Conquest moe-1

by Stewart Binns

  The execution of his plan did not take long. There were several small boats on the quayside that had not been used in all the time he had been paying his frequent visits. So he waited until the dark of the moon and the dead of an overcast October night, slipped a boat from its moorings, clambered into it and let it drift downstream. He used a broken branch from the forest as a paddle and, despite the river’s gentle flow, made good progress. It was the next part of the journey that concerned him, when the river became much wider to merge with the open sea.

  He was no seafarer, had no cloak to hide his outlaw’s collar, possessed neither weapons nor tools and had the daunting appearance of a wild man of the forest. Soon, the modest waterway became an ever-broadening, faster-running river and its banks receded further into the distance. He decided to stay close to the right bank, the northern side. Although he did not know where the lands of the Celtic people of Wales began, he guessed it must be close to the northern edge of the river. The Welsh had been fighting the English for decades; perhaps they would give him passage to Ireland.

  Hereward spent over eighteen hours in the boat, slowly working his way to what he hoped would be another kingdom and the possibility of freedom. It was dusk and high tide when he finally chose his landing ground, a gently sloping sandy bank, surrounded by thick woodland and lacking any sign of habitation. For many days he walked deeper and deeper into the forest. The ground rose before him as he ventured further from the coast, moving with caution, knowing that he was almost certainly treading on foreign soil.

  The many Celtic tribes of western Britain had lived there since the beginning of time. Through centuries of bitter struggle, they had fought the Romans and prevented them from settling the west and the far north. Later, when the Saxon tribes came, they resisted them too, so that they were able to settle only in the former Roman provinces in the south and east. Many Celts were thought to retain their pagan beliefs or, if they professed to be Christian, still practised the secret ways of their old religion under the veneer of the Church of Rome. When the storytellers came to Bourne, they told gruesome tales of Celtic warriors painted in woad and of their princes, who decapitated their conquered victims and ate their children. From childhood Hereward had been taught to avoid the Celts at all costs.

  As he moved further inland the ground became very different from the English territory with which he was familiar. This new ground was much more rugged and seemed greener and wetter than his homeland. The scattered human settlements were fewer in number and further apart, and the wildlife was far more abundant. He had heard that at the end of the earth there was a great wilderness; perhaps this was it, a place capable of consuming men without trace.

  Eventually, Hereward’s progress was halted by the wide bend of a fast-flowing river. On the opposite bank, standing impressively on ancient fortifications, were the ramparts of a major burgh. He could see the bustle of hundreds of soldiers and row upon row of horses tethered on picket lines. Drifting on the wind, he could hear the din of hectic activity and the thud of drums; not the ominously measured throb of the drums of battle, but the light timpani of celebration. There were skirls from pipes of different timbres and shrieks of excited laughter, while countless flags and banners rippled in the wind, lending flashes of crimson, green and yellow to the monotony of a darkening sky. The lofty oak walls of the settlement were surrounded by the shelters of a temporary military encampment; it looked like a victory was being celebrated and, from the look of the flags, these men were not English. They were Celts – the wild men of Wales.

  Then, inexorably, he became aware of the unmistakable stench of death and the harrowing cries of men in agony. Although he dreaded what he would find, he moved towards the tortured sounds and sickening smell.

  Soon, he came to a clearing in the forest and beheld a sight he would never forget.

  Lying before him was a mass of humanity: men twisted and tangled together, contorted between shields and axes, spears and swords, steam rising from their bodies, blood seeping from their wounds and the rattle of death rasping in their throats. He turned away, but a morbid fascination made him look again. Arms and legs were severed, sometimes a head; torsos were impaled, guts spilled from bellies. The air was still warm, the frenzied heat of men striving to kill one another still hanging in the air.

  The human scavengers, who would soon come and desecrate the bodies of the dead and dying, had not yet arrived. Hereward was alone amid the stench.

  What had all these men died for?

  Surely nothing could justify carnage like this?

