The Bigod Chronicles Book Three William

By Martin P Clarke

Life for William Bigod has taken an unexpected turn...one that he relishes. His new life as a horse farmer together with the love of a good wife and young family, far out weigh the anxieties he once felt for England. But his association with the Knights Templars leads to personal disaster. With the destruction of all he holds dear, he must decide if he should retire into obscurity or allow himself to be drawn down a dangerous road of bloody retribution and assassination.

England descends into a terrible Civil War between King Stephen and Matilda, the daughter of King Henry. Against this background, Hugh Bigod becomes embroiled in the appalling murder of a young tanner boy. The Jews of Norwich stand accused of the death and Hugh sees a chance to benefit from the tragedy. Justice seems to be a secondary concern.

The Bigod Chronicles
Book One Ilger
Book Two The Order
Book Three William
Book Four Hugh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244626631

Book preview

The Bigod Chronicles Book Three William

The Bigod Chronicles

Book Three

William

Picture1

A medieval novel by

Martin P Clarke

Copyright © 2017 by Martin P Clarke

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

The right of Martin P Clarke to be identified as

the author of this work has been asserted by him

in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Martin P Clarke

ISBN  978-0-244-62663-1

Although every attempt has been made to place the

characters within recorded historical events,

this novel remains a work of fiction.

The Bigod Chronicles

Book One        Ilger

Book Two       The Order

Book Three     William

Book Four       Hugh

Acknowledgements

Heart-felt thanks to the Chapelle des Templiers de Cressac 

for allowing me to see the rare Knights Templar wall frescoes that recount a battle between Count Raymond of Antioch and the Sultan Nuradin of Aleppo.

DSCN4900 - Copy

Map of France

12th Century

france26map jerusalem road - Copy

Additional Main Characters

Geoffrey de Mandeville                                                    Earl of Essex

William Peverel                                                    son of Pagan Peverel

Joab Mandeville                son of Geoffrey de Mandeville (fictional)

Rabbi Jacob ben Meir                                    grandson of Rabbi Rashi

Bishop Eborard                                                        Bishop of Norwich

Earl William Albini (Wills)               Earl of Buckenham and Sussex

Lady Alice                                     wife of Earl Albini (former Queen)

Sultan Zengi                                               ruler of Aleppo and Mosul

Gabriel                                                 son of William Bigod (fictional)

Shumayl                                                      friend of Gabriel (fictional)

Evrard des Barres                                 Templar/ Preceptor of France

Abbot Gilbert of Sens                   son of Hugo de Payen (fictional)

Sister Veremund                          nun of Afflighem Abbey (fictional)

Lord Unur                                                  Turkish ruler of Damascus

Nuradin                                      son of Sultan Zengi, Emir of Aleppo

Ghazi                                             son of Sultan Zengi, Emir of Mosul

General Shirkuh                                                          Uncle to Saladin

King Baldwin                             King of Jerusalem, son of King Fulk

Earl William de Warenne                                     third Earl of Surrey

Bernard de Tremelay                                      Grand Master Templar

Marshal Nathan Crosier                         Knights Templar Jerusalem

Walkelin Maminot                      councillor to the Count of Hainaut

D'Cheney                                                          steward to Hugh Bigod

Young Duke Henry                                        son of Empress Matilda

Eustace                                                        eldest son of King Stephen

Lord Edmund Sisland                    councillor to young Duke Henry

William of Blois                                        second son of King Stephen

Vernon                                                  royal steward to King Stephen

Prior David                                                 councillor to King Stephen

Prologue

Boulogne

1137

King Stephen of England gazed out from the private balcony, over-looking the town of Boulogne. The meeting with his elder brother Theobald, the Count of Champagne, was going well. Stephen was relieved to hear that Theobald had no personal interest in the English crown, indeed declaring his support at his good fortune. He went on to describe the succession as something of a poisoned chalice.

