Conquest moe-1

by Stewart Binns

  Thurstan did not move for several minutes, nor did he blink, but fixed his eyes on Hereward’s back as he disappeared into the gloom of the forest.

  The distraught figure walked for the rest of that day and slept for only three or four hours before continuing on his aimless route deep into the forest. At every turn, he took the lesser track and was soon walking a path barely wide enough for a man’s shoulders. By the end of the second day, he was marooned in the vast wildwood of southern England.

  Hereward’s biggest challenge in his banishment was not the well-being of his body, but of his mind. He had hunted in the Bruneswald almost every day of his life and survival was second nature to him. Days passed into weeks. He drank from streams and took a bird or a hare when he needed one; he fashioned traps and snares, even without a sharp blade; he collected flints of stone or shale whenever he saw them. He spent countless days roaming deeper into the hinterland and, knowing that the power of the King’s law diminished the further west he went, he moved in the direction of the sunset. As the days grew shorter and the air colder, he prepared for winter and chose a clearing high on a hillside facing south-west to build a refuge. There he spent the long, cold winter in total isolation with only his own thoughts for company.

  The teachings of the Church of Rome, repeated over and over again by Aidan the Priest from his pulpit at Bourne, had never meant much to Hereward, but his encounter with Thurstan had led him to reflect on the meaning of everything, especially his own flawed existence. He had always taken so many things for granted. He had had little regard for his village life and his family, their ways and virtues born of centuries of tradition; now he realized how much he missed them. He had never contemplated the importance of the land itself – rivers, forests, heaths and fens – and he had dismissed the wildlife of his ancient land – its infinite variety and complexity – as merely a source of sustenance; now he appreciated their true significance in the cycle of life.

  From childhood he had witnessed life and death, decay and renewal, but had never fully appreciated the wonders of nature and the inestimable quality of human life; now, in his enforced solitude, he marvelled at them. He could not wait for summer and all the colour and flurry of life it would bring.

  Just as nature had lain dormant during the winter, so had Hereward’s need for companionship, but with the first hints of spring came the first stirrings of his desire to live normally again. From the length of the days and the burgeoning of nature around him, he guessed it was Eastertide of the year 1055. He was twenty years old, a notorious outlaw and had been all but dead twice. His bones had been smashed in several places, his flesh was scarred all over his body and his will had nearly been broken by a mortal enemy. But he had survived. He resolved to find solace in a life of simplicity, far from the land which had banished him.

  Hereward spent the rest of the spring and summer moving slowly west and north. His native Bourne was only a few feet above sea level and his ancestors had dug the ditches, channels and canals that drained the land and kept the water at bay, so he could follow a watercourse easily. He also knew how to read directions from the position of the sun and how to navigate from the stars.

  Game was plentiful and bows and arrows were easily made from the natural resources of wood, bone and flint. He found a piece of crude iron in the ruins of an abandoned village and, after many days of grinding and polishing, had fashioned a sharp metal blade to perform the cutting, slicing and scraping of his daily routine.

  He continued to avoid direct contact with his fellow human beings, afraid to compromise either them or himself. Under cover of darkness, he had negotiated two important thoroughfares. Hidden in the undergrowth, he had overheard passing conversations that told him that he had crossed two ancient arteries to the south-west of England and was only ten miles from the burgh of Gloucester, a name he recognized. He knew it to be an important place, close to a river that flowed to the Great Western Sea.

  The adrenalin began to course in his veins as he sensed the opportunity to begin a new life; he was lean and fit and his great strength had begun to return. He retreated to higher ground, and found a commanding position from where he could survey the vale beneath him and formulate a plan of escape into the wilderness beyond England’s borders.

  It was a late summer evening when Hereward witnessed the most violent storm he had ever seen. The day had been hot and humid and, as night drew in, the sky grew black and ominous, although the air remained warm and cloying. He found a high promontory, which brought the relief of a cooling wind, but it was the turbulent air of a brewing storm.

  As he sat there for what must have been several hours, he witnessed nature at its most awesome. Vicious winds ripped branches from sturdy oaks heavy with the leaves of summer; the sky exploded in every direction with brilliant flashes of lightning, and eerie silhouettes of trees and hillsides were suddenly illuminated before disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

  Hereward wondered if storms really were God’s work, as the village folk believed. He preferred to think that the magnificent display before his eyes was nature’s work; why and how it could unleash such menace was a mystery to him but his instincts told him it was a tangible mystery, not a supernatural one. He was reminded of one of the insights that had become so important to him during his long isolation: that the only thing to fear was the dread created in one’s own imagination.

  Then, as he felt the first splashes of rain, his eye glimpsed movement through the trees in the valley below. He stiffened, but nothing stirred again and he assumed that it had been a deer or a boar. A few minutes later, an enormous bolt of lightning exploded close to him and he saw, no more than ten paces away, the silhouette of a figure.

  Hereward leapt to his feet and yelled above the storm, ‘Name yourself, stranger!’

