Conquest

Hereward wondered if storms really were God’s work, as the village folk believed. He preferred to think that the magnificent display before his eyes was nature’s work; why and how it could unleash such menace was a mystery to him but his instincts told him it was a tangible mystery, not a supernatural one. He was reminded of one of the insights that had become so important to him during his long isolation: that the only thing to fear was the dread created in one’s own imagination.

Then, as he felt the first splashes of rain, his eye glimpsed movement through the trees in the valley below. He stiffened, but nothing stirred again and he assumed that it had been a deer or a boar. A few minutes later, an enormous bolt of lightning exploded close to him and he saw, no more than ten paces away, the silhouette of a figure.

Hereward leapt to his feet and yelled above the storm, ‘Name yourself, stranger!’

There was no reply. Hereward looked into the darkness, but could see nothing. Then, as the first heavy rain of the storm lashed his face, there was another vicious crack of blinding light and the man was barely ten feet away, his shock of white hair and beard bathed in momentary daylight.

Hereward yelled again, ‘Who are you?’

‘Stop shouting, boy! I’m not deaf.’

The intermittent illumination of the storm was sufficient to reveal the wrinkled face of a man who had lived a very long life. Torrents of rain soaked his silvery locks, his piercing dark eyes squinted against the lashing gale; but he stood proudly, unbent in the howling wind.

‘You have chosen a wild night on which to lose your way, old man.’

‘I am not lost; I have come to talk to you, Hereward of Bourne.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘It is hardly a mystery; you are, after all, a notorious outlaw.’

‘What do you want from me? You know you put yourself at peril by speaking to me.’

‘I want to hear your story; the little I’ve heard intrigues me. As for peril, I doubt anyone would trouble to shorten my meagre life; there is so little of it left.’

‘I hate to disappoint you, sir, but my story is not one I wish to share with strangers.’

‘I know you better than you realize. You have been alone for a long time and carry a great burden in your heart.’ The old man looked at Hereward and smiled. ‘I can help you. I understand loneliness and shame; I have lived with those two companions most of my life. I have a simple shelter near here, which you are welcome to share for a while, and I have an excellent flitch of bacon hanging by my fire.’

Hereward was intrigued by the stranger. Curious to know how his notoriety could have reached an old man deep in the forest, he agreed to his offer.

The old man’s home took several hours to reach, deep in the wildwood.

When they arrived, just before dawn, his shelter was little more than a large lean-to against the cold winds of the north and west. He had chosen an exposed rock facing a natural meadow, close to a fast-flowing stream, and built a roof with two supporting sides from a framework of trimmed branches, lashed together and covered in skins. At the maw of the structure was a fire that provided warmth and a hearth for cooking. All around were the home-made accoutrements of an experienced man of the woods: traps, cooking pots, weapons and tools. The primitive shelter, although spartan, was festooned with drying skins, hanging meat and sacks of herbs and vegetables. He wanted for nothing, took little from his environment and, were he to die in his sleep one night, a few seasons of nature’s cycle of decay and renewal would all but obliterate his presence.

That evening, after a bellyful of rabbit stew and several horns of mead, Hereward spoke directly to the old man. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am called the Old Man of the Wildwood. That is my name now and that is how it will remain.’

‘But you haven’t always lived here?’

‘I have been here most of my life, but I was born a long way from here, close to the burgh of Winchester, where, as a young man, I was ordained.’

Hereward settled back, sensing that a long story was about to unfold.

The old man described how the life of a priest had, at first, been perfect. He had absorbed knowledge like a sponge and soon became renowned for his intellect and grasp of ancient texts and languages. But he eventually lost his way and his faith. His drinking increased and an affair with a lady-in-waiting at court led him to be defrocked, banished from Winchester and, like Hereward, cast out into the forest.

‘Life is so short. I worry about how many more seasons I’m destined to see. The priests tell us we will go on to a better life in the blessed company of God, but I have my doubts. I fear my likely eternity is right here, in the earth of my own wood, rotting in the mulch like the leaves of my trees. But where will my deepest thoughts and fanciful dreams go?’

‘Isn’t that why we should all leave a legacy?’

The old man smiled.