Stephen was confused. ‘What do you mean a poisoned chalice? I don’t understand...’

‘Well you did the right thing in acting quickly in seizing the crown and I know your Westminster coronation was well received. But I have to warn you. If you let the barons get the upper hand they will lead you a merry dance. As we speak, be sure they will be plotting against you,’ he warned. ‘You must be strong, Stephen. I say again, do not underestimate the guile and stubbornness of the Empress Matilda, nor her bastard brother, Robert of Gloucester. They will not give up the crown of England without a fight. Every day she garners more support against you. I advise you to return to England as soon as possible.’

Stephen doubted the barons would ever except a woman as Queen; especially one married to the Count of Anjou. He poured himself some more wine. ‘Don’t worry Theobald, I plan to sail on the morning tide. However, I do have one more matter to discuss in private.’ He glanced over his shoulder and stood closer to his brother. ‘Why do you have such an issue with Norwich?’

Theobald studied the bottom of his cup. He swilled the wine around but did not drink from the ornate pewter goblet. ‘My uncle, Count Hugues, God bless his soul, handed me the succession of Champagne before he departed in haste to Jerusalem, to join the Order of the Temple. I know he was persuaded to go on an absurd, ill-fated mission to the Holy Land, by a mute called William Bigod…’

‘That is untrue!’ Stephen interrupted. ‘The man was an impostor. William Bigod died on the White Ship.’

Theobald could not hide his annoyance. ‘The truth is that Count Hugues believed him and took his advice, thereby wasting his life to no avail. Whether an impostor or not, I will not be pleased if any member of the Bigod family received any title or property under your kingship. And that includes Norwich.’ Theobald slammed his cup down. ‘And you will swear on the matter.’  

Stephen was stunned. All he could do was nod in agreement.

Theobald’s face broke into a grin as he tightened his mantle against the wind. ‘It is only a small thing that I ask. After all, you owe me a kingdom.’

The words seem to echo in Stephen’s head. They were the same words spoken by Hugh Bigod upon the death of King Henry. Thanks to Hugh, he was able to act quickly and grasp the crown while Matilda was caught napping in Argentan.

For a moment, Stephen mulled over his good fortune, followed by a sudden flash of doubt. Did he truly have any right to be king at all? The moment passed, only to be replaced by another sentiment. He shuddered at the thought of breaking the news to Hugh…that he must surrender Norwich castle.

Book Three

William

Seven Years Later…

1144-1156

‘…they said openly that Christ and his saints were asleep. Such things too much for us to describe; we suffered nineteen years for our sins.’

Anglo Saxon Chronicle 12th Century

inside William

Chapter 1

Norwich

Norfolk

1144

The apprentice tanner nervously approached the gate of the town house and self-consciously wiped the dirt from his face and hands before placing his wooden tray on the large step. He arranged his wares on the tray then knocked hard on the door. The samples of leather were the best he had ever produced and he was confident of another sale to his most prestigious customer. He knocked again on the oak doors, glancing anxiously as someone nudged the ornate menorah on the window sill. Moments later, a servant answered, and asked him to wait inside the hall.

The boy had no knowledge of the eyes that had watched his every move from the shadows of the alleyway. The two thieves settled back knowing they would not have long to wait before the boy reappeared, all the richer for his house call.

Half an hour later, they heard the door open and the smiling boy emerged. One glance along the deserted tiny street told them that they would not be observed while they carried out their murderous act.

Amidst the excitement of counting his coins, the boy did not see or hear his assailants. They sprang like animals; one holding him from behind while the other ran him through with a short sword. The blade was sharp and met little resistance as it reappeared from the middle of the boy’s spine. His wide open eyes slowly closed as his artery was ruptured and the man holding him cursed as the blood sprayed over his britches.

They did not need to search his clothes for he was still clutching the silver coins in his hand. The sound of nearby voices stopped them in their tracks. ‘Put him in the sack before someone comes,’ said the thief.

