Stewart Binns - Crusade

‘Yes, but Henry’s not King yet; there is the small matter of a coronation.’

‘He’s ahead of you, I’m afraid; he is to be crowned tomorrow. He brought the crown with him from Winchester.’

I had witnessed many shameful things and seen many examples of the dark side of human nature, but this was a tale of avarice that took the breath away.

‘But tomorrow is the Sabbath, and Anselm of Canterbury is in exile in Normandy. Don’t tell me that Thomas of York is already in London and prepared to crown a king on a Sunday?’

‘No, Maurice, Bishop of London, is going to preside.’

‘Can he do that?’

‘It seems so.’

‘I feel so sad for Robert. While he’s been fighting in Palestine, his brothers have been living off the fat of the land in England and Normandy, and now Henry has killed his own brother to grab the English crown. He will surely want Normandy next.’

‘Can’t we intervene somehow?’

I felt the same as Sweyn; with Robert weeks, or even months, away from Normandy and England, there had to be something we could do to further his cause or protect his duchy. But what? After sending a messenger to Hugh Percy in Normandy, telling him to get the news of Rufus’s death to Robert with all speed, Sweyn and I opened a flask of mead and began plotting.

If we were to do anything, we had to make our move that very night.

By mid-evening, we had concocted a story that was at least as audacious as some of the battleplans we had employed in the Holy Land, and no less risky. It also meant taking a significant liberty in our friendship with Robert, but all the same, we thought the subterfuge was in a good cause – not only his, but also England’s and what the Brotherhood had fought for at Ely. Although we were only two members of our Brethren, we decided to act in its name and do as we thought they would do.

So, with not a little trepidation, we approached the Great Hall of Westminster, where we assumed Henry would be, and asked the sentries to summon their captain.

‘Captain, please tell your lord that Prince Edgar of England is here to see him.’

As he opened the great door to take in our request, we could hear the distinct sounds of feasting, with much raucous laughter, before the heavy oak planks slammed shut again, leaving us to stare at a magnificent building, on a par in scale and style with any in Europe and only recently completed by Rufus as a symbol of the power of his realm.

When the door reopened and we were invited in, the din of celebration had subsided. Henry was at the far end of the hall, a walk that seemed to take an eternity, being at least the length of a tilt field. As we approached, most of the guests scattered, including the young women recruited to bring the celebrations to an ending appropriate to a gathering of England’s most important men. Only a dozen or so men remained – the ones Sweyn had named – and all sat around Henry as if he were already King.

‘Count Henry, my Lords, please don’t let our sudden arrival drive your guests away.’

‘Prince Edgar, welcome to my court. Don’t worry about my guests, I can soon call them back. What brings you to Westminster?’

‘I have returned with the English contingent from the Crusades, but Duke Robert had asked me to travel to see you at your fortress in Avranches and bring you his greetings and best wishes, and to do the same with King Rufus while I am here in London. Sadly, circumstances have now changed my itinerary. I also have some messages for you, which are private family matters. But first, my condolences on the tragic death of the King. It was a sad day for all of us.’

‘Thank you. I just hope I can carry on his good work.’

‘My Lord Count, I had no idea, you are to succeed your brother?’

‘Indeed, I am to be crowned tomorrow. I would welcome your presence.’

He seemed far more confident than I had remembered. I hoped I appeared similarly poised.

‘It will be an honour, my Lord. I think you will remember Sir Sweyn of Bourne; he distinguished himself in the Holy Land and has become very close to your brother, Duke Robert. He rode into battle at his side many times.’

Henry nodded an acknowledgement, and Sweyn returned the gesture by bowing his head and grasping the hilt of his sword.

‘I have heard glowing accounts of the bravery of all of you. You do us a great honour.’

He was already talking like a king. Although, in truth, humility had never been one of his strong points.

‘Duke Robert is with his new bride, the Duchess Sybilla, a most charming and beautiful addition to your family, if I may say so. He sends his greetings.’

Henry smiled, a thin, perfunctory smile, almost a sneer, while his henchmen stared at us with a contempt usually shown to bonded peasants. Even though I had led the Anglo-Saxon English contingent in Palestine, I had long since been denied the courtesy usually shown to a royal prince, where counts and earls and all below them would stand when I entered a room.

‘Thank you, Prince Edgar. Where is my brother now?’

‘He is on his way home from Apulia. Hugh Percy led about a third of his army; your brother is leading the rest, a force of many thousands. He drew men to his colours throughout the campaign: Norman knights from Italy and Sicily, Franks, Provençals, Germans. When men like Raymond of Toulouse, Bohemond and Baldwin of Boulogne decided to stay in the Levant, many of their men flocked to Robert’s banner.’

The mood in the room suddenly changed. Henry’s scornful demeanour softened and his henchmen began to look discomfited.

‘The treasure he brings from Jerusalem will fill many a king’s treasury, quite apart from the huge reward he was given by the Emperor Alexius. And there is the dowry he carries from Sybilla’s father, who, as you know, is the richest man in southern Italy.’

‘Prince Edgar, Sir Sweyn, do join us.’

Henry had taken the bait, even though I was stretching credibility to the limit. He clapped his hands and told the stewards to bring wine.

‘Would you join our coronation eve celebration? I will call the girls back.’

It looked like a night of drunken revelry and wanton debauchery beckoned – but all in a good cause.

After about half an hour, Henry summoned me to a quiet corner of the hall. He dropped the faux act of kingship and treated me like an equal.

‘Edgar, you have some private messages from Robert? But before you tell me about them, let us talk about the harsh realities of life.’

‘Of course, where I’ve been for the last three years has been all about the harsh realities of life.’

‘Was it as awful as I have heard?’

‘No words can describe it, other than Hell on earth.’

‘You have my sympathy and respect.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Your courage and leadership in the Holy Land will earn you great respect here, from both Normans and Englishmen. I would welcome your support at my coronation tomorrow and during my reign.’

‘That you will have.’

‘I am very keen to consolidate the blending of Normans and English in my realm. The vast majority of the lords who will owe me fealty after tomorrow are Normans who were born here and speak English like a native. I intend to consolidate our position in Wales and Scotland and have a fancy to let our destriers enjoy the rich fodder of Ireland. I need to build a new army – an army of Englishmen, led by Normans. I am going to take an English wife. Will you help?’

‘I will, of course. Do you have someone in mind?’

‘Yes, she is ideal, the daughter of Malcolm Canmore and Queen Margaret – your niece, Edith.’

I tried not to let my shock be too obvious. But he was right, of course. She was ideal – the daughter of the royal house of Scotland and a direct descendant, through my sister, of the Cerdician kings of England. Their children would create an Anglo-Norman dynasty, which had to be in the long-term interests of the English, so I quickly warmed to the idea.