Conquest moe-1

by Stewart Binns

  Thurstan’s men rushed towards him, poised to hack him to death.

  ‘Hold!’ Thurstan bellowed with as much volume as the deep gash to his shoulder would allow. The whole of the upper right-hand part of his robe was already dyed crimson from his wound. He sat motionless; even the slightest movement, in an attempt to extricate himself from the axe, cut deeper into his flesh. ‘Remove this confounded axe before it cuts me in two!’

  Without hesitation, two of the Abbot’s warrior priests stepped forward. While one held Thurstan’s upper body, the other levered the axe upwards out of the deep gouge it had made in both the flesh and bone of its target and in the solid oak of the chair. The wood screeched as the blade was prised from it, but could not mask Thurstan’s howls.

  ‘This petulant son of Bourne is dripping blood all over my floor. Bring him here, hang him from the roof.’

  Hereward was bound by the wrists and hoisted off the ground by a rope cast over the bracing piece of the roof’s massive cruck beam. He had numerous sword wounds to his legs and buttocks; he could not feel some of the toes on his left foot, and blood was rapidly draining out of him. He was left to hang like a carcass in a smokehouse, and a large spit pan was placed under his feet to catch the blood that seeped from his legs.

  One of the priests made an all-too-apparent observation to Thurstan. ‘My Lord, your wound is deep. You too are losing much blood; I’m afraid you will have to bear the hot iron.’

  ‘I know that, you fool! Prepare me.’

  A hot poker was thrust deep into the fire. As they waited for it to attain the deep-red glow of a branding iron, Thurstan was stripped to the waist and placed on the table. Two men held a leg each; two more stood on either side, holding his arms with their weight on his chest, while a fifth knelt on the table behind him and pulled his face away from his stricken shoulder. The deed was quickly done. As the iron sank deep into the Abbot’s shoulder, the wound sizzled and a cloud of pungent smoke carried the stink of burning flesh into the air.

  After a while, unconsciousness spared Thurstan any further suffering and he was carried away to his bedchamber.

  It was late evening before the Abbot reappeared in the hall. He was ashen-faced, grimacing with pain and able to stand only with the support of two men.

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘I’m not sure, my Lord. I think his blood is all but drained from him.’

  ‘Let’s see if a hot iron can rouse him.’

  Hereward had lost consciousness some hours earlier, but now he could feel a dull pain. He did not have much feeling in his legs, and his head was jammed backwards by his arms. He could see only the dark beams of the roof and the flicker of firelight in its rafters. He could hear muffled shouts echoing in the distance and felt as if he were floating.

  His strongest sensation was the smell of roasting meat; he could remember the hot iron on Thurstan’s wound and the sickening scent of scorched human flesh. Then he realized where he was and what was causing the pain: this time, the flesh being seared was his.

  Thurstan had just enough strength to lift his left arm and prod the glowing red poker into Hereward’s wounds. As soon as the steam of the blistering flesh carried away the iron’s potency, Thurstan ordered that it be quickly reheated.

  Hereward was now fully conscious and would have cried out if he could, but there was no air in his lungs to carry a sound.

  He thought about his short life – remembering Gythin, his village and his parents – and, for the first time, he was frightened. He had always thought of himself as invincible; now he was helpless, lonely and minutes from death.

  Tears stung his eyes and rolled down his face.

  He now understood why other boys cried; he remembered the fear and loathing in their eyes as he bested them in their countless contests. He was suddenly overwhelmed by an immense sense of guilt. He knew that it was his reckless pursuit of Gythin that had caused her death, and he felt ashamed.

  Never was a man less ready to meet his Maker; surely these were the fires of Hell already consuming his flesh.

  Leofric knew instantly where his son had gone when he disappeared from the village.

  The same loyal group of men who had accompanied him on the fateful journey to Gythin’s cottage once more travelled with him to seek the aid of Earl Leofric. The Earl helped him formulate a plan to save his son’s life.

