Conquest

Aidan’s words were wise, but Hereward sat impassively, not really listening; words of wisdom did not mix too well with his hot blood. Despite outward appearances, Hereward was not subdued. As his body healed, his anger grew. His right arm had been broken in three places but his left had escaped any fractures. And so, as soon as he could walk, he had taken himself off into the forest every day, ostensibly to exercise his weakened body and clear his addled head, but his real purpose was to visit his secret training ground. It was a small clearing where he had hidden his sword and his battle-axe, where, hour after hour until an exhausted body would not let him go on, he taught himself to use his weapons with his left hand until he was as proficient with it as he had been with his right.

He spent most of the time with his axe, which, harnessed to his powerful frame and natural athleticism, had always been a fearsome instrument in his hands. But now he had a new purpose, fired by anger, which seemed to give him superhuman strength and the axe even more malicious power. The scarred trees in the clearing were testament to the many thousands of blows he had hacked into the oaks of the forest. He repeated, over and over again, the killing routines he had seen practised by the King’s housecarls on military training days: thrust and parry, cut and slash, chop and slice.

When he could cut and hack no more, he would sit and sharpen his weapons, survey the results of his toil and contemplate the terrible vengeance he would soon exact.

2. Vengeance

It was almost the end of 1053 before Hereward was ready to venture beyond his village again. His body had healed; his right arm had regained its strength and now matched the power of his newly trained left hand.

He often thought about Gythin’s words, and now realized that she had been right. He had been taught the most brutal of lessons: the difference between the competitive playfulness of a manly contest and the mortal challenge of men intent on killing. The months of brooding in isolation had not diminished his anger, but he had learned how to channel it for a deliberate purpose: the pursuit of four men — the three surviving assassins who had mercilessly murdered Gythin and the coward who had sent them, Thurstan, Abbot of Ely.

There were no goodbyes in the village; he spoke to no one, not even his father. The gratitude he should have felt towards his family and his community was not there; such virtues needed a mind much more mature than Hereward’s, especially now that his was clouded by hatred and pain. He had learned a salutary lesson about fighting, but nothing about respect and humility.

Ely was a day’s ride from Bourne. He took his time; there was no need to hurry. He announced himself to everyone he met on the road. He wanted his prey to know he was coming, hoping they would feel the dread that Gythin must have experienced. He cut an impressive figure, riding tall in the saddle, dressed in the finery of a man of his station and carrying his weapons of war.

The abbey church of Ely was visible for miles around, the centrepiece of a burgh that stood but a few feet above the Great Fen which surrounded it. Its precious elevation gave it a solid footing, making it an island in an inland sea of marsh and bog. The church formed the heart of the precincts of a vast and wealthy abbey. By contrast, the burgh was a small cluster of thatched hovels with only a few grander two-storey houses for the rich merchants. It was a quiet place, enlivened only on market days when the farmers and the villagers from the surrounding countryside brought their wares.

Hereward entered the Isle of Ely across the single ancient causeway from the west. So focused was his purpose, he was oblivious to the bleakness around him. The Fens were frozen and had been for weeks in a winter that had been unusually harsh, with little respite from the hard frosts and strong gales. The desolate scene was empty and monotonous, except for a few clumps of trees on patches of high ground where snow had collected in drifts like the plumes of waves at sea. Punctuated only by black holes cut by the locals, who fished them for their larders, the smooth ice of the Fens reflected the gull-grey sky like a mirror.

Leaning into the harsh east wind, their faces covered against the chill, the few people who crossed the causeway were wrapped in heavy cloaks. Most people noticed Hereward as he passed. The deep scar on his face suggested he was a man of violence. People sensed trouble and many shied away from his pointed questions: had they seen three men, one of them a dark foreigner with a heavily studded dagger? Was the Abbot in residence?