The torment of being hoisted like a defenceless animal, and tortured for several hours, had been a purgatory in which an entire childhood of fears and nightmares had been visited upon him. Now, many months later, the memories still haunted him.
Throughout Hereward’s recovery, he had longed to be able to return to Bourne — to seek forgiveness for a lifetime of conceit and bullying, and to see Gythin again in a time before the whole tragic business had begun — but he knew these thoughts were no more than daydreams. He knew that he would never see his family again and he knew that Gythin had gone for ever.
Hereward’s melancholy was suddenly jolted by the distinct sound of a horse snorting. It was only a few yards away, but its rider was difficult to discern; he wore a dark hooded cape and neither horse nor rider bore any distinguishing features. As soon as the mounted figure spoke, Hereward realized it was his nemesis, Thurstan.
‘You should have killed me.’ Thurstan paused, assuming Hereward would answer.
But no response came. No anger rose in Hereward’s heart and he resumed his journey, turning his gaze to the track ahead.
‘Make sure the forest hides you well; you will need its every leaf and branch to conceal you and its darkest corners to prevent you casting shadows. Look behind every tree and bush and in the tall grass in every clearing, because if I ever hear word of you, I will hunt you down and, when I’m ready, I will strike, be sure of that.’
Hereward did not turn round, and seemed oblivious to everything that had been said to him.
Thurstan did not move for several minutes, nor did he blink, but fixed his eyes on Hereward’s back as he disappeared into the gloom of the forest.
The distraught figure walked for the rest of that day and slept for only three or four hours before continuing on his aimless route deep into the forest. At every turn, he took the lesser track and was soon walking a path barely wide enough for a man’s shoulders. By the end of the second day, he was marooned in the vast wildwood of southern England.
Hereward’s biggest challenge in his banishment was not the well-being of his body, but of his mind. He had hunted in the Bruneswald almost every day of his life and survival was second nature to him. Days passed into weeks. He drank from streams and took a bird or a hare when he needed one; he fashioned traps and snares, even without a sharp blade; he collected flints of stone or shale whenever he saw them. He spent countless days roaming deeper into the hinterland and, knowing that the power of the King’s law diminished the further west he went, he moved in the direction of the sunset. As the days grew shorter and the air colder, he prepared for winter and chose a clearing high on a hillside facing south-west to build a refuge. There he spent the long, cold winter in total isolation with only his own thoughts for company.
The teachings of the Church of Rome, repeated over and over again by Aidan the Priest from his pulpit at Bourne, had never meant much to Hereward, but his encounter with Thurstan had led him to reflect on the meaning of everything, especially his own flawed existence. He had always taken so many things for granted. He had had little regard for his village life and his family, their ways and virtues born of centuries of tradition; now he realized how much he missed them. He had never contemplated the importance of the land itself — rivers, forests, heaths and fens — and he had dismissed the wildlife of his ancient land — its infinite variety and complexity — as merely a source of sustenance; now he appreciated their true significance in the cycle of life.
From childhood he had witnessed life and death, decay and renewal, but had never fully appreciated the wonders of nature and the inestimable quality of human life; now, in his enforced solitude, he marvelled at them. He could not wait for summer and all the colour and flurry of life it would bring.
Just as nature had lain dormant during the winter, so had Hereward’s need for companionship, but with the first hints of spring came the first stirrings of his desire to live normally again. From the length of the days and the burgeoning of nature around him, he guessed it was Eastertide of the year 1055. He was twenty years old, a notorious outlaw and had been all but dead twice. His bones had been smashed in several places, his flesh was scarred all over his body and his will had nearly been broken by a mortal enemy. But he had survived. He resolved to find solace in a life of simplicity, far from the land which had banished him.
Hereward spent the rest of the spring and summer moving slowly west and north. His native Bourne was only a few feet above sea level and his ancestors had dug the ditches, channels and canals that drained the land and kept the water at bay, so he could follow a watercourse easily. He also knew how to read directions from the position of the sun and how to navigate from the stars.
Game was plentiful and bows and arrows were easily made from the natural resources of wood, bone and flint. He found a piece of crude iron in the ruins of an abandoned village and, after many days of grinding and polishing, had fashioned a sharp metal blade to perform the cutting, slicing and scraping of his daily routine.
He continued to avoid direct contact with his fellow human beings, afraid to compromise either them or himself. Under cover of darkness, he had negotiated two important thoroughfares. Hidden in the undergrowth, he had overheard passing conversations that told him that he had crossed two ancient arteries to the south-west of England and was only ten miles from the burgh of Gloucester, a name he recognized. He knew it to be an important place, close to a river that flowed to the Great Western Sea.
The adrenalin began to course in his veins as he sensed the opportunity to begin a new life; he was lean and fit and his great strength had begun to return. He retreated to higher ground, and found a commanding position from where he could survey the vale beneath him and formulate a plan of escape into the wilderness beyond England’s borders.
It was a late summer evening when Hereward witnessed the most violent storm he had ever seen. The day had been hot and humid and, as night drew in, the sky grew black and ominous, although the air remained warm and cloying. He found a high promontory, which brought the relief of a cooling wind, but it was the turbulent air of a brewing storm.
As he sat there for what must have been several hours, he witnessed nature at its most awesome. Vicious winds ripped branches from sturdy oaks heavy with the leaves of summer; the sky exploded in every direction with brilliant flashes of lightning, and eerie silhouettes of trees and hillsides were suddenly illuminated before disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
Hereward wondered if storms really were God’s work, as the village folk believed. He preferred to think that the magnificent display before his eyes was nature’s work; why and how it could unleash such menace was a mystery to him but his instincts told him it was a tangible mystery, not a supernatural one. He was reminded of one of the insights that had become so important to him during his long isolation: that the only thing to fear was the dread created in one’s own imagination.
Then, as he felt the first splashes of rain, his eye glimpsed movement through the trees in the valley below. He stiffened, but nothing stirred again and he assumed that it had been a deer or a boar. A few minutes later, an enormous bolt of lightning exploded close to him and he saw, no more than ten paces away, the silhouette of a figure.
Hereward leapt to his feet and yelled above the storm, ‘Name yourself, stranger!’
There was no reply. Hereward looked into the darkness, but could see nothing. Then, as the first heavy rain of the storm lashed his face, there was another vicious crack of blinding light and the man was barely ten feet away, his shock of white hair and beard bathed in momentary daylight.
Hereward yelled again, ‘Who are you?’
‘Stop shouting, boy! I’m not deaf.’
The intermittent illumination of the storm was sufficient to reveal the wrinkled face of a man who had lived a very long life. Torrents of rain soaked his silvery locks, his piercing dark eyes squinted against the lashing gale; but he stood proudly, unbent in the howling wind.
‘You have chosen a wild night on which to lose your way, old man.’
‘I am not lost; I have come to talk to you, Hereward of Bourne.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘It is hardly a mystery; you are, after all, a notorious outlaw.’
‘What do you want from me? You know you put yourself at peril by speaking to me.’
‘I want to hear your story; the little I’ve heard intrigues me. As for peril, I doubt anyone would trouble to shorten my meagre life; there is so little of it left.’
‘I hate to disappoint you, sir, but my story is not one I wish to share with strangers.’
‘I know you better than you realize. You have been alone for a long time and carry a great burden in your heart.’ The old man looked at Hereward and smiled. ‘I can help you. I understand loneliness and shame; I have lived
