Crusade

‘I have been doing my arithmetic. He was too young to succeed the saintly Edward in 1066 — fifteen or sixteen, I think — so, he must be in his mid-seventies. I hope he keeps warm in this miserable place.’

‘I think we will find a man of some resolve. He fought in the wars between the Conqueror’s sons and must have gained their respect, otherwise King Henry would have had him killed or thrown into an oubliette.’

‘And you think this abode any better!’

‘My son, you have obviously never been in one of the King’s dungeons.’

2. Kingdom of Rheged

They are now approaching the high moorland and the trees are thinning. Roger stops suddenly and crosses himself.

‘God bless and save us! It is Eadmer.’

He points to the last tree before the open moor. Hanging from it, severed from his body and tied by his hair, is Eadmer’s head, blood still oozing on to the ground. Bizarrely, despite the gruesome scene and the horror of his death — perhaps only moments ago — his eyes are closed and at peace, and he looks strangely serene. Nearby, his body has been propped upright in his saddle and his horse carefully tethered.

‘It is a warning to turn back.’

The sergeant is already turning his horse as he speaks.

‘Where are you going, man? You are a soldier; your father was a housecarl in King Harold’s army. Get a grip of yourself! We will cut him down and give him a Christian burial.’

With that, the renowned scribe of Malmesbury takes the sergeant’s sword and removes Eadmer’s head from the tree, placing it on the ground. They then pull his body from the horse, lay his corpse in a shallow grave and hold a short service.

A piercing wind shrieks at them as William reads from his Bible. The skies darken and the snow begins to fall more heavily, swirling around them in wild flurries. William seems oblivious to everything that has happened; the others are in a state of terror.

It is Roger who voices their fears.

‘Abbot, the men want to turn back. So do I.’

‘Roger, calm yourself. We haven’t come all this way to turn back now. We’ll find a place to camp over there in the trees and see what the morning brings.’

‘This is madness. We are in the middle of the wilderness and someone has just beheaded one of our men!’

In silence, and with grim determination, William leads his group to a small copse of trees barely a hundred yards away. As they enter the grove, looming above them, far off in the distance, they can see the mighty crest of Cross Fell.

Then the Druid appears.

He is standing alone on a small rocky knoll, no more than ten yards away. He wears a simple grey robe of washed wool tied at the waist with a pleated cord. His untied hair and beard are long and hoary and he has a heavy silver chain and amulet around his neck decorated with pagan images. His right hand holds a long oak staff topped by a ram’s skull replete with enormous horns, and around the wrist of his left hand is a small garland of mistletoe. His dark, piercing eyes are fixed on them in an unblinking stare. William assumes he is a druid, for he has exactly the mien and bearing that legend describes.

The sergeant-at-arms makes for his sword, but before he can draw it more than six inches from its scabbard an arrow cuts through the air and lodges in his throat, the tip of its head exiting close to his spine. A second hits him square in the chest near his heart, and a third lands inches away from the second. Both are deeply embedded. He is silent and motionless for a moment before reaching desperately for his throat, uttering a muted cry that turns into a sickening splutter as a stream of blood cascades from his mouth. His futile grasp of his gullet soon relaxes and he tumbles off his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

In that instance, at least thirty heavily armed men appear, as if out of nowhere. They make no sound, not even the faintest rustle underfoot.

William begs his remaining companions in a hiss, ‘Do not move. Stay silent.’

They are clearly Celts, but resemble a breed William has only read about, never seen.

The Druid speaks in excellent English, but with a strong accent that confirms it is not his first language.

‘You are a monk and, I think, an important one. What brings you to our land?’

‘You have committed murder here.’

‘Your bodyguards are not welcome here, and neither are you. This is our land.’

‘Is this not the land of the Earl of Bamburgh?’

‘It is not. Our tribe has owned this land since before the legions of Rome came here. I asked you a question.’

William is thinking quickly.

Could it be possible for a tribe of Celts to have remained here, undisturbed since antiquity? To have avoided or repelled the attentions of Rome’s legions and of Saxon, Dane and Norman?