by Henry Treece
And they laughed again when they heard that the midland harvests had failed and that famine was making havoc among the Norman garrisons. One night Hereward and a dozen picked men made their way into the outskirts of Cambridge, where William had set up his place, and there they heard that his common foot-soldiers were eating cats and dogs in some villages. In at least one manor the baron had begun to kill horses to feed his own family.
Hereward and his company journeyed the fifteen miles back to Ely in fine fettle. On. the way they passed an old hedge-priest who said to them, “Why are you laughing? Have you not heard that you and your ruffians are all excommunicated?’
Hereward flung the old man a silver penny and said, ‘We’ll meet Hell when the time comes; William is savouring Hell now!’
The old man shouted after them, ‘You will be down to eating marsh-rats before the winter is over, my fine friends!’
But they gave no listening to him, for the Cambridge ale was still talking in their heads.
And when they reached the barn there was other news to make them merry. A sailor had come from the coast and brought news that King Swein had not done so well out of his double dealing after all. He had lost most of his ships in a storm, and what treasure he did land in Denmark had been largely burnt in a fire, when his guards had got drunk and careless.
Hereward laughed and told his men that God was clearly on the side of the English. And for a while it did seem that all might go well with the men of Ely - for almost every day rebel English folk joined them, until it became a common sight to see fresh followers breasting the reeds, waving rags on sticks, and calling out that they were friends.
But as time went on food became very scarce, and then Hereward began to think of what the old hedge-priest had said about the marsh-rats.
By October, winds as cold as a dead man’s feet began to move across the fens, and many men who came from drier parts went down with rheumatics, or a sort of blindness that came from the seeds of the dry grasses carried on the breeze. Others caught a disease of the stomach, which some said came from the mists and others from the green water they drank.
In November, Earl Morcar came by night to join Hereward. He was dressed in black, and looked more like a beggar than the great lord who had once jested with kings.
In Here ward’s barn Earl Morcar told how he and his brother, Edwin, had left William’s court secretly; and how Edwin had gone on northwards, hoping to get help from Scotch Malcolm against the Normans. At this point he stopped in his story, and Hereward prompted him, ‘What then, friend?’
Morcar drew with his finger on the table-top, making the shape of a head. He said slowly, ‘Those who rode with him turned on him beside some river. Cursed be the name of the place! My brother fought well, but they pulled him off his horse and then took his head to show William. May they be for ever cursed!’
Hereward put his hand on the Earl’s shoulder and said, ‘One day, friend, we will get revenge for him.’
But Morcar shook his head. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I think that William is the devil himself. Sometimes, I think that no man will ever best him.’
Hereward laughed. ‘Be of good heart, comrade! We will see what we can do when we have our army drilled and well fed again.’
Then winter struck in all truth. The men of Ely woke one morning to find that their world had turned to white, and that all the waterways were frozen. The ice was so thick that it would have borne men on horses.
Hereward was distressed at this, for in such weather the Normans could come on foot, without aid of boats or bridges, and attack the stronghold.
He sent out scouts, who fixed mutton-bones on their feet and used them as skates, to see what was happening. But all the news they brought was that the King had placed uncounted ships along the Great Ouse and the Little Ouse, and that he had more soldiers than men had ever seen before in that part.
Then a new problem arose. Starving peasants began to come to Ely; men who had never held a sword in their lives. They came begging for food and saying that they had been turned from their homes by the soldiers and that Hereward owed them life.
Against their will, Hereward and Morcar set men on to drive back the peasants with staves and many on both sides were killed as they wrestled in the frozen waters. And the time came when Hereward went to the monks of Ely and said, ‘This I hate to do - to beg for food from you, I, under a curse for sacking the Golden Borough.’
The abbot, Thurston, looked at him with small red-rimmed eyes and said, ‘My son, our own larders are empty and we live on scraps of old boiled leather and the bark of trees. We can only pray for you. Let us hope God listens.’
And when Hereward had gone back to his fortress the abbot smiled and sent a fast messenger into Cambridge to tell King William that the time was almost ripe now.
22. The New Causeway
By Christmas Hereward’s case was a severe one. In the harsh winter many of his men died, and many others made their way by night northwards, hoping to reach the deserts of Yorkshire, where they might gain a living as robbers, away from the garrisoned towns.
The bells of Ely echoed across a scene of desolation. All was white or black, snow or rotting reeds. Hereward sat with Morcar in the tumbledown barn, rubbing his hands to keep life in them.
Morcar said, ‘Life is strange, friend. There was a time, when you were with Hardrada, that I thought you were a fiend, a wolf that should be killed out of hand. Now I love you like my own brother, like Edwin who is stark.’
Hereward said, ‘In my life I have loved only a few - and always I have lost them, this way or that. It seems to me that love is a weakening emotion. To love is to strip off the mesh-shirt and stand bare to the sword-thrusts of fate.’
Morcar listened to the bells for a while, then answered, ‘Yet what is life for, if we are to deny love? I, who have been a great lord, almost a king, once had palaces and jewels, tasty foods and wines, soft beds, music in my halls, lords as my slaves. But now I have nothing; only a stool to sit on, and a threadbare cloak which would not keep out the smallest breeze. What does all this mean, if I am not to love either? Why are we on earth, Hereward?’
