Conquest moe-1

by Stewart Binns

  He had failed her abysmally.

  Leofric worried about Herward all evening. He knew only too well of his son’s latest conquest and was aware that the woman was not a simple village girl. He also knew that, despite his command, Hereward would not be at his table for dinner. Encouraged by Aediva, he resolved to teach the boy a lesson – something he had not done since Hereward was eleven, a leniency he now decided had been a mistake.

  He took a dozen good men with him, several of whom had scores to settle with Hereward. His intention was to embarrass him in front of Gythin, haul him back to the village and punish him in front of the entire community.

  Leofric’s men were trained soldiers who accompanied him whenever he did military service. They made a stealthy approach, expecting to find Hereward asleep in his lover’s arms.

  When Leofric shouted to Hereward to come outside, there were several moments of silence before a human shape suddenly pulled back the woollen window covering and tumbled on to the ground. At the same time, the cottage door was flung open and another shadowy figure made a rapid exit.

  It was only when the torches of Leofric’s men illuminated the frightened faces of the assasins that the mayhem began.

  The initial surprise and the dark of the night aided the escape of the assailants. Although the first two out of the cottage were cut down in a flurry of blows as the men of Bourne surrounded them, the other three – including their leader – dashed out of the doorway in the confusion and disappeared into the night.

  When Leofric entered the cottage, he found Gythin shockingly mutilated. She had been tied up and staked out in front of the hearth. No doubt brutally raped beforehand, her body had been incised with a patchwork of deep cuts. It appeared that the wounds had been carved slowly and carefully to ensure that she remained conscious for as long as possible and suffered the maximum pain and degradation. Her only relief would have been when she finally bled to death.

  Leofric bellowed Hereward’s name repeatedly, to no avail. It was only when they started to dig Gythin’s grave that one of the torches caught Hereward’s outline, still hanging from the tree where he had been hoisted by his assailants.

  He was gently let down and found, to his father’s intense relief, to be alive – if only just.

  Hereward did not fully regain consciousness for several days, and even then he could hear only muffled voices and see only vague shapes. He could feel his tongue and utter a few sounds and was able to move his hand just enough to grab his groin. To his immense relief, he seemed intact. His recovery took weeks; there had been many broken bones and the headaches were unbearable, but eventually they subsided and his bones healed. His survival was largely due to his mother’s skills as a nurse. Aediva had given Hereward his Danish blood and was typical of her people: self-reliant and independent. She knew how to restore strength to a shattered body.

  Hereward appeared to be chastened and subdued during his long recovery and, as time passed, the feeling grew in the village that some good had come of the terrible events and that the young man would now mend his ways. Aidan used the incident in his sermons almost every Sunday. He was the only man in the village, besides Leofric, who could read and write. He had taught Hereward English and Danish, and even a little Norman French. In one particular sermon, Aidan gave full vent to his oratorical skills.

  ‘The Lord has given us a gift in Hereward, son of Leofric. One day he will be Thegn of Bourne – but only in name, unless he learns the wisdom of the true Lord, our God in Heaven.’ Then he looked at Hereward directly. ‘Hereward, you are a gift from God with so many talents, but you are flawed: you are not yet a man and far, very far, from being a good man. Only you can overcome your weaknesses and conquer your demons. If you do not, they will drag you into an abyss from which there is no return. We can help you, but only if you will allow us to. If we fail and if you fail, the great strengths that God gave you will become a curse. Be warned! This is your last chance.’ He then turned to the congregation. ‘Let us pray for him.’

  Aidan’s words were wise, but Hereward sat impassively, not really listening; words of wisdom did not mix too well with his hot blood. Despite outward appearances, Hereward was not subdued. As his body healed, his anger grew. His right arm had been broken in three places but his left had escaped any fractures. And so, as soon as he could walk, he had taken himself off into the forest every day, ostensibly to exercise his weakened body and clear his addled head, but his real purpose was to visit his secret training ground. It was a small clearing where he had hidden his sword and his battle-axe, where, hour after hour until an exhausted body would not let him go on, he taught himself to use his weapons with his left hand until he was as proficient with it as he had been with his right.

