‘Of course.’
‘I need one of your fine cavalry horses. I can only tell you the story from where I can remember the detail – on the top of my mountain – and I doubt that I can get back up there without the help of a horse. Also, I need Father Leo to hear my story. My time isn’t far off and a kindly priest may be useful to me in facing the unknown.’
Leo smiled. ‘Godwin, all men need a priest when they face God; only heathens face the unknown.’
‘Precisely, Father!’
Now, all four men were smiling.
Prince John Comnenus called to the Captain of his Guard. ‘We leave within the hour.’
As he approached, the Captain bowed in turn to the two Johns, and then he turned to Godwin and spoke to him in almost reverential terms. ‘Godwin of Ely, I am privileged to salute you.’ The Captain clenched the hilt of his sword and nodded his head.
Godwin grasped his sword and nodded back.
Several hours later, the Princes’ Guard was camped in the high meadow beside Godwin’s mountain home. Ripples on the lake forewarned that the wind would soon rush off the mountain and chase away the setting sun. Although the air was not yet cold, it soon would be.
The stewards did their best to make sure the four men were comfortable. They had made a roaring fire and collected a large supply of wood. Godwin and John Comnenus sat on sacks of straw and leaned back against the rocks which were strewn around the side of the lake, their sharp surfaces softened by furs and bearskins. Prince John Azoukh sat nearby, within earshot, with Father Leo beside him. Leo knew that the story he was about to hear would not only be a saga of kingship for the young prince but also Godwin’s private confession.
Godwin had insisted that he tell his story in the open, looking north-west, where he could see the setting sun and, in his mind’s eye, England, the land of his birth. John Comnenus reflected on the scene, and how different it was from Constantinople. Here was tranquillity, without intrigue, mistrust or evil deeds; just nature and its eternal cycle.
‘Is it time for me to hear your story now?’
‘Yes, sire, I am ready. But understand this: it is not my story. It is the chronicle of another man – a man from a distant country and another age.’
‘But you are a legend – an invincible warrior. My father tells me that you carried the Talisman because you embody all that it means.’
‘I am merely a participant in the story. The Talisman has belonged to many men, but this is the story of a messenger, a man who carried it in search of a leader worthy of the name. He was an Englishman, who, as guardian of the Talisman, found his own destiny; a destiny that was difficult to live with, but even more difficult to die for.’
‘That sounds like a riddle, Godwin.’
‘Maybe it is, sire. But every man must find his destiny, live with it and then come to terms with its reckoning. So must kings… and so must emperors.’
1. Young Thegn
The year was 1053, the eleventh year of the rule of Edward I, King of England, later to be called ‘The Confessor’, an accession that had ended a brief dynasty of three Danish kings on the throne of England. Edward was of the royal Cerdician house, a centuries-old Anglo-Saxon lineage from England’s heartland in Wessex. However, for twenty-five years before becoming King, Edward had lived in exile in Normandy at the home of his mother, the redoubtable Emma of Normandy.
Edward ruled a kingdom that was far from secure. The ambitious Welsh warlord, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, controlled most of the land west of Hereford and was attempting to unify the Welsh tribes. To the north, Macbeth, King of the Scots, was a shrewd and resourceful leader. The Danes and Norwegians were always looking for opportunities to plunder England’s riches, as they had for centuries. Most significantly of all, the restless Normans lay in wait across the Channel in northern France, on the lookout for an opportunity to strike.
The Norman leader was the ferocious William, Duke of Normandy. The 26-year-old illegitimate son of Robert, sixth Duke of Normandy, and Herleve Fulbert, daughter of a humble tanner of Falaise. Herleve’s origins were ordinary, but not so her looks, nor her personality. She was strikingly beautiful and keenly intelligent. Like his mother, William was a remarkable individual. He had gained the dukedom as a minor at the age of eight and had fought hard to keep it. But he was not satisfied with a mere dukedom; he wanted the kingdom of England and to found an enduring dynasty.
