Crusade (16 page)

We parted like brothers.

‘Go well, Edgar. When we meet again, I expect to hear all the stories in detail and anticipate that they will include many tales of conquest – over fearsome warriors and dark, lusty maidens.’

‘I will try my best, Robert,’ I answered with a laugh, before turning to weightier matters. ‘Try and humour your father a little. The loss of your mother may make his temper even more difficult to control, but he is becoming increasingly isolated and will need your wise counsel and support.’

‘Perhaps, my friend … I’ll make the same pledge as you’ve just made to me – I’ll try my best.’

PART THREE

Roger the Great

12. Adela’s Scars

Yet again, Robert was generous in allowing me to recruit a sturdy captain, six men-at-arms and sufficient silver for our expedition to Italy.

We travelled slowly, paying our respects along the way to all those to whom it would be an insult not to – and to many more who may, one day, be useful to us. We were treated with the greatest respect, much of it a result of understandable curiosity about the events we had lived through and witnessed.

Along the way, Sweyn and Adela repeated many times the stories they had heard about the impressive castle at Melfi in Apulia and of the worthy deeds of Hereward’s good friend Roger Guiscard, Count of Sicily.

The Guiscards were typical of the Normans of their day. Roger’s father, Tancred de Hauteville, had been a minor noble with a small estate near Coutances in the Cotentin Peninsula of western Normandy. His only real claim to fame was that, by two wives, over a period of almost thirty years, he sired a large brood of fearsome warriors and beautiful daughters – fifteen offspring in all. His daughters married well above their station in the Norman aristocracy, and no fewer than eight of his sons became counts. Roger was the youngest of them all.

Roger’s older brothers – William Iron Arm, Drogo and Humphrey – led the Norman mercenaries who gained
control in southern Italy in the 1040s and, in turn, became Counts of Apulia.

Robert Guiscard, the ferocious sixth son of Tancred, still ruled in Melfi, where his reputation as an intimidating host even to his friends and allies persuaded us to continue on to Sicily, where we knew we would receive a much warmer welcome from his younger brother, Count Roger.

Sicily was unlike anything we had witnessed before. We had seen the wonders of Italy in Turin, Florence and Rome, where the ancient buildings made everything in northern Europe seem so new and brash. But Sicily had, until Robert brought it back under Christian rule only ten years earlier, been occupied by Islamic rulers for 250 years. The architecture was breathtaking, the food exotic, the languages incomprehensible and the customs mystifying.

We wallowed in it – especially Sweyn and Adela, who had during their childhood heard so much about the intoxicating world of Islam and the ancient cultures the Muslim people cherished.

Apart from Sicily’s more intriguing qualities, it was also as hot as a blacksmith’s furnace. We arrived in July 1084 with the temperatures soaring to the point where much of the middle of the day had to be spent in the shade with the necessity for minimal effort of any kind.

Roger’s court was at Palermo, a vast city of great wealth and antiquity. We had never seen so many people; it was much bigger than the great cities of Normandy and France and made Rome look like a small town. The buildings – the Ancient Greek and Roman temples and amphitheatres, the Moorish palaces and mosques of the Muslims and the new
Norman fortresses and churches – were so numerous and on such a grand scale that it was impossible to count them or to appreciate their grandeur fully.

Palermo was like a crossroads of all the cultures of the world. Its cuisines, languages, religions and races were so varied, its people so diverse, it was difficult to imagine that they could live happily side by side, but they seemed to. We spent several days gawping at the dark-skinned Muslims and their veiled women, enjoying food rich in spices and exotic herbs and vegetables, and listening to strange tongues such as Arabic, Greek, Hebrew and Berber. Some traders by the port had skin as black as charcoal and came from lands far to the south. They had brought spices so pungent their aroma hung in the air for miles around.

We were soon told that Count Roger had left Palermo to inspect his new castle at Mazara, an important port on the south-west tip of the island. Palermo’s garrison commander advised us not to travel, as the route was treacherous and under threat from Muslim warlords still resisting the Norman presence. As Roger was not due to return to Palermo for several weeks, we decided to make the journey. We had the comfort of seven highly trained men and felt secure in being able either to defend ourselves or to outrun any adversary.