  Suddenly a hand grasped his leg. It was the blood-soaked hand of a warrior slashed across the face by a sword and impaled by a spear. His scant beard was matted with dried blood, almost obscuring his features, but Hereward could see that he was a handsome young man, probably still a teenager, with dark eyes and a flowing mane of black hair. In between the streaks of blood, he could see the intricate arcs and swirls of tribal warpaint, the unmistakable blue of Celtic woad. The boy tried to speak but managed only a few gurgled sounds. His lungs were awash with blood; he was slowly drowning in his own life force. As Hereward bent down towards him, the youth’s taut grip relaxed and his heaving torso stilled, his anguish over.

  Hereward turned away and moved quickly towards the river. He tried to suppress what he had seen and to focus instead on planning how he might cross the river. He was pondering how to get closer to the encampment and burgh when he heard rapidly approaching footsteps and spun round to see the bobbing head and shoulders of a young, dark-haired man running methodically along the path behind him. He appeared to have no armour, no companions and, except for a seax, no weapons.

  In an instant, Hereward decided to waylay the youthful runner. He ducked into the undergrowth and threw his shoulder into the lad’s knees as he passed, propelling him, headlong, into a blackthorn bush.

  The cursing began immediately, but not in a language Hereward understood. The boy looked around, saw Hereward, who was by now smiling broadly, and cursed even more.

  ‘Are you Welsh?’ asked Hereward.

  ‘Of course I’m Welsh.’ The reply came in English from the now deeply entangled, much scratched and severely irritated youngster. ‘You sound like an Englishman. If you are, you’re either a fool or a very brave man to be this far from home.’

  He spoke in perfect English, and almost without accent, as he slowly and painfully pulled himself from the undergrowth. His woollen smock and leggings were torn in several places and blood already seeped from the scratches to his skin beneath.

  ‘When my Lord hears of this, he’ll cut you in half!’

  ‘Who is your Lord?’

  Before the young man could spit out his answer with all the venom his rage could muster, he noticed the collar on Hereward’s neck.

  He hesitated. ‘That’s the seal of Edward, that limp-wristed English King. No wonder you look like you’ve been living in a pigsty.’

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Don’t call me “boy”. You’re not much older than I am; you’re a long way from home and wear the collar of an outlaw. I’m the one who should be asking the questions.’

  Hereward smiled again. ‘I am Hereward of Bourne. I was outlawed by Edward, King of England, at Winchester. That was over a year ago, and now I am making my way to Ireland.’

  ‘Why were you outlawed?’

  ‘That is no business of yours. Let me help you up.’ Hereward held out his hand.

  The young man grabbed it but, as he did so, he moved his right foot behind Hereward’s legs and kicked him hard behind the knees to unbalance him. As Hereward fell, the boy twisted the hand that had been offered to him and neatly locked it behind the bigger man’s back.

  ‘Very good, boy.’

  With his chin resting firmly on Hereward’s shoulder, his breath quickened by the sudden exertion, the young man hissed, ‘My name is Martin Lightfoot, messenger of my Lord, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, King of the Welsh.’ With his free hand,
Martin pulled his seax from his belt and held it at Hereward’s throat. ‘You smell, you filthy Englishman. I think I should kill you to rid our country of your foreign stink. If I throw you into the river just here, you should wash up on the English shore where you belong.’

  Using his free hand, Hereward grabbed his adversary’s wrist firmly, then slowly pulled the seax away from his throat. Try as he might, Martin could not resist the Englishman’s considerable strength. With his arm still locked behind his back, Hereward got to his feet, leaving the Welshman dangling forlornly from his shoulders. It took only a moment for Martin to realize that his Saxon foe was more than a match for him.

  He released his grip and catapulted himself to the ground well away from Hereward’s grasp. ‘You are a big son of an English pig, that’s for sure.’

  Hereward ignored the insult but was curious about Martin’s lord. ‘I thought the Welsh were ruled by different princes, each the lord of his clan.’

  ‘It has taken my Lord Gruffydd five years of campaigning to bring Wales under one banner. We defeated the tribes of Morgannwg and Gwent here only yesterday, and now the whole of Wales is united for the first time in our history.’