  There was no reply. Hereward looked into the darkness, but could see nothing. Then, as the first heavy rain of the storm lashed his face, there was another vicious crack of blinding light and the man was barely ten feet away, his shock of white hair and beard bathed in momentary daylight.

  Hereward yelled again, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Stop shouting, boy! I’m not deaf.’

  The intermittent illumination of the storm was sufficient to reveal the wrinkled face of a man who had lived a very long life. Torrents of rain soaked his silvery locks, his piercing dark eyes squinted against the lashing gale; but he stood proudly, unbent in the howling wind.

  ‘You have chosen a wild night on which to lose your way, old man.’

  ‘I am not lost; I have come to talk to you, Hereward of Bourne.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘It is hardly a mystery; you are, after all, a notorious outlaw.’

  ‘What do you want from me? You know you put yourself at peril by speaking to me.’

  ‘I want to hear your story; the little I’ve heard intrigues me. As for peril, I doubt anyone would trouble to shorten my meagre life; there is so little of it left.’

  ‘I hate to disappoint you, sir, but my story is not one I wish to share with strangers.’

  ‘I know you better than you realize. You have been alone for a long time and carry a great burden in your heart.’ The old man looked at Hereward and smiled. ‘I can help you. I understand loneliness and shame; I have lived with those two companions most of my life. I have a simple shelter near here, which you are welcome to share for a while, and I have an excellent flitch of bacon hanging by my fire.’

  Hereward was intrigued by the stranger. Curious to know how his notoriety could have reached an old man deep in the forest, he agreed to his offer.

  The old man’s home took several hours to reach, deep in the wildwood.

  When they arrived, just before dawn, his shelter was little more than a large lean-to against the cold winds of the north and west. He had chosen an exposed rock facing a natural meadow, close to a fast-flowing stream, and built a roof with two supporting sides from a framework of trimmed branches, l
ashed together and covered in skins. At the maw of the structure was a fire that provided warmth and a hearth for cooking. All around were the home-made accoutrements of an experienced man of the woods: traps, cooking pots, weapons and tools. The primitive shelter, although spartan, was festooned with drying skins, hanging meat and sacks of herbs and vegetables. He wanted for nothing, took little from his environment and, were he to die in his sleep one night, a few seasons of nature’s cycle of decay and renewal would all but obliterate his presence.

  That evening, after a bellyful of rabbit stew and several horns of mead, Hereward spoke directly to the old man. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I am called the Old Man of the Wildwood. That is my name now and that is how it will remain.’

  ‘But you haven’t always lived here?’

  ‘I have been here most of my life, but I was born a long way from here, close to the burgh of Winchester, where, as a young man, I was ordained.’

  Hereward settled back, sensing that a long story was about to unfold.

  The old man described how the life of a priest had, at first, been perfect. He had absorbed knowledge like a sponge and soon became renowned for his intellect and grasp of ancient texts and languages. But he eventually lost his way and his faith. His drinking increased and an affair with a lady-in-waiting at court led him to be defrocked, banished from Winchester and, like Hereward, cast out into the forest.

  ‘Life is so short. I worry about how many more seasons I’m destined to see. The priests tell us we will go on to a better life in the blessed company of God, but I have my doubts. I fear my likely eternity is right here, in the earth of my own wood, rotting in the mulch like the leaves of my trees. But where will my deepest thoughts and fanciful dreams go?’

  ‘Isn’t that why we should all leave a legacy?’

  The old man smiled.

  ‘Spoken like a sage, young Hereward! But you are right; if our legacy is wholesome and true, we can face death with equanimity.’

  There was a long silence as both men contemplated the forbidding prospect of death without the comfort of God and his Heaven.

  The old man broke the silence. ‘It takes a brave man to consider a world without God to relieve its burdens, and an even braver one to contemplate eternity without Him.’

  ‘I don’t know that it’s brave; I think it’s got more to do with the way a man feels about his own frailties and those of his fellow men.’ Hereward paused and looked at the old man for some time before continuing. ‘Why do you choose to be a hermit when you could have found a woman and raised a family, or joined a band of forest people?’

  ‘I don’t have much time for other people; they were the source of my problems. I found the frivolities of women too superficial and the friendship of men too unreliable.’

  Over the coming days, the two men talked for many hours. As time passed, Hereward realized that the old man’s cynicism disguised a highly intelligent mind that had discovered profound contentment through an ascetic existence.

  Late one night, as their fire subsided and the first chill wind of autumn rushed through their clearing, the Old Man of the Wildwood seemed reluctant to sleep and sat staring into the distance for some time before speaking. ‘I fear for this land, it is very precious to me.’

  ‘But Edward is a good king and people prosper. Harold of Wessex leads his armies and there is peace.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It is the future I worry about. Edward has no heir and England is the greatest prize in northern Europe; it is rich, its people industrious, its land bountiful. There are many envious eyes: the Scandinavians, of course, but it is the Normans who concern me most. Edward is fond of them, but I know them only too well. They are ruthless and will bring the avarice and deceit of Europe with them.’