The Normans were a strange paradox. Although descended from Vikings, they represented a unique blend of Norse ferocity and southern European sophistication. To the anguish of all they encountered, they loved to fight and ruled their conquered lands with an iron fist. Some were clever and cunning adventurers, or great builders of fortifications and cathedrals; a few were ardent and self-righteous empire makers; others were simple opportunists who lived for the moment as mercenaries and cut-throats. William had all of these traits in a diabolical blend.
Bourne, a small village in Lincolnshire, was a quiet place far removed from the power games of kings. To the west of the village ran the great Roman road to York and beyond it lay the Bruneswald, the great forest at the heart of England. To the east were the Fens, a morass of dangerous marshes covered with dense, often impenetrable undergrowth. The village sat on slightly higher ground where sluices, begun by the Romans, drained off the surplus water, leaving soil rich enough to allow the local farmers to prosper.
The Thegn of Bourne was called Leofric, a descendant of an old Saxon landed family and a man much admired in his community. He married above himself when he became betrothed to Aediva, a woman from a nearby Danish community who was descended from the gentry of North Fresia. There was much mixed Saxon and Danish blood in England, with several areas of Danish settlement close to Bourne, and a tolerant coexistence had been established.
Bourne was a relatively prosperous village but, even so, life was simple and sometimes harsh. The cycle of the seasons was managed by back-breaking toil, where the only respite from six and a half days of hard labour was a Saturday evening of drinking and feasting in the Thegn’s longhouse. This was always followed by a church service on Sunday morning, when the humble parishioners would be reminded of God’s mercy for the righteous and of the fires of Hell for those less virtuous.
Built over a hundred years earlier from split oak trunks, the longhouse was over thirty yards from end to end. The food was plentiful and the mead flowed copiously as the old sagas were recited by the senior men of the village. The small wooden church nearby was the ethical anchor of the community and Aidan the Priest its moral helmsman. But even he could do little about the primordial instincts that flowed through the veins of the good people of Bourne.
God-fearing Christian Bourne coexisted with a much older Bourne, where ancient beliefs still thrived. Pagan rituals to ward off the forces of evil, which were thought to lurk deep in the forests or to slink in the black waters of the marshes, were regularly held in the dead of night. The women of the village knew how to mix potent drinks, perform erotic dances and recite haunting incantations. There was a tradition of manly competition; wrestling, archery, hunting and drinking contests were fair game and allowed the men to show their prowess and impress the womenfolk. Beneath its rustic simplicity, the real life of Bourne was earthy and crude.
Hereward, the son of Leofric of Bourne, had been born eighteen years earlier, in the year 1035. The King of England at the time was the Dane Harold Harefoot, the son of Cnut the Great and his wife, Aelfgifu of Northampton. He held the throne as Regent, awaiting the arrival of Hathacnut from Denmark, the son of Cnut’s union with Emma of Normandy.
When he was younger, Leofric’s status as a village thegn meant that, from time to time, he had been required to serve as a housecarl in the King’s army, but he was more of a farmer than a warrior. His son was a very different proposition. Even as a boy, Hereward cast a formidable shadow. He was not born to be a humble farmer, a minor thegn to a small community; he preferred the adventure of open spaces, the challenge of
the unknown and the achievement of turning an obstacle into a stepping-stone. He could ride before he could walk, he could run before he could think about where he was going, and he could control others before he understood how to use that supremacy wisely. He was rebellious and troublesome and soon became a lost cause to his parents.
Hereward was a prodigiously tall six feet one inch. His heavily muscled frame carried no fat and his long, athletic legs formed a strong base for a powerful upper body. Even as a teenager he could beat all the men of the village in whatever challenge they threw at him, and as soon as he had hair on his chin several of the more precocious girls of the village were inclined to take him off to the woods to have their way with him.
His behaviour became intolerable to his parents.
