Conquest moe-1

by Stewart Binns

  Again, Hereward chose not to reply. Instead, he drew his sword and pulled the Great Axe of Göteborg from his shoulder.

  The Normans scattered in every direction, but Hereward was at them like a whirlwind. He cut two men down to his left with his sword, then with his axe cleaved the Breton almost in two from his left shoulder to his midriff. The girls screamed in horror and hid their eyes while the remaining Normans shouted at one another in blind panic. Two more were dead before either of them could find a weapon, while another one threw a lance that Hereward easily deflected with his shield. He kicked one of the remaining quartet into the corner, while another clambered out of the window, only to be met by Einar’s deadly axe. A third rushed through the door, to be grabbed by Alphonso, who calmly slit his throat from ear to ear. The last Norman offering any resistance was impaled through the midriff by Hereward’s sword and pinned to the wall like a hog on a spit. Finally, he turned and brought his axe down on to the man cowering in the corner, creating a spew of blood and a deafening shriek of agony.

  Einar and Alphonso appeared in the doorway to check that Hereward’s vengeance was done.

  ‘Einar, please go and get Maria, Ingigerd and Cristina; these girls need their help. Nobody else must see this. We leave as soon as we’ve buried the dead. Alphonso, make sure these pigs are dead too.’

  Hereward looked around the house and saw no possessions that were important to him. He then went to the Normans’ horses and retrieved his father’s sword and the money and jewellery stolen from his parents. Finally, without hesitating, he set fire to his home with a log from his own hearth and watched it burn to the ground, consuming the Normans within.

  A large communal grave was dug next to the church and all the bodies of the villagers were placed in it. Hereward retrieved the three heads and carefully put them in their rightful place with their bodies, a gruesome but necessary task. A simple cross was made and, when all evidence of the terrible carnage that had been visited on this tiny village had been removed, Hereward’s small band of followers joined him in a short ceremony.

  In failing light, which added an appropriately sombre pall to the occasion, Hereward pushed the small cross into the ground at the head of the mass grave, stepped back and spoke solemnly. ‘Let us pray for the souls of these people of Bourne, who, like so many throughout England, have done nothing to deserve their cruel fate. May they rest in peace.’

  He then closed the door of Bourne church, locked it and put the key on his belt.

  He would never return.

  Hereward and his extended family, now numbering eighteen with the addition of the four survivors of Bourne, spent the next few weeks well away from conflict of any kind.

  They had much to reflect on, especially the young orphans from the village. Hereward spent many hours with Gunnhild and Estrith, talking to them, telling and retelling stories about their mother and teaching them as much as he knew about anything and everything. It became a special time for all of them. Only occasionally were there moments of tension, and always about the same subject: when could they return to St Cirq Lapopie? Hereward was often sorely tempted to agree to go at a day’s notice, but would only ever give the same answer: ‘Soon, one day soon.’

  No matter how painful and threatening it was to those closest to him, he had unfinished business in England; the events in Bourne had only added to his resolve.

  William had stood down his army and returned to Winchester, confident that the English rebellion was over. His only minor concerns were that the Danes had not yet left Humberside and that Hereward had disappeared from view. The Danish garrison had suffered badly over the harsh winter and William had not kept his word to keep them well supplied. However, he had sent the second instalment of their Danegeld and, assuming that they would not relish another winter far from home, William felt the continuing Danish presence did not warrant a further expedition to the North.

  When the first flurries of snow appeared over the downs of southern England in the autumn of 1070, and the Danes had still not departed, William grew more concerned. News then arrived at Winchester that the charred remains of Ogier the Breton and his men had been found in the ruins of the longhouse at Bourne. He knew at once who was responsible and, as usual, his rage was unbounded.

  The first sharp bite of winter had also prodded Hereward into action. The period of calm he had deliberately created after the events of Bourne had given him time to clear his head. Now it was time for one final clarion call. When he arrived at the agreed rendezvous on the Great Ouse in October, to his great joy almost three-quarters of his men had returned. They knew that the last few moves of Hereward’s game of chess with William were about to be made, and they had resigned themselves to whatever ending those moves would create.