  ‘Surely the English thegns and their housecarls would never let that happen?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but there would be great bloodshed in the reckoning of it. England could be overrun, our way of life destroyed. I see it in my dreams: burning, rape, death. An everlasting hell where England and the English are cleansed from their homeland like lice from a dog.’

  ‘Those are the visions of a seer. Is that what you are, old man?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what I’ve become, Hereward. It is of no importance; what matters is the future, and our destiny as a people. In my many years here, deep in the forest, I have come to understand the importance of our way of life and our traditions. We have to preserve them. They are what makes us who we are. Our ancestors have lived in the forests and heathlands of England for generations. They have crossed its downs and hills and built their temples and shrines there.’

  ‘But there are many peoples on this island. There are many tribes of Celts, and the Danish clans – including my own ancestors through my mother.’

  ‘Yes, but they share the traditions. We all know the legend of Wodewose; he sees only men, not their language nor their race. He lives here, in these woods; he lives throughout our ancient land. He is the Green Man of our childhood and reminds us of the eternal cycle of life and death and the need to live with nature, not to fight it. These Normans, with their homage to the sophistry of the Church of Rome, dismiss our ways as pagan and destroy them. We must never let that happen.’

  ‘But Wodewose is a mythical creature to frighten children.’

  ‘Not so, my young friend. He is deep in our memories. The Celts call him Myrddin Wyllt – the sire of Mother Earth. Don’t ever forget him.’

  Their conversations about the ancient ways of England continued over many days.

  The Old Man of the Wildwood told Hereward many stories that he had never heard before. He talked about the old ways of the Saxons; the Norse sagas of gods and heroes; the ancient beliefs of the Romans and the cults of pagan Rome; and the rituals of the Druids, who believed in the power of the sun, the moon and the earth itself.

  After a while, Hereward came to realize that it mattered little whether these stories were true or simply myths. What was more important was that England’s heritage should survive the trauma it was soon to endure.

  Then, one evening without warning, the old man brought their time together to a sudden close. ‘You should leave in the morning and go to Gloucester. It is only three days’ walk. You will find a new path there. Follow it to your destiny, which lies far from here.’

  ‘Is that the seer speaking?’

  ‘Yes it is. You should listen.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘If you are asking whether I will miss you, the answer is, yes, I will miss you. I have come to like you, Hereward of Bourne. But I am not sad, for I now know what my legacy will be.’

  ‘Will you share it with me?’

  ‘It is you.’

  ‘Me? I don’t understand; I have no future.’

  ‘You are mistaken.’

  The Old Man of the Wildwood looked towards the east and the encroaching darkness. ‘You will help shape the destiny of many. Hopefully, through you, much we have spoken about will be remembered and will survive. You will see many things, visit many places and live a long life. But I must warn you, you will face great turmoil and despair, with little respite, except in great old age, when you will find solace in a small measure of wisdom, as I do.’

  Hereward was shocked. ‘How will all this come to pass, I am an outlaw?’

  ‘I sense it in you. You must do two things. First, you must find my daughter –’

  Hereward interrupted him. ‘You have a daughter!’

  ‘Yes, her mother died in childbirth; the child is my illegitimate daughter. Her mother was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Emma at Winchester, the mother of King Edward. I was chaplain to Queen Emma and she took pity on me, despite my failings, and helped me get away with my daughter.’

  ‘You raised her in these woods?’

  ‘Until she was fourteen. Then she went to the nuns at Hereford, where I knew she would be safe and could continue her education. I raised her as well as I could. I taught her Greek a
nd Latin, English and French, how to make medicine from the herbs of the forest, and as much of the sciences and philosophies of the ancients as I could remember. She took my books and manuscripts with her; they were her safe passage for the future.’

  ‘And the second thing I must do?’

  ‘Ask her to give you the Talisman.’

  ‘What is the Talisman?’

  ‘She will tell you.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘She is called Torfida.’

  ‘How will I find her?’

  ‘You will find her.’

  The old man started to chant the plainsong of the great cathedrals, something Hereward had first heard while waiting to be judged by the King at Winchester. Now it signalled his departure from a remarkable man and took on a haunting quality, making him think of the legend of Wodewose and the many other stories he had heard.

  The old seer said only one more thing before continuing his mantra long into the night. ‘Go well, young Hereward; give my love to Torfida. You will help her to fulfil her destiny, and she will be your guide in finding yours.’

  4. Gruffydd ap Llywelyn

  It did not take Hereward long to make a complete reconnaissance of Gloucester. He secreted himself close to its wooden walls and meticulously observed its daily routines until he could remember all the merchants and farmers who used its gates. He learned to recognize each of its men-at-arms, and studied the habits of the gatekeeper who barred the entrance every night.

  Hereward soon devised his escape route. The river was wide and navigable, and there was a small harbour to handle the busy trade between the rich hinterland and the sea to the south-west. He knew that Normandy and Brittany lay to the south of England and that a renegade Englishman might find a warm welcome there. He had also heard that the influence of King Edward did not extend to the wild Celtic lands far to the west, nor to the Danish settlement in Ireland. Perhaps now that he had sullied his Anglo-Saxon blood, he could find a new home with his Norse mother’s kith and kin.