Conquest (36 page)

‘Alphonso and I are honoured to be given an audience by the Count of Oviedo and to meet Rodrigo of Bivar.’

Rodrigo addressed Diego, who was now looking much more relaxed. ‘I hear that Hereward of Bourne has been offered many titles and refused them all. There are myriad legends that pass from traveller to traveller about his exploits.’ He turned to Hereward. ‘Tell me, noble Englishman, are they all true?’

‘My Lord Rodrigo, I’m certain they’ve become embellished in the telling –’

The Count interrupted. ‘You two have something in common. Rodrigo accepts no title either, so you can call one another by whatever names you choose. But may I remind you that, until I deem it otherwise, I am your Lord, Count Diego.’

Everyone laughed.

Hereward looked at Rodrigo and saw much in him that he recognized. The Castilian was not as tall, and had olive skin and hair the colour of chestnuts, but he was powerfully built and his hands were gnarled and calloused from many blows and long hours of weapons training. He wore a long ruby-coloured smock, fastened with a broad leather belt, and across his shoulders was draped a magnificent bearskin
cloak fastened by a finely tooled bronze clasp. His leggings were winter riding breeches, and he had boots of the finest leather. Rodrigo’s armour, which adorned a mannequin behind the high table, was comprised of a small circular shield like those of the Saracens, a straight thrusting sword, a style preferred by northern Europeans, and a small axe with a crescent-shaped blade. He also had a long lance for use in jousts and cavalry charges, and a smaller javelin, a weapon to be hurled at the enemy in an infantry encounter. His weapons were in beautiful condition, but it was obvious they had been used frequently; his mail coat, though finely worked, bore the cuts and gouges of many blows.

‘May I see your axe? I have heard about this weapon. Some of my men have served the Normans in Italy and say that you are the only man alive who can wield it to any effect.’

Hereward pulled the axe from his shoulder and handed it to The Cid with one hand.

As soon as he felt its weight, Rodrigo had to use both his hands to support it. ‘This is a mighty axe. I hear that you can use it with one hand?’

‘I can.’ Hereward hesitated. ‘May I call you Rodrigo?’

‘You may, if I may call you Hereward.’

‘Yes, of course. This axe was made for me by a weapons-master of great skill in Göteborg in the land of the Norse. I am lucky; my arms are strong and I have learned to use either hand. In a challenge, the key is to use both hands at the beginning, as any man would, then at the vital moment revert to one hand; it surprises the opponent!’

Rodrigo tried to swing the axe with one hand but could not maintain momentum.

‘Rodrigo, you are very strong. It would not take you long to acquire the technique.’

‘I am not sure. We also have craftsmen skilled in the art of making weapons of war. The best of them are in the city of Toledo, a Taifa kingdom in the land of the Moors. But their speciality is the sword; they can hone an edge so fine you can trim your beard with it, yet the blade is powerful enough to split a man in two if delivered accurately.’

He handed the Great Axe back to Hereward and offered him his sword. The Englishman had heard about Toledo swords, but had never seen one. It was surprisingly light, but felt strong and well balanced. Intricate patterns and scrolls were chased in fine detail to the top of the blade, the handle and the pommel, patterns that Hereward thought were Moorish. He glanced at Rodrigo quizzically.

‘Yes, the designs are Islamic. All the great swordsmiths are Moors; we learn from them all the time. Scholars, monks and apothecaries travel here from all over Europe to cross into the south in search of knowledge. There is a border area between the two parts of Spain, where both Christians and Moors mingle freely. It can be a little lawless at times, but it allows passage into Muslim Spain, the empire we call The Almoravide Dominion.’

Hereward was intrigued. He had fought Muslims in Sicily and had been close to their lands in Byzantium, but had never set foot on their soil. ‘Have you been to the Dominion?’

‘Yes, many times, I have good friends there. The climate is warm and their cities are splendid. Cordoba, Seville, Granada, Valencia are all wonderful places to visit.’ Rodrigo stopped himself from becoming too carried away about the attractions of his homeland. ‘Hereward of Bourne,
famous warrior and survivor of many battles, why have you come to Castile?’

‘How much do you know of the events in England?’

‘A little. I know of Hardrada and Harold, and of the Duke of Normandy’s victory in the great battle for the throne. Now he is King, and I presume that makes you two renegades. I see you travel with a man from Granada. A good choice; Andalucians fight well.’