  Hereward now gathered together the 200 valiant souls who still followed him and asked them to sit on the ground in a relaxed, informal group; this was going to be a different kind of address.

  ‘Men of England, let me speak to you of things we all know to be true, but are reluctant to accept. We fought and lost in the North; we were too few in number and outmanoeuvred by a formidable opponent.’ He paused and looked around at the faces of those assembled. He was grateful to them for still being at his side after all the setbacks they had suffered and he admired their great courage when so many others had slunk away. ‘It is four years since Senlac Ridge. William has won this land.’

  His men began to shake their heads and mutter.

  ‘It is true; an unbearable truth, but true all the same. He is relentless, vicious and cunning and a master of tactics and planning. He is also lucky; fortune has favoured him all along, especially on Senlac Ridge. The gods have smiled on the Normans: they were blessed in the Channel, when the wind didn’t blow; they were fortunate that we had to fight at Stamford Bridge before facing their onslaught; and they were lucky on the day of the battle, when the outcome could so easily have been different. To have to face Hardrada and the Norwegians in the North and then William and the Normans in the South, all within the space of a few days, was a cruel hand that fate dealt our noble King Harold. In his case, fortune didn’t favour the brave.’ He hesitated, reluctant to utter the words. ‘Now, his England, our England, has gone. It has gone for ever.’

  The men shifted uncomfortably in the face of this barrage of unpalatable truths, but all knew in their hearts that Hereward was right.

  ‘It took many generations of war, struggle and negotiation to fuse England into a whole from its many parts. Now there must be a new England.’ He paused again, catching as many eyes as he could, trying to gauge whether these men would accept a new vision of their homeland. ‘We can make it happen. By your presence here, you are saying that you are not prepared to accept that England has become a province of Normandy, nor that we English have to think and act like Normans. I have a proposition for you. We will make a final redoubt, as we did on Senlac Ridge; one last stand to remind the world that England will not die easily. We will convince William that he has to recognize our collective will, just as we have had to bend to his. We will make the Normans realize that to rule here, they will have to acknowledge our ways, as we have to recognize theirs.’

  Hereward paused again, relieved to see a brightening in the eyes of his men as he offered them new hope.

  He started to raise his voice. ‘England will never die; it will live on in our customs, our language and our traditions. For now, we are conquered, but we will stand up to these Normans, make them appreciate us. And when they respect us, England will be England once more.’

  The entire assembly rose as one; this time, not with a massive roar of approval, but more solemnly, like men preparing to stand together in battle.

  ‘From this moment, we will no longer call him William the Bastard; we will refer to him as William, King of England.’

  There were many shouts of ‘No!’ from the men.

  ‘Yes, King of England, William the First! It is not a crown he wears by right, but one h
e has won in battle. He is now our King. It is a fact, and we must accept it. Even so, we retain the right to challenge any oppressive ruler. So our final redoubt is a stand we make to press our claim to be ruled justly, in the true tradition of England.’

  Hereward clasped the Talisman. ‘I offer you a brotherhood of men. We will ride to Ely, to the tomb of the virgin martyr, St Etheldreda, where each of us will take this ancient amulet, the Talisman of Truth, and swear an oath affirming our rights as Englishmen. There we will stay until the King comes to us.

  ‘The Isle of Ely is my territory, close to my home, it is easily defended and its treacherous marshes and waterways will keep the King’s army at bay. Perhaps then he will listen to us. The people of England will hear of our stand; it will lift their spirits and gladden their hearts.’ Once more he raised the Great Axe of Göteborg. ‘To Ely, to form our Brotherhood and to make our last redoubt. Long live England!’

  Every man present raised his battle-axe in solemn concord, followed by the cry ‘Long live England!’

