Conquest
( Making of England - 1 )
Stewart Binns
1066 – Senlac Ridge, England. William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, defeats Harold Godwinson, King Harold II of England, in what will become known as the Battle of Hastings.
The battle is hard fought and bloody, the lives of thousands have been spent, including that of King Harold. But England will not be conquered easily, the Anglo-Saxons will not submit meekly to Norman rule.
Although his heroic deeds will nearly be lost to legend, one man unites the resistance. His name is Hereward of Bourne, the champion of the English. His honour, bravery and skill at arms will change the future of England. His is the legacy of the noble outlaw.
This is his story.
Stewart Binns
CONQUEST
To all those valiant souls who fought for their freedom in the years 1066 to 1071 – history has not forgotten you.
Here begins a certain work concerned with the exploits of Hereward the renowned Knight… We think it will encourage noble deeds and induce liberality to know Hereward, who he was and to hear of his achievement and deeds, and especially to those who are desirous of living the life of a soldier. Wherefore we advise you, give attention and you who the more diligently strive to hear the deeds of brave men, apply your minds to hear diligently the account of so great a man. For he, trusting neither in fornication, nor in garrison, but in himself, alone with his men waged war against Kingdoms and Kings and fought against princes and tyrants.
De Gestis Herwardi Saxonis (The Life of Hereward the Saxon), a story written by monks early in the twelfth century
And they talked and sang of the Wake and all his doughty deeds, over the hearth in lone farmhouses, or in the outlaws’ lodge in the hollins green; and all the burden of the song was, ‘Ah that the Wake was alive again!’ For they knew not that the Wake was alive for evermore; that only his husk and shell lay mouldering there in Crowland choir; that above them and around them, and in them, destined to raise them out of their bitter bondage and mould them into a great nation, and the parents of still greater nations in lands as yet unknown, brooded the immortal spirit of the Wake, now purged from all earthly dross – save the spirit of freedom, which can never die.
Hereward, the Last of the English, Charles Kingsley, 1877
Introduction
In the middle of the eleventh century, three men fought for the future of England and the British Isles.
The victor, William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, became King of England. His ruthlessness, his all-consuming lust for power and his outstanding skill as a leader founded a Norman dynasty that led England to become the most formidable political force in northern Europe.
England was not conquered easily. Its many tribes of Celts, Danes and Saxons had fearsome reputations in battle and strong traditions and cultures. There were many crucial incidents, but the Battle of Senlac Ridge, near Hastings, on the southern coast of England, on 14 October 1066, was the defining moment. Only a few days after he had defeated the Norwegian King, Harald Hardrada, at Stamford Bridge near York, the slaughter of Harold Godwinson, King Harold II of England, in what became known as the Battle of Hastings, changed the course of world history for ever. William’s victory cast him as the villain, while Harold came to be seen as the heroic leader of a brave but vanquished people.
However, there was another man of those times whose heroic deeds were almost lost in legend.
This is the story of that man.
He became William’s most formidable opponent, a man whose name would become synonymous with the dormant spirit of England under the Normans and all that ‘Englishness’ eventually came to mean.
Prologue
The hour was growing late but the rapidly descending sun was still strong and the heat of a hot summer’s day had yet to subside. The undulating hills of Greece’s western Peloponnese gave little hint of human activity except where an occasional shepherds’ track cut a path over the high ground. Only in a few places had men made more permanent marks. Lonely chapels – simple stone sanctuaries, topped by Byzantine crosses – were totems of peace and truth in a world mostly bereft of such treasures.
High above the rugged hills, an old man sat on a rocky perch contemplating the far horizon to the north-west. He looked towards his homeland, a distant land he had not seen for over fifty years. His eyes watered as he peered at the waning red orb of the setting sun.
