Eleanor: a requiem

By Colin Stathers

Young Henry Percy is unaware of today’s purpose. In the company of three prolific story tellers, he is intrigued by tales of Templar treasure, of a warrior king, of battle, murder and espionage. The truth is less romantic and, as the stories unfold, one thing is certain. Lady Eleanor is at the heart of everything.

When Eleanor’s requiem is interrupted by the Inquisition, Henry realises there is more to his grandmother than he has been told. What is the secret that she kept from a king, and what did her grandfather know about the Cathars? Who are the four men in black taking an unhealthy interest in their affairs and what does a former Templar knight know about the identity of the man in his custody? Above all, how does a toymaker’s chess piece connect all of these mysteries?

As Henry probes his companions for answers, none is straightforward. Can he solve the clues and sift the truth from falsehoods? Will he ever understand Geoffrey’s relationship with his grandmother, and will Geoffrey succeed in his quest for his own peace?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin Stathers
• Release date: Nov 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301591091

Colin Stathers

I live and work in the East Riding of Yorkshire, England, a place that is steeped in history, though five years ago I was very much unaware of that. Over the years, from boyhood to early sixties, I have travelled the county and developed a knowledge of places which now take on an historical perspective. This has not only encouraged me to reconsider the county, but has led to travels further afield. Quite by chance, in early 2009, I undertook a research project into the life of Eleanor (Fitzalan/de Arundel/Percy), the wife of Henry Percy, founder of the Percy dynasty at Alnwick in Northumberland. My research has taken me around the county and much further afield. Medieval mysteries began to unfold as I read about life in the 13th and 14th centuries. So fascinated did I become with this little known lady that I decided, from the few facts that we do know, to express my understanding of her in the form of a novel. Eleanor - a requiem was born. This quiet corner of England was not always so quiet ...

Book preview

Preface

Early in my research for this novel, I stumbled upon the Latin phrase - ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris (Horace - Ars Poetica (338)) -, which translates as fictions meant to please should approximate the truth. It set the tone for the development of the story.

Most of the characters in this story were once living people. I have deliberately avoided identifying some of them by name, but that should not impair your reading of the story. If you are a history buff, you will find many clues to their identity. You can check your intuition here.

Although this book is a work of fiction, events depicted in this story encompass the real events or a character’s known whereabouts at that time. All the towns and villages are real. Most still exist, though perhaps their names carry a different spelling.

Whether you are just a reader or an avid explorer, I have created a website here where you can learn more about the characters, the places and the storyline - the historical and geographical substance, if you like. There’s information, pictures, diagrams, maps and a cornucopia of other stuff. You can check it out anytime. I hope it adds to your enjoyment.

Whatever truths are contained in this story, you are about to embark upon a journey of discovery that will test those truths to the limit.

Introduction

Tuesday of Holy Week, 16 Ed III

1342 - 26 March - Tuesday

Alkborough - mid afternoon

Eques was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship - a gift from the young man’s magister on the final day under his tutelage. It would forever remind him of that day and the woman that he had come to know and love. Yesterday, he had been on a journey. Yesterday he was an innocent bystander. Yesterday, he could only listen. Today, he understood. Today, he had a story to tell!

Faxfleet to South Cave

Chapter 1

The feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 16 Ed III

1342 - 25 March - Monday

Alkborough - just after sunrise

From his vantage point on the ridge above the estuary, the old man stared intently downstream, shielding his eyes against the rays of the morning sun. In a few more hours, he would fulfil his last promise and all would be well.

Julian’s Bower had not changed since the day of his first visit. His predecessor had brought him here shortly after his arrival at Faxfleet as the new preceptor. It was close to the trade route that ran through Alkborough down to the Humber, crossing into the county of Yorkshire East Riding. No one knew its age or its purpose. Some thought it had been fashioned by the Benedictine monks who had founded the nearby priory. Others said that the French monks who secured the site from their Benedictine brothers had created it. It mattered not. The priory had been abandoned for over a hundred years, during which time it had fallen into disrepair. Hearsay and gossip failed to add any credence to what was now only legend.