‘We should let him bleed out first.’

‘We ain’t got time.’ They quickly pulled a Hessian sack over the body and secured the end with a rope.

No one paid any attention as they carried the sack to the adjoining street where they had a horse and cart. Throwing the sack into the cart, they were just about to set off when a priest pulled on the horse’s rein, begging them to stop. 

‘I am looking for my nephew…a tanner boy,’ he asked anxiously. ‘He was due to meet me here. Have you seen him?’

The robber paused and nodded down the street. ‘I saw him go into that big house down that street. The one with the candlesticks on the sill. You know...them Jews.’

The priest thanked him then ran off down the street, calling the boy’s name.

‘What the hell are we going to do with the kid now?’ his accomplice hissed. ‘The priest will soon raise enough people to look for him.’

The other sneered. ‘Don’t worry. I have an idea. But first we take the little runt up to the heath where no one will see us.’

Robert Picot rode slowly across Cambridge common, looking from side to side at the mindless destruction. Thick smoke wafted from the burnt out buildings, making his eyes water and his throat sting. Under the circumstances, most men would have felt threatened, but after five years of witnessing gratuitous violence, he just felt numb. He had seen it all before. The wasted bodies of the starving that lay unburied in the street. Whole towns and villages burnt to the ground.

At the far end of the common, a trail of carts was being filled with pillaged goods, everything from cooking pots and vegetables, to sheep and chickens.  The mercenaries were feasting on lamb and ale, anticipating the long night of depravity that lay ahead, and as if proof were needed, the anguished screams of the innocent began to pierce the grey evening air.

Men gathered, unashamed as they waited in turn to debase the flesh of the young, while the old looked on with a mixture of fear and loathing. Fathers and husbands learnt to bite their tongues and those that argued were beaten for pleasure.

Picot held on tight to the Bigod colours that fluttered orange and red and those men that glanced his way did so only once. They had much better sport to hand. A young boy, no more that fifteen, busied himself feeding a carthorse and shied away nervously as he approached.

Picot spoke with authority. ‘I carry a message for the Earl of Norfolk. Do you know where he is?’

The boy looked over his shoulder towards the road that led west out of the common and pointed.

Picot rode off at speed, now ignoring the wanton sacking that surrounded him. No good would come of delay. He wanted to be off the streets of Cambridge before nightfall. Mandeville’s men were on the rampage  to the north and would soon reach the common. His Lordship was much further west than Mandeville had agreed and there was bound to be accusations of incursion if the two military units met. Theses were deadly times and although he carried the Bigod colours, they would carry no sway if Mandeville’s bloodthirsty maniacs caught sight of him.

His horse clattered loudly across a wooden bridge, drawing glances from the squires and mercenaries that milled around the entrance to the inn by the stream. He pushed his mare through the belligerent throng, urging them to let him through. Barrels were being rolled onto a waiting wagon and some argued that they should drink their ale now rather than have it disappear under the wing of Lord Bigod.

Wiser men looked nervously to the north at the smoke rising from the castle, knowing full well that if Mandeville caught them stealing ‘his’ ale, they would be dead within the hour.

Picot galloped along the causeway, and then caught a glimpse of Hugh’s entourage as they entered the gateway of St Radegunds nunnery.

This was madness, he thought.

The courtyard appeared to be full of Mandeville’s men. Daring himself on, he threw a glance at the walls either side of the gate and was staggered at the butchery before him. The last threads of sunlight pierced the blanket of smoke and fell upon the bodies of the monks and nuns impaled onto spears; some of them appeared no more than children.

The perpetrators were inside the courtyard and were dragging bloodstained corpses from the dormitory, forming a large pile against the wall. Two men carried a large tapestry and laughed in an alcoholic stupor as they stumbled; the cloth ripping beneath their boots. It opened up to reveal a bloody mix of arms and legs. Mandeville’s butchers had been busy at work and it was not yet even dark.