  With the Captain of the Earl’s Guard, a dozen of his men and a warrant for Hereward’s arrest, Leofric burst into Abbot Thurstan’s hall just after midnight.

  The men stopped dead in their tracks at the scene before them. Hereward’s limp body, silhouetted by the dying embers of the fire, twisted slowly as it hung from the roof. The faces of his torturers glistened with sweat; the room was dark, more like a dungeon than a place of worship. Thurstan, again in a state of unconsciousness, was slumped in his chair with his men standing around him, not knowing what to do.

  Hereward seemed lifeless, almost beyond hope.

  For a few moments, a stand-off ensued between clerical law and the Earl’s secular domain.

  Leofric spoke with the authority of a thegn of England, trained as one of Edward’s elite housecarls. ‘Who here speaks for Thurstan?’

  A tall monk stepped forward. ‘I do.’

  ‘I have a warrant for the arrest of Hereward of Bourne. It is signed by Leofric, Earl of Mercia. I will take him now.’

  ‘This is a matter for the Church. It will be resolved when Abbot Thurstan recovers.’

  ‘You address a thegn of the realm, priest. This matter will be judged by the King at Winchester; he rules on all matters, temporal and ecclesiastical. I suggest you make a quick decision, or you will be held to account for what has happened here.’

  The monk glanced at his colleagues and surveyed the Earl’s Guard with Leofric.

  ‘We will require guarantees that this young thug –’

  Sensing the priest’s capitulation, Leofric pushed past him before he could finish his sentence.

  Hereward was cut down.

  He seemed lifeless, his skin the pallor of limewash. Leofric rushed to him, pulled him up by his shoulders and searched for signs of life. His body was cool and stiff, as if rigor mortis had begun.

  Leofric’s head sank in despair as he gently rested his son’s head on the stone floor.

  ‘He’s alive.’ The Captain of the Earl’s Guard spoke quietly but confidently. ‘He’s breathing.’

  The Captain knelt, then pushed down hard on Hereward’s chest. As he released the pressure, the injured man’s lungs filled with air and the faintest of breaths could be felt across his lips.

  Leofric leapt to his feet. ‘Get him on to the cart. Let’s get him to Peterborough.’

  3. Outlaw in the Wildwood

  In a petition that both fired his imagination and taxed his intellect, it was many months later that King Edward heard the plea of Leofric, Thegn of Bourne, concerning his son, Hereward. The evidence had taken the whole of a morning session and it was now well into the afternoon, and still the King had not passed judgement. No one at the King’s Council at Winchester could think of a precedent. Edward had withdrawn from the Great Hall and was pacing his cloisters deep in thought; the formidable Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex and England’s senior earl, who also happened to be Edward’s brother-in-law, strode a few feet behind.

  Life in England under the saintly King Edward was peaceful, but there were great anxieties about the future. His formidable mother, Emma, was the daughter of Richard I, Duke of Normandy and, during the reign of the Danish kings, Edward had spent his early life exiled in Normandy. Much more comfortable with Normans, he had appointed many of them to powerful positions in the realm. Also, despite his marriage to Edith, the daughter of Earl Godwin – who, until his recent death, had been England’s most powerful earl – he had spent most of his reign at odds with the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy, especially the Godwin clan, now led by Edith’s brother, Harold Godwinson, the eldest of Earl Godwin’s five sons.
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br />   Thought by many to be far too effete and intellectual to be king amid the much more robust Anglo-Saxon earls, Edward had nevertheless brought the rule of law to his kingdom and had earned the grudging respect of his people. The anxiety was now about who would succeed him: Edward’s marriage to Edith was childless and there was no direct heir to the throne.

  Harold Godwinson broke the silence of the cloisters. ‘Sire, under law, the boy should be executed. He is the son of a thegn and we cannot allow our local dignitaries to behave like cut-throats.’

  The King did not respond.

  ‘The boy is uncontrollable.’

  ‘He intrigues me.’

  ‘Sire, he killed three men and almost cut in half one of your clerics!’

