come into the hall and rest. Count Robert is out hunting. He will be delighted to meet you later.’

I ushered them both to the fire, eager to hear their news.

‘So, you are in training to be a knight?’

‘I am trying, sire. But I am not of high birth, so I must train as a soldier first and then hope I can win the right to carry a knight’s pennon.’

‘You are not related to Hereward?’

‘No, my Lord. My father was a humble villein, bonded to Hereward’s father, Thegn Leofric. He was killed when Ogier the Breton and his thugs came to our village. I was the only one who got away. My mother hid me in the hayloft where I waited until nightfall, when I crept away. Three girls survived as well; they were taken as playthings by Ogier and his men and defiled until Hereward came and saved us.’

‘He had a habit of doing that. He saved my life too.’

‘Sire, I try to be like him every day.’

‘That is a very noble ambition. Edwin, I have so many questions for you about Ely… But first, why are you here?’

‘I am Sweyn’s guardian, and his care and future matter to me more than anything. I had heard that you were at Count Robert’s court, so now that Sweyn is old enough, I hope to be able to place myself at your service as a knight and begin Sweyn’s training and education.’

‘You are both welcome. The Count will be pleased to have two sturdy Englishmen in his retinue, especially ones who stood with Hereward of Bourne. But tell me how you got away from Ely.’

Sweyn, with a self-confident air beyond his years, answered in Edwin’s stead.

‘The King spared us in circumstances we still don’t understand. We were all captured as we tried to escape. We know that Martin, Einar and Alphonso died in the siege and that Hereward was almost the last man standing when he was overpowered. He was bound and flogged to the point of death and then taken into the Chapel of St Etheldreda by the King, who summoned Hereward’s daughters, Gunnhild and Estrith. What happened after that is a mystery. We never saw them again.’