As we left Palermo behind and climbed steadily into the hills of the island’s interior, our journey south began uneventfully. Lower down the hillsides were miles upon miles of citrus and olive groves and the vineyards that produced Sicily’s highly regarded wine. Higher up, the land had been turned to arable use, and higher still it became pasture, providing grazing for goats and sheep.

The Muslim lords of Sicily had introduced elaborate irrigation systems and new farming techniques to the island and, as a consequence, its agriculture had blossomed.

We only travelled early in the morning and late in the afternoon, and spent the hours in the middle of the day sheltering under trees, as near as possible to the small rivers that cut through the hills. There were still thick forests on the highest slopes where the hum of insects was incessant and the peppery smell of pine overpowering.

The first settlement of any significance we came across was the hilltop Muslim fortress of Calatafimi, lying about forty miles south-west of Palermo. The Muslim lords and their garrison had abandoned the stronghold and its interior had been destroyed by fire, leaving only the peasants – Christian and Muslim – to tend their fields, as they had always done.

Nearby was the ruin of a large Roman temple and theatre on the hill of Segesta. The temple seemed to be complete, except for the roof, but its heavy columns provided excellent shade and we decided to camp there.

It was at the end of one of these long afternoons of rest that I found Adela sitting alone, high on the terraced seating of the theatre. I had been thinking about her strange existence, alone in a man’s world, in a contrived marriage to a young man whom she regarded as a little brother and trying to succeed as a warrior when her ambition was well nigh impossible to achieve.

She looked forlorn, but smiled when she saw me.

‘Lord Edgar, do you remember the Roman ruins on the Tyne?’

‘I do – it was where the four of us decided to travel here.’

‘Sire, the Romans must have been like the Normans – warriors, conquerors, builders – their empire was huge and we haven’t yet got to the end of it. They achieved so much. I am nearly thirty years of age and my life has come to nothing.’

‘Adela, please call me Edgar when we are alone. We have been comrades for three years now.’

‘I cannot, sire, you are a royal prince, the heir to the throne of my homeland, and I am the daughter of a peasant.’

‘That is of no consequence any more. My royalty doesn’t mean much now. You, on the other hand, have achieved so much in life and become a knight in all but name.’

‘Not really, my Lord, think of what Hereward and Torfida had done at our age.’

‘You cannot compare yourself with others, especially two people like Hereward and Torfida. They were exceptional, and also propelled by a remarkable destiny whereby the circumstances of history took them on a unique journey. Your fate will be what it will be; there is a limit to how much you can change it.’

‘I don’t accept that, sire. If challenges and adventures won’t come to me, I will seek them out until I find my calling.’

‘And what do you think that is?’

‘I don’t know, but I know it’s out there.’

For once, she failed to answer me formally but just turned away to watch the sun dip behind the hills beyond the temple. There were tears in her eyes. She suddenly seemed feminine and vulnerable. I sensed something I had
never felt before: she was no longer the driven warrior; she looked lost, almost childlike. I wanted to help her with the immense burden she carried.

‘Do you not have desires like other women, and want to have children?’

‘Yes, but my desires and dreams are so damaged by my memories. I will confide in you because you are so kind, like an older brother, but please keep my confessions private, just between us.’

‘Of course, you have my word.’

‘I occasionally comfort myself, but never with a man, nor, despite the rumours, with a woman. I have to live with what happened to me in Bourne, and so I do.’

‘And what of Sweyn? You share his tent …’

‘Yes, but he never touches me – that would be wrong, he is like my younger brother.’

‘You know I will always be here.’

‘You are very kind, but a simple life is not for me. Since Ely, my dreams have become nightmares, my desires violated, my emotions corrupted; you don’t want to share in any of that.’

‘I have my own nightmares and burdens to live with. I didn’t suffer the kind of ordeal that you had to endure, but I have to face the fact that I should have fought harder for my rightful inheritance and perhaps even died trying to claim the throne, like so many others who sacrificed themselves in my name.’