Under the gaze of sneering faces, he rode on, not wanting to draw any more attention than was necessary. Just as he thought things could not get any worse, he realised he had lost sight of Hugh.

A gravely voice shouted from a doorway and startled him. ‘If you are looking for the earl, they are all in the refectory!’ The long haired man slowly emerged from the shadows and leant against the door-jamb. He held his sword lazily over his shoulder, ignoring the drops of blood that ran from the blade onto his naked chest. The sweat on his torso glistened and his dark soulless eyes belonged to the devil.

Picot dismounted outside the door to the refectory, ensuring that Bigod’s colours were in plain view across his saddle before he went inside. A squire appeared and took his horse to the stables.

Sat at a large table he caught sight of Hugh Bigod’s steward. Thank God he has his steward with him, thought Picot.

He had forgotten his name but remembered him as a word-smith of some note. Next to the steward stood four of Hugh’s knights. They were the usual sycophants and scavengers, waiting for news of any scraps to be thrown their way.

Steaming pots of broth were being served into tankards and bowls. Licking his lips, he looked on enviously at the two lambs roasting on a spit over the crackling fireplace. Maybe he will stop the night after all.

Already voices were being raised and at the far end of the table, he made out the familiar shape of Hugh Bigod. Four months had passed since they had last met and the balding, middle-aged Earl of Norfolk had not changed much, wearing his forty-eight years well.

Sat opposite Hugh was the thin faced Geoffrey de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, with a similar number of supporters. He nearly missed the small angelic face of Mandeville’s bastard son, Joab, stood alongside his father. The boy had the far-away expression of having seen too much bloodshed for one so young. By all accounts, Mandeville’s legitimate son William had been shipped off for his own protection, to the court of the Count of Flanders.

Picot listened to Hugh speak and sighed. He sounded angry and the worse for drink but he knew better than to interrupt one of his Lordship’s drunken rants. Standing against the wall, behind the steward, he kept out of sight and hoped he had not walked into a hornet’s nest.

Hugh slammed his jug of ale onto the table. ‘Where were all your so-called friends, when our glorious King Stephen threw you in the Tower of London, I was the only one who defended your cause and spoke on your behalf. I was the only one that demanded your release!’

Mandeville slammed his fist down. ‘Only to cover your own treachery, you bastard!’

‘I don’t need to feign favour with Stephen. It was my word that gave him the throne!’ Hugh retorted.

‘And a fat lot of good it did you…’

Hugh was furious and leaned forward. He wiped the spittle from his mouth. ‘And where were you when he betrayed me and threw me out of Norwich Castle.’ He sat down, red-faced and fatigued by the bitter exchange of  words.

Picot looked on anxiously as the knights began to fidget with their swords. The argument was going nowhere and was in danger of escalating into violence.

In the doorway to his left, Mandeville looked up to see his General  trying to attract his attention. He held up a small sack, then gestured to the steps that led down into the cellar before disappearing from view..

In the lull, Hugh’s steward rose to his feet to speak. ‘My lords, pray listen to reason. You have both been badly wronged by King Stephen. But surely you can find some consolation in maintaining this alliance. If you look to your common strengths, not your individual weaknesses, then together you can hold the king to account for his past injustices.’

Silence gripped the audience. Hugh looked sheepishly into his ale and took a long swig.

Through gritted teeth, Mandeville sat back in his chair and spoke softly to Hugh. ‘Come with me into the cellars.’

William Peverel concentrated hard on opening his swollen eyes. The flickering light from the torch on the wall sconce blurred his vision. All his senses reeled from the battering his body had taken, and apart from the dead weight on his back, his bones seemed in one piece.

They had laid him in a hell-hole. Thick sticky fluid covered the floor and the sickening stench of death pervaded every dark corner. His eyes struggled to absorb his nightmare surroundings. The screaming came and went but the source seemed to originate from the flurry of activity only a few paces to his right. Unable to regain his strength just yet, he lay pinned to the floor and tried to remember what had happened to him.