Matters came to a head in the spring of 1053, shortly after Hereward’s eighteenth birthday. It was a beautiful day, the sky crystal blue and the air still but enlivened by the cacophony of birdsong. Hereward and his father had been hunting with the village freemen in the Bruneswald. All men feared the seemingly endless Bruneswald. In the deepest parts it was as dark as night, and even the most daring hunters did not venture too far from the main tracks, for fear of what they would find, human or otherwise.
They had had a good hunt. As usual, Hereward, who had seen the deer first and had his arrow in flight before the others could reach for their bows, had bagged the main kill. As the hunting party approached the village, Hereward threw his prize across the neck of his father’s horse and rode off to the north, shouting as he went that he had a couple of things to attend to in the fields.
Leofric knew that he would be wasting his time trying to stop his son. He could only bellow into the distance, demanding that he be at his table by sunset. He watched Hereward disappear through the trees; his only son, a man-child he loved deeply, but who was a constant source of pain to him. The boy’s sense of fun was infectious but his body had outgrown his mind and he did not know how to control himself. No one had the fortitude to stand up to him, and his behaviour brought dissent and unrest to the village and challenged the authority of the church and its priest. Word had even reached Leofric’s distant relative and his namesake, Leofric, Earl of Mercia. In no uncertain terms, the Earl had already told Leofric to control his son, or he would do so.
Leofric had pleaded with the Earl to nominate Hereward for King Edward’s housecarls, but the answer was always no; he was too undisciplined to serve with the King’s elite corps.
Leofric suspected the worst, listening to the receding thud of hooves as his son rode away. He knew that Hereward was going to see a woman who was not only the most desirable in the district but also the kept woman of Thurstan, Abbot of Ely.
Thurstan was a devious man with powerful friends.
Gythin rushed to Hereward as he approached her small cottage. ‘Hereward! I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here; I’m so frightened.’
A striking woman, several years older than Hereward, Gythin had long auburn hair and bright hazel eyes. She had clear skin and strong features: high cheekbones, a small pouting mouth and a thin beak-like nose. She reminded Hereward of a bird of prey – beautiful but dangerous. He had been sharing her bed for several weeks, an experience very different from the quick trysts with the village girls.
He loved her body: she had strong shoulders, broad hips and a firm flat stomach. Sex with her was a revelation. She had taught him how to be gentle with her, how to touch her, how to tease her and how to control himself. There had been many long nights spent rehearsing these heavenly techniques. Hereward hoped this would be another, but Gythin’s cry of alarm had made his heart race.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I think Thurstan knows about us.’ Her words came quickly and breathlessly.
‘He hasn’t sent for me for three weeks. He always sends for me – or he sends me money – but I haven’t seen anyone in days. I have a terrible feeling about this; I must leave Bourne. Maybe the sisters at Huntingdon will take me.’
Hereward adopted his most mature bearing, galvanized by this sudden cry for help. He grabbed her and held her tightly; she was soft and vulnerable in his arms. As she lifted her eyes to meet his, he saw how terrified she was and he realized how much she risked by letting him bed her. He also realized how much he cared about her.
These were strange feelings for him; he had not cared about anyone before – except himself. His parents had always been there, and he readily took them for granted; his male friends were good company, but their time together was usually spent in a superficial haze of debauchery; his female acquaintances were merely passing fancies, assignations of little consequence – at least for him. Gythin was different; she listened to him – soothed him – but, somehow, was also able to chide him and scold him, without evoking his anger. She often told him how dangerous anger was. How she had seen it all too frequently in men, leading to the most terrifying of consequences.
She had had few opportunities as a child – her origins were too humble to afford her an education or a husband of status – but she had a sharp mind and the body of a seductress, leaving her only two options: to use her mind in a convent, or her body in a rich man’s bed. She had chosen the latter; Thurstan was not the first of her ‘benefactors’.
‘Thurstan will kill you if he finds you here, and I dread to think what he’ll do to me…’
‘Gythin, stop! You have nothing to be frightened of while I’m here. It would take ten men to take you from me.’
‘Hereward, you are big and strong but you are a child in the real world of cut-throats and murderers. I won’t let you be hurt.’
