Conquest

As the boat approached the opposite bank, it was obvious that some in the camp were still celebrating. Drunken shrieks, both male and female, filled the air; clear notes from flutes and horns occasionally cut through the repetitive thud of drums; a few sporadic words from songs of victory rose above the piercing laughter. This army had clearly won a great victory and was celebrating long and hard.

But it was also a disciplined army. As others rejoiced, sentries, sober and sombre with their backs to the proceedings, stared intently across the river or into the surrounding forest, alert to any danger or intruder.

It was also a brutal army. All around the perimeter of the camp were the spreadeagled bodies of its enemies. They were also Celts, but Welshmen from different tribes, who had been tied to wooden frames and hoisted from the ground. Most had had their eyes cut out, some also their tongues, noses and ears; several were still alive.

Hereward had not seen war before. His father and the men of Bourne had told him endless stories of battles won and lost, of heroic deeds and daring adventures in pursuit of worthy causes, but nothing of the kind of cruelty now before his eyes.

On reaching the opposite bank, Hereward gave Martin his precious parchment and, accompanied by two guards, they made their way to the centre of the camp. There, in the midst of the celebrations, sat the man Hereward hoped would offer him the chance of a new life.

This was the second king he had seen, but this monarch was not a sophisticated aesthete like Edward. Gruffydd ap Llywelyn was a warrior; his dark-blue smock covered a barrel-like chest and his thick woollen cloak only added to his significant presence. His armour and weapons were neatly arranged beside him: the sword and mace of a warlord, a beautifully decorated shield with a brightly polished iron boss, a heavy mail jacket and an ornate helmet, etched with swirls of serpents and dragons. Next to the King was a large group of heavily armed hearthtroops — menacing, battle-hardened veterans — the finest of his warriors.

Martin Lightfoot stepped forward with his parchment clasped in his right hand, bowed deeply and handed his document to the King. ‘My Lord King, I bring news that Aelfgar has landed with eighteen ships. He brings his finest warriors from Northumbria, and Danish allies from Ireland. He will be with you at first light tomorrow.’

The King studied the document closely before shouting to everyone within earshot: ‘Aelfgar, Earl of Northumbria, declares his loyalty to me. Our new kingdom already has powerful allies!’

Roars of approval and warlike chanting echoed around the camp.

Gruffydd turned to Hereward and scowled. ‘Who is this stranger you bring into my camp?’

‘Sire, a notorious outlaw from the English, who asks to be placed at your mercy. I thought he might be useful.’

‘You think too much, Martin Lightfoot. Unfortunately, you don’t think as well as you run.’

The King’s retinue laughed loudly.

Hereward seized the moment, bowed deferentially and addressed him. ‘My Lord King, I am an outcast from my own people. I am Hereward of Bourne, of honest blood from my Saxon father and my Danish mother. I seek passage through your lands on my journey to Ireland and a new life.’

‘You are an outlaw — and an English one at that — so tell me: why shouldn’t I order your immediate execution for having the audacity to approach my camp?’

‘Forgive my impudence, sire. I am being rightly punished for my actions, but my own folly created a heinous crime that I thought I had the right to punish. My banishment has helped me see things more clearly. Now, if I do not assert myself and find a way into exile, I will die in the forest.’

Gruffydd rose from his campaign chair, approached Hereward and slowly circled him. He examined his iron collar, recognized King Edward’s seal, looked closely at his scars and then returned to his seat.

‘The celebrations stop in two hours. No drinking tonight. The men must rest, clean their weapons, their armour and themselves. We begin our training to challenge King Edward tomorrow. I don’t want the Saxons to think we’re savages — at least, not until we kill them! Make sure the outlaw is washed and cuts his beard. The blacksmiths can remove his collar. Perhaps I’ll keep it to put around Edward’s Norman neck when we reach Winchester! I like the look of this Saxon; he has the stance of a warrior and the bearing of a noble. By the cut of him, I wager he can fight as well.’ Gruffydd then turned to Hereward. ‘You will sit at my table tonight and tell me your story, and bring that scamp Martin Lightfoot with you.’

That evening, after months of solitude, Hereward shared food with more people than he had ever seen before, and did so in the presence of a king. Several times he reached for his iron collar, his constant companion for more than a year, but each time, instead of pig iron, he found flesh and felt the elation of his new freedom.