Alphonso, a little shy about translating such glowing praise about himself, responded to Rodrigo in his own language, Castilian. ‘Thank you, my Lord Cid. It is an honour to meet the most feared warrior in Spain.’

‘The honour is mine, Alphonso of Granada. Your noble service with Hereward fills everyone in Spain with pride. We are honoured that you have travelled to the court of my Lord, Diego, but I trust you do not seek our support to win back the English throne? We have no interests beyond the Pyrenees, let alone in England.’

‘It is not support we need; we search for wisdom.’

‘You flatter us, Hereward.’

‘Not falsely, I assure you. Allow me to explain. England is a land of Saxons in the south and east, and to the north and west of Danes and Celts. All are fiercely independent, but England has been a strong kingdom for a long time. Most of its kings have been Saxons and the majority of the earls are happy with that. The royal line of the Saxons, the Cerdicians of Wessex, goes back many hundreds of years, but the heir is just a boy, Edgar. That’s why Harold, my sovereign lord, took the throne. The threat from Hardrada of Norway and William of Normandy was so great, he had no choice.

‘England is a wealthy kingdom, the greatest prize in northern Europe, and envious eyes have coveted it for centuries. Now William holds the prize, but it is not yet firmly in his grasp. Harold had the finest army in Europe; thousands died on Senlac Ridge, but thousands more went back to their farms and villages. Some are fighting as mercenaries in Europe. If they could be persuaded to return and the men working their lands convinced to take up arms again, a new army could be recruited.’

‘But how can we help?’

‘You have lived with an occupying army for generations and learned to be patient and fight mobile campaigns using small bands of elite warriors. Let us spend time with you and your men and learn your training regimes.’

Rodrigo thought for a moment and looked at Count Diego. The Count nodded his approval.

‘I have half of my lord Sancho’s bodyguard with me for the winter, about a hundred and fifty men. Stay with us for as long as you like and, in return, you can teach me how to use that mighty axe.’

‘We are very grateful. We will help with the training and offer you whatever we can from our own modest experience.’

The servants brought in food and, when the table was ready, the ladies of the household made their entrance. First came Diego’s tall and elegant wife, Doña Viraca, with her ladies-in-waiting. She was followed by their daughter, Doña Jimena. She was tall, like her mother, with jet-black hair pulled back sharply from her face in a tight bun. She had the darkest of eyes and clear skin the colour of burnt almonds. Count Diego introduced the ladies, and the two
visitors bowed. Doña Viraca nodded disdainfully, while Doña Jimena curtsied.

‘Come, Jimena, sit.’

Count Diego raised his goblet of wine. ‘To Jimena and her betrothed, Rodrigo, the finest match in Christendom. Also, to our visitors – may God protect you in your great challenge ahead in England.’

Doña Viraca, a woman of plain worlds, spoke bluntly. ‘Are you married, Hereward of Bourne?’

‘Lady Viraca, my wife died recently. Torfida was her name. I have twin daughters, Gunnhild and Estrith, who are now nine years old.’

‘I see … I am sorry to hear of your loss. Where are your daughters now?’

‘Alphonso and I are part of a family of friends who have been together for many years. We are exiled from England and now live in the lands of the Count of Toulouse, near the city of Cahors.’

‘I know the Count, a silly little man of no consequence. I also know Cahors, a city of merchants and bankers with too many Jews for my liking. My family is from Carcassonne, a much more appealing city.’

‘I don’t know it, Lady Viraca, but I’m sure your judgement is impeccable.’

Count Diego smiled wryly. ‘Oh, it is, Hereward. Doña Viraca is like the Pontiff himself – infallible in all things!’ With that, he waved to the waiters to pour the wine so that the meal could begin.

Doña Jimena spoke with a soft timbre and modest demeanour. To Alphonso’s relief, Doña Jimena had been taught several of the languages of France,
including Occitan, Frankish and Norman French, giving Hereward a perfect excuse to talk to the beautiful young woman.

‘Was your wife very beautiful, Hereward of Bourne?’

‘Yes, she was, Doña Jimena. I miss her very much.’

‘I am sorry you have lost her. It must be very difficult for you.’

‘Thank you, I am fortunate to have a large family to take care of the girls. They are my greatest comfort; they are so like her.’