  He spent most of the time with his axe, which, harnessed to his powerful frame and natural athleticism, had always been a fearsome instrument in his hands. But now he had a new purpose, fired by anger, which seemed to give him superhuman strength and the axe even more malicious power. The scarred trees in the clearing were testament to the many thousands of blows he had hacked into the oaks of the forest. He repeated, over and over again, the killing routines he had seen practised by the King’s housecarls on military training days: thrust and parry, cut and slash, chop and slice.

  When he could cut and hack no more, he would sit and sharpen his weapons, survey the results of his toil and contemplate the terrible vengeance he would soon exact.

  2. Vengeance

  It was almost the end of 1053 before Hereward was ready to venture beyond his village again. His body had healed; his right arm had regained its strength and now matched the power of his newly trained left hand.

  He often thought about Gythin’s words, and now realized that she had been right. He had been taught the most brutal of lessons: the difference between the competitive playfulness of a manly contest and the mortal challenge of men intent on killing. The months of brooding in isolation had not diminished his anger, but he had learned how to channel it for a deliberate purpose: the pursuit of four men – the three surviving assassins who had mercilessly murdered Gythin and the coward who had sent them, Thurstan, Abbot of Ely.

  There were no goodbyes in the village; he spoke to no one, not even his father. The gratitude he should have felt towards his family and his community was not there; such virtues needed a mind much more mature than Hereward’s, especially now that his was clouded by hatred and pain. He had learned a salutary lesson about fighting, but nothing about respect and humility.

  Ely was a day’s ride from Bourne. He took his time; there was no need to hurry. He announced himself to everyone he met on the road. He wanted his prey to know he was coming, hoping they would feel the dread that Gythin must have experienced. He cut an impressive figure, riding tall in the saddle, dressed in the finery of a man of his station and carrying his weapons of war.

  The abbey church of Ely was visible for miles around, the centrepiece of a burgh that stood but a few feet above the Great Fen which surrounded it. Its precious elevation gave it a solid footing, making it an island in an inland sea of marsh and bog. The church formed the heart of the precincts of a vast and wealthy abbey. By contrast, the burgh was a small cluster of thatched hovels with only a few grander two-storey houses for the rich merchants. It was a quiet place, enlivened only on market days when the farmers and the villagers from the surrounding countryside brought their wares.

  Hereward entered the Isle of Ely across the single ancient causeway from the west. So focused was his purpose, he was oblivious to the bleakness around him. The Fens were frozen and had been for weeks in a winter that had been unusually harsh, with little respite from the hard frosts and strong gales. The desolate scene was empty and monotonous, except for a few clumps of trees on patches of high ground where snow had collected in drifts like the plumes of waves at sea. Punctuated only by black holes cut by the locals, who fished them for their larders, the smooth ice of the Fens reflected the gull-grey sky like a mirror.


  Leaning into the harsh east wind, their faces covered against the chill, the few people who crossed the causeway were wrapped in heavy cloaks. Most people noticed Hereward as he passed. The deep scar on his face suggested he was a man of violence. People sensed trouble and many shied away from his pointed questions: had they seen three men, one of them a dark foreigner with a heavily studded dagger? Was the Abbot in residence?

  Eventually, a wool merchant told him what he wanted to know. The three men had spent the summer carving a baptismal font for the Abbot. They were highly regarded masons from Spain and travelled the length and breadth of the country serving the great churches. They spent most of their wages visiting Edgar the Tanner, who, besides preparing hides and brewing mead and beer, ran the local whorehouse.