There were few who knew of the bower’s existence. It took the form of a labyrinth, cut into the turf of the hillside above the Humber estuary, overlooking the Trent falls. It was a serene place, a place of prayer, a place of penitence. Now, as then, whenever he needed to clear his mind or to search his soul, he would come here, his most treasured solace. In the silence, he gained strength and composure. In his solitude, he could bare his soul to heaven. In his torment, he sought peace with his God.

***

The view from the ridge was breathtaking. It was a crisp, clear morning and the horizon stretched for miles in every direction. Some thirty miles away, the tower of York Minster glistened in the morning sun. He had visited this magnificent structure only once, during the reign of Edward, sometime King of England and grandfather to the present king. Its splendour and majesty overpowered his senses. He was in awe of the masons who were able to fashion such a monument. He marvelled at their incredible skill and artistry. His appreciation was enhanced all the more by his own knowledge and experience. During his formative years, he had watched and learned from the many masons employed in the building of his own magister’s house. He had learned how to cut and dress stone and how to move and lay blocks. He had been shown how to set footings and foundations and how to align walls. He knew how to use scaffolding and how to support roofs and walls. He had learned how to make plans and to calculate costs. It was an education that had proved of immense value during his time at Faxfleet.

Gazing downstream, the views were no less spectacular. Rising gently only a few miles away to the northeast were the rolling chalk hills of the Yorkshire Wolds where, as a very young boy, his mother had raised him. He could recall few details of his early childhood, but he knew that these hills were a place of joy and great beauty. When he was around the age of five or six, he had been sent into the employment of the new king’s household. It was not until he was in his mid forties that, on the death of his mother, he discovered why this was so. It was a move that had shaped the whole of his life. It had resulted in his appointment to the Faxfleet preceptory and the return to the county of his birth. At the age of twenty-two, he had rediscovered the beauty and tranquillity of Yorkshire East Riding, its towns, its villages and hamlets and its people. Over the course of his lifetime, he was to leave and return many times. Today he was returning. Once again, he was home.

***

Now, as the rising sun shed its welcome rays across the countryside, he scanned the sluggish, brown waters of the Humber, meandering like a slothful earthworm towards the Holderness coast. He caught sight of a ship off the headland at Whitton, moving steadily upstream on the incoming tide. The sight was a familiar one. A keel was approaching in the shallow, treacherous waters, hampered by a slight westerly breeze. No doubt by the time it reached the Trent Falls there would be slack water and the flood tide would allow it to slip into the preceptory dock. It would only be a matter of an hour or so before it made its final anchorage; just enough time, he thought, to make his final preparations to receive its precious cargo. Soon, his last secret would be laid to rest and his duty would be done.

He turned his eyes to the rivers below him. The waters of the Trent and the Ouse scrambled together as they fought their way into the Humber estuary. The incoming tide would soon induce a false calm to the waters, on which only the most experienced mariner dare venture. On the far bank of the Humber, the early morning light flooded the buildings that once formed his beloved preceptory. They were no longer his responsibility, no longer the rightful property of his Templar brotherhood, but of the king. Memories of happier days raced through his mind. So much had happened here, so many friends had passed through, so few had returned. The lure of the old preceptory was irresistible. He felt himself being invited to return, to reacquaint himself without delay. He would be there soon enough.

Clutching firmly to his staff, he turned slowly towards his younger companion.

It is time we were on our way, he announced, his gruff old voice struggling to leave his ailing body. Today you will discover a story, the like of which you have never heard. Listen very carefully.

He turned again towards the trackway and, with his companion following closely behind, began to make his way along the ridge and down towards the estuary. The ferryman would be waiting.

Chapter 2

The feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 16 Ed III

1342 - 25 March - Monday

Faxfleet - early morning

Geoffrey Jolif was a modest man in anyone’s judgement. In all his life he had never wanted anything, never coveted anything. He was a much-contented individual, serving his employer in whatever way he was directed. His demeanour was amiable, his manner most gracious and his appearance most pleasing. Despite his advanced years, Geoffrey retained his knightly posture, marred only by the slightest limp that affected his left leg. He was fit and reasonably toned for his age, though perhaps not as agile as in his younger years. His hair, now more white than grey, remained thick and silky, hanging loosely down to his shoulders. In all, he was still a very formidable man.

