Conquest

An irresistible force met an immovable object. Destriers reared and were impaled on spears; men were flung from their mounts and put to death on the ground by battle-axes; knights and sergeants barked encouragement; the fallen cried out in their death throes. Beyond the shield wall stood Hereward, the only man with space around him. Wielding his Great Axe in huge arcs, he fashioned a circle of death, despatching anyone who ventured into it.

He was used to fighting with armies of well-trained soldiers who fought with the steel of professionals, but now he was leading a band of zealots who fought with relentless vigour behind him. Their faith inspired him, multiplying his already prodigious strength, so that he cut swathes through the ranks of Norman cavalry. As he did so, the last of the Brotherhood followed him, wreaking havoc in the Norman ranks. The death toll rose inexorably.

Hereward continued routing all around him, advancing into the Norman lines, until he sank to his knees in utter exhaustion. He tried to raise his shield and axe to parry the blows he knew were about to rain down on him, but he could not; his arms were numb with fatigue and, not wanting to see his slayers, he bowed his head.

The blows did not come. The mayhem ceased. Where, moments ago, there had been the hideous din of battle, there was now silence. Hereward slowly raised his head. He was surrounded by Norman cavalry, its men and horses breathing deeply, clouds of perspiration rising from their bodies. Mounted in the middle of them, red with rage, was William, King of England.

The Norman cavalry parted to allow the King to see the remnants of the Brotherhood. Fewer than a hundred men were clustered in a small group, some on their knees, some trying to get to their feet. The pile of bodies around them was twenty yards wide and in places as high as a man. Hereward could see Edmund, who still held his standard. Next to him was Earl Morcar, covered in blood from head to foot, his chest heaving from the titanic struggle. Martin was on the ground next to Earl Morcar, propping himself up on his elbows, trying to get his breath. He too was drenched in blood, but not his own.

Hereward was relieved to see them, but so many good men were dead. He could see the young monk Rahere lying in a lifeless heap. The bodies of the two young men of Spanish descent, Azecier and Alveriz, were nearby and next to them were the still forms of the two friends Matelgar and Alsinus.

The King ordered that all the survivors be bound and led away. He dismounted to approach Hereward and, as he did so, saw Martin Lightfoot being dragged away.

‘Bring that little Welsh brigand over here. We will deal with him before we devote our attention to the man who thought he could teach a king how to govern his people.’

Martin was made to kneel in front of William and his hands were tied behind his back. Four knights approached Hereward and held him while his hands were also bound. He had further bindings tied around his elbows, knees and ankles. A noose was put around his neck and pulled, forcing his head backwards and his chin in the air. Then the noose was tied to his ankle bindings, leaving him with no freedom of movement.

William lifted his Baculus high into the air and, with a guttural cry, struck a fearsome blow to the side of Martin’s head. He died instantly, keeling over without making a sound, blood pouring from his ears, mouth and nostrils.

Hereward let out a cry of anguish and tried to free himself, but to no avail. He looked at William with loathing.

William was coldly impassive. ‘Before you also receive my justice, the justice you have been at pains to recommend I should exercise wisely, I have a surprise for you.’

At a signal from William, Hereward was pulled up on to his knees. Then, from between a gap in the circle of cavalry, a bedraggled line of humanity appeared, wet and dirty and shivering from cold. It was his family, with a badly beaten Edwin beside them.

‘You should have killed me when you had the chance.’ It was Thurstan’s voice. The Abbot spoke sneeringly as he threw a bloodstained tunic on to the ground, which Hereward presumed was Gohor’s. ‘My monks knew exactly where your boat was hidden. They have lived on this Isle all their lives and know its every nook and cranny. They followed as your happy band refreshed it with provisions. When the boat pulled away, we simply let it disappear out of sight, before the Norman butescarls took it in tow and brought your loved ones to face their King’s judgement.’

Hereward felt a burning hatred that knew no limit. Thurstan was right; he should have killed him when he had the chance. Hereward again strained at his bindings, but even his great strength was unable to make any impression on them.