  A strong stomach was required to visit Edgar’s establishment: the heat of the fire and the stench of humanity engulfed Hereward as he strode into the small thatched building. It was late afternoon, too early for most drinkers and for Edgar’s whores, who were still sleeping off their exertions from the night before. Only half a dozen men sat at the long oak tables. They stiffened as the visitor removed his cloak, revealing his sword and battle-axe. Hereward’s weapons gleamed as he stood in readiness.

  Edgar, who had been preparing a new brew, broke the silence. ‘You’re welcome, young sir. Sit and drink with us.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I seek three men. I will know them when I see them, and they will know me. I am Hereward of Bourne.’

  Edgar was not a man to be awed by an eighteen-year-old boy, even one as formidable as Hereward. ‘Aren’t you a bit young to be about the Earl’s business?’

  ‘This is not the Earl’s business, this is my business.’

  ‘Sir, we live by the law here. If you have a score to settle, you should go to Earl Leofric –’

  Before Edgar could finish, a dark man, whom Hereward had last seen all those months ago, stepped forward. ‘You are lucky boy, a few minutes more with me and you would be pretty gelding, but I see I leave my mark on your face. I thought I would meet you again. Now I finish what I start…’

  Hereward sensed movement in the room; his two other quarries had slipped in behind him. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw the blades of their swords, poised ready to strike.

  ‘Woman was very beautiful, but she was harlot. She didn’t want to die, she beg us, took us all, but the whore didn’t make us forget our duty – we kill her anyway. We gave you beating but you heal good. It is shame your recovery has been waste of time. Are you ready to die, boy?’

  There must have been a signal between the three of them, but Hereward did not see it. His two foes to the rear had each taken a full pace before he sensed their movement. He turned quickly and instinctively sank to his knees as both their swords flashed over his head. As he made his turn, he sank his axe deep into the midriff of the attacker to his left, inflicting a mortal wound, and then rose and thrust his shoulder into the side of the second man, knocking him over a nearby table. But his main adversary was already at his back, about to strike. Hereward had just enough time to halt the foreigner in his final stride by jamming the point of his blade into his throat.

  His foe held only a dagger but, instead of submitting, he smiled. ‘You are quick boy… and good with axe. I hope you are also good with sword.’

  The second man had regained his feet and started to circle towards Hereward, stepping over the body of his friend, now in his death throes on the floor in an ever-widening pool of blood. He had picked up a burning log from the fire and threw it at Hereward, hitting him hard on the forehead, the hot embers scorching his face. At that moment, both his foes struck: the first slashed him across his upper arm with his sword, but he parried the thrust of the leader’s dagger with his sword. Hereward turned away from danger and dropped his axe so that he could take a firm grip of the wrist of the leader, using his great strength to neutralize the danger of his dagger.

  Hereward’s sword arm, although wounded, was free and he quickly put it to lethal use by plunging his blade through the chest of the second man, shocking the life out of him. He released his grip of his sword, allowing the victim – still impaled on the end of it – to fall backwards into the fire. But Hereward did not loosen his grip on the wrist of the man he most wanted to kill; now he had him at his mercy. He used his right elbow as a bludgeon to batter the Spaniard’s face, shattering his cheekbone. Then, with one hand, he held him around the neck in an unbreakable headlock and, with the other, slammed his hand relentlessly on the table until his dagger dropped to the floor.

  He started to squeeze the life out of his victim, as the all-powerful adrenalin of vengeance pumped through his veins. The Spaniard was a strong man with the hands of a mason, but he could not break Hereward’s grip. Edgar the Tanner looked on in shock: Hereward’s first victim lay on the floor, his lungs slowly filling, drowning him in his own blood; the second’s lifeless body was beginning to be consumed by the open fire; and the third, the leader, was being slowly and agonizingly strangled to death.

  Hereward did not look at the man, nor speak to him; he just stared into the distance, thinking of Gythin. The man struggled at first, but then his movements subsided, his face swelled and his eyes bulged as if they were going to burst. Finally, the puce of the man’s gorged face paled, his lids closed over his blood-filled eyes and his body went limp.