Stepping from the small rowing boat onto terra firma, Geoffrey handed the ferryman tuppence for his fee and thanked him for his gallant effort in such an unpredictable current, before he and his companion made their way towards the dock where the keel was very near to berthing. As they drew closer, they could see ropes and hawsers being tossed around furiously, as men on the quayside skilfully turned the capstans to moor the vessel on the flood tide. In a short space of time, no more than a dozen Pater Nosters, the keel was fully secured and work began in earnest.

Geoffrey settled his companion beside an old cart, a little distance from the dock, and ventured towards one of the gangplanks, where a spate of activity was under way. Tuns of wine were being unloaded by the lightermen and stacked carefully in readiness for the arrival of barges that were still secured at their moorings upriver, awaiting the approaching flood tide. Sacks of wool were piled high on the staithe, sent down from the granges around Fountains Abbey to the north, doubtless bound for an overseas market. Activity was as Geoffrey expected, feverish. The keel would have to be loaded very quickly if it was to catch the ebb tide not two hours away.

The vernal equinox signalled a change to the season. The sun was climbing steadily along its path and growing stronger, its reflection bouncing off the shimmering water of the estuary in bejewelled flashes, bringing to the land a real sense of joy and rebirth. The morning’s crisp air had warmed a little and the westerly breeze had all but died away. Wildfowl were flocking back to the wetlands in great numbers, assured of a summer haven in which to rear their young. The lush, spring pastures were already supporting spring lambs and arable crops had been set in expectation of a late summer harvest.

Emanating from the direction of the old preceptory, the smell of fresh dung and urine suggested that milking was well under way. Despite the preceptory’s change of ownership, Geoffrey felt reassured that life continued much as it had done fifty years earlier.

He watched as some travelling friars, four in number and seemingly deep in meditation, passed along the pathway that led eastwards towards the coast, a pathway that he had travelled many times during his days at the preceptory. A smile fixed itself across his face. This was his place; this was where he belonged. He would rather be here than anywhere else.

Glancing around, he sought in vain for the man whom he had come to meet. So many years had passed since their last encounter, fourteen, he reckoned, perhaps more. How both of them had managed to live for so long was nothing short of a miracle. Geoffrey laughed at the thought and turned his gaze towards the old preceptory walls. As he mused, a shadow from behind and to his right positioned itself alongside his own shadow. He turned to see a rugged, suntanned countenance, wrinkled heavily around the eyes and bearing a small scar on his left cheek in the shape of an inverted ‘V’, less than an inch below his eye, clearly inflicted by the point of a sword. The man’s jowls were a little heavy, though his bright blue eyes shone vividly either side of his slightly bent nose. His head, for there was nothing but a remnant of his hair, was close-shaven. His attire was that of a knight in service, confirmed by his bearing and stature.

Geoffrey stood in silence, looking the man up and down, taking in the full frame of his old friend. Without a word, they embraced each other as only long-standing friends do after so long a parting, sensing joy and relief at one and the same moment, recalling treasured memories in an instant, overpowered by mutuality and joined in a common sense of purpose and destiny.

At length the two men eased their grip on one another and Geoffrey took a step back. Again, he looked the other man up and down, scarcely able to believe they were together once more.

Old friend, Geoffrey murmured, unable to stop himself from grinning at the sight of his dearest friend.

Less of the ‘old’, if you don’t mind, retorted the other man. I believe I may have the advantage of a year or two when it comes to age!

The two men burst into laughter. Both knew that, at their time of life, there was little to distinguish the age of either one from the other.

Placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder, Geoffrey turned him in the direction of his young companion. Looking somewhat forlorn, the young man, half sitting, half standing against a battered old cart about fifty yards away, was obviously watching the two friends with a certain amount of curiosity.

There’s someone I want you to meet, said Geoffrey as he coaxed his friend towards the young man. Even from a distance, it was clear that the man was shorter than average, maybe about five and a half feet in all, no more, yet lean and athletic in build. His hair was short and dark brown. His surcoat was plain and bore no coat of arms.

As the two friends approached him, he stood to his full height in anticipation.

Henry, I’d like you to meet a very old … sorry, I’d like you to meet a long-standing friend of mine. Henry, this is Hugh. Hugh, Henry.

