The sun had barely risen when Hereward awoke to the sound of the horns and drums of Aelfgar’s approaching column. He counted over 700 men, half behind the ram’s head banner of the Earldom of Northumbria and half behind the dragon’s head of the Irish Norse of Dublin. They were a formidable sight and, when drawn up with Gruffydd’s battle-hardened army of over 2,000, would form a significant fighting force. The two leaders greeted one another to the sound of piercing cries and cheering from both armies.
Gruffydd addressed his visitors in standard Anglo-Saxon, a lingua franca most of the gathering understood. ‘Aelfgar, Earl of Northumbria, welcome to my camp. You are a loyal and trusted friend. Everything is prepared for your army, let them rest.’
‘I thank you, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, King of the Welsh. The omens are good for our alliance.’
At dusk that evening, Hereward was brought before the King, his guest, Earl Aelfgar, and the assembled nobility of the alliance. Gruffydd had chosen as Hereward’s opponent one of his hearthtroop, a heavily set man, who looked as though he could wield his axe and sword to murderous effect.
‘I hear you refuse to fight, Hereward of Bourne. You foolishly refuse a king!’
‘I prefer to say “decline”, my Lord.’
‘Don’t play games with me!’
Aelfgar intervened. ‘I have heard about this young man. His disrespect has all but got him killed before; now he insults you, my Lord King.’
‘He does, but at least his answer is honest and brave. I think he’ll fight if he has to.’ Gruffydd turned to his chosen man. ‘Kill him.’
The warrior stepped forward and immediately swung his axe at Hereward’s neck but, with a gentle sway of his hips, he easily moved his upper body out of range of the blow. The attacker quickly thrust forward with his sword, only to see Hereward move quickly to the side to avoid the danger. Now that his opponent was off balance, it was easy for Hereward to step in, grab the warrior’s wrist, pull him forward and aim a heavy kick to his midriff, bringing him to his knees. In retaliation, Gruffydd’s man swung wildly with his battle-axe, but Hereward sprang high into the air, well above the arc of the blade, and stepped out of harm’s way. Further attacks ended in the same way, until it was obvious that Hereward was far too agile for his adversary.
The audience was impressed; none had seen a man as big as Hereward move so nimbly.
As Gruffydd’s man stumbled with exhaustion, Aelfgar asked the King if the captain of his housecarls could mount an attack.
Gruffydd reluctantly agreed and signalled his man to withdraw.
‘My Lord, this is Einar, the finest of my warriors, he will despatch the outlaw.’
‘We’ll see, my friend, let him try.’
Einar was a giant of a man with a flowing red beard, perhaps the most imposing man Hereward had ever seen. He walked up to Hereward, who stood his ground.
When they were nose to nose, Einar growled, ‘So you won’t fight, Saxon?’ Almost before he had finished, he head-butted Hereward full on the nose, knocking him backwards, blood spurting from his nostrils. ‘Perhaps that will persuade you!’
Hoots of laughter echoed around the gathering as Hereward hit the ground, dazed and in great pain. In an instant, the big man’s sword was drawn, ready to strike a mortal blow, but Hereward grabbed a fistful of earth and threw it into his adversary’s eyes. This bought him a vital moment to jump into a crouching position and propel himself into his foe’s stomach, knocking him to the ground. Maddened by the pain of a broken nose, Hereward kicked the fallen man several times, winding him badly, before jumping on his sword hand with one foot while kicking him in the face with the other. Einar rolled away, spitting blood through his smashed teeth, but in doing so left his sword behind. Seizing it, Hereward was able to parry the first blow from Einar’s battle-axe.
As it was now obvious that Hereward had decided to fight, the King beckoned to one of his hearthtroop to throw the Englishman a shield. A ferocious duel ensued with neither man giving ground. Every blow was blocked, every thrust parried, until Hereward’s youth and strength began to tell and Einar tired. Hereward was able to grab the shaft of Einar’s axe and use it to turn him into a headlock which immobilized the big man.
As soon as the fight had gone out of the giant redhead, Hereward released him and stepped away, declining the custom to despatch his beaten opponent.