Several hundred feet below, amid the forests of pine, a column of mounted men turned into an open meadow. The stone chapel at the edge of the glade had small round windows, a solid oak door and a simple wooden hut behind the nave for the resident priest. The men dismounted after a long day in the saddle, and stretched their legs. They were an awesome group of men: fifty Varangians and fifty Immortals, supported by a baggage train of servants, cooks and grooms. All were in the service of two of the most important men in the civilized world: the revered Prince John Azoukh, formerly a Turkish slave, now a royal prince, and Prince John Comnenus, the son of Alexius Comnenus I, Emperor of Byzantium, a man on whose shoulders rested the hopes of an ancient lineage and a mighty empire.
Leo of Methone had been listening to the approaching commotion for nearly half an hour. He had been educated in Athens, had worshipped in Rome and had even prayed at the altar of the great church in Constantinople. He knew to fear the tread of advancing armies.
It was late August in the year of Our Lord 1117. Anxiety gripped the Byzantine Empire, an empire begun in pagan Rome over 1,000 years earlier that now stood between Christianity and the heresy of Islam.
Leo had hidden in the undergrowth long before the soldiers arrived at his peaceful clearing. He was greatly relieved to see that they were men of the Emperor’s army rather than a band of brigands, but astonished when he recognized them as Imperial Guards and realized who was leading them. He knew from his dress that the man at the head of the group was of the royal house, but the presence of the dark-skinned man next to him confirmed that the two lords were the renowned ‘Two Johns of Constantinople’.
Leo’s heart was pounding from exertion and anxiety. His mind raced: why is the young heir to the throne of Byzantium here? It is known throughout the Empire that his father is dying and that his sister, Anna Comnenus, will do anything to take the throne and rule with her husband, Bryennius. So why leave Constantinople on a journey of many weeks at a time like this?
Leo’s train of thought was broken by the Captain of the Imperial Guard barking his orders: ‘Troopers of the Princes’ Guard, dismount! We camp here tonight.’
John Comnenus watched with amusement as Leo the priest approached him. His dark-brown cassock was scuffed with dirt from his hasty retreat to the undergrowth, he was covered in thorns and seedlings from his prickly hiding place, and his sandals squelched from the soaking they had received as he waded the stream behind his church.
‘Good evening, Father. May we spend this night with you?’
Leo had never spoken to a prince before. He summoned all the composure his ecclesiastical education could afford him. ‘Your Highness, it would be a great honour. But I have little to offer you other than God’s house… and…’ He hesitated, nervous about his presumptuousness, ‘… my blessing.’
The young heir smiled broadly, supremely confident in his status and authority.
‘That is all a weary man needs. Besides, we travel well with all the trappings of court. Will you join us? The butt is Cypriot, from my father’s vineyard; our cook is a Venetian and he can conjure a feast from old leather and the bark of a tree if you give him gentle oil and keen spices.’
Leo recognized immediately that what people said was true: John Comnenus was a man of great charm and humility.
‘Sir
e, you are more than generous. But I am a poor priest of the countryside; I know nothing of the sophistication of towns and cities, and certainly nothing of the manners of a royal table.’
John Azoukh answered for John Comnenus.‘It is we who should be humble. We are guests in your beautiful meadow. Let us eat; the chill of the night air will soon be upon us.’
An hour later, over a hundred men sat in the cooling twilight to enjoy their food and wine. Leo said grace, then sat and gazed at the scene before him. Behind John Comnenus stood his equerry and men-at-arms: three tall men in blue tunics with gilded trim, their burgundy cloaks held by heavy bronze clasps of the royal house of Comnenus. With the light from the campfires flickering across their bearded faces and intricately worked armour, they had the ostentatious trappings of court soldiers, but their rugged demeanour was of men hardened by the ferocity of battle.
Prince John Azoukh sat beside the heir to the Purple of Byzantium. Twenty-eight years old, the same age as his royal companion, his was a remarkable story. As a small child he had been taken as a slave by a general of the Imperial Army, who, charmed by the little boy’s humour and intelligence, had given him to the Emperor Alexius as a present.
