many of them to powerful positions in the realm. Also, despite his marriage to Edith, the daughter of Earl Godwin — who, until his recent death, had been England’s most powerful earl — he had spent most of his reign at odds with the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy, especially the Godwin clan, now led by Edith’s brother, Harold Godwinson, the eldest of Earl Godwin’s five sons.
Thought by many to be far too effete and intellectual to be king amid the much more robust Anglo-Saxon earls, Edward had nevertheless brought the rule of law to his kingdom and had earned the grudging respect of his people. The anxiety was now about who would succeed him: Edward’s marriage to Edith was childless and there was no direct heir to the throne.
Harold Godwinson broke the silence of the cloisters. ‘Sire, under law, the boy should be executed. He is the son of a thegn and we cannot allow our local dignitaries to behave like cut-throats.’
The King did not respond.
‘The boy is uncontrollable.’
‘He intrigues me.’
‘Sire, he killed three men and almost cut in half one of your clerics!’
‘Thurstan is not one of my clerics; he was preffered by the Church hierarchy against my judgement. He is corrupt and conniving, and probably deserved what the boy did to him. If I had my way, I’d execute him, not the boy.’
‘Sire, it is your duty to uphold the law.’
‘I know my duty; I don’t need to be reminded of it by the Earl of Wessex. Bring the boy and his father. I will speak to them before I pass judgement.’
Leofric of Bourne and his son entered Edward’s cloisters as meekly as their station demanded and bowed in unison. The King of England was an impressive figure. He had the kindly features of a devout man of God, his hair was greying auburn and he wore a full, well-cut beard. His smock and leggings were of finely woven wool and his cloak, a rich burgundy, was elaborately embroidered in fine thread and gathered over his left shoulder by a large circular clasp in gold filigree decorated with garnets and amethysts. Hereward could also see the gilded pommel of the King’s sword, its engraved design of serpents and dragons representing England’s fierce Anglo-Saxon origins. Even though Edward, a man of letters, had never drawn it in anger, it was the ancient weapon of the Cerdician Kings of Wessex and England, a proud lineage going back hundreds of years to the time of Alfred the Great and beyond.
The King spoke to Leofric first. ‘How are you, Leofric?’
‘I am well in body, sire, but my heart is heavy with regret. I have caused you great turmoil and my son is lost to me. I have brought him before you because I want him to salvage his life. If you grant me my claim, there is just a chance that he can find a way to redeem himself.’
‘You have served me well many times, Leofric; I will try to help you.’
‘I am grateful, Sire.’
The King turned to Hereward. ‘You are a troublesome young man who vexes me greatly.’
‘Sire — ’ Hereward tried to speak.
The King cut him short. ‘Your father has saved your life twice. He is a brave and loving father; you have wronged him beyond belief. I am about to pass judgement on you but, before I do, I want you to know that your father is also very wise. You should die for the appalling crime you have committed, but by going to the Earl of Mercia and seeking a father’s ancient right of retribution against a son, he has saved your life for a third time.’
He paused to take a deep breath. ‘Because you despatched them before they could answer the charge, there is only indirect evidence to support your accusation that the men you killed had murdered the woman Gythin. The crime against her was a heinous offence, but I have not been asked to rule on that and thus it is not within my jurisdiction here. I can act only on evidence, and there is nothing substantial to link the woman’s murder to Abbot Thurstan. You descended upon Ely with murder in your heart, when, if you felt a crime had been committed, the appropriate recourse would have been the good offices of Earl Leofric at Peterborough. You killed three men in the premises of Edgar the Tanner, before attacking one of my abbots and maiming him for life. You should thank God Almighty that your father’s application means I do not have to order your execution; there has been enough killing. I shall accept the argument of Leofric, Earl of Mercia, on behalf of your father, and confirm that the punishment they seek against you is appropriate.’
The King paused again and stared at Hereward intently. ‘I am going to cast you out from everything that you have known and all those things that bring a man comfort and warmth. You will be denied the sight of God and His priests’ confessionals. May God have mercy on your soul.’
The King continued to stare at Hereward for a long time, contemplating the traumas the boy had already lived through in his short life.
Perhaps Edward could also sense something of what might become of the young man, because he suddenly broke the silence and, beyond anyone else’s hearing, whispered to the Earl of Wessex, ‘Why do I sense that this may not be the last I see of him?’
The Great Hall of Winchester was full as Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, rose to read King Edward’s judgement. Abbot Thurstan sat solemnly, his right arm limp and withered, while Leofric, sitting opposite him, looked like a broken man.
It had taken many months of care by the nuns of Peterborough before Hereward was fit enough to stand trial. During this time, his father wrestled with the dilemma which his son had created for him. After seeking the advice of Earl Leofric, he had to face a dreadful decision. The only certain way to save the life of his son and forestall his execution was to disown him and claim the ancient right to have him banished as an outlaw.
‘Let all here understand that on this fifteenth day of April, 1054, King Edward of England has issued a proclamation granting judgement to Leofric, Thegn of Bourne, in the matter of his son, Hereward, as petitioned by Leofric, Earl of Mercia.’
Harold spoke solemnly, with all the authority of the Earl Marshal of England. He stood tall, his flaxen hair resting on the collar of his ceremonial cloak, his right hand clasping his sword of office and his left hand holding the proclamation that condemned Hereward as an outcast.
‘From this day forward, Hereward of Bourne will be banished from his lands and his people and will be placed beyond the law and the sight of God. All his rights to taxes, titles and service are confiscated forthwith, as are his lands, holdings and possessions. Anyone granting succour, solace or having anything to do with this man will, in turn, also be banished. This proclamation will be heard across the land by order of our sovereign lord, King Edward.’
As the Earl finished speaking, the entire assembly rose and the King’s housecarls presented arms. Edward remained seated, slightly slumped on his throne, saddened by the finality of the act of banishment. In his thirteen- year reign, he could remember only four occasions when he had ordered that a man be made an outlaw.
Hereward knew what he had to do: he bowed to the King, turned, and made his way towards the huge double doors of the Great Hall of Winchester.
His father watched him go with tears in his eyes.
No one else looked at Hereward as he limped into the streets of Winchester. Only the blacksmith approached him, to snap around his neck an iron collar and daub his head with pig’s blood — the symbols of an outlaw. A mounted housecarl then rode in front of him to the city walls and closed the gates behind him. Now, no burgh would open its gates to him; no village would give him food or water; no man, woman or child would speak to him; even priests were required to shun him. The heavy collar of the outlaw, inscribed with the chilling word ‘condemned’, ensured that no one could mistake his status. Although a blacksmith would have the tools and skill to remove the collar, the clasp bore the King’s seal and breaking it was punishable by banishment.
Hereward’s fate was to be a living death.
As Hereward walked away from Winchester, he attempted to walk with the proud, upright gait of a dashing young thegn, but it was futile. There was no semblance of pride left in his heart; he was a broken man. For the second time he had come close to death and once again endured a long and painful recovery from wounds so severe that they would have killed most men. This time, however, his rehabilitation had been a period of deep introspection and regret, not one of simmering rage. Gone was the festering anger brought about by his first encounter with mortality; he had thought only of his stupidity and selfishness. He now realized he had been stupid in believing in his own invincibility, in thinking only of his own pain and revenge, and in failing to bring Thurstan to justice by legitimate means.
