Crusade

Young Roger, ever keen to impress his abbot with his knowledge of the scriptures, reminds him about longevity in the Bible.

‘The Bible tells us that Methuselah lived to be 969, Noah almost as long, and that Moses died at the age of 120. So, Hereward has plenty of years left yet.’

The three men smile at one another.

The scribe of Malmesbury is weary; day after day of revelations and insights have been hard to absorb. He and Roger of Caen have been checking one another’s recollections at the end of each day, and every evening until the early hours they have been scratching hurried notes to aid their memory.

What they have been made privy to is a remarkable story of two families, as if in a Greek tragedy: William’s powerful, all-conquering Norman family and Hereward’s modest, redoubtable English family locked in a bitter struggle over three generations and across a far-reaching landscape. What is more, in Hereward’s grandson, recently in the service of William’s son, King Henry, the saga still continues.

Edgar the Atheling’s long life has been laid bare in minute detail, and now the three men eat a final meal together, drink some wine and mead and savour a few flasks of the dark Pennine beer that Edgar’s steward brews for him.

At the end of the feast, William notices a tall, dark woman of about forty, slim and attractive, wearing a light, clinging dress. She slips behind the curtain of Edgar’s hall, leading towards his chamber.

The Prince sees that William has noticed the nocturnal guest.

‘She is not another phantom, my friend. That is Awel, which means “gentle breeze”; she is a widow from Owain Rheged’s tribe. She comes to see me once or twice a week. We have, shall we say, an understanding… it gets awfully cold up here, and we keep one another warm.’

Roger of Caen yawns once more, which is the signal for him to make his excuses and retire to his chamber, leaving Edgar and William to indulge in more heavy Pennine beer. Although tired, and much the worse for wear after sampling too many flasks of brew, William still has an appetite for more reflections from Edgar.

For his part, the old prince’s prodigious intake of various intoxicating potions is making him melancholy.

‘What do you make of my life, master storyteller? You have heard the accounts of many.’

‘It is a noble life, well lived and well told, and I am very grateful. You bring great honour to your noble Cerdician lineage.’

‘Do you really think that, or are you being kind to an old man?’

‘Why would I falsely praise you? You are far too worldly to be deceived by a sycophantic priest at work. Besides, you know in your own heart the weight of your achievements; you don’t need me to tell you.’

‘I suppose you are right… I am content.’

‘You should be. Your deeds in the Holy Land, King Henry’s Charter of Liberties, the protection of Hereward’s family and his legacy — any man should be proud of such things.’

‘Thank you, William of Malmesbury.’

‘And now, let us drink to Harold of Hereford. May he live a life that all who went before him would be proud of!’

‘A good toast. I will drink to that.’

Both men — as many who have drunk too much often do — drain their flasks in deep, satisfying quaffs.

William then gets to his feet and staggers waywardly to his chamber.

Edgar does not stir at all, but descends into a deep slumber in front of the fading fire. Within moments, the widow Awel appears. She summons the steward, and together they help Edgar to his bed.

He will sleep well, the memories of Palestine finally purged, the exploits of an honourable life recorded for posterity.

Late the next morning William, heavy-headed and regretting his excesses, and Roger, brighter and relieved to be going home to Wessex, say their farewells.

They are about to leave Ashgyll Force when Edgar, seemingly none the worse for his intemperance, tells them of some news. He takes a deep breath and looks down, clearly anxious about what he has heard.

‘My sergeant returned from Durham this morning. The King has had a shortage of silver for minting for some time now. He has just ordered the royal mint at York to open up the old Roman silver mines on these moors. He is going to build a new settlement at Alston to protect the mines and process the shipments. It is only five miles from here… and so, my many years of tranquility in this beautiful wilderness are about to be destroyed by hordes of uncouth miners from all over England and Scotland.’

The old Prince casts a teary eye towards the moors above him, before continuing.

‘It will be the end for the wolves and the bears and, of course, for my friends Owain Rheged and the Gul. But nothing is for ever, I suppose.’

‘Edgar, don’t be too pessimistic. You and Owain have survived for a very long time; your lineages stretch back centuries. I’m sure you will both live out your days in peace.’