focus instead on planning how he might cross the river. He was pondering how to get closer to the encampment and burgh when he heard rapidly approaching footsteps and spun round to see the bobbing head and shoulders of a young, dark-haired man running methodically along the path behind him. He appeared to have no armour, no companions and, except for a seax, no weapons.
In an instant, Hereward decided to waylay the youthful runner. He ducked into the undergrowth and threw his shoulder into the lad’s knees as he passed, propelling him, headlong, into a blackthorn bush.
The cursing began immediately, but not in a language Hereward understood. The boy looked around, saw Hereward, who was by now smiling broadly, and cursed even more.
‘Are you Welsh?’ asked Hereward.
‘Of course I’m Welsh.’ The reply came in English from the now deeply entangled, much scratched and severely irritated youngster. ‘You sound like an Englishman. If you are, you’re either a fool or a very brave man to be this far from home.’
He spoke in perfect English, and almost without accent, as he slowly and painfully pulled himself from the undergrowth. His woollen smock and leggings were torn in several places and blood already seeped from the scratches to his skin beneath.
‘When my Lord hears of this, he’ll cut you in half!’
‘Who is your Lord?’
Before the young man could spit out his answer with all the venom his rage could muster, he noticed the collar on Hereward’s neck.
He hesitated. ‘That’s the seal of Edward, that limp-wristed English King. No wonder you look like you’ve been living in a pigsty.’
‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Don’t call me “boy”. You’re not much older than I am; you’re a long way from home and wear the collar of an outlaw. I’m the one who should be asking the questions.’
Hereward smiled again. ‘I am Hereward of Bourne. I was outlawed by Edward, King of England, at Winchester. That was over a year ago, and now I am making my way to Ireland.’
‘Why were you outlawed?’
‘That is no business of yours. Let me help you up.’ Hereward held out his hand.
The young man grabbed it but, as he did so, he moved his right foot behind Hereward’s legs and kicked him hard behind the knees to unbalance him. As Hereward fell, the boy twisted the hand that had been offered to him and neatly locked it behind the bigger man’s back.
‘Very good, boy.’
With his chin resting firmly on Hereward’s shoulder, his breath quickened by the sudden exertion, the young man hissed, ‘My name is Martin Lightfoot, messenger of my Lord, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, King of the Welsh.’ With his free hand, Martin pulled his seax from his belt and held it at Hereward’s throat. ‘You smell, you filthy Englishman. I think I should kill you to rid our country of your foreign stink. If I throw you into the river just here, you should wash up on the English shore where you belong.’
Using his free hand, Hereward grabbed his adversary’s wrist firmly, then slowly pulled the seax away from his throat. Try as he might, Martin could not resist the Englishman’s considerable strength. With his arm still locked behind his back, Hereward got to his feet, leaving the Welshman dangling forlornly from his shoulders. It took only a moment for Martin to realize that his Saxon foe was more than a match for him.
He released his grip and catapulted himself to the ground well away from Hereward’s grasp. ‘You are a big son of an English pig, that’s for sure.’
Hereward ignored the insult but was curious about Martin’s lord. ‘I thought the Welsh were ruled by different princes, each the lord of his clan.’
‘It has taken my Lord Gruffydd five years of campaigning to bring Wales under one banner. We defeated the tribes of Morgannwg and Gwent here only yesterday, and now the whole of Wales is united for the first time in our history.’
‘Will you take me to your King?’
‘Why would you want to see my Lord — he’ll kill you for sure.’
‘Perhaps, but it was a king who outlawed me from my homeland; maybe this king will free me so that I can find a new home.’
‘Why would you trust me?’
‘You have an honest face; and besides, I have the parchment that you’re supposed to give to your king.’
Martin had not noticed that, in the struggle, Hereward had grabbed a parchment from the young man’s belt.
‘You filthy Englishman! Give it back to me. My Lord will have my head on a pole.’
‘I’ve heard that such delightful punishments are favoured by your Celtic princes. We’d better hurry so that you can complete your mission.’
Martin, rapidly calculating his predicament, realized that he had little to lose by doing as the stranger asked, so he turned and resumed his steady pace towards his original destination. ‘You’d better keep up, and remember to give me the parchment when we get to the gates.’
Hereward followed as quickly as he could, but the young Celt ran like a deer. By the time Martin reached the ferry, Hereward was almost fifty yards in his wake.
Martin yelled to the guards well before he arrived at the riverbank, but in Welsh, so Hereward had no idea whether he was sounding the alarm or just announcing his arrival. The guards drew their weapons but looked more curious than threatening as Hereward approached.
‘Come quickly!’ signalled Martin. ‘I mustn’t delay.’
The four oarsmen were pulling hard before Hereward had sat down. A rope had been stretched across the fast-flowing river to keep the boat on line but, even so, it was a struggle to get across.
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