Leo could see why the Arab slave had endeared himself to the family of Alexius: his soft black curls were the perfect complement to a clear olive skin, gentle dark-brown eyes and a strikingly handsome face. But his most endearing quality was his infectious vitality. The Emperor had recognized his charms but also his intelligence; he grasped numbers and languages quickly, wrote poetry and played the flute beautifully. John Azoukh, the slave, was brought up at court as if he were John Comnenus’ brother; they became inseparable.
John Comnenus also had many qualities but was more reticent and considered. He was shorter than his Moorish companion and not the most handsome of men, but wearing his crimson smock, gold wristlets, gleaming bronze breastplate and a ready smile, he had the aura of a benign leader. There was much anticipation that Prince John would continue the wise and honest rule of his father. Byzantium was an empire of many cultures and peoples. Its noble families had intermarried with the aristocracies of the many lands they had conquered, creating a mingling of ‘old blood’ and ‘new blood’. For 500 years, since the fall of the Roman Empire in the west, Byzantium had kept alive the traditions of the Graeco-Roman world, and Christian civilization.
To the right of the Prince were the Immortals. First raised by the Persians centuries before, these men from Byzantium’s eastern provinces were renowned for their loyalty and fierceness in battle. Behind them, arranged in neat rows of tripods, were their pointed mail-fringed helmets, long pikes and round shields, and tethered lines of immaculate grey horses, freshly fed and groomed.
Forty years earlier, in 1071, the Byzantine army had been in disarray after the disaster of the Battle of Manzikert. Muslim armies had besieged Byzantium to the south and east, Asian barbarians had threatened from the north and, in the west, powerful forces from northern Europe were rivals for power in Christendom. However, Alexius I had reorganized the army and reinvigorated the Immortals.
The Varangians, to the left of the Prince, were no less impressive. Not so uniform in appearance, they carried a terrifying assortment of weapons, including their redoubtable weapon of mayhem, the double-handed battle-axe. Only with years of practice and a massively powerful upper body was it possible to wield it with deadly intent; it struck fear into the hearts of all their enemies. Although these men were foreign mercenaries, they were intensely loyal to their oath of allegiance and had served the throne of Constantinople for over a hundred years. Some were Vikings from Scandinavia; many were Normans from Sicily or North Africa. There were Celts from Europe’s northern wilderness. A few were English. Legend had it that, fifty years before, a handful of housecarls from the army of King Harold of England, who had survived the final redoubt at the Battle of Senlac Ridge near Hastings, had fled to Constantinople to join the Varangian Guard rather than submit to the rule of William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy.
The Varangians’ hair and beards were longer and wilder than those of the Immortals, whose tight black curls were kept neatly trimmed. Their locks also presented a mix of colours: red, blond and black and every shade in between, including the grey tresses of many gnarled veterans. Their shields came in all shapes and sizes and were decorated with a variety of creatures like an heraldic circus: eagles, boars, rams, bears, serpents and myriad mythical beasts. The royal household never ventured far without a bodyguard of Immortals and Varangians.
Way above Leo’s clearing, in an eyrie all of his own, the wizened face of the old man creased into a contemplative smile. He was recalling his own adventures. He too had been a warrior.
‘Father, we need your help.’ John Azoukh’s voice broke through the babble of a hundred men, now seriously engaged with their food, wine and conversation. ‘We are here on the Emperor’s business. There is an old man who lives in these hills and we need to find him. We mean him no harm; he is a friend of the great Alexius, who speaks very highly of him. He says that he has the wisdom of a man who has lived three lifetimes.’
‘I know no such man anywhere.’ Leo was startled to hear the description of a man of rare distinction and feared he had been too obvious in his denial.