  ‘Will you take me to your King?’

  ‘Why would you want to see my Lord – he’ll kill you for sure.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it was a king who outlawed me from my homeland; maybe this king will free me so that I can find a new home.’

  ‘Why would you trust me?’

  ‘You have an honest face; and besides, I have the parchment that you’re supposed to give to your king.’

  Martin had not noticed that, in the struggle, Hereward had grabbed a parchment from the young man’s belt.

  ‘You filthy Englishman! Give it back to me. My Lord will have my head on a pole.’

  ‘I’ve heard that such delightful punishments are favoured by your Celtic princes. We’d better hurry so that you can complete your mission.’

  Martin, rapidly calculating his predicament, realized that he had little to lose by doing as the stranger asked, so he turned and resumed his steady pace towards his original destination. ‘You’d better keep up, and remember to give me the parchment when we get to the gates.’

  Hereward followed as quickly as he could, but the young Celt ran like a deer. By the time Martin reached the ferry, Hereward was almost fifty yards in his wake.

  Martin yelled to the guards well before he arrived at the riverbank, but in Welsh, so Hereward had no idea whether he was sounding the alarm or just announcing his arrival. The guards drew their weapons but looked more curious than threatening as Hereward approached.

  ‘Come quickly!’ signalled Martin. ‘I mustn’t delay.’

  The four oarsmen were pulling hard before Hereward had sat down. A rope had been stretched across the fast-flowing river to keep the boat on line but, even so, it was a struggle to get across.

  As the boat approached the opposite bank, it was obvious that some in the camp were still celebrating. Drunken shrieks, both male and female, filled the air; clear notes from flutes and horns occasionally cut through the repetitive thud of drums; a few sporadic words from songs of victory rose above the piercing laughter. This army had clearly won a great victory and was celebrating long and hard.

  But it was also a disciplined army. As others rejoiced, sentries, sober and sombre with their backs to the proceedings, stared intently across the river or into the surrounding forest, alert to any danger or intruder.

  It was also a brutal army. All around the perimeter of the camp were the spreadeagled bodies of its enemies. They were also Celts, but Welshmen from different tribes, who had been tied to wooden frames and hoisted from the ground. Most had had their eyes cut out, some also their tongues, noses and ears; several were still alive.

  Hereward had not seen war before. His father and the men of Bourne had told him endless stories of battles won and lost, of heroic deeds and daring adventures in pursuit of worthy causes, but nothing of the kind of cruelty now before his eyes.

  On reaching the opposite bank, Hereward gave Martin his precious parchment and, accompanied by two guards, they made their way to the centre of the camp. There, in the midst of the celebrations, sat the man Hereward hoped would offer him the chance of a new life.

  This was the second king he had seen, but this monarch was not a sophisticated aesthete like Edward. Gruffydd ap Llywelyn was a warrior; his dark-blue smock covered a barrel-like chest and his thick woollen cloak only added to his significant presence. His armour and weapons were neatly arranged beside him: the sword and mace of a warlord, a beautifully decorated shield with a brightly polished iron boss, a heavy mail jacket and an ornate helmet, etched with swirls of serpents and dragons. Next to the King was a large group of heavily armed hearthtroops – menacing, battle-hardened veterans – the finest of his warriors.

  Martin Lightfoot stepped forward with his parchment clasped in his right hand, bowed deeply and handed his document to the King. ‘My Lord King, I bring news that Aelfgar has landed with eighteen ships. He brings his finest warriors from Northumbria, and Danish allies from Ireland. He will be with you at first light tomorrow.’

  The King studied the document closely before shouting to everyone within earshot: ‘Aelfgar, Earl of Northumbria, declares his loyalty to me. Our new kingdom already has powerful allies!’

  Roars of approval and warlike chanting echoed around the camp.

  Gruffydd turned to Hereward and scowled. ‘Who is this stranger you bring into my camp?’

  ‘Sire, a notorious outlaw from the English, who asks to be placed at your mercy. I thought he might be useful.’

