Stewart Binns - Crusade

Roger had given the whole ghastly affair a great deal of thought. He too was a warrior, and he had a warrior’s instincts. He stood and put his hand on Sweyn’s shoulder.

‘I think, in similar circumstances, I would feel the same way and would have acted as you did. As you say, it is now at an end. You have my deepest sympathies for your loss. I wish you God’s speed to wherever you go.’

Adela and Edwin led Sweyn away as Roger took me by the arm.

‘Strictly speaking, by the rules I insist on here, he should stand trial, so get him off the island as quickly as possible. I will make sure Suleiman’s crime is well known – not even the most fanatical anti-Christians will have any sympathy for him. Everyone knows what he was like. Travel well, Edgar, and look after your little band of brothers.’

‘Thank you. And God keep you till we meet again.’

Count Roger of Sicily was a fine and noble man. I had learned a lot from him; his wise governance treated all the people of his island as equals before the law, a law he administered with a benign firmness. As with all powerful men, it was prudent not to cross him, but for those who accepted his demands for a peaceful and flourishing realm in the interests of all, he was the ideal lord. I really hoped that we would meet him again one day.

We left Sicily with mixed feelings. It had been a privilege to serve Roger and fascinating to meet Ibn Hamed and to enjoy an insight into the world of the noble Muslim. On the other hand, Themistius’s warning about a forthcoming religious war troubled me, a feeling exacerbated by our encounter with the loathsome Suleiman and his hateful prejudices.

I knew only too well what can happen when hatred fills men’s hearts.

It had occurred to me several times during those final days in Sicily that my brothers-in-arms and I had a simple choice. A comfortable, perhaps long and peaceful life was available to us in that idyllic place. Alternatively, a more precarious, probably shorter, but potentially more rewarding future awaited us by returning to the maelstrom of politics in England and Normandy.

I knew that Sweyn and Adela would not hesitate in choosing the life of risk and reward, and that Edwin would always follow them. For me, there were still moments of doubt.

Would I be courageous enough to meet the challenges that lay ahead?

Would I be strong enough to overcome them?

Although I was not certain what the answer to those questions would be, I knew I had to find out.

Our journey back across the Mediterranean and through Aquitaine was a much less frenetic one than the journey that had brought us back to Sicily. Sweyn wanted to return to Mahnoor’s grave and carried some of Sicily’s rich volcanic soil to scatter on her resting place.

Although the mood at St Cirq Lapopie remained sombre, we relaxed and gave Sweyn time to come to terms with the awful tragedy that had befallen him. There was some talk of selling the estate and moving away from Aquitaine – Count Roger’s Sicily was discussed, as was a new start in England. Eventually, Ingigerd and Maria decided they were too old to start a new life elsewhere. They concluded that St Cirq Lapopie was the one constant factor in the lives of several diverse people and that they would keep it as an anchor point for everyone for as long as possible. For Sweyn, St Cirq Lapopie now offered only terrible memories of Mahnoor’s death; it was time for him to resume his life as a warrior.

I had sent word to Count Robert, explaining our delay but, after a few weeks, with a strong hint of spring in the air, we bade farewell to Ingigerd and Maria once more and travelled down the Lot to Cahors. This time we headed north at the old city and began the long trek to Normandy.

Sweyn was still quiet, not brooding, but he seemed hollow, the flame of life flickering only faintly. Adela and Edwin stayed very close to him; he was lucky to have them. For my part, stoicism seemed to sit well with me and I thought it wise to represent that for Sweyn.

The stay at St Cirq Lapopie had been yet another link to Hereward that made me feel even closer to him and his extended family. The thought did cross my mind that it might be my resting place one day.

The journey through Aquitaine, into the Limousin and on to the Paris of Philip of France, reminded me of the immense scale of Europe. It was a confusing place with boundaries that were difficult to defend, its many counts and dukes fighting over every village and town and fortified position.

In the North, the two great powers – France and Normandy – were at one another’s throats again, where, ironically, in a land so large, the heartland of each was right on top of the other.

Under the circumstances, I thought it wise to make a courtesy call on Philip, during which I could gauge his current view of Robert. As always, the King was charming and reiterated that the real fly in his Frankish ointment was William, not his son, for whom he still had a high regard. Armed with this, we headed for Caen, where Robert was assembling his army.

It was good to see my old friend again. He had survived another three years of his father’s boorishness and bad temper and was as relaxed as I had ever known him. Typically, when he heard of our service to Roger of Sicily – a fellow Norman whom he greatly admired – and of Sweyn’s bereavement, he immediately granted Adela and Sweyn a small estate near Bosham in Sussex, the ancestral home of King Harold. He knew that Roger would appreciate the gesture, a reward for the two young knights who had served him so well, and that its location would be very special to both of them.

By the end of June 1087, the Norman host was on the march: 4,000 infantry, 2,000 crossbowmen and archers and 2,000 heavy cavalry. It was led by nearly 200 knights and the same senior commanders who had been with Robert since his rebellion against his father: Ives and Aubrey of Grandmesnil, Ralph of Mortemer, Hugh of Percy, Robert of Bellême, Hugh of Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais, William of Breteuil and Roger of Tonbridge and Clare.

When we reached the Vexin at Gisors, we were met by William and 1,000 more cavalry, including his elite Matilda Conroi mounted on their huge black destriers. They were an impressive sight, but he was less so. He had become fat to the point of ridicule. His face was mottled and swollen, and his breathing was laboured. However, despite his appearance, he had lost none of his swagger and fortitude.

His greeting to me was perfunctory; for Robert, there was no gratitude or even recognition for his efforts in assembling a mightily impressive body of men, just an order, barked in that unmistakable voice.

‘We leave at first light.’

We turned south-east at Gisors and followed the south bank of the River Epte until it met the Seine. We then made camp next to the great river in the lea of the Bois du Chênay. The Fortress of Mantes was in sight through the trees, less than four miles away. Since we had entered the lands of Guy of Poissy – the French Castellan installed in Mantes by King Philip – William had adopted his usual scorched-earth campaign tactic, burning everything we passed.

His assault on Mantes began early the next morning. The fortress and church stood on slightly higher ground on the opposite side of the river. The modest buildings of its surrounding community huddled around the fortress walls and ran down to the water’s edge, where there was a small wooden bridge and quayside.

The Mantes Bridge had been torched during the night by the defenders, but William’s cavalry had forded the Seine downstream, at Bonnières, and were ready to attack from the north-west. He was using the north-east bank of the river as a shooting position for his archers, while his infantry and supporting crossbowmen were following the cavalry and marching to their rear, preparing to cross the bridge at Bonnières.