Conquest

The King began to speak, but Edmund of Kent, who had not yet been manacled by his captors, grabbed the reins of a knight’s horse, pulled a lance from his grasp and hurled it at Thurstan. It struck the crippled abbot squarely in the chest, knocking him on to his back. He grabbed the lance with both hands in a futile attempt to pull it from his ribs, but it was embedded too deeply. He was dead within seconds.

William bellowed to his knights and Edmund was cut down.

Hereward cried out in desperation. ‘Stop! Stop this killing! It is me you want, my Lord King. You are right, I have spoken for the justice of kings, and I am now ready to receive it. Kill me now; let it be an end to it. Spare the others, spare my family, I beg you, William, King of England, Duke of Normandy, I beseech you.’

‘So it is true, you do acknowledge my sovereignty of this land.’

‘I do, sire, I did many months ago. What we fought for here was the right to be fairly treated as Englishmen.’

‘How could I have failed to hear? You made such a din about it all over my kingdom! It is good that you now beg before your King, because I intend to make you pay for your conceit.’ William turned to his knights. ‘Have him lashed!’

Hereward was held down while his bindings were removed and he was stripped of his armour and clothes. His hands and elbows were tied again, and he was strapped to a post where he was flogged repeatedly.

His family screamed and begged the King to show mercy. He ignored them, not even glancing in their direction. Hereward did not cry out; his only sounds were deep intakes of breath to counter the searing pain of each blow. Eventually, he lost consciousness.

A pail of cold water brought Hereward back to consciousness with a shudder.

Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, then barked a question at him. ‘What say you now about the King’s justice, Hereward of Bourne?’

Hereward answered with difficulty. ‘I say the King has the right to administer justice as our sovereign lord. But he also has the responsibility to administer that justice according to the dictates of his own conscience. I would ask him this: is his justice compassionate?’

William rose in a fury, picked up his Baculus and strode towards Hereward.

As he lifted the huge mace, Hereward made himself as upright as he could and looked William in the eye. ‘Strike well for England, my Lord King. Do what you think is right.’

William took aim but, as he did so, a flicker of light from the many torches that had been brought to the ever-darkening scene was reflected in the Talisman that still hung from Hereward’s neck.

William saw the face of the Devil.

He stopped, suddenly intimidated, remembering the stories he had heard about the charm that the English leader carried around his neck. The Baculus hovered above Hereward’s head for several moments before the King let it fall to his side.

‘Lock up the women and children. Leave Hereward of Bourne where he is — no food, no water, no fire. He is to be guarded at all times. We shall see how defiant he is in the morning.’

*

By dawn the next day, Hereward was a pitiful sight; still naked and deathly pale, he shivered uncontrollably. Although the lacerations on his back had dried, early morning rain had moistened them and they stung sharply from the salt of his perspiration.

King William appeared with his retinue about an hour after dawn. Hereward’s family members were once again brought forward. They were calmer than the night before, but only through exhaustion. So that he could fully comprehend what he was about to witness, Hereward was roused by ice-cold water and a few well-aimed kicks.

Loaded on to carts, the survivors of the final redoubt of the Brotherhood were paraded before their stricken leader. Earl Morcar was shackled hand and foot, gagged and blindfolded, but he was the only man still whole. All the others had been tortured and brutalized. Some had had their eyes gouged out, others had lost hands, tongues, ears, or feet; all had been whipped and beaten. Hereward recognized almost all of them: Siward Bjorn, Bruhar the Brave, Wolnatius, Siward the Blond — ninety men, England’s finest, now mutilated such that few had much chance of survival.

‘So, Hereward of Bourne, this is what has become of your “Brotherhood”. This is what happens to men who dare to challenge me in my own domain.’

Hereward’s words came slowly from the edge of consciousness. ‘You can’t kill all Englishmen. Eventually, you will have to accept that strong kingdoms are those that are ruled with the goodwill of their subjects.’

William turned ever more puce. He walked over to Hereward and bellowed at him. ‘Is there no limit to your defiance?’

‘Sire, I beg you. I beg for compassion for the people of England.’ Hereward slumped against the post to which he was still bound.

‘Drag him into the cloisters! Bring the family!’