  ‘Thurstan is not one of my clerics; he was preffered by the Church hierarchy against my judgement. He is corrupt and conniving, and probably deserved what the boy did to him. If I had my way, I’d execute him, not the boy.’

  ‘Sire, it is your duty to uphold the law.’

  ‘I know my duty; I don’t need to be reminded of it by the Earl of Wessex. Bring the boy and his father. I will speak to them before I pass judgement.’

  Leofric of Bourne and his son entered Edward’s cloisters as meekly as their station demanded and bowed in unison. The King of England was an impressive figure. He had the kindly features of a devout man of God, his hair was greying auburn and he wore a full, well-cut beard. His smock and leggings were of finely woven wool and his cloak, a rich burgundy, was elaborately embroidered in fine thread and gathered over his left shoulder by a large circular clasp in gold filigree decorated with garnets and amethysts. Hereward could also see the gilded pommel of the King’s sword, its engraved design of serpents and dragons representing England’s fierce Anglo-Saxon origins. Even though Edward, a man of letters, had never drawn it in anger, it was the ancient weapon of the Cerdician Kings of Wessex and England, a proud lineage going back hundreds of years to the time of Alfred the Great and beyond.

  The King spoke to Leofric first. ‘How are you, Leofric?’

  ‘I am well in body, sire, but my heart is heavy with regret. I have caused you great turmoil and my son is lost to me. I have brought him before you because I want him to salvage his life. If you grant me my claim, there is just a chance that he can find a way to redeem himself.’

  ‘You have served me well many times, Leofric; I will try to help you.’

  ‘I am grateful, Sire.’

  The King turned to Hereward. ‘You are a troublesome young man who vexes me greatly.’

  ‘Sire –’ Hereward tried to speak.

  The King cut him short. ‘Your father has saved your life twice. He is a brave and loving father; you have wronged him beyond belief. I am about to pass judgement on you but, before I do, I want you to know that your father is also very wise. You should die for the appalling crime you have committed, but by going to the Earl of Mercia and seeking a father’s ancient right of retribution against a son, he has saved your life for a third time.’

  He paused to take a deep breath. ‘Because you despatched them before they could answer the charge, there is only indirect evidence to support your accusation that the men you killed had murdered the woman Gythin. The crime against her was a heinous offence, but I have not been asked to rule on that and thus it is not within my jurisdiction here. I can act only on evidence, and there is nothing substantial to link the woman’s murder to Abbot Thurstan. You descended upon Ely with murder in your heart, when, if you felt a crime had been committed, the appropriate recourse would have been the good offices of Earl Leofric at Peterborough. You killed three men in the premises of Edgar the Tanner, before attacking one of my abbots and maiming him for life. You should thank God Almighty that your father’s application means I do not have to order your execution; there has been enough killing. I shall accept the argument of Leofric, Earl of Mercia, on behalf of your father, and confirm that the punishment they seek against you is appropriate.’

  The King paused again and stared at Hereward intently. ‘I am going to cast you out from everything that you have known and all those things that bring a man comfort and warmth. You will be denied the sight of God and His priests’ confessionals. May God have mercy on your soul.’

  The King continued to stare at Hereward for a long time, contemplating the traumas the boy had already lived through in his short life.

  Perhaps Edward could also sense something of what might become of the young man, because he suddenly broke the silence and, beyond anyone else’s hearing, whispered to the Earl of Wessex, ‘Why do I sense that this may not be the last I see of him?’

  The Great Hall of Winchester was full as Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, rose to read King Edward’s judgement. Abbot Thurstan sat solemnly, his right arm limp and withered, while Leofric, sitting opposite him, looked like a broken man.

  It had taken many months of care by the nuns of Peterborough before Hereward was fit enough to stand trial. During this time, his father wrestled with the dilemma which his son had created for him. After seeking the advice of Earl Leofric, he had to face a dreadful decision. The only certain way to save the life of his son and forestall his execution was to disown him and claim the ancient right to have him banished as an outlaw.