  ‘You think too much, Martin Lightfoot. Unfortunately, you don’t think as well as you run.’

  The King’s retinue laughed loudly.

  Hereward seized the moment, bowed deferentially and addressed him. ‘My Lord King, I am an outcast from my own people. I am Hereward of Bourne, of honest blood from my Saxon father and my Danish mother. I seek passage through your lands on my journey to Ireland and a new life.’

  ‘You are an outlaw – and an English one at that – so tell me: why shouldn’t I order your immediate execution for having the audacity to approach my camp?’

  ‘Forgive my impudence, sire. I am being rightly punished for my actions, but my own folly created a heinous crime that I thought I had the right to punish. My banishment has helped me see things more clearly. Now, if I do not assert myself and find a way into exile, I will die in the forest.’

  Gruffydd rose from his campaign chair, approached Hereward and slowly circled him. He examined his iron collar, recognized King Edward’s seal, looked closely at his scars and then returned to his seat.

  ‘The celebrations stop in two hours. No drinking tonight. The men must rest, clean their weapons, their armour and themselves. We begin our training to challenge King Edward tomorrow. I don’t want the Saxons to think we’re savages – at least, not until we kill them! Make sure the outlaw is washed and cuts his beard. The blacksmiths can remove his collar. Perhaps I’ll keep it to put around Edward’s Norman neck when we reach Winchester! I like the look of this Saxon; he has the stance of a warrior and the bearing of a noble. By the cut of him, I wager he can fight as well.’ Gruffydd then turned to Hereward. ‘You will sit at my table tonight and tell me your story, and bring that scamp Martin Lightfoot with you.’

  That evening, after months of solitude, Hereward shared food with more people than he had ever seen before, and did so in the presence of a king. Several times he reached for his iron collar, his constant companion for more than a year, but each time, instead of pig iron, he found flesh and felt the elation of his new freedom.

  At the King’s command there was no alcohol on the table. Nevertheless, Hereward began to glow from the conviviality of conversation and laughter. He looked fit and healthy; a long summer in the open had bronzed his skin and bleached his hair; his scars had healed and he could easily have passed as one of Gruffydd’s Norse merc
enaries. When, at the King’s instruction, he rose to tell his story wearing a bright blue smock and new woollen leggings given to him by one of Gruffydd’s chieftains, he cut a handsome figure.

  It took Hereward nearly twenty minutes to tell his tale. Fortunately, almost all the Welsh nobles understood English; he told his story lucidly and with authority and, by the end, the entire gathering was hanging on his every word.

  ‘You tell a good story, young Hereward of Bourne, well done. Tomorrow we will see if you can fight.’

  ‘Sire, I have not come here to fight.’

  ‘That may be so, but tomorrow you will fight… or die.’

  Martin beckoned Hereward away from the scene. ‘We meet our Northumbrian and Norse comrades tomorrow. The King will make you fight one of his finest warriors to amuse the army and our guests from across the water. You must be ready; it will be a fight to the death.’

  ‘I have done enough fighting, Martin. It is not the life I seek.’

  ‘Hereward, it is obvious from your story that, like me, you find it difficult to avoid a fight. No matter what we do, even if we don’t go to the fight, the fight will always come to us.’

  That night Hereward and Martin spent several hours discussing the wayward and dangerous paths that they seemed destined to follow. The young Welshman was as quick-witted and humorous as he was fleet of foot. Born in the wild mountains of North Wales, he had spent his childhood chasing lost sheep for his father before being recruited as a messenger for the army. At the time, Gruffydd was the Prince of Gwynedd, but he was building a strong military base to support his ambition to unite all the tribes of Wales. Martin, soon to be christened ‘Lightfoot’ by Gruffydd’s men, became the Prince’s principal messenger and, with his long dark locks and wraith-like body, became recognized all over the country. It was said that he was swifter than the wind, with a step so light he left no footprint.

  Hereward spent most of the rest of the night thinking about his new dilemma.

  He sensed that he was being drawn towards a life he had resolved to reject, but that Martin was right: his future would be a long saga of mortal combat, his destiny determined in battle.