He had ridden to Barnwell Priory to warn the monks that Earl Mandeville was rampaging through Cambridgeshire. They were already aware of his approach and as Peverel looked inside for the abbot he noticed a monk take his horse and ride off at speed. He ran down the track but his flight was futile. Mandeville’s henchmen were already at the gate and a horseman chased him down. All he remembered was the sound of thundering hooves and then everything went black. Judging by his massive bruising, he must have been trampled under hoof and brought to this god-forsaken hole.

Was he was lucky to be alive or not? Feeling with his free hand he soon realised it was a dead body that pinned him down. Lifting his head from the blood soaked floor, he was able to slide the body over onto the floor. His breathing became easier. Turning his head he saw the corpse wore a monk’s habit and as he pulled himself onto his knees, the torso fell to one side. It was headless.

Instinctively he crawled away and leant with his back against a wall, his chest heaving as his heart threatened to burst. If they had no qualms killing a monk then what chance did he have?

The full horror of his predicament began to unfold before him. Two flickering torches mounted on the opposite wall gave the only light in a large windowless cell. To his left some steps lead up to the sound of echoing voices. To his right, a brazier burnt fiercely.

He recognised the abbot dangling from a manacle chained to the wall. His eyes had been burnt from their sockets. Although his voice was but a whisper, his torturer seemed captivated at whatever words passed his lips. Now his attention turned to another monk who was dangling from a rope around his neck. One foot was balanced precariously on a stool so if he slipped, he would hang from the noose. 

Peverel was startled at the sudden appearance of his jailer, his breath stinking of rotten meat. In his hands he carried a length of rope. ‘Can’t have you running off, can we.’ The man wrapped a rope around his neck, preventing him from moving forward.

The jailer pulled the torso of the headless monk and laid it next to another body on a tapestry stretched out on the floor. He casually pointed to the eyeless monk hanging from the manacle. ‘What about him?’

The torturer sat in the shadows, chewing on some mutton.    He looked pleased with himself. ‘Leave him here. You can tell General Reiner to look for the hidden jewels behind the wooden crucifix in the abbot’s cell.’

The jailer grunted his approval then wrapped up the bodies in the tapestry and proceeded to haul his gruesome load up the steps.

Apart from the rise and fall of voices coming from upstairs, the world seemed quiet. The torturer was quite still, perhaps even asleep.

All too soon the respite from evil was over. Footsteps came from the stairs and a shirtless man descended the steps. Striding across the floor, the bare-chested brute passed Peverel with scarcely a glance. His sword swung lazily in his right hand and his piercing eyes stared out at the two victims from under his long knotted hair .

His arrival surprised the torturer.

‘Which one confessed?’ he demanded.

‘The one without his eyes…General Reiner, sir.’

‘Fucking Abbot. This is for wasting my time.’ Without breaking his stride, the general’s sword struck the abbot through the heart, the blade clanging against the wall, spraying blood in all directions.

Looking away, Peverel dared not breathe for fear of drawing the attention of his captors. For a few desperate moments, he looked around the cellar for any means of escape.

More voices carried from the top of the steps and two more men entered the chamber. But they were not common thugs or jailers. His heart nearly stopped when he recognised the tall one with the gaunt face. The notorious Earl Mandeville, said by many to be the devil incarnate. Stood with him was a smaller, round-faced man, probably a high-ranking knight or a lord.

Mandeville walked up to the dead, eyeless abbot hanging from the wall and saw the blood running from his chest. He turned to his General. ‘Who said you could kill the abbot?’

General Reiner passed the earl a small bag of gems and gold coins. ‘He pissed us about all day. Once he confessed where he hid them, I thought it time to get rid of him…’

‘You thought!’  Mandeville screamed. He spun round and punched Reiner hard. He fell onto his rear holding his broken nose.

