Crusade

The result of the great stocktaking, the like of which was beyond contemporary comparison, made William far richer than he had imagined — so rich, in fact, that it emboldened his avarice. Not only was he prepared to fund an immense standing army in England, of over 11,000 men, to meet the Danish threat, but he was also willing to commit 8,000 men to the defence of Maine.

The messenger also carried a private parchment from Robert, sealed and addressed to me. It was a request for us to return to Normandy. His father’s belligerence had led him to plan an attack for the following summer in the Vexin, to Normandy’s south, where Philip of France had installed provosts in Mantes and Pontoise. William intended to root them out and had asked Robert to prepare the army and lead the attack.

It was a typically cunning move by the King; not only was it yet another test of his son’s generalship, it was also a further test of his son’s loyalty in the face of his friend and former ally, Philip of France.

I assumed this last point accounted for Robert’s request for me to return. I anticipated that, as I had with Malcolm Canmore, I would now play the role of mediator between Robert and Philip.

It was another daunting task — but one, on reflection, that reinvigorated me. Life in Sicily had become too comfortable, and I was in danger of losing my sense of purpose. Not only that: Robert was a good friend, and I greatly admired Philip, so anything I could do to prevent war, and all that such a conflict would bring, represented a mission I was keen to accept.

Adela, Edwin and I completed our tasks for Count Roger by the end of the year and departed for mainland Europe in mid-January. We decided to take the same route as Sweyn and Mahnoor so that we could visit them at St Cirq Lapopie in Aquitaine. I had heard so much about the remote idyll in the Lot, a place so precious to Hereward and his family, and now I was keen to see it for myself. I also suspected that Sweyn may well have rediscovered his passion for adventure. Given that we were soon likely to be involved in more Norman military campaigns, I was hoping to persuade him to resume his place by my side.

St Cirq Lapopie was everything I had imagined. It was like an eagle’s nest, standing high above the gorge of the river on a rocky limestone promontory. It had had the same effect on Edwin when he first saw it, all those years ago, when he sailed up the Lot as Edith Swan-Neck’s emissary. I heard Adela whisper the word ‘home’ as she stared at the one place where she had found peace in her troubled life.

As we disembarked from the Lot barge and made our way up the steep path to the house, the greeting was not the one we had expected. No Sweyn. No Mahnoor. Only Ingigerd and Maria, in obvious and immense distress, with a trail of locals in their wake. They rushed to embrace Edwin and Adela, but their tears were not tears of joy at the return of two members of their family. I looked around and noticed that one of the barns had recently burned to the ground, but otherwise all seemed well.

Both women were in their early fifties, but looked fit and well. They had lived eventful lives and had, as the wives of the famous warriors Martin and Einar, often witnessed harrowing things. But the story they told us on our arrival was horrifying to the point of disbelief.

Sweyn had been away hunting with the estate steward and most of the men of the community, a week earlier, when the attack took place. It had begun in the middle of the night when a large gang of hooded men appeared, broke into the house and ransacked the cottages of everyone on the estate. Some of the estate men who had not gone with the hunting party resisted, but any who did were mercilessly cut down. The rest were rounded up, bound hand and foot, gagged and dragged away. The women and children were all herded into the barn, except Mahnoor.

No one could see exactly what happened next, but her suffering continued for some time. Her agonizing screams eventually turned into despairing whimpers before dwindling away to a merciful silence.

For at least another hour, everyone in the barn trembled in silence before the sound of horses signalled the attackers’ departure — but not before they had thrown torches on to the thatched roof. Only the nimbleness of one of the older boys, who had managed to climb up to the eaves and kick a hole in the straw before clambering down the outside wall to unbar the door, saved the occupants from being burned alive.

Mahnoor was nowhere to be found and everyone assumed she had been taken by her assailants. But the men were found, dashed on the rocks below, eleven good men of Aquitaine, husbands, sons and brothers, all innocent victims of a vicious assault.