Crusade

I often think back to the moment Edwin and I began our band of followers — brothers-in-arms, as he liked to call us. I was in my twenty-ninth year, Edwin was thirty-one, Adela twenty-six and Sweyn about sixteen — or so he claimed. Our pedigrees were so different: Edwin was a second cousin of King Harold of Wessex and England and carried the same Cerdician royal blood as I did, while Adela and Sweyn were the children of peasants. But I had little doubt, even then, that circumstances had made them of sterner stuff than Edwin or myself.

We were hardly an intimidating group, but we had something in common that would lend us great strength: the legacy of Hereward of Bourne. As I steeled myself for my difficult conversation with Robert, I wondered, as I did almost every day, where England’s great hero might lie and what he would think of us now, trying to cast ourselves in his image.

Robert was, as usual, generous when I explained my dilemma. I asked him if he would like me to withdraw from the expedition.

‘I will not hear of it. In the affairs of kings and princes, loyalty often changes like the wind. One day, I am confronting my father on the battlefield, the next day I am reconciled with him and leading his army into battle. But our friendship is one between men and goes deeper than treaties and alliances. Let us keep it that way.’

I then suggested to Robert the role I could play in Scotland.

‘King Malcolm is an opportunist, like all leaders of men. When we cross Scotland’s border, I will go on ahead to Malcolm’s court and talk to him, tell him of our friendship and see if we can reason with him without bloodshed.’

Robert happily agreed to my plan.

‘You have never deceived me and, like the man you are, have chosen not to hide your relationship with Malcolm. Let’s turn it to our advantage and make our journey to Scotland a successful one.’

With a substantial force drawn from Normandy, we set sail for England in late summer 1080. More men would be gathered in England from William’s Norman landlords and his permanent garrisons. Robert was hugely excited about the journey; not only was he to lead his father’s army in a major campaign, but it was his first visit to England, a realm he had heard so much about. He was like a child with a new toy from the moment we made landfall at Dover, gawping at every landmark and building we passed and greeting everyone we met enthusiastically. The Normans were effusive towards him and even the English — or, at least, most of them — were polite and friendly.

We spent more time than was scheduled in London, a place that particularly fascinated Robert. Its buildings were not as grand as those in Normandy’s cities, but it was changing rapidly and the amount of building work being done was astonishing. He was particularly taken by old King Edward’s beautiful cathedral at Westminster, completed just before his death. It was modelled on the great cathedrals of Normandy and France and reminded him of home.

But it was what was being built on the eastern side of London that made us all gaze in wonder. Close to the edge of the Thames and bound on two sides by the old Roman city walls, William was building a huge tower, the scale of which I had never seen before.

Robert had heard his father talk about it and showed it to us with a sense of self-satisfaction which said, ‘See what miracles we Normans can work!’

It was almost complete; its walls, dazzling white limestone, were forty paces long and it was almost as tall. It could be seen from every part of the burgh and for miles around, a reminder — visible at every turn and each minute of the day — of who ruled this land, and a statement, etched permanently into the skyline, which said that they intended to do so for a very long time. If I had not realized it before, the sight of this mighty fortress was confirmation that abandoning any hope of regaining my kingdom was a wise judgement.

Inside the great tower was an elegant chapel which had been completed and consecrated to St John the Evangelist only a few weeks earlier. We stayed for a while and prayed for our safe return from Scotland.

With the great oak door closed and the din of the masons’ mallets and chisels all but stifled, it was a place of immense charm and serenity. The chapel’s sturdy columns, plain Roman arches and solid, unadorned stonework spoke volumes about its builders: powerful, determined and austere, this was indeed a Norman place of worship. Our footsteps echoed and we hushed our voices to a whisper, making the place resonate with its symbolic power.

I watched Edwin, Adela and Sweyn, English kinsmen and now brothers-in-arms, to see if they too admired the handiwork of their Norman lords. If they did, they did not show it. Edwin was too chivalrous to disclose any disdain, Adela, as always, was impassive, while Sweyn looked stern, as a young knight should.