  Martin Lighfoot and Edmund of Kent sent word all over the land, proclaiming that an Oath of Brotherhood was to be taken at Ely and that any man willing to swear to defend the rights of England and the English should journey there.

  Hereward deliberately chose a wide circular route to Ely. Everywhere they went, they sought out Normans. They spared lowly ones, giving them only a simple message: ‘We will be ruled fairly and justly, or not at all.’ But for Norman lords and knights the encounter meant death by axe and sword.

  In a series of bloody encounters, the Brotherhood ambushed and killed a long list of prominent Normans: Ivo Tallebois, Sheriff of Lincolnshire; Frederick of Ostergele-Scheldewindeke, the brother-in-law of William Warenne; the Earl of Surrey; Gilbert of Ghent; Richard Fitzgilbert of Clare; and the biggest prize of all, William Malet, Sheriff of Yorkshire. Hereward was in the vanguard of all the attacks. He was the avenging angel, not driven by personal emnity, nor by a warrior’s duty, but by his faith in the cause of the Brotherhood – a devotion to a new England, the England Harold had dreamed of, a land where the fraternity of the people is far more important than the ambition of kings.

  The slayings sent William into a rage that lasted all winter, causing Matilda and her children to return to Rouen. He drank and swore continually, barked orders at the top of his voice and threw things at anyone who got in his way. He became fatter by the day, sores broke out on his face and he suffered increasingly from gout and piles.

  Neither the King’s health nor his mood were ameliorated by the sudden influx of pleas and representations about the harshness of his regime. They came not only from the English who had submitted to him, but also from many Normans. Hereward’s change of stance had struck a chord in English hearts and even in some sympathetic Norman ones.

  William’s mood became even darker when, early in the spring of 1071, he heard that not only were the Danes still in Yorkshire, but that Svein Estrithson, the Danish King, had arrived in the Humber with a substantial fleet. William immediately prepared to ride north with his army.

  Hereward was camped near Rockingham, on his way to Ely, when he heard the news of the arrival of the Danish King and of William’s march north. He immediately despatched Edwin to find out the reasons for Svein’s unexpected arrival.

  Meanwhile, Martin’s scouts were ordered to track William’s every move.

  28. Homage to a Virgin Martyr

  Hereward and his Brotherhood rode into Ely in March 1071, more than seventeen years after he had crossed the burgh’s ancient causeway seeking vengeance on Gythin’s assassins and their paymaster, Thurstan, Bishop of Ely. It was a similar day, with a threatening sky and a bitterly cold wind. For his first fateful visit, the surrounding waterways had been an expanse of ice, but this time the wind was whipping the water of the Fens’ countless meres into frenzied plumes of spray. Not only had Hereward’s life come full circle to England, he was now back at the very place where his juvenile pursuit of retribution had led to his banishment and the beginning of his remarkable odyssey.

  The Brotherhood made camp in the grounds of Ely Abbey. As the men busied themselves with their duties, Hereward paid a courtesy call. Although there had been an interregnum when King Edward removed him, having lost patience with Thurstan’s corrupt behaviour, he was still the Abbot of Ely after being reinstated by King Harold. As in their previous encounter, Hereward went alone. There were numerous monks in the cloisters and refectories, but the abbey looked shabby, not a hive of activity like other ecclesiastical establishments.

  As Hereward approached the door of the Abbot’s Great Hall, an armed monk stepped towards him. ‘Do you have business with Abbot Thurstan, sir?’

  ‘I do.’

  Hereward brushed past him and, for the second time in his life, pushed open the heavy oak door of the hall. The timbers of the roof were still charred, the large table he had clambered on to all those years ago was still in the same place, and Thurstan was once again sitting at its head. But gone was the air of opulence surrounding him. He wore a plain black cassock, which looked worn and dirty, and absent from his neck was the ornate gold chain and crucifix. He was hunched over his food, his back arched and misshapen, and his hair was thin and grey and grew in sparse tufts. His eyes were sunken and his skin had the jaundiced pallor of a man in poor health.