  Hereward held on, savouring the act of retribution.

  The only sounds were the spit and crackle of the fire and the gentle dribble from the man’s leggings as his bodily fluids drained away for the last time.

  It took Hereward only a few minutes to walk from Edgar’s tannery to the abbey. Blood flowed down his arm, and his face was blackened by soot and etched with scarlet burns, but he did not falter. He almost ran across the cloister of the abbey, avoiding the beautifully decorated stone crucifix in the centre of the crosswalk. It was deserted except for a few benches lining the quadrangle to facilitate prayer and contemplation.

  Hereward threw open the heavy wooden door of the Great Hall. At one end, a huge fire spat flames towards the blackened roof timbers high above and filled the air with woodsmoke. There were several armed monks in the shadows, two more stood by the Abbot, along with his man-at-arms. They looked like Normans, with their distinctive chain-mail armour and nose-guard helmets.

  The Abbot was a man to behold: his robes were a rich fawn, like chamois leather, and around his neck a heavy chain held a glistening gold crucifix, encrusted at its four corners by large rubies. He did not move, nor even look up, as Hereward made his dramatic entrance; he seemed to be in meditation, staring at the Scriptures that lay before him on the pages of a beautifully decorated Bible. Apart from his ostentatious garb, he had the appearance of a devout man of God: he was clean-shaven, had tonsured, cropped hair and the stern face of an ascetic. His left hand rested on the Holy Book, his right was hidden from view beneath the table; Hereward assumed it held a dagger. Silence reigned for a moment as the young thegn of Bourne surveyed the scene.

  ‘Do close the door; Ely’s winter chills me to the bone.’ The Abbot spoke in the clear, precise tone of an educated cleric practised in speaking down to congregations. ‘The usual arrangement is to make an appointment with my clerk.’

  Hereward did not respond.

  The Abbot still did not move his head, nor glance up from the page. ‘Do you read the Holy Scriptures?’

  Again, Hereward said nothing.

  ‘You should. Let me read to you from the Book of Revelation of St John the Divine: And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.’ Finally, the Abbot looked up.

  This brought an instant response from Hereward. ‘You are right; I bring Hell with me, Thurstan, Abbot of Ely. I intend to take you to Leofric, Earl of Mercia. There I will ask that you be tried for murder before the King. If you resist, I w
ill kill you.’

  Thurstan smiled. He looked down at the Scriptures once more. ‘You misunderstand. Let me continue: And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. You see, I am Death. I have the power of the sword and the beasts of the earth are mine… I think you have already felt my power… and met my beasts.’

  ‘Your beasts are no more. They have felt my power.’

  Thurstan’s face turned to anger for the first time. His demeanour suddenly became vicious, contorted and cruel.

  Now Hereward recognized his enemy, the kind of man who could, without a hint of remorse, order the murder of a woman in cold blood.

  ‘You are a naïve boy. The Beast is legion; however many you kill, there will be multitudes more. Look around you.’

  With that, Thurstan’s men stepped forward from the gloomy shadows of the hall and drew their swords. More than ten yards and the formidable obstacle of a large refectory table separated Hereward from Thurstan. However, without hesitation or regard for the impossibility of the odds, Hereward leapt on to the end of the table and raised his battle-axe. Almost immediately, the blades of the nearest swords slashed at his legs and he had little choice but to hurl his axe in an attempt to impale his quarry.

  Hereward had practised the technique for many months. It was a close call, but Thurstan moved just enough to his left so that the wide blade of the axe missed his head and smashed into the back of the ornate oak chair he was sitting on. Nevertheless, his evasive movement, downwards and to the left, had raised his right shoulder enough for the blade to tear into his flesh and shatter his collarbone. As soon as Hereward realized that his axe had made a mark, he somersaulted from the table in an attempt to find a space within which to defend himself. But his legs were weak from the lacerations they had already received and, as soon as he hit the ground, he collapsed into a heap.