right under our noses. Let’s hope he chooses the Skipton route. If he doesn’t, we will have to intercept him at Preston. Whichever way he chooses, we’re going to provoke him, in the hope that he might make the mistake we need. He’s now on our ground, close to our camp; he has split his forces and, because none of the innocent victims of his killing spree has been able to fight back, his guard might be down. Alphonso, we need a rota of men to watch the approaches to Skipton, and a party to climb Bowland Fell to watch the road from Lancaster. See to it.’
‘It will be done.’
‘Martin, send someone to York. We need to hear the latest news of William’s movements and of any other Normans on the rampage.’
‘He will leave immediately.’
‘The rest of us will sit tight here.’
On the last day of January 1070 word arrived from York and a patrol returned from the east. William had chosen the southerly option to cross the Pennines and was moving quickly towards Skipton. After the months they had spent there, they knew all the contours of the fells, and they also knew William would not expect anything untoward in such a remote location. Hereward ordered the lookouts on Bowland Fell to be recalled and gathered his entire contingent together to announce that he intended to ambush the Duke.
‘Men of England, today our struggle adopts a new guise. William comes to us and into the jaws of a trap we will set for him. This is the last time we will see Clitheroe Hill. It has been a good home to us, but today we move on. From now on, we move only on horseback and take only what each of us can carry. The Duke will soon pass through our valley. I intend to get close to him; close enough to kill him.’
Later that day, Hereward’s force left Clitheroe Hill for the final time and moved north-east towards Skipton. Gohor and his small group continued to protect the family, who were under strict orders to stay close to Hereward’s hearthtroop. The women and girls had cut their hair, dressed in men’s clothes and put a seax into their belts; they too were now at war.
With his hearthtroop taking the central position, Hereward split his squadrons into six groups and ordered each to camp at one-mile intervals along the valley. In the shadow of the mighty Pen Hill, Hereward’s squadrons waited.
They were concealed in the trees of Piked Acre Wood, above Chat’s Burn, a ford on Hey’s Brook, a small tributary of the nearby Ribble just north of the settlement of Downham. They knew that William’s force would be following an old Roman road that had become dilapidated and overgrown, and would cross the brook at this point. The ford was two parallel pairs of clapper stones, supported by a central pier, just wide enough for a cart. The column would have to cross at no more than two abreast.
When the Norman column was halfway across the ford, the two forward squadrons would attack, cutting William’s force in two. The other squadrons would then confront the entire length of the column. The English cavalry would emerge from the trees in compact groups of forty, while the Normans would be strung out along a thin and vulnerable line. The rear squadrons would try to destroy William’s baggage train, disperse his spare horses and make off with his supplies. Hereward and his men would attack William’s Matilda Squadron head-on.
In different circumstances, the scene of the ambush could not have been more picturesque. Nature had painted the valley in shades of black and white, its blanket of snow dissected by the inky silhouettes of the trees and by the burnt umber of the winding brook.
Two hours later the weather was atrocious, with snow falling heavily, driven by a powerful westerly wind that would lash the faces of the oncoming Normans. Their cloaks would be drawn across their mouths and noses, and their heads would be bowed into the teeth of the blizzard. Few would be casting glances to the sides of the valley. The conditions were ideal for a surprise attack; for once, circumstances favoured the English.
The Normans came on slowly. Hereward could see the Duke clearly; he had become fat and now bore only a passing resemblance to the fearsome figure he remembered from Rouen. Only the men of his Matilda Squadron were watchful, riding upright, scanning the trees for danger.
On Hereward’s signal, his squadrons swept down through the trees and scythed into the Norman column. The ambush worked perfectly and the Normans had no time to form up. When William’s herald signalled full gallop and the column tried to ride out of trouble, the track soon became congested. Most riders dispersed anywhere they could through the forest.
Hereward got within ten yards of William and their eyes met for the first time in six years. In the Englishman’s was fiery determination; in the Norman’s, boiling anger. Repeatedly, Hereward rode into the Duke’s finest cavalry, cutting them down in droves in his attempt to bring down his prey. Every time he cleared a path, more of the Matilda Squadron closed around their leader. At one point, Martin handed him a lance, which he hurled at his quarry with immense force. It missed William by only a foot and thudded into the chest of his standard-bearer with such venom that it took him clean off his horse.
Hereward could see the Duke fervently directing his men and issuing orders. At one point he could hear William bellowing threats of revenge but, try as he might, the ranks of defenders were too deep for Hereward to get any closer; there was just too much equine and human flesh between him and his enemy.
William escaped at a gallop into the trees and out of sight, and Hereward ordered his squadrons to return to their original positions. Short of impaling William on a lance, the ambush had been a great success: Hereward had lost over 30 men and a few more had serious injuries, but there were over 250 Norman dead and William’s entire baggage train had been captured.
There were a dozen or so Norman soldiers from the battle who had not been able to flee the carnage. Hereward learned from these prisoners that many of their fellow soldiers were appalled at what had been happening in recent weeks, but that William was constantly in a rage and would listen to no one, not even his senior lieutenants. William had split his force into four as it left York. One group had gone north-east towards the coast, a second had made for Lincoln and the South, and a third had moved south-west towards Wakefield and Doncaster. William’s group, about 500 strong including his own Matilda Squadron, had travelled as far as Durham, which had been put to the sword in an orgy of killing. None of the local people was spared, no building was left standing, nothing edible was left alive, and all food stores and smokehouses were destroyed. The group was now bound for Chester.
The Duke’s regime was almost unbearable. He made his men ride for twelve hours every day; it was pitch black when they broke camp in the mornings and just as dark when they made camp in the evenings. When they were ordered to leave York in the winter, there was significant discontent in the ranks, but when it was discovered that they were to go through the Pennines to Chester, murmurs of mutiny began. When hints of this reached William, he had the ringleaders singled-out and flogged in front of all his squadrons. The talk stopped, but the resentment grew deeper.
Hereward had heard enough. The morale of William’s men was clearly at a low ebb, and disgruntled men do not fight well. In addition, William was obviously in a constant rage, and men in ferment make mistakes; perhaps he would soon present Hereward with the opportunity he prayed for.
Alphonso asked Hereward what should be done with the Norman prisoners.
‘Let them go. Tell them to help their wounded, but they must fend for themselves.’
‘We should kill them. They’ve been slaughtering the innocent — women and children. Besides, when they are found, they’ll tell William everything they’ve seen and heard here.’
‘Let the Normans do the cold-blooded killing. We will have plenty of opportunity to kill them in battle. As for what they reveal about us, William will know all our secrets long before we see these men again.’
Hereward looked back on the scene of the ambush.
The wind had relented, allowing the snow to fall gently on the fells. The valley was no longer the light and dark of a winter idyll. Chat’s Burn had turned crimson; the chestnut flanks of the fallen horses glistened in the snow amid the bloodied shapes of the dead.
In a series of lightning strikes from horseback and night-time guerrilla attacks, Hereward harassed William all the way to Chester.
None of the encounters was on the same scale as Chat’s Burn, but they were effective. At long last, the Normans were on the run. By the time they reached Chester, William’s force had dwindled to less than half the strength he had when he left York.
On several occasions, their eyes met and they came close to one another, but Hereward’s force was too small to do anything other than harry and withdraw. William also seemed to retain his good fortune: well-aimed arrows and lances missed him by inches or struck men close to him. He was never isolated from his elite defenders,