Hugh and Henry acknowledged each other with a half bow. For a few moments, they eyed each other inquisitively. The silence was broken by Henry.

Would that be Master Hugh? he asked, almost unsure that his question was properly directed, yet with an expectant smile and an excitement in his voice.

The very same, replied Hugh, a little surprised and curious. Do I know you?

When I was a child, my grandmother told me many stories. A great number featured her own childhood and the irrepressible Master Hugh. You are exactly as I imagined him to be! Henry was clearly as impressed as he was excited.

Hugh stood in silence for a while, bemused. He struggled to place the man, not long since a boy, he thought.

You must have been not much more than two years old when I last saw you, he eventually declared. You have the bearing of your grandfather, but the eyes of your grandmother. I am honoured to remake your acquaintance, young Henry.

And I yours, Master Hugh!

Young Henry is no longer the youngest Henry, interposed Geoffrey, somewhat enthusiastically, for he has only recently become a father himself – to Henry the even younger!

At this news, Hugh let out a fearsome roar of laughter. The other two looked askance, wondering what Hugh found so amusing. As he calmed himself, Hugh explained through fits of giggling.

You Percys; so imaginative with your choice of names!

Geoffrey and Henry looked at each other. They had to admit, five consecutive generations of Henrys was as obsessive a descent as that of their Plantagenet overlord.

***

So, my friend Geoffrey has been your magister, I understand, continued Hugh.

Indeed he has, sir, and I’ll wager none better, - he glanced at Geoffrey, who gave a slight grimace at those words. Henry quickly recovered himself and returned to meet Hugh’s eyes – though he freely admits that in the art of battle and the skills of warfare there is one far better than he.

Does he now? mused Hugh, battling a wry smile. Did he by any chance reveal who this person might be?

Henry knew from the stories he had heard that Hugh had the slightest of vanities in him, about which much fun was had. He decided to take a risk with his answer.

"I think I once heard him refer to a knight by the name of … Arthur, I believe," - his voice trailed off as Hugh’s expectant smile faded from his face and his head drooped forward in disappointment. This was not the answer that he had hoped to elicit from the young Henry. Again, Henry glanced at Geoffrey, who stifled a smile and winked at him. Henry continued -

Or was it Hugh, I’m not sure now.

Hugh’s head lifted sharply. He met Henry’s mischievous eyes and saw a broad grin develop across his face. Geoffrey coughed and watched Hugh as he turned towards him in confusion, the realisation that he had been duped gradually pervading his facial expression.

You … you … Hugh let out a gasp of exasperation.

I told you he was gullible. Geoffrey’s words brought yet another roar from Hugh.

Has he been talking about me?

All of the time, replied Henry. He never stops. He swears that no man ever had a greater friend.

Hugh was dumbstruck.

Between Master Geoffrey and my grandmother I have probably heard most of your life story. How much of it is true, I cannot tell, and now that I have met you I am still none the wiser … though I can see why you are Master Geoffrey’s greatest friend.

Hugh remained speechless.

Geoffrey decided to cut in before either man could continue.

I see that the two of you need to spend a little time together. We cannot dally here all day. Come on! The horses will be ready. You two can talk as much as you wish on the way.

Where are we going? asked an anxious Henry. Am I ever to be told?

Beverley, young Henry, answered Geoffrey, "and we must be there by late afternoon and well before Vespers."

***

Geoffrey and Henry had arrived at the old preceptory early during the previous day, bringing with them two additional palfreys. This had stirred Henry’s curiosity. He was eager to know the purpose of this expedition, but all that Geoffrey would tell him was that he would be told when the time was right and not before. Leaving the horses with the ostler, Geoffrey and Henry had set out that same afternoon across the estuary to Julian’s Bower. They arrived some time before nightfall. Here Geoffrey explained to Henry the significance of the bower and its history, as he understood it. They watched the sun setting in a glorious red and orange sky, its crepuscular rays descending through the broken clouds, shading them a deep blue-grey hue and attaching a shining silver lining to those in the near distance. Shadows lengthened and deepened quickly across the open landscape that stretched for miles around them. An occasional flickering light, a fire or burning brand, sprang up in the distant countryside. The moon, close to full, shed its silvery glow across the land and gradually the silhouettes of objects living and inanimate emerged from the darkness.

