Conquest

The many Celtic tribes of western Britain had lived there since the beginning of time. Through centuries of bitter struggle, they had fought the Romans and prevented them from settling the west and the far north. Later, when the Saxon tribes came, they resisted them too, so that they were able to settle only in the former Roman provinces in the south and east. Many Celts were thought to retain their pagan beliefs or, if they professed to be Christian, still practised the secret ways of their old religion under the veneer of the Church of Rome. When the storytellers came to Bourne, they told gruesome tales of Celtic warriors painted in woad and of their princes, who decapitated their conquered victims and ate their children. From childhood Hereward had been taught to avoid the Celts at all costs.

As he moved further inland the ground became very different from the English territory with which he was familiar. This new ground was much more rugged and seemed greener and wetter than his homeland. The scattered human settlements were fewer in number and further apart, and the wildlife was far more abundant. He had heard that at the end of the earth there was a great wilderness; perhaps this was it, a place capable of consuming men without trace.

Eventually, Hereward’s progress was halted by the wide bend of a fast-flowing river. On the opposite bank, standing impressively on ancient fortifications, were the ramparts of a major burgh. He could see the bustle of hundreds of soldiers and row upon row of horses tethered on picket lines. Drifting on the wind, he could hear the din of hectic activity and the thud of drums; not the ominously measured throb of the drums of battle, but the light timpani of celebration. There were skirls from pipes of different timbres and shrieks of excited laughter, while countless flags and banners rippled in the wind, lending flashes of crimson, green and yellow to the monotony of a darkening sky. The lofty oak walls of the settlement were surrounded by the shelters of a temporary military encampment; it looked like a victory was being celebrated and, from the look of the flags, these men were not English. They were Celts — the wild men of Wales.

Then, inexorably, he became aware of the unmistakable stench of death and the harrowing cries of men in agony. Although he dreaded what he would find, he moved towards the tortured sounds and sickening smell.

Soon, he came to a clearing in the forest and beheld a sight he would never forget.

Lying before him was a mass of humanity: men twisted and tangled together, contorted between shields and axes, spears and swords, steam rising from their bodies, blood seeping from their wounds and the rattle of death rasping in their throats. He turned away, but a morbid fascination made him look again. Arms and legs were severed, sometimes a head; torsos were impaled, guts spilled from bellies. The air was still warm, the frenzied heat of men striving to kill one another still hanging in the air.

The human scavengers, who would soon come and desecrate the bodies of the dead and dying, had not yet arrived. Hereward was alone amid the stench.

What had all these men died for?

Surely nothing could justify carnage like this?

Suddenly a hand grasped his leg. It was the blood-soaked hand of a warrior slashed across the face by a sword and impaled by a spear. His scant beard was matted with dried blood, almost obscuring his features, but Hereward could see that he was a handsome young man, probably still a teenager, with dark eyes and a flowing mane of black hair. In between the streaks of blood, he could see the intricate arcs and swirls of tribal warpaint, the unmistakable blue of Celtic woad. The boy tried to speak but managed only a few gurgled sounds. His lungs were awash with blood; he was slowly drowning in his own life force. As Hereward bent down towards him, the youth’s taut grip relaxed and his heaving torso stilled, his anguish over.

Hereward turned away and moved quickly towards the river. He tried to suppress what he had seen and to focus instead on planning how he might cross the river. He was pondering how to get closer to the encampment and burgh when he heard rapidly approaching footsteps and spun round to see the bobbing head and shoulders of a young, dark-haired man running methodically along the path behind him. He appeared to have no armour, no companions and, except for a seax, no weapons.

In an instant, Hereward decided to waylay the youthful runner. He ducked into the undergrowth and threw his shoulder into the lad’s knees as he passed, propelling him, headlong, into a blackthorn bush.

The cursing began immediately, but not in a language Hereward understood. The boy looked around, saw Hereward, who was by now smiling broadly, and cursed even more.

‘Are you Welsh?’ asked Hereward.