‘Don’t ever think for yourself, without asking me first!’ Mandeville raised his fist to hit him again then heard someone coming down the steps.         

From out of the darkness, a boy ran from the steps in front of Mandeville to the far corner of the cellar and pulled from the shadows a pointed stake. Then he started hitting the monk who was still precariously balanced with one foot on the stool.

Mandeville laughed aloud at the antics of his son. ‘Look at that! Eleven years old and already versed in the delights of the dungeon.  Oh, well…it looks as if Joab has decided who is next to feel the stake. I would have preferred the abbot but this one will have to do. What do you think Hugh?’ Mandeville looked across at the pale, sickened face of Hugh Bigod and felt it necessary to remind Hugh of his personal injustice.

Just inches from his face, Mandeville spoke softly so as his son could not hear. ‘For three weeks I was incarcerated in the Tower of London by our traitorous King Stephen. Two men, purporting to be men of God, visited me every day to offer me spiritual guidance. Alas, they were not monks; they were devils in disguise. Day and night I was sodomised.’ A deep shadow of shame crossed his face. ‘Upstairs, in the chapter house, your steward spoke of bringing Stephen to account. I want to show you how I bring my enemies to account.’ Then he moved aside and nodded to the torturer who stepped forward.

He tightening the rope around his neck and ripped the habit from the middle-aged monk, exposing his shrinking genitals. In such a confined space, the smell of fear was overpowering.

Hugh felt his heart thumping at the horrors to come, unable to acknowledge the hatred burning deep in Mandeville’s corrupt soul.

The monk still had one foot  balanced on the stool, while the torturer held onto his other leg. On cue, little Joab carefully placed the sharpened stake underneath the abbot, making sure the point rested just inside his anus. With one swift movement, the rope was released, thrusting the stake up into the rectum. Both legs kicked wildly as blood and excrement streamed unabated over the stool. The rope was tightened again, preventing any sound from escaping his lips. The monk slowed his flailing and prayed that the noose would quicken his inevitable death.

But the torturer prided himself as a craftsman and was keen to show off in front of the two earls and the boy. They would not be cheated with an easy strangulation. Kicking over the stool, he raised the abbot once more before releasing him for the second time. The stake was over a yard long and hit the floor with a loud thud, pushing the point deep into the gut.

Joab clapped his hands excitedly, watching the stomach wall bulge as the point nearly exited. He stared transfixed as the body rose and fell with a dull thud, pushing the stake further into the torso. Finally the skin below the rib-cage tore open and the monk finally giving up the ghost.

Hugh turned away from the repulsive spectacle. ‘Fucking hell Mandeville…’ Never before had he seen such an abhorrent display of torture. Now he understood the reputation Earl Mandeville had earned for himself and for the first time had witnessed the true meaning of retribution.

Amongst all the blood and filth in the cells, Hugh glanced at a prisoner trussed against the wall. ‘Who is that?’ he asked, instantly regretting drawing attention to the bedraggled man.

‘That is William Peverel. His namesake and cousin is the Lord of Nottingham, a supporter of Stephen. I confess I am torn between ransom and staking him out on the wall.’ He sighed as a wicked smile crossed his face and he led Hugh back up the stairs. ‘Let us see what fate holds in store tomorrow.’

Joab picked up another stave for sharpening and marched from the bottom of the stairs, thrusting the stave into thin air.

Peverel shouted after them. ‘Please my lords,’ he urged. ’My cousin will pay a goodly sum for my release.’

Mandeville ruffled his son’s hair. ‘I am sure he will. But where is the fun in that?’

Dawn was just breaking and Picot shook Hugh awake, unable to suppress his excitement. ‘Hugh, come quickly to the courtyard. You will not believe who has just arrived.’