‘I’m no child. Have I not put to the ground any man who’s faced me? No one can better me on a horse, with a sword, or in a grapple.’
‘I don’t doubt your strength, or your courage. If it’s what you choose, one day you will be a great warrior, but you’re not yet trained in real combat and you’re not skilled in the underhand ways of men who kill for money. Thurstan knows such men.’
Hereward felt sufficiently insulted to want to continue the debate. But he had held Gythin closely for long enough to feel the stirrings of another powerful emotion. His arousal soon provoked a response from Gythin and he forgot all notions of challenging the ominous men she was so certain would find him wanting.
‘Let me show you what this “child” can do for you, madam.’
Gythin started to sob uncontrollably, but her spasms of distress gradually lessened and did not quell the intensity of her embrace as her mouth and her tongue began to devour Hereward in a frenzy of fear and passion. She pulled him inside the doorway of her small cottage; in their haste, they were naked in an instant and their forceful lovemaking over quickly before they both fell into a fitful sleep.
Hereward’s infatuation with Gythin had blinded him to the risks they were taking. He was both naïve in making light of his lover’s vulnerability and arrogant in assuming he would be able to deal with any threat their liaison posed, especially to her. For her part, Gythin had rarely experienced a meaningful relationship and beneath her concubine’s cloak was emotionally frail. In Hereward she had found a lion of a man to share her bed; not just a leonine lover, but a man in whom she recognized exceptional qualities.
But Hereward’s dalliances with Gythin had not gone unnoticed in Ely. She was right: Thurstan knew where to find men of evil.
Stealth is the assassin’s way; he chooses his moment and strikes swiftly and silently. This one had been hired three weeks earlier. An Andalucian by birth, he had learned his two prodigious skills from the Moors: great deftness in cutting stone with a mason’s chisel and equal dexterity with an assassin’s knife on rather more pliant material – human flesh. He would cut anything for money: a stone cherub to grace the nave of one of God’s holy places or the neck of a young woman to exact retribution on behalf of one of God’s priests. He and four formidable companions had spent the last week planning their move.
As the pall of a moon
less night descended on Gythin’s remote dwelling, the first intruder pulled back the crudely woven woollen screen at the single window, climbed in and silently let in the other four through the door. Gythin woke first with a jolt, letting out a piercing scream as her eyes focused on five shadows, half-lit by the flickering bedside candle.
Hereward was on his feet in an instant, but they were ready for him and, before he could take a pace, a heavy hunting net enveloped him. As he stumbled forwards, struggling to free himself, a wooden mace thumped into his neck, toppling him sideways into the hearth. In the same moment, the net was pulled towards the door, tightening itself around him. As Gythin rushed to Hereward’s aid, she was struck heavily in her midriff by the dark man from Spain, a blow which cost her her breath and her momentum. She fell to the ground, doubled up in pain and gasping for air. This freed all five men to pull their netted quarry outside the hut, across the small clearing and towards the nearest tree.
A thick rope was tied to the net, thrown over the sturdiest branch and Hereward, barely conscious and unable to put up a struggle, was hauled into the air. His assailants secured the rope to an adjacent tree, leaving Hereward swinging like a trapped animal. After they had pulled his hands through the net and tied them firmly to the rope above him, they threw a pail of cold water over him to bring him back to full consciousness. The leader then spoke to him in stilted English in an accent that Hereward found difficult to understand.
‘When I finish woman, I come back. I geld you so you become quiet boy. I not hurt you much, my blade very sharp.’ His face contorted in a demonic grin as he reinforced his point with a deep slash to Hereward’s cheek.
Hereward found it hard to speak; the net was cutting into his jaw. ‘You’d better kill me, foreigner. If you don’t, I will hunt you down, as sure as your mother is a whore.’
‘You should mind your filthy tongue; I cut this also when I finish woman.’
The impact of several harsh blows from the men’s heavy maces and the distant sound of Gythin’s cries for help were Hereward’s final memories of the brutal encounter. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Gythin’s desperate cries echoed in the recesses of his mind.
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