  He did not look up but, as if reliving their previous encounter, repeated the same phrase. ‘Do close the door; Ely’s winter chills me to the bone.’

  Hereward, also in a reprise of their first meeting, did not respond.

  Thurstan began to move, but struggled to raise his head. Whatever was afflicting his spine – something, no doubt, resulting from the injury Hereward had inflicted on him – he could not lift his chin much beyond his chest. Hereward could see that Thurstan’s chair still had the deep gash of the axe that had almost taken off his head all those years ago.

  With the help of two young monks, the Abott hobbled over to the fire and sat on a bench close to the hearth. ‘I suppose you have come here to kill me?’

  ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I am only interested in killing Normans, until they respect justice and the law.’

  Thurstan’s face contorted into a sneer. ‘I see, vengeance used to be your hallmark, now it is self-righteousness.’

  ‘Thurstan, I have had to live with the consequences of my actions, just as you have had to live with yours. It seems I am coping with the legacy of my deeds somewhat better than you are handling yours.’

  Thurstan’s face turned to fury. ‘What do you want in my abbey?’

  ‘Tomorrow, we go to the tomb of the virgin martyr, St Etheldreda, to swear an Oath to our Brotherhood of Englishmen and assert our rights as subjects of King William.’

  ‘Have you not learned your lesson by now? Senlac Ridge was lost, Harold is dead, England is William’s; he will do with it as he sees fit.’

  ‘All those things are beyond dispute, except the last. We mean to convince him that kings should rule with wisdom.’ Hereward clasped the Talisman, which he now wore openly outside his armour.

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve heard about this magic amulet you wear. You have become the hero of legend: a saviour, protected by a magic spell woven by a sorcerer from the forest and his enchantress of a daughter. So what do you expect from me?’

  ‘I expect nothing from you. We will stay outside the cloisters, which come under your jurisdiction, except for the right of passage to visit St Etheldreda’s tomb. However, if, as an Englishman, you feel you should take the Oath of the Brotherhood, that is for your conscience to consider. I intend to fortify Ely against an onslaught by William and no one will come or go without my direct authority. Other than that, just stay out of my way.’

  ‘And what of our reckoning – surely you must seek a resolution?’

  ‘I do not. God will punish you for your actions and, from the look of you, the fires of Hell already begin to burn brightly within you. As for me, your evil deed set me
on a course which has brought me a life few have been fortunate enough to experience.’ He paused for a second and looked Thurstan in the eye. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. If you cross me in any way, take any action, or say anything that undermines the cause our Brotherhood has proclaimed, I will kill you in the blink of an eye.’

  Hereward turned and left, his heavy steps once more echoing around the cloisters of Ely Abbey.

  Built to hold her remains, and to allow pilgrims to make their devotions to her, St Etheldreda’s vault stood in a small chapel on the northern side of the cloisters of the abbey. Except for her hands, clasped in prayer and standing proudly from it, the stone slab of her tomb had her elaborately carved life-size outline cut into it. Laid across her hands by the nuns was a beautiful rosary in pearl and ruby beads, culminating in a delicate silver cross on which was chased the figure of the crucified Christ.

  The daughter of a seventh-century East Anglian king, she had taken holy orders rather than relinquish her virginity in an arranged marriage imposed on her by her father, and was the foundress of the Abbey of Ely. She had become revered for her generosity, piety and wisdom and lived the rest of her life in poverty, bearing the constant pain of a large tumour on her neck, an infliction that she regarded as appropriate punishment for all the fine jewellery she had worn as a child. St Etheldreda was the perfect patron for the Brotherhood’s cause.

  The entire burgh of Ely looked on as the Brotherhood filed into the chapel to take their Oath. Hereward stood at the head of the sepulchre as each man placed his weapons on Etheldreda’s image and rested his left hand on her rosary. He then placed the Talisman of Truth over their head as they pressed the clenched fist of their right hand to their chest and recited the Oath.