Hereward was feeling the rheumatics starting in his right arm and leg, and his belly was empty. He spoke sharply and said, ‘Do you think I am God, to answer such questions? Have I not sorrows enough, without you mewling day and night?’
Afterwards he was sorry he had spoken so, and went walking among the icy meres, wondering how he could make his peace with Morcar again.
In a small hollow he came on the rotting carcass of a sheep.
It lay with its fore and hind legs bound with cord, as though someone had been carrying it to a feast.
He wondered what had happened to the carriers. He found them, lying huddled together in a ditch, less than ten paces from the carcass. They were fisher-folk, by their dress, and their faces were black with plague. How long they had lain there, he could not guess; but long enough for their burden to rot, even in such cold weather.
Hereward stepped quickly back to the barn where Morcar still brooded, and said, ‘Brother, it is finished. We cannot last any longer here.’
He told Morcar what he had seen out by the mere. But the Earl hardly seemed to grasp what was said. He only stared at Hereward as though he had seen a ghost.
That night Hereward led him out across the marsh towards the village of Aldreth, where the Ouse was crossed by an ancient causeway and there were the ruins of an old church that men said the Romans had set up before even the Danes came.
Two score men went with them, leaving the mound and the barn deserted.
Morcar said, ‘I would to God that William would put us out of our misery, for our luck has dwindled day by day until it seems that the end must be near.’
Hereward answered, ‘Have courage, brother. The Normans will not expect us to be here. They will look for us elsewhere. And in the meantime we can hunt a little, rob a little, fast a little, until the spring comes.’<
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Morcar laughed mirthlessly at these words, and well he might do. For when the spring came less than a dozen of the two score men were still alive; and they looked like scarecrows.
Then, one bright morning when all the chill had gone from the air, and the buds were stirring on the apple-trees, Hereward came in with a thin rabbit in his hands and said, ‘Morcar, we are well out of it, friend. William has fired the reeds, and the breeze is carrying the flames towards our old place. He will have a surprise!’
Morcar said, ‘Put the rabbit in the pot, Hereward. Let us eat once again before we die.’
That afternoon the air was full of a great rumbling. They looked from their hidden shelter and saw wagon after wagon, drawn by weary horses, coming along the old causeway, high with timber. Beside them marched a whole army of men carrying saws and hammers and bags full of iron nails. Spearmen and archers followed them.
And that was how they first learned that the King meant to build a road across the fen from Aldreth to Ely, so that his soldiers could clear out the rebels once and for all time.
23. Escape
On the tenth day after the wagons had first come Hereward looked out from the old belfry of the ruin and said to his few friends, ‘That road of William’s is growing fast. It must be the better part of a mile long now. In another ten days he will have reached the mound, on the west side. Then he will march his men across it and will find - nothing but a dead sheep and a few plague corpses!’
He began to laugh so loudly then that a youth called Brant pulled him down out of sight and clapped a hand over his mouth.
‘Have you gone mad, master?’ said Brant. ‘The workmen down there will hear you and what chance would we have?’
Hereward shook the lad off and nodded. ‘Forgive me, friend,’ he said. ‘I am hungry and a bit weak in the head today. But the fit has passed. I shall not endanger you again.’
That night, when they were all asleep, Hereward made his way quietly from the old church, and set off towards Cambridge. He knew now what he must do; it had come to him suddenly, as though in a dream from God, and he saw no reason to doubt this dream.
Staggering, holding his rags together with a thin hand, he reached the north gate of the town, and, waiting in the shadows until the guard had turned, slipped inside, quiet as a cat.
There was a travellers’ hostel that lay off the main street in a small alleyway beneath the wall, kept by a merry-faced old man who knew all that went on in the place. Hereward made for the door behind this house and knocked three times, very gently.
There was some shuffling behind the door, and then it was opened by a bent fellow who carried a horn lantern. Hereward had never seen the man before, and started to step back into the shadows. But the man with the lantern said softly, ‘Why do you run away, lord? Are you afraid of a poor wretch like me, who have only enough strength to hold a lantern?’
Hereward said cautiously, ‘Why do you call me lord?’
The man smiled, ‘Because that is what you are - Lord Hereward. Do not look so amazed. All Cambridge knows what you look like - the King’s heralds have proclaimed your appearance from the square every day for a month.’
Hereward said, ‘That may be so. Who are you? There used to be another landlord in this hostel. I have been here before in secret.’
The man with the lantern said, ‘Alas, lord, I remember him well. Gilbert Vintner, they called him. The soldiers came at night and took him. I do not know what for - perhaps he was sheltering rogues and vagabonds. I do know.’
He looked into Hereward’s eyes for a moment, then said, ‘It is well enough to shelter rogues and vagabonds, master - but in this trade it is just as important to be wise. Let us say that a rebel lord came to my house - then I would take him into my own chamber to dine and drink a cup of mulled ale; but I would never let him go into the room where the soldiers gather, or where some sharp-eyed prattler looking for a reward should see him.’