‘My Lord King, I have killed too many men in my life already; I have no desire to kill another.’
‘Agreed. You have made your point well. Tomorrow you ride with me.’
Martin began to lead Hereward away, but not before Einar offered him his hand. He had never been bested in a contest before and was full of admiration for the young Englishman.
The two men embraced as a murmur of appreciation rippled around the assembly of warriors; none had ever seen a stranger so quickly win over a crowd, or so readily gain the respect of a king.
5. Battle of Hereford
Hereward shivered with emotion as he watched four huge columns of heavily armed infantry, each led by a cohort of cavalry, weave their way through the forest. His pulse raced with excitement, but he was also troubled that this army of Celts, Danes and Norsemen, allied with treacherous Northumbrians, was about to attack his homeland.
Despite the fact that his own people had outlawed him, he felt guilty that he was experiencing the primordial thrill of impending battle.
He looked around at his companions, who were grim-faced and determined. It excited Hereward to be with seasoned warriors like Einar, men to stand with in a fight, men with whom it would be an honour to die.
He had spent several weeks with Gruffydd’s Welsh army, enduring their training regimes and helping them replenish their supplies of weapons, food and horses for a new wave of military campaigns. It was late October 1055 and over the long weeks of preparation he had decided that, if it came to a battle with King Edward’s army, he would fight. It had been a difficult decision, but he was now riding with Celts and Norsemen; he was wearing their armour and carrying their weapons.
He looked at Martin and Einar, riding at his side, and acknowledged them with a nod of respect. Hereward knew that in moments like these, lives change for ever.
The Welsh had prepared for months to attack Hereford, one of England’s most strategically important burghs. Ralph, Earl of Hereford, was the Norman nephew of King Edward, who had made him Warden of the Welsh Marches. He had brought many Norman knights, clerics and administrators to his earldom, much to the consternation of the locals.
As Gruffydd’s columns made open ground in a wide valley, some two miles west of Hereford, Ralph’s cavalry were skulking on the wooded hillsides. The Earl had determined that Gruffydd’s combined force of Welsh, Northumbrians and Irish-Norse was an ill-disciplined rabble, weakened by mercenaries of dubious loyalty. Also, because many of the Celts were on foot, he thought it would be vulnerable to a swift and decisive cavalry attack. His horsemen broke cover and bore down on the invaders. The Earl’s thegns carried the red and yellow banners of his lands in Worcestershire, Herefordshire and Gloucestershire, but most of his senior commanders were Normans, recognizable by their full-length mail coats and heavy continental horses.
At first their attack, with the advantage of surprise and higher ground, looked like it might be decisive as there was little more than 200 yards between the leading horses of the Earl’s cavalry and Gruffydd’s infantry. But Ralph’s strategy was naïve. The Welsh army and its allies were elite warriors who had fought many battles during years of campaigning. Within moments of the surprise attack, Gruffydd’s hearthtroop began to circle to protect him, while the body of his force re-formed to charge the oncoming cavalry. Supported by the Northumbrians on their right and the Irish on their left, they surged forwards in a V-shaped formation towards the heart of Ralph’s phalanx of horses.
The Earl’s cavalry had not expected such a bold response. They were in loose formation, expecting easy pickings among infantry exposed on open ground,
but Gruffydd’s column was tightly packed, rigidly disciplined and had gained significant momentum. As the two armies collided, the carnage began in the front ranks: men screamed, trying to inflict blows or avoid them; horses reared, struggling to free themselves.
Gruffydd’s infantry held its shape. The lances and shields of its front ranks, reinforced by its collective discipline, formed a solid, surging wall that was far too strong for the Earl’s cavalry. The horses behind the first wave of the attack streamed down the sides of the solid phalanx of foot soldiers and made easy targets for the spirited infantrymen of Wales, wielding swords and battle-axes. Many riders turned and fled but a small group, perhaps no more than thirty, were more determined. From their distinctive shield designs and the human skulls tied to their saddles, Hereward guessed they were Welsh chieftains, defeated by Gruffydd, who had thrown in their lot with the Earl of Hereford. Despite the catastrophe of Ralph’s reckless attack, this small group fought on, moving ever closer to Gruffydd’s position.