‘I know that can’t be easy for a man, but we all respect you for your wisdom and strength. You can always look to us for support – just as we, in turn, can rely on you.’

‘Thank you, Adela.’

She wiped the tears from her eyes, kissed me on the cheek and hurried to her tent. As I watched her go, I thought about the burden she carried – the scars of an ordeal that would haunt her for the rest of her life – and was glad that I had at least let her know that I cared about her so deeply.

She was close to the Temple of Segesta, beginning to disappear into the long shadows of the setting sun, when the attack began. I saw her fall and heard her cry out, but there was no other sound or movement. I looked north and south towards the two sentries we had posted, but there was no sign or signal.

As I got to my feet, I saw our mounted assailants stream down the hillside towards us. Their recurved eastern bows were pulled taut as they unleashed volley after volley at our tents. Although the men were on horseback, their aim was lethally accurate. I saw at least three of our men fall before I had taken three paces. I shouted orders but I was too far away to be heard over the din of their horses’ hooves clattering on the hard ground.

I ran towards the temple as quickly as I could. As I did so, Sweyn appeared from behind one of the columns and brought down a horseman with a sweep of his sword across the steed’s fetlocks. He was on top of the rider before he could regain his feet and impaled him through the chest with his lance. Blood spewed out of the wound and the man spat and spluttered in his death throes as Sweyn put his foot on his chest to recover his lance. Just as he did so, looming above on horseback, two more adversaries were on top of him. The first he despatched easily by hurling his lance at him, impaling him through the right shoulder. The second one he brought to the ground by skewering his
mount through its throat with his seax, then running him through with his sword as the horse rolled on top of him.

Sweyn then tried to run towards Adela, but he was hit on the back of his helmet by a Saracen’s latt. He collapsed in a heap and did not move. I then saw Edwin and two of our men surrounded by cavalrymen, desperately trying to defend themselves before they disappeared behind a wall of men and horses.

By the time I reached the temple, sword drawn, all was still – the fight was over. I had passed Adela, but she did not move or utter a sound.

As I approached the horsemen, I heard an order issued which was obviously a call to sheathe weapons. I looked around and put my sword in its scabbard. I was surrounded by more than forty black-bearded, swarthy warriors, all clad in lamellar-mail hauberks not unlike Norman armour. Their clothing was black, as were the turbans they wore around their conical helmets. Their shields were smaller than the northern European designs and bore no emblems other than simple geometric patterns. Their horses were small, agile, grey beasts – very different from our heavy bay destriers.

‘You must be lost, Christian.’

Their leader addressed me in good Norman French. I was trying to remain calm, but the speed and ferocity of the attack had left me shaking and very concerned for the welfare of my comrades. I had never encountered Saracens before, but I knew of their formidable reputation as soldiers.

‘I am Edgar, a prince of England. We are travelling to Mazara to meet Roger Guiscard, Count of Sicily.’

‘I am Ibn Hamed, Emir of Calatafimi. Have not the Normans conquered your land?’

‘Yes, my inheritance has been taken from me.’

‘So, why do you travel all the way to my homeland to visit the people who have taken your birthright?’

‘I am no longer heir to a throne, but I am still a prince. Now I am in search of a life beyond England.’

The Saracen lord looked at me curiously.

‘My comrades are in need of help. Will you permit me to see to them?’

‘Of course. I am forgetting my manners; my physician will help you.’

He then barked some orders in Arabic and his men started to move quickly to assess the aftermath of the skirmish.

‘We were driven from Calatafimi by Roger Guiscard three years ago. We now live in the hills, trying to defend our land. Like you, we have been dispossessed.’

Ibn Hamed’s men then began to bring bodies towards us and lay them on the ground. Both sentries had had their throats cut and had been dead for some time, and three more of our men had been killed by the Saracens’ arrows. Edwin, our sergeant-at-arms and our other cavalryman were all bloodied but able to walk. They were bound hand and foot, but did not appear to be badly injured.