Hereward said, ‘Is there a reward for me, host?’
The man shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Perhaps, master. Perhaps not. I pay little heed to such things. I gain my bread as honestly as I can. I am no Norman, lord.’
Hereward answered, ‘And you are no Englishman, either. That tongue of yours would fit better round Flemish, I would guess.’
The host made a little bow and said, ‘You have a quick ear, lord. But what matter? You English and we Flemish are cousins, are we not?’
He held the door open for Hereward to enter. For a moment Hereward hesitated, then, as he heard the mailed tramp of a soldier’s footsteps at the comer, he decided that he would risk the hostel. The host held the lantern high so that he should not stumble on the ladder that went to an upper room. He followed after him and asked, ‘What can I get for you, lord? A joint of venison that was sent up here for the King’s own table? A flask of William’s very wine? And both stolen from the wagon with no one the wiser! Would they suit you, with some fine white bread?’
Hereward sank on to a pile of straw that lay in a comer and said weakly, ‘Aye, anything, as long as it is food. Good plain food. My stomach cries out for something other than acorns and grass.’
The man nodded and went away. He was soon back with a skin of red wine. Hereward drank deep before he could stop himself; it was so long since he had tasted anything like this.
The wine ran down his throat, making him feel sleepy and merry at the same time. Then suddenly, all his hope, all his courage, came back. He smiled at the man and said, ‘Look, friend, I did not come here simply to eat and drink while my comrades lay hungry in the fen. I came for a special reason. I must see the King, in person.’
The host nodded and smiled and scratched the end of his long nose. Then he said, ‘Ah, you must see the King, hey? Is this not a strange thing, from you of all men?’
Hereward drank again from the skin and said, ‘I want to make a bargain with him, you understand? I shall give myself up to him, so that he will let the others go free. They have lived like poor beasts for a year, and they have suffered enough.’
The man shook his head mournfully and said, ‘Aye, poor lads, that they must have. And all for nothing - that’s the saddest part of it all. All for nothing.’
Hereward bunched his fists to hear such words. Then he pulled himself together and said, ‘ You look a brisk fellow. Now can you, somehow, get word to the King that I am here? No, we will not say that I am here, until we know what his mind is. Let us say that I am somewhere near. That is right, somewhere near…’
The man nodded. ‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘We can do that, of a surety. Tell him that you are somewhere near and that you swear to deliver yourself to him, on the condition that Earl Morcar and young Brant, and a dozen others, go free. Is that it, master?’
Hereward gazed at the man sharply. Then he said, ‘You seem to know who is with me, landlord. You even know how many fellows are left. How is that?’
The man said gently, ‘In my trade, we learn a great deal, lord. Indeed, I have been waiting for you to knock at the back door every night since you left the barn. Every night since they laid the sheep and the dead men beside the mere to frighten you out of your fox-hole, lord.’
As he spoke he put the lantern down, and seemed to grow to twice his size in the flickering light. Hereward, dazed with the strong wine and exhausted with hunger, could hardly see the man. But what he did see was the dagger that had suddenly appeared in his right hand.
‘Do not try to escape again, friend,’ said the host. ‘It has been trouble enough getting you into the trap - we cannot lose you now!’
Then Hereward saw that three mail-clad men stood in the shadow of the doorway, each bearing a bright sword.
One of them called out, ‘So, is the wolf caught so easily? Good work, Gregoire! You made an excellent host! You would have tricked me as easily as you tricked this starving English fool.’
Then they came forward and began to rain blows on Hereward, one for each day he had kept them wait
ing, they said. It was not long before he lay still.
24. Dungeon
In the dark, it was hard to judge the passage of time. Hereward knew that he lay on straw and that his wrists and ankles were fastened with chains. But whether it was day or night he did not know, for there was no window in his cell. Sometimes, numbly, he heard the sound of bells; sometimes the clatter of horses’ hooves.
And often, in the dark, he heard the scutter of small feet in the straw beside him.
A man came from time to time and left gruel in a wooden dish, which Hereward lapped up like a ravening dog.
The man would never speak to him, though Hereward begged for news.
‘What day is it? How long have I been here? Will the King see me?’
To all these questions there was only silence, silence or a mocking laugh.
Hereward wondered at times whether this was death; or Hell; or Purgatory.
He tried to stand, but his leg-chains were bolted too closely into the stone wall, and so he fell. All he could do was to roll from side to side, at the limit of his short chain. And this, after a while, almost drove him mad; so he learned to lie still.
Then, at some time out of the endless blackness, the man said, ‘You have been here a month, and there have been nothing but complaints from you. All night you moan and groan. How can I sleep when you do that?’
Hereward said, ‘Tell me, am I blind? I cannot see you.’
The man laughed in the dark and said, ‘You are not blind, as far as I know. But most of your fellows are, now. Young Brant is. They took one of his hands, too.’
Hereward clenched and unclenched his own hands. He had heard that men who lost a hand by a swift sword-cut in battle sometimes did not know it until much later. It seemed that he still had fingers and could move them. He was about to ask if he had lost a hand, too, when the man spoke again.