Although they were small in number, the ferocity of their onslaught soon saw them engaging the King’s hearthtroop. Their leader, distinguished by a magnificent bronze helmet with a boar’s head crest, suddenly burst through the line of defending guards and made open ground within a few yards of the King. Several of his followers poured through the gap and, in a blind fury of revenge, began cutting down Gruffydd’s housecarls in swathes. Hereward was only a few feet from the King and, supported by Einar and Martin, moved forward to protect the royal cordon. The three men put themselves between the King and his assailants and unleashed a fury of blows that cut down several of the attackers.
Hereward was at the forefront, tall in his saddle and using his axe to murderous effect. He moved purposefully towards the boars’ head chieftain and made eye contact with him. They clashed immediately, with Hereward ducking under a huge swing of the Welshman’s axe. It gave Hereward the split second he needed as he thrust his lance deep into his opponent’s ribcage, somersaulting him over the rear of his horse. He then turned to the back of the melee, grabbed Gruffydd’s reins and pulled his mount around.
As he did so, he shouted at the King’s housecarls: ‘Hold your ground, protect the King!’
He pulled the King’s steed away from the assault, and shouted again: ‘Make way for the King! Make way for the King.’
The wall of royal hearthtroops parted and Hereward escorted Gruffydd over to Earl Aelfgar’s cavalry, which had been holding firm in reserve.
‘I don’t normally flee in battle, especially from one I’m winning!’ spluttered the breathless King.
‘With you removed, my Lord, their fury will soon be spent. Your housecarls will easily cut them down.’
As Gruffydd thought about Hereward’s answer, Aelfgar spoke for both of them. ‘The young Saxon thinks as well as he fights.’
Hereward was soon proved right. Encircled by Gruffydd’s elite warriors, and with their quarry safe with Aelfgar’s cavalry, the Welsh chieftains were quickly overwhelmed and ruthlessly massacred.
Gruffydd’s thoughts quickly returned to the main battle. ‘Earl Aelfgar, you must commit the cavalry. Before the day is ours, we need to find the Earl’s infantry.’
After witnessing the bloody failure of the Earl’s cavalry, his infantry were retreating through the trees at full pelt. As Aelfgar’s cavalry bore down on them, Ralph and his surviving mounted thegns tried to persuade his infantry to hold, but the howling invaders put the fear of God into them. The rash move to commit his horses in a surprise attack had been a disastrous miscalculation by the Earl of Hereford. Many good men had already paid with their lives; many more would be caught in the open in a chaotic retreat, and a trail of death that would lead all the way to the walls of Hereford.
As his loyal troops died in their hundreds, Ralph abandoned his burgh to its fate and fled towards Winchester and the protection of King Edward.
The first of the victors poured into Hereford at dusk and the mayhem of war continued as the rape and murder of the innocent began.
Hereward and the leaders arrived in the burgh shortly after the advanced guard. Houses were being torched and male inhabitants were being put to the sword; booty was being loaded into carts; larders and grain stores were being emptied and the screams of women and children could be heard everywhere.
As Hereward, Martin Lightfoot, Einar and the Captain of the King’s housecarls arrived at the nunnery of Hereford, the great wooden cathedral, adjacent to the nunnery, was already in flames. Warriors were stacking books, church plate, altar crosses and tapestries on to carts, while several clerics lay in pools of blood in the doorway. At the entrance to the nuns’ quarters, the sight of men surging forward, fighting one another to get in, abruptly reminded Hereward that the Old Man of the Wildwood had sent his daughter to the nuns at Hereford.
He turned to the Captain of his housecarls. ‘Captain, there may be a woman in there I need to find.’
‘Stand aside!’
At the Captain’s bellowed order, the men grudgingly parted, allowing access to the refectory.