A conversation of polite conviviality ensued, during which Doña Jimena spoke more than most and brought warmth and dignity to the evening.

Rodrigo could not take his eyes off her.

The next morning, accompanied by Doña Jimena, Hereward’s Castilian host took him to see the pride of Oviedo, its cathedral. Built in wood above a stone crypt, it was a sight to behold. In an atmosphere heady with incense and the smoke of countless candles, choirboys sang in plainsong. Monks busied themselves, as hundreds of visitors shuffled on their knees towards the high altar.

Doña Jimena noted Hereward’s wonderment, and explained. ‘These people come from Navarre, the land of the Basques, and from all over Christian Spain. Many are from lands to the north, pilgrims on the way to Santiago de Compostela. It has a shrine to mark the grave of St James the Great, one of Our Lord’s apostles, who was buried there after he journeyed from the Holy Land. It is a long way to the west of us and many stay here to rest and worship our own holy relics.’ Jimena changed tack, fearing
she might be boring Hereward. ‘Rodrigo tells me that you have been to many lands and fought even more battles than he has. He is very honoured to have you here in Oviedo, as we all are.’

‘You are too kind. It is my privilege to be here with your family and enjoy your hospitality.’

Rodrigo had been admiring his beloved Jimena as she spoke with Hereward. ‘Do you pray to relics and follow devotions, Hereward?’

‘No, Rodrigo, I do not have much faith. Torfida, my wife, was the daughter of a seer and inherited many of his gifts. She helped me understand many things and made me ask questions to which I still seek answers. But I do carry my own relic, something that has puzzled me for years. Torfida gave it to me and said I was destined to be its carrier.’

‘It is intriguing. We should talk more of this during our time together.’

‘Do you think my father would let me come with you, Rodrigo? I so want to hear Hereward’s stories and to learn more about Torfida.’

‘Your father wouldn’t dream of letting you come to our camp, neither would your mother. Besides, I will not consider it. There are some things that should be done among men alone; it is not fitting for you to be there.’

‘I can ride as well as most men, and I can bring my maid to protect to me … Besides, who will translate for you?’

Jimena’s last point made Rodrigo relent a little. ‘I will speak with your father.’

‘Very good. I will speak with my mother, which will get me the answer I want.’

Jimena curtsied and turned away, her cloak trailing behind, her perfume hanging in the air.

‘Rodrigo Diaz of Bivar, you are a fortunate man.’

‘I know, the luckiest man alive!’

With Alphonso sitting close by to translate, and men-at-arms from Rodrigo’s retinue standing to attention along the nave, the two warriors sat together in one of the pews for several minutes. Hereward found the innocent devotion of the pilgrims very moving.

‘You know, Rodrigo, I have been close to death more times than I care to count and I have just lost a wife who was very dear to me, but I still can’t come to terms with spiritual things. As I sit here, I am stirred by all I see and hear, but it doesn’t convince me that there is a life beyond our all-too-brief presence on this earth.’

‘You carry a great burden. It is much easier for soldiers to do what we do if we have the certainty of salvation. For me, I am grateful that I know my God and he knows me. He has given me all my gifts and now gives me Jimena; the least I can do is to pay him homage in return.’

‘I admire the clarity of your thought. I have been given a mixed blessing. My modest talents have been the making of me, but I also possess flaws. As for God, he remains a mystery to me. I think he was also for Torfida. Like her father, she became more and more interested in the power of nature and the importance of people living in harmony with one another and the land they shared.’

Rodrigo smiled at his English guest. ‘I must hear more of this, but not now. Let us enjoy the choir and admire the faithful pilgrims who have travelled many miles to genuflect before the holy relics of Oviedo.’

The two warriors sat side by side, contemplating the stunning interior of the cathedral.

As they breathed in the aroma of candles and incense, and listened to the soaring sounds of the choir, they could not help but be moved by the harmony of it all.

21. The Astrolabe

Once Doña Jimena had secured her mother’s support, she had few problems gaining her father’s permission to travel with Rodrigo to his winter training camp. Count Diego was powerless in the face of the strategic alliance formed by his doughty wife and beguiling daughter. Jimena was accompanied by Cristina, one of Doña Viraca’s ladies-in-waiting, a handsome young girl a few years older than her, with auburn hair, a fine figure and a ready wit.