Hugh was reluctant to move from his mattress. ‘It had better be the second coming, or else…’

‘Believe me…it is,’ Picot insisted, pulling the blanket off Hugh. ‘Now get outside if you don’t want to miss the showdown between Christ and the fucking Devil.’ Picot ran back outside leaving the door open behind him.

Blinking in the bright light of a spring morning, Hugh followed him to the door and indulged in a piss against the door-jamb. He heard horses and voices in the courtyard and looking around the corner he stared at the astonishing formation of twenty mounted knights, dressed in white cloaks over a white monks habit. Banners of black and white  fluttered in the breeze.

Earl Mandeville and General Reiner stood alongside just four knights. They brazenly stood their ground, while another thirty of Mandeville’s men-at-arms quickly assembled in the corner of the courtyard.

The lead white knight did indeed look god-like. Rarely had Hugh seen such an imposing figure, astride a beautiful piebald stallion. His voice boomed across the courtyard, totally unaffected by the gathering of lawless thugs around him.

‘I am André de Montbard, Seneschal of the Order of the Knights Templar.’

Hugh suddenly recoiled at the name and grabbed Picot by the arm. ‘Is that one of the knights at Alost...he was there when Cliton died…?’

Picot nodded, desperate trying to listen to the exchange.

Mandeville cautiously weighed up the knight. ‘You are a long way from your Temple in Jerusalem. What is your business here?

The knight spoke his words for the benefit of all those gathered. ‘I am charged by Robert de Craon, Grand Master of the Temple of Jerusalem, to advance our cause in England. Your men surround our Cambridge Preceptory and Church of the Holy Sepulchre on the other side of the river and they refuse to stand down. I cannot allow any interference with God’s Holy work…’

Mandeville unsheathed his sword. ‘No holy monk speaks to me like…’

André’s voice easily overpowered the earl. ‘I have not come to offer judgement on your stupid civil war, but heed my words. As we speak there are ten crossbows pointed at you from inside and outside these walls. If you or your men raise a sword to me, you will die.’

Glancing nervously left and right, Mandeville saw he spoke the truth but was unwilling to give way just yet. ‘And what do you expect me to do?’

‘Send out an order. Tell your men to withdraw from the streets to the south. Do it now while I wait. But remember, my men have itchy fingers.’

Mandeville held his nerve then swallowed. Only a little pride was at stake. He nodded to General Reiner and the earls’ knights immediately carried the order into the streets. Outside the gates, two of his horsemen rode off at speed.

While he waited, André looked in disgust around the courtyard at the slaughter of the innocents. The smell of death hung heavily in the air. ‘These were monks and nuns. There is little wonder you stand excommunicate in the eyes of God and the church. You are covered in the stench of sin and God will have you rot in purgatory for this.’

‘God and me have had many conversations. Let Him do with me as he thinks fit.’

For a moment, André was distracted. He thought he recognised the middle-aged noble stood to one side. ‘You! It is you, Bigod. What are you doing here surrounded by murderers and butchers who desecrate this house of God.’

Hugh wanted to retort but his mouth was dry. His voice croaked ‘It is Earl Bigod, if you don’t mind…’

‘If I were your brother William, I would have no qualm in running you through like the cowardly dog you are.’

Hugh was dumbfounded, unable to comprehend why the Jerusalem knight would say such a thing. What could he possibly know of his brother?

At that moment, the cellar door clattered open and Peverel was thrown out into the courtyard, distracting everyone from the tense exchange. A rope was tied around his wrists and he stumbled onto his knees, disorientated by the blinding light. The filth that covered him from head to toe, told its own story.

His jailer jabbed him with a sharpened stake, ordering him to stand. He stopped when he saw everyone staring at him. ‘The prisoner, my lord. You wanted to see him this morning....’

‘Another poor retch for the butcher’s slab,’ André suspected. ‘What is your name, young man? Speak up.’

