Conquest (10 page)

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.

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.

As Gruffydd’s man stumbled with exhaustion, Aelfgar asked the King if the captain of his housecarls could mount an attack.

Gruffydd reluctantly agreed and signalled his man to withdraw.

‘My Lord, this is Einar, the finest of my warriors, he will despatch the outlaw.’

‘We’ll see, my friend, let him try.’

Einar was a giant of a man with a flowing red beard, perhaps the most imposing man Hereward had ever seen. He walked up to Hereward, who stood his ground.

When they were nose to nose, Einar growled, ‘So you won’t fight, Saxon?’ Almost before he had finished, he head-butted Hereward full on the nose, knocking him backwards, blood spurting from his nostrils. ‘Perhaps that will persuade you!’

Hoots of laughter echoed around the gathering as Hereward hit the ground, dazed and in great pain. In an instant, the big man’s sword was drawn, ready to strike a mortal blow, but Hereward grabbed a fistful of earth and threw it into his adversary’s eyes. This bought him a vital moment to jump into a crouching position and propel himself into his foe’s stomach, knocking him to the ground. Maddened by the pain of a broken nose, Hereward kicked the fallen man several times, winding him badly, before jumping on his sword hand with one foot while kicking him in the face
with the other. Einar rolled away, spitting blood through his smashed teeth, but in doing so left his sword behind. Seizing it, Hereward was able to parry the first blow from Einar’s battle-axe.

As it was now obvious that Hereward had decided to fight, the King beckoned to one of his hearthtroop to throw the Englishman a shield. A ferocious duel ensued with neither man giving ground. Every blow was blocked, every thrust parried, until Hereward’s youth and strength began to tell and Einar tired. Hereward was able to grab the shaft of Einar’s axe and use it to turn him into a headlock which immobilized the big man.

As soon as the fight had gone out of the giant redhead, Hereward released him and stepped away, declining the custom to despatch his beaten opponent.

‘My Lord King, I have killed too many men in my life already; I have no desire to kill another.’

‘Agreed. You have made your point well. Tomorrow you ride with me.’

Martin began to lead Hereward away, but not before Einar offered him his hand. He had never been bested in a contest before and was full of admiration for the young Englishman.

The two men embraced as a murmur of appreciation rippled around the assembly of warriors; none had ever seen a stranger so quickly win over a crowd, or so readily gain the respect of a king.

5. Battle of Hereford

Hereward shivered with emotion as he watched four huge columns of heavily armed infantry, each led by a cohort of cavalry, weave their way through the forest. His pulse raced with excitement, but he was also troubled that this army of Celts, Danes and Norsemen, allied with treacherous Northumbrians, was about to attack his homeland.

Despite the fact that his own people had outlawed him, he felt guilty that he was experiencing the primordial thrill of impending battle.

He looked around at his companions, who were grim-faced and determined. It excited Hereward to be with seasoned warriors like Einar, men to stand with in a fight, men with whom it would be an honour to die.

He had spent several weeks with Gruffydd’s Welsh army, enduring their training regimes and helping them replenish their supplies of weapons, food and horses for a new wave of military campaigns. It was late October 1055 and over the long weeks of preparation he had decided that, if it came to a battle with King Edward’s army, he would fight. It had been a difficult decision, but he was now riding with Celts and Norsemen; he was wearing their armour and carrying their weapons.

He looked at Martin and Einar, riding at his side, and acknowledged them with a nod of respect. Hereward knew that in moments like these, lives change for ever.

The Welsh had prepared for months to attack Hereford, one of England’s most strategically important burghs. Ralph, Earl of Hereford, was the Norman nephew of King Edward, who had made him Warden of the Welsh Marches. He had brought many Norman knights, clerics and administrators to his earldom, much to the consternation of the locals.

As Gruffydd’s columns made open ground in a wide valley, some two miles west of Hereford, Ralph’s cavalry were skulking on the wooded hillsides. The Earl had determined that Gruffydd’s combined force of Welsh, Northumbrians and Irish-Norse was an ill-disciplined rabble, weakened by mercenaries of dubious loyalty. Also, because many of the Celts were on foot, he thought it would be vulnerable to a swift and decisive cavalry attack. His horsemen broke cover and bore down on the invaders. The Earl’s thegns carried the red and yellow banners of his lands in Worcestershire, Herefordshire and Gloucestershire, but most of his senior commanders were Normans, recognizable by their full-length mail coats and heavy continental horses.

At first their attack, with the advantage of surprise and higher ground, looked like it might be decisive as there was little more than 200 yards between the leading horses of the Earl’s cavalry and Gruffydd’s infantry. But Ralph’s strategy was naïve. The Welsh army and its allies were elite warriors who had fought many battles during years of campaigning. Within moments of the surprise attack, Gruffydd’s hearthtroop began to circle to protect him, while the body of his force re-formed to charge the oncoming cavalry. Supported by the Northumbrians on their right
and the Irish on their left, they surged forwards in a V-shaped formation towards the heart of Ralph’s phalanx of horses.

The Earl’s cavalry had not expected such a bold response. They were in loose formation, expecting easy pickings among infantry exposed on open ground, but Gruffydd’s column was tightly packed, rigidly disciplined and had gained significant momentum. As the two armies collided, the carnage began in the front ranks: men screamed, trying to inflict blows or avoid them; horses reared, struggling to free themselves.