To the locals the man was a hermit, rarely seen, a foreigner from a northern land. Nobody knew much about him, except that his unwelcoming manner and fearsome appearance led everyone to avoid him. He walked with the bowed back of an old age bedevilled by arthritis. Nevertheless, his frame was formidable, with broad shoulders and powerful arms and hands like those of a blacksmith. He had a shock of grey-blond hair that cascaded down his back and a snow-white beard that contrasted sharply with his deeply wrinkled face, burned chestnut-brown by the Mediterranean sun.
Leo had visited his reclusive parishioner just once and had spent only an hour with him. He had learned nothing of his past, but his manner and bearing gave strong hints of a turbulent life and of a man of rare gifts. He had longed to return and learn more but had promised not to; it seemed neither honourable nor wise to break a promise to such a man.
‘Are you sure, Father?’ There was a hint of impatience in John Azoukh’s question. ‘You must understand that all the great work of the Emperor Alexius must now be consolidated by the rightful succession of his beloved son, John.’
‘But, my noble Lord, what has that got to do with an old man in the hills of Elis?’ Leo responded meekly, but with a firm resolve not to place one of his flock in danger.
‘So you do know such a man?’
‘I didn’t say that, sire. I simply don’t understand what anyone from my humble parish could offer the heir to the throne of Constantinople.’
‘Wisdom, Father Leo,’ John Comnenus interrupted in a gentle tone, sensing his friend’s irritation and Leo’s discomfort. ‘My father says I have all the qualities to follow him, except wisdom. He isn’t much longer for this life and he grows anxious. My sister, Anna, is very shrewd; she plots against me and has powerful friends and an ambitious husband. My father doubts that I have the wisdom to deal with her. He has asked me to make this journey, to find this man and hear his story. He says that when I hear the account of his life, I will understand how men find the wisdom to know what they have to do and the courage to act on their judgement. So, Father, that is why we are here.’
Leo was overwhelmed by the Prince’s frankness. ‘My Prince, this is too much for me. I don’t know…’
‘Let me finish.’ John Comnenus understood the embarrassment felt by the priest. He smiled at him and continued his story. As he did so, he pulled an amulet from a pouch around his waist. ‘My father gave me this talisman, which he has worn throughout his reign. He said that if I give it to the man I seek, he will know that it comes from my father and represents a sacred trust. We have visited your superior, the Bishop of Corinth, and he told us that you are a good man, a fine priest, and that we could place our trust in you. But he also told us tha
t you wouldn’t easily reveal the whereabouts of the man we hope to find. Years ago, my father asked the bishop to find a sanctuary for this man and ordered the local governor to have his garrison keep a discreet but watchful eye on the district.’
Several things suddenly began to make sense to Leo: the bishop’s long lectures about the sanctity of the confessional, no matter how disturbing the revelations of a man racked by sin might be; the reminders about the necessity to protect every member of the parish from prying questions, even if one of his flock was a stranger from afar; and the frequent visits from the governor’s men-at-arms, asking about the welfare of the locals and whether any armed men had been sighted in the vicinity. All this just to protect a hermit?
John Comnenus continued. ‘I know you want to do your duty as a good priest; I don’t ask you to do otherwise. Please take this amulet and carry it to the man we seek. You are only the third man to touch it since it was placed around my father’s neck thirty years ago.’
Leo looked down at the amulet. Hanging from a heavy silver chain was a translucent stone the size of a quail’s egg. It was set in scrolls of silver, each of which was a filigree snake, so finely worked that the oval eyes and forked tongues of the serpents could be seen in detail. The stone itself was yellow in colour and, at first glance, apart from its size and smoothness, seemed unremarkable. But then Leo held it to the light of the campfire and grimaced in horror at the image he saw. Silhouetted in the baleful yellow glow of the stone was the face of Satan, the horned beast that had haunted men from the beginning of time. Close to the hideous face, trapped in the stone like the devil’s familiars, were a tiny spider and a group of small winged insects.
‘It’s an abomination. God help us. Surely all who see it are cursed.’
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