Peverel stood as proud as his legs would let him. Looking up at the white knight, he somehow knew this was his last chance at freedom. ‘William Peverel, cousin to the Lord of Nottingham and founder of Barnwell Priory, my lord.’ He gave a short bow of respect.

André spoke a few words to his Preceptor then turned his attention back to Peverel. ‘I am sorry. Much as I would like, I cannot meddle in the machinations of this conflict…’

‘Lord, my father Pagan Peverel was standard-bearer to the Duke of Normandie and gave his life fighting in the Holy Land. Please, I beg you to let me emulate him...rather that than die a wasted death at the hands of this monster.’

Mandeville had been goaded enough. He struck Peverel hard across the face. Swearing loudly, he drew his sword but before he could strike, André had pushed his massive stallion between them.

‘Before my crossbows fill you full of holes, you had better retire to your hideout in Ramsey Abbey,’ André warned. ‘No doubt you will find more defenceless men and women to satisfy your sickness.’

Mandeville laughed out loud, and quickly issued an order to his jailer before dropping his sword in submission. ‘You win, my lord. I shall do as you request...for a proper ransom.’

Suddenly, Peverel lurched towards the ranks of the knights and much to his relief was quickly pulled up onto a horse. 

André waved his arm and his crossbow men slipped down from the walls, and slowly his troop began to turn and pull out of the courtyard.

Enraged at being ignored, Mandeville ran into the dormitory then instantly re-emerged holding a semi-naked nun, struggling in his arms. He shouted after André. ‘Look! In lieu of your fee, I have a donation for your cause, you arrogant bastard.’ He slit her throat and held back her head as the blood gushed down her sagging breasts.

André pulled on his reins but the Preceptor held him back, pleading with him not to turn around. ‘Lord we cannot intervene. There will be another time, another place, believe me.’

Keeping his anger in check, André led the troop back to the Holy Church on the other side of the river. He didn’t look back.

Picot turned to Hugh, disgusted at the scene around him. ‘This senseless slaughter is beginning to make me sick. I told you…I will be relieved to see the back of this country and return to Flanders. And what the hell was all that about your brother?’

‘He just wanted to stir up old troubles…can’t you see that?’ Hugh walked back to the dormitory, hiding his resentment. ‘So did you come here just to scratch that old spot? I thought you were with your countryman, Sheriff Chesney of Norwich.’ Even after the passing years, losing his seat of power at Norwich still rankled with Hugh.  To make matters worse, King Stephen appointed an obscure Flanders knight as Sheriff. That is why Picot knew his news would cheer up Hugh. ‘The sheriff is suddenly up to his neck in trouble.’  

Hugh stopped in his tracks. ‘Trouble? What sought of trouble?’

‘Protests and demonstrations in the streets. Jews are being threatened and assaulted. I thought you might be interested.’

‘Go on.’

‘A twelve year old Christian boy was found dead.’

Hugh was nonplussed. ‘So what?’

‘Nothing…except he has been crucified. And I know the Jews who did it.’

Hugh said nothing as he gathered his thoughts. If Norwich was in revolt then there was capital to be made. He nodded to Picot. ‘All right…tell the men to assemble. We return to Norwich within the hour.’

As Picot strode to the stables to find a squire, Hugh’s attention was drawn to the sight of the jailer dragging the body of a nun away from the gate. The blood had long drained from her throat. What appalled him was the sight of Joab prodding at the body with his sharpened stave.

Chapter 2

Lydda

Palestine

Breaking in a new stallion was hard work but William Bigod was yet to be beaten. He pulled down hard on the rope and for the second time that morning he felt a painful cramp around his groin and under his arms. Sweat lathered his face and bowing his head with exhaustion, he gave the rope to Manny. This was the first time his brother-by-law had seen William retire beaten from the paddock.

William signed Manny some instructions about keeping the rope taut and after watching for a while, he walked wearily back to the farmhouse. Feeling quite overcome with fatigue, he wondered if he had a touch of heatstroke.

During the rest of the day, his fever