Conquest

At the King’s command there was no alcohol on the table. Nevertheless, Hereward began to glow from the conviviality of conversation and laughter. He looked fit and healthy; a long summer in the open had bronzed his skin and bleached his hair; his scars had healed and he could easily have passed as one of Gruffydd’s Norse mercenaries. When, at the King’s instruction, he rose to tell his story wearing a bright blue smock and new woollen leggings given to him by one of Gruffydd’s chieftains, he cut a handsome figure.

It took Hereward nearly twenty minutes to tell his tale. Fortunately, almost all the Welsh nobles understood English; he told his story lucidly and with authority and, by the end, the entire gathering was hanging on his every word.

‘You tell a good story, young Hereward of Bourne, well done. Tomorrow we will see if you can fight.’

‘Sire, I have not come here to fight.’

‘That may be so, but tomorrow you will fight… or die.’

Martin beckoned Hereward away from the scene. ‘We meet our Northumbrian and Norse comrades tomorrow. The King will make you fight one of his finest warriors to amuse the army and our guests from across the water. You must be ready; it will be a fight to the death.’

‘I have done enough fighting, Martin. It is not the life I seek.’

‘Hereward, it is obvious from your story that, like me, you find it difficult to avoid a fight. No matter what we do, even if we don’t go to the fight, the fight will always come to us.’

That night Hereward and Martin spent several hours discussing the wayward and dangerous paths that they seemed destined to follow. The young Welshman was as quick-witted and humorous as he was fleet of foot. Born in the wild mountains of North Wales, he had spent his childhood chasing lost sheep for his father before being recruited as a messenger for the army. At the time, Gruffydd was the Prince of Gwynedd, but he was building a strong military base to support his ambition to unite all the tribes of Wales. Martin, soon to be christened ‘Lightfoot’ by Gruffydd’s men, became the Prince’s principal messenger and, with his long dark locks and wraith-like body, became recognized all over the country. It was said that he was swifter than the wind, with a step so light he left no footprint.

Hereward spent most of the rest of the night thinking about his new dilemma.

He sensed that he was being drawn towards a life he had resolved to reject, but that Martin was right: his future would be a long saga of mortal combat, his destiny determined in battle.

The sun had barely risen when Hereward awoke to the sound of the horns and drums of Aelfgar’s approaching column. He counted over 700 men, half behind the ram’s head banner of the Earldom of Northumbria and half behind the dragon’s head of the Irish Norse of Dublin. They were a formidable sight and, when drawn up with Gruffydd’s battle-hardened army of over 2,000, would form a significant fighting force. The two leaders greeted one another to the sound of piercing cries and cheering from both armies.

Gruffydd addressed his visitors in standard Anglo-Saxon, a lingua franca most of the gathering understood. ‘Aelfgar, Earl of Northumbria, welcome to my camp. You are a loyal and trusted friend. Everything is prepared for your army, let them rest.’

‘I thank you, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, King of the Welsh. The omens are good for our alliance.’

At dusk that evening, Hereward was brought before the King, his guest, Earl Aelfgar, and the assembled nobility of the alliance. Gruffydd had chosen as Hereward’s opponent one of his hearthtroop, a heavily set man, who looked as though he could wield his axe and sword to murderous effect.

‘I hear you refuse to fight, Hereward of Bourne. You foolishly refuse a king!’

‘I prefer to say “decline”, my Lord.’

‘Don’t play games with me!’

Aelfgar intervened. ‘I have heard about this young man. His disrespect has all but got him killed before; now he insults you, my Lord King.’

‘He does, but at least his answer is honest and brave. I think he’ll fight if he has to.’ Gruffydd turned to his chosen man. ‘Kill him.’

The warrior stepped forward and immediately swung his axe at Hereward’s neck but, with a gentle sway of his hips, he easily moved his upper body out of range of the blow. The attacker quickly thrust forward with his sword, only to see Hereward move quickly to the side to avoid the danger. Now that his opponent was off balance, it was easy for Hereward to step in, grab the warrior’s wrist, pull him forward and aim a heavy kick to his midriff, bringing him to his knees. In retaliation, Gruffydd’s man swung wildly with his battle-axe, but Hereward sprang high into the air, well above the arc of the blade, and stepped out of harm’s way. Further attacks ended in the same way, until it was obvious that Hereward was far too agile for his adversary.

The audience was impressed; none had seen a man as big as Hereward move so nimbly.