  ‘Let all here understand that on this fifteenth day of April, 1054, King Edward of England has issued a proclamation granting judgement to Leofric, Thegn of Bourne, in the matter of his son, Hereward, as petitioned by Leofric, Earl of Mercia.’

  Harold spoke solemnly, with all the authority of the Earl Marshal of England. He stood tall, his flaxen hair resting on the collar of his ceremonial cloak, his right hand clasping his sword of office and his left hand holding the proclamation that condemned Hereward as an outcast.

  ‘From this day forward, Hereward of Bourne will be banished from his lands and his people and will be placed beyond the law and the sight of God. All his rights to taxes, titles and service are confiscated forthwith, as are his lands, holdings and possessions. Anyone granting succour, solace or having anything to do with this man will, in turn, also be banished. This proclamation will be heard across the land by order of our sovereign lord, King Edward.’

  As the Earl finished speaking, the entire assembly rose and the King’s housecarls presented arms. Edward remained seated, slightly slumped on his throne, saddened by the finality of the act of banishment. In his thirteen-year reign, he could remember only four occasions when he had ordered that a man be made an outlaw.

  Hereward knew what he had to do: he bowed to the King, turned, and made his way towards the huge double doors of the Great Hall of Winchester.

  His father watched him go with tears in his eyes.

  No one else looked at Hereward as he limped into the streets of Winchester. Only the blacksmith approached him, to snap around his neck an iron collar and daub his head with pig’s blood – the symbols of an outlaw. A mounted housecarl then rode in front of him to the city walls and closed the gates behind him. Now, no burgh would open its gates to him; no village would give him food or water; no man, woman or child would speak to him; even priests were required to shun him. The heavy collar of the outlaw, inscribed with the chilling word ‘condemned’, ensured that no one could mistake his status. Although a blacksmith would have the tools and skill to remove the collar, the clasp bore the King’s seal and breaking it was punishable by banishment.

  Hereward’s fate was to be a living death.

  As Hereward walked away from Winchester, he attempted to walk with the proud, upright gait of a dashing young thegn, but it was futile. There was no semblance of pride left in his heart; he was a broken man. For the second time he had come close to death and once again endured a long and painful recovery from wounds so severe that they would have killed most men. This time, however, his rehabilitation had been a period of deep introspection and regret, not one of simmering rage. Gone was the festering anger brought about by his first encounter with mortality; he had thought only of
his stupidity and selfishness. He now realized he had been stupid in believing in his own invincibility, in thinking only of his own pain and revenge, and in failing to bring Thurstan to justice by legitimate means.

  The torment of being hoisted like a defenceless animal, and tortured for several hours, had been a purgatory in which an entire childhood of fears and nightmares had been visited upon him. Now, many months later, the memories still haunted him.

  Throughout Hereward’s recovery, he had longed to be able to return to Bourne – to seek forgiveness for a lifetime of conceit and bullying, and to see Gythin again in a time before the whole tragic business had begun – but he knew these thoughts were no more than daydreams. He knew that he would never see his family again and he knew that Gythin had gone for ever.

  Hereward’s melancholy was suddenly jolted by the distinct sound of a horse snorting. It was only a few yards away, but its rider was difficult to discern; he wore a dark hooded cape and neither horse nor rider bore any distinguishing features. As soon as the mounted figure spoke, Hereward realized it was his nemesis, Thurstan.

  ‘You should have killed me.’ Thurstan paused, assuming Hereward would answer.

  But no response came. No anger rose in Hereward’s heart and he resumed his journey, turning his gaze to the track ahead.

  ‘Make sure the forest hides you well; you will need its every leaf and branch to conceal you and its darkest corners to prevent you casting shadows. Look behind every tree and bush and in the tall grass in every clearing, because if I ever hear word of you, I will hunt you down and, when I’m ready, I will strike, be sure of that.’

  Hereward did not turn round, and seemed oblivious to everything that had been said to him.