had to fight at Stamford Bridge before facing their onslaught; and they were lucky on the day of the battle, when the outcome could so easily have been different. To have to face Hardrada and the Norwegians in the North and then William and the Normans in the South, all within the space of a few days, was a cruel hand that fate dealt our noble King Harold. In his case, fortune didn’t favour the brave.’ He hesitated, reluctant to utter the words. ‘Now, his England, our England, has gone. It has gone for ever.’
The men shifted uncomfortably in the face of this barrage of unpalatable truths, but all knew in their hearts that Hereward was right.
‘It took many generations of war, struggle and negotiation to fuse England into a whole from its many parts. Now there must be a new England.’ He paused again, catching as many eyes as he could, trying to gauge whether these men would accept a new vision of their homeland. ‘We can make it happen. By your presence here, you are saying that you are not prepared to accept that England has become a province of Normandy, nor that we English have to think and act like Normans. I have a proposition for you. We will make a final redoubt, as we did on Senlac Ridge; one last stand to remind the world that England will not die easily. We will convince William that he has to recognize our collective will, just as we have had to bend to his. We will make the Normans realize that to rule here, they will have to acknowledge our ways, as we have to recognize theirs.’
Hereward paused again, relieved to see a brightening in the eyes of his men as he offered them new hope.
He started to raise his voice. ‘England will never die; it will live on in our customs, our language and our traditions. For now, we are conquered, but we will stand up to these Normans, make them appreciate us. And when they respect us, England will be England once more.’
The entire assembly rose as one; this time, not with a massive roar of approval, but more solemnly, like men preparing to stand together in battle.
‘From this moment, we will no longer call him William the Bastard; we will refer to him as William, King of England.’
There were many shouts of ‘No!’ from the men.
‘Yes, King of England, William the First! It is not a crown he wears by right, but one he has won in battle. He is now our King. It is a fact, and we must accept it. Even so, we retain the right to challenge any oppressive ruler. So our final redoubt is a stand we make to press our claim to be ruled justly, in the true tradition of England.’
Hereward clasped the Talisman. ‘I offer you a brotherhood of men. We will ride to Ely, to the tomb of the virgin martyr, St Etheldreda, where each of us will take this ancient amulet, the Talisman of Truth, and swear an oath affirming our rights as Englishmen. There we will stay until the King comes to us.
‘The Isle of Ely is my territory, close to my home, it is easily defended and its treacherous marshes and waterways will keep the King’s army at bay. Perhaps then he will listen to us. The people of England will hear of our stand; it will lift their spirits and gladden their hearts.’ Once more he raised the Great Axe of Goteborg. ‘To Ely, to form our Brotherhood and to make our last redoubt. Long live England!’
Every man present raised his battle-axe in solemn concord, followed by the cry ‘Long live England!’
Martin Lighfoot and Edmund of Kent sent word all over the land, proclaiming that an Oath of Brotherhood was to be taken at Ely and that any man willing to swear to defend the rights of England and the English should journey there.
Hereward deliberately chose a wide circular route to Ely. Everywhere they went, they sought out Normans. They spared lowly ones, giving them only a simple message: ‘We will be ruled fairly and justly, or not at all.’ But for Norman lords and knights the encounter meant death by axe and sword.
In a series of bloody encounters, the Brotherhood ambushed and killed a long list of prominent Normans: Ivo Tallebois, Sheriff of Lincolnshire; Frederick of Ostergele-Scheldewindeke, the brother-in-law of William Warenne; the Earl of Surrey; Gilbert of Ghent; Richard Fitzgilbert of Clare; and the biggest prize of all, William Malet, Sheriff of Yorkshire. Hereward was in the vanguard of all the attacks. He was the avenging angel, not driven by personal emnity, nor by a warrior’s duty, but by his faith in the cause of the Brotherhood — a devotion to a new England, the England Harold had dreamed of, a land where the fraternity of the people is far more important than the ambition of kings.
The slayings sent William into a rage that lasted all winter, causing Matilda and her children to return to Rouen. He drank and swore continually, barked orders at the top of his voice and threw things at anyone who got in his way. He became fatter by the day, sores broke out on his face and he suffered increasingly from gout and piles.
Neither the King’s health nor his mood were ameliorated by the sudden influx of pleas and representations about the harshness of his regime. They came not only from the English who had submitted to him, but also from many Normans. Hereward’s change of stance had struck a chord in English hearts and even in some sympathetic Norman ones.
William’s mood became even darker when, early in the spring of 1071, he heard that not only were the Danes still in Yorkshire, but that Svein Estrithson, the Danish King, had arrived in the Humber with a substantial fleet. William immediately prepared to ride north with his army.
Hereward was camped near Rockingham, on his way to Ely, when he heard the news of the arrival of the Danish King and of William’s march north. He immediately despatched Edwin to find out the reasons for Svein’s unexpected arrival.
Meanwhile, Martin’s scouts were ordered to track William’s every move.
28. Homage to a Virgin Martyr
Hereward and his Brotherhood rode into Ely in March 1071, more than seventeen years after he had crossed the burgh’s ancient causeway seeking vengeance on Gythin’s assassins and their paymaster, Thurstan, Bishop of Ely. It was a similar day, with a threatening sky and a bitterly cold wind. For his first fateful visit, the surrounding waterways had been an expanse of ice, but this time the wind was whipping the water of the Fens’ countless meres into frenzied plumes of spray. Not only had Hereward’s life come full circle to England, he was now back at the very place where his juvenile pursuit of retribution had led to his banishment and the beginning of his remarkable odyssey.
The Brotherhood made camp in the grounds of Ely Abbey. As the men busied themselves with their duties, Hereward paid a courtesy call. Although there had been an interregnum when King Edward removed him, having lost patience with Thurstan’s corrupt behaviour, he was still the Abbot of Ely after being reinstated by King Harold. As in their previous encounter, Hereward went alone. There were numerous monks in the cloisters and refectories, but the abbey looked shabby, not a hive of activity like other ecclesiastical establishments.
As Hereward approached the door of the Abbot’s