The chill of the night air began to permeate their clothing, bringing a degree of discomfort to the pair, but Geoffrey had prepared for this eventuality. He led Henry to the old priory, which, in part, still had a roof, and sheltered walls in what had been the kitchen. Sending Henry to collect what he could in the way of fallen branches and other suitable firewood, Geoffrey emptied his roll to produce a flint and kindling. Following Henry’s return, within the time it took to saddle a horse, he had the beginnings of a fire that would keep them warm and safe through the night. Once the embers were white hot, Geoffrey emptied their food from his roll. Though it was Lent, he had no time here for abstinence. The pieces of pheasant that he had brought along soon roasted to perfection and, with a small amount of bread and cheese and a sealed leather flask of ale, the two did not go hungry that evening.

After relieving himself in the woods, Henry collected some heavier branches and built up the fire to a blaze. Wrapped in their cloaks, the two men settled down in the warmth and glow of the fire. They talked about many things that night; stories and incidents that Geoffrey promised would all make sense by the end of the following day. Henry was fascinated by what he heard, taking care not to interrupt Geoffrey and only asking questions when Geoffrey lapsed into pensive silence. Eventually, sleep caught them both unawares. The conversation ceased and the last thing that Henry could remember was the sound of Geoffrey’s snoring.

***

When Henry awoke, Geoffrey was already packing his roll. Dawn had broken but the sun had yet to rise.

Good morning, sleepyhead.

Good morning, yourself. It’s a wonder I slept at all with all that noise last night!

What noise? Geoffrey sounded surprised.

It sounded very much like heavy snoring.

Geoffrey chuckled. Offering Henry an outstretched arm, he took hold of him and pulled him to his feet.

You may need to relieve yourself before we set off, he announced. It will be a long day today. He held out his other hand and offered Henry a handful of moss.

There’s more over there, he said, pointing to a close-by area of bracken.

Henry looked at him, questioningly.

I vacated my own bowels earlier, he replied to the unasked question. Just be careful where you place your feet!

As Henry left to discharge himself, Geoffrey spread the ashes of the fire to ensure no dying embers remained, urinating on them for good measure.

They left the priory ruins and made their way back to the bower, where they tarried as the sun rose. Henry discerned a hint of melancholy in Geoffrey’s manner, torn between his desire to return to his preceptory and his reluctance to leave the bower. Eventually, Geoffrey seemed reconciled to his course of action and the two companions set off towards the estuary, crossing at the flood tide and returning to the old preceptory.

***

Passing through the gateway in the old preceptory walls, the companions made their way to the stables where the four horses were saddled and waiting. From somewhere amongst the equine throng a voice rose, clear and strong, uttering profanities in a truly irate fashion. That voice could only belong to one man! A long-standing friend of Geoffrey’s, John was as familiar a sight to Henry as was any of his family, perhaps more so. He was a not infrequent visitor to Lekyngfelde and Seamer and always had a story to tell, though not, Henry supposed, to the extent that Master Hugh was reputed to have. A discreet cough from Geoffrey brought his cursing to a halt and, from around the hindquarters of the nearest horse, there appeared a familiar, bearded visage, looking slightly curious at the three faces staring back at him.

Ah! So, you’ve all met up and got to know each other, I see. Good morning, young Henry; Geoffrey. Are we all ready?

Henry smiled to himself. John had a way with words that compared with no other that he knew. Perhaps it was the way he phrased his words or the sound of his broad East Yorkshire accent, or both. He was nothing if not matter of fact and straight to the point.

John, I didn’t realise that you were joining us as well! How did you get here?

On the keel with Master Hugh this morning.

That’s odd, I didn’t see you.

Orders from Master Geoffrey to make all haste. I jumped ashore as soon as we were close enough to the staithe. Bad move at my age. Slipped and would have done some serious damage, I dare say, had it not been for those fleeces on the quayside.

Orders from Master Geoffrey?

Aye. Told me to meet Master Hugh in Kyngeston upon Hull, bring him to Faxfleet and get the horses ready for a swift departure.

Henry asked no more. Whatever was going on today, Master Geoffrey seemed to have organised matters to the last detail. Following Geoffrey’s lead, he and the others mounted their waiting steeds.