The Mother Superior and the older nuns had attempted to form a circle of sanctuary at the high table, protecting the younger women. One of Aelfgar’s Northumbrians reached into the cowering group, dragged out a struggling girl, no more than sixteen years old, and threw her at the Captain. As he did so, he yanked her crude woollen habit, ripping it apart, to render her naked at his feet.
She immediately crawled into a ball to hide herself.
‘This one is yours, Captain! Do you want her?’
The Captain nodded at his sergeant-at-arms, who immediately cut the man down with his sword.
‘Take him out and throw him in the midden! The rest of you, out, now! Mother Superior, my men will escort you as close to Gloucester as is safe for them. Take whatever you need, but you must leave immediately.’
She and the other nuns suppressed their sobs as Hereward called out, ‘Is there a woman here named Torfida?’
‘I am Torfida.’
The voice came from the naked figure still coiled on the floor. Hereward offered her his cloak and, as she wrapped it around herself, he could not fail to notice how beautiful she was. He also saw a large amulet around her neck and assumed it was the object her father had told him about.
Hereward spoke gently to her. ‘Your father told me that I would meet you. He sends you his love.’
Although the young woman was still heaving with the fear and anxiety of what had just happened, she composed herself quickly. ‘He was a great man.’
‘What do you mean by “was”? Have you heard of his death?’
‘No, but I’m sure he’s dead. The forest has taken him; I can feel it.’
She spoke with such conviction, Hereward saw little point in challenging her. ‘He said that I must ask you for a talisman.’
She paused for a few moments and stared at him with a rare intensity. ‘So you are the one.’
With that, Torfida walked towards her Mother Superior and whispered to her for several seconds. Then they kissed and parted and the matriarch ushered her flock away.
‘I must come with you now.’
Hereward was shocked at the firmness of Torfida’s words. ‘You don’t know where I’m going.’
‘Wherever it is, I must come with you.’
Despite her tender years, she had regained her composure remarkably quickly. ‘And what of the amulet?’
‘That comes with us. We will talk about it when I think it is time. Until then, we will not speak of it again.’
They arrived at the King’s camp, some distance from the ravaged burgh, where Gruffydd was celebrating in earnest. He had a drinking horn in his hand and it was obvious that he had been using it liberally.
‘Hereward, I see you have found yourself a beautiful young girl. Bring her to me.’
‘Sire, she is a virgin and a Sister of the Church.’
‘I realize that, boy! I just want to look at her.’
To
rfida did not wait for a response from Hereward; she removed the cloak he had given her and let it fall to the ground, not attempting to cover herself. Hereward moved towards her but, with a slight movement of her hand, she gestured to him to stay away. Then, with a jutting of her jaw and a deep intake of breath, she stood proudly in front of Gruffydd and several hundred of his warriors.
Her boldness shocked them into silence.
Torfida was striking: her jet-black hair, dark eyes and olive skin made her resemble a Mediterranean princess more than a fair maid of England. Although not much older than a child, her breasts were full, with nipples firm and dark; her hips were broad and there was a muscular tone to her limbs, a product of a healthy life in the forest. Her sexuality, emanating from her self-confidence and bearing, was arresting and way beyond her years.
The silence lasted for several seconds.
Torfida stared defiantly at the King. He stared back at her, equally resolute. Eventually, the King relented with a shake of his head, as if breaking a spell.
‘Madam, you are beautiful.’ The King spoke for every man there. ‘Hereward of Bourne, cover her. Take her to the women, have them dress her; I place her under your protection.’
Hereward hesitated for a second, feeling the strength of her will, before her smile signalled that he could proceed. As he draped his cloak over her shoulders a second time, for a fleeting moment he enjoyed the excitement of touching her warm skin.
The King spoke again. ‘Hereward of Bourne, I grant you safe passage in your journey to the west. Take young Lightfoot with you and, with Earl Aelfgar’s permission, the big man too.’
Aelfgar nodded his approval.
‘As for the young woman… Before you go, madam, I will see the object you wear around your neck.’
‘My Lord King, it is only a trinket, a gift from my father.’
‘Don’t deny me. I would like to know what object of intrigue adorns such a desirable creature. Step forward.’
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