You ride with me, John, called Geoffrey. I think young Henry wishes to discuss some matters at length with our good friend, Hugh!

John nudged his horse forward to join Geoffrey, who was smiling intently at Hugh, a smile that betrayed a great sense of affiliation.

And don’t you go befuddling young Henry with any of your tall tales, he shouted over to Hugh.

Hugh returned the smile. A futile request, as Geoffrey knew!

Will no-one tell me what business we are about today? enquired Henry, even more anxious to be let in on their purpose.

Geoffrey relented.

Today, young Henry, we are going to visit a very special lady, he said, engaging Henry with a wistful smile.

And am I to know the name of this lady? asked Henry.

Feigning reluctance, Geoffrey let out a mournful sigh.

She is none other than your grandmother.

Chapter 3

The feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 16 Ed III

1342 - 25 March - Monday

Faxfleet to Broomfleet - early morning

Geoffrey loved her like no other. He had watched her blossom from a vibrant, young girl into a confident lady of import and bearing. She was a comely woman, not ravishing but radiant nonetheless, entrancing, attractive and endearing. She was a caring mother and an extremely able businesswoman. Her nature was of the sweetest kind, with little regard for rank. To her, all were as equals. She knew her position and her status and took her place in society as dictated by protocol, yet always did she consider the needs of others greater than her own. Since the death of her husband, she had secured his estates and fees on her son, secured her own dowry and executed the testament of her younger brother with great success. Established with her own resources, she devoted the greater part of her life to the welfare of her tenants, to aiding the poor and to advocating justice where none else prevailed.

***

The headaches started soon after the interment of Edward of Caernarfon, some time King of England and cousin to her deceased husband. At first, the headaches were occasional but, over time, they became more frequent and less bearable. Progressively, she had more bad days than good and would take to her bed for days at a time. The physicians were at a loss and unable to diagnose the malady. Spells of dizziness and occasional vomiting began to accompany the maux de tete.

During all this time, Geoffrey was her constant companion. He organised the household around her and her needs. On her better days, she would walk the grounds of the manor at Seamer with him, chatting and discussing much the same as they had always done. Occasionally, they would take to their horses and ride onto the northern edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. Their conversations pursued many avenues of interest and thought, always returning to events of the past, sometimes with a note of regret over lost opportunities, missed chances and errors of judgement.

Gradually, her condition worsened and, though neither spoke of it, this probably affected the subjects of conversation. Mostly they talked of people, places and past events, sharing secrets and recalling shared experiences. During those agonising few months, each discovered about the other more than they could ever have thought possible.

On the Thursday following the Feast of the Transfiguration, the pair rode over the Wolds to Foxholes, a poignant place for both of them, all the while recalling memories of days gone by. It was a blissful day. A warm breeze tantalised the foliage that dressed the countryside so perfectly and the sunshine spilled its invigorating rays through a near cloudless sky. On the return journey, they paused a while at the top of Staxton Hill, overlooking the Vale of Pickering and the moors beyond. The view was stunning. The horizon stretched for miles through the heat haze that rose from the vale below, adding a mystique to the countryside. The hill of Weaponness obscured the view of the castle at Scardeburgh, standing majestically on the promontory beyond, whose shimmering white edifice Eleanor could only imagine. This was a day to treasure indeed.

Only later, as they drew closer to Seamer, did she complain of a wave of nausea flooding her weary body. When they arrived at the dower house, he lifted her from her jennet, only to have her collapse in his arms. Within a few moments, he was holding her lifeless body and suppressing a violent urge to scream at his God for taking her in this way. She was not yet forty-five years of age.

***

His grief was immeasurable, though he took care not to display his emotions publicly. It fell to him to assist with the practicalities of her interment, whilst her elder son dealt with the execution of her will. Her personal possessions reverted with her estates to her son. Amongst them were three journals that she had kept since her childhood. They were of little interest to the heir and he, knowing something of his mother’s history, offered Geoffrey unconditional access to them. Over the course of the ensuing years, he read them many times. The earlier years were written in a form of Latin and continental vernacular, Piedmontese he later discovered. From about the age of eleven, the language progressed to a mix of Latin and Norman-French. Curiously, in the years following her husband’s death the inclusion of English became prolific. However, some of her later writing also contained the Piedmontese dialect. Gradually, over the years, he learned to interpret this dialect and to make sense of some of the events in both of their lives. The journals contained a mix of personal notes, sayings, diarised events and an occasional chapter in her life when something significant had happened. In the second and particularly in the third of her journals, she had resorted to using code, which he managed to transcribe not without some difficulty. At every opportunity, he read and reread her words, absorbing her thoughts, imbibing her ideas and postulations, until his memories and the memories of Eleanor, Lady Percy, became fused as one.

***

By the light of a flickering fire in the old kitchen of Alkborough Priory, Henry had become enthralled by Geoffrey’s story. Now, as he and his companions left Faxfleet, he was confused. His grandmother had died when he was a mere boy, almost fourteen years earlier. Yet here was Master Geoffrey, the man in whose arms she had died, telling him that they were going to meet her! Today! He struggled to make sense of what he had just been told and what Geoffrey had told him during their overnight encampment at Alkborough.

Something troubling you, young Henry? It was Hugh, surprised by Henry’s silence as they eased their way towards Broomfleet.

Puzzling rather than troubling, I think you might say, answered Henry. I am trying to discern how we are able to meet someone who has been dead for almost fourteen years.

Ah! mused Hugh. A trick played by your ears on your brain, young Henry.

A trick! exclaimed Henry.

Aye, lad, replied Hugh, seeking to clarify matters. Have you not yet learned to listen to the words being spoken to you, rather than the interpretation that you put upon them?

Henry looked bewildered.

The word that Geoffrey used was visit, advised Hugh. We are going to visit, not to meet. There is a whole world of difference. Surely Geoffrey has taught you to listen well and to listen carefully?

The Magister has taught well, replied Henry, but the head of the pupil is preoccupied with many stories.

Ah! came a note of recognition from Hugh. The pupil has yet to embrace with his heart. The head forgets many things. Only in the heart do all things endure.

Henry looked bemused.

Young Henry, continued Hugh, if you wish to understand this story, then you must put yourself in the place of the storyteller. You may hear and be entertained if you wish; to what benefit? But if you wish to experience it, to engrave it on your heart forever, you must embrace it and allow it to enfold you. You must engage it with your whole heart and allow it to overtake you. Only then will the story have any life, any meaning and any substance.

Henry took a little time to weigh Hugh’s advice and then gave an understanding nod.

Today, you are in the company of old men, continued Hugh, but once we were not so different from you, save that we had no chattels and no inheritance. We are of very different backgrounds and diverse upbringings, yet our paths have crossed and criss-crossed so many times over the last fifty years that it is unclear as to when we have not been in each other’s company. Before we are called to higher service, there is much that you need to understand. And your grandmother is at the heart of it.

Henry was listening intently to Hugh’s words, trying very hard to absorb the significance of what was being told to him. Clearly, there was more to his grandmother than he remembered. He addressed Hugh in measured tones.

Then tell me, if you will, how you came to know my grandmother.

I once thought my life to be in the hands of Fate, he replied after careful consideration, but I believe that Providence had the upper hand in the final arrangement.

Henry looked perplexed.

"My first meeting with your grandmother came about as a result of an encounter with Providence just over a year before we were introduced. I was in the Levant …"

Chapter 4

The Friday before the feast of the Venerable Bede, 19 Ed I

1291 - 18 May - Friday

Acre - midday - Hugh

The sharp shock of cold water that permeated the layers of his protective tunic, seizing and shaking his weary body, quickly brought him to his senses. The dull aching in his shoulders and neck impeded his movement as he tried to adjust to his new surroundings. The pounding noise of warfare had ceased and disquiet pervaded his mind. Resisting the urge to inhale deeply, he struggled to get his bearings. The weight of his now thoroughly impregnated tunic bore him downwards with unremitting zeal. The light of the mid-day sun above him became hazy. Paradise, it seemed, was beckoning. This was not the glorious entry into the heavenly realm that he had imagined.

***

Some little time earlier, Hugh had been in the thick of hand-to-hand fighting against his Mussulman enemy, desperately trying to hold a breach in the wall of Acre’s mighty fortress. The battle had raged to and fro for nearly two weeks, the defenders holding sway after each onslaught of their enemy. Each time they fended off an attack, the numbers of the defenders diminished, sometimes considerably. Each time their enemy regrouped, their numbers appeared the same. Some might have considered the defenders’ plight hopeless but, with an unshakeable faith and a call to glory, the Templars did not consider surrender an option. To a man, they would remain on the field of battle until victory was won or until the last of them had fallen in the service of God and their fellow man.

Days earlier, relief forces had arrived, too few in number to be of any long-term assistance. Hardened knights of other persuasions had retreated to Cyprus, convinced of the demise of the city. Hope encouraged Faith, but Love persuaded only the few to remain. Now, with the outer walls breached, the defenders were engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand battle for the city. Sword and shield worked tirelessly through the morning. Archers on the inner walls struggled to find their targets in the ensuing melee. Artillery was useless at such close quarters. The streets ran red with an endless river of blood, oozing and pulsating from bodies dead and dying, churning into a sticky brown paste in the dust beneath the feet of those still standing. Limbs hacked off in the heat of battle twitched in the abounding carnage. Bodies piled high, the distinction between the dead and the dying indeterminable. The stench of vomit, urine and excrement hung in the air like a poisoned mist, infusing friend and foe alike.

At the breach, Hugh and his compatriots fought on. As each Mussulman fell, another appeared in his place. The whole world, it seemed, contained no other. As the morning wore on, Hugh witnessed the number of his fellow knights diminish, though each must have taken down six or seven of the enemy before the might of superior numbers overwhelmed even the bravest and most accomplished of them. As the sun rose higher and the defenders grew more uncomfortable in the oppressive heat and humidity, their work rate and effectiveness in the battle began to wane. Finally, they were forced to retreat to the Templar quarter of the city where, wringing with sweat, demoralised and totally exhausted, they barricaded the gates and sought respite from the fray.

The clamour of battle continued outside the walls. The remorseless beating of Al-Asraf Khalil’s drums, driving the attackers into a hypnotic frenzy, could not suppress the sound of steel clashing on steel as attacker and defender struggled for the upper hand, for life and for victory. Neither did it drown out the continual shouting of men in fear of their lives as they plunged headlong against their foe. Nor could it disguise the terrified screams of the wounded and dying and of women and children being violated in the extreme by their adversaries. Even in his darkest nightmare, Hugh had not imagined Hell to be half this bad.

In his retreat from the front line, Hugh had taken hold of an older comrade who had fought valiantly at his side for what seemed like the whole morning. They had fought as a team, covering each other against repeated attack, fending off the enemy and entertaining small incursions into the thick of the fighting to rescue other less fortunate knights. They had both fought like raging bulls, unaware of injuries and ignorant of danger. They had stood as one and fought as one. Now his companion was wounded severely, an arrow lodged in his chest through a narrow opening in the side of his hauberk. Together, almost in desperation, they had struggled to the safety of the Templar quarter with little time to spare. The fortress’s heavy gates had closed behind them, emitting a thunderous roar as they locked together, bolted and secure against their resolute enemy.

Carrying his companion into the cavernous dining hall, now operating as a makeshift hospital, Hugh settled him onto a mattress. The room was awash with the injured and the dying. Some were having their wounds dressed. Others, Hugh could hear, were being absolved in the ceremony of last rites. He shouted for someone to find a Hospitaller and then began to cut away the straps on his companion’s hauberk to examine the damage. The old Templar winced as Hugh uncovered the deadly wound. Frantically, the old man fought to draw breath, but it was clear to Hugh that this old man would not be rejoining the fray for some time, if at all.

As he began to release the hauberk from around the old man’s body, Hugh felt his wrist caught in a vice-like grip. His companion clasped him with a hand of steel. Hugh looked into the old man’s eyes. His grip slackened slowly and he took hold of Hugh’s hand. Then, pulling Hugh closer to him, he began whispering into his ear. The room reverberated with the cries and screams of men in agony. The noise of the Sultan’s army pervaded the air with a debilitating resonance. Hugh struggled to hear his companion’s words. There was a gurgling in the old man’s chest as he gasped for air to fill his lungs. His eyes froze into a permanent stare, fixed on some distance point that Hugh could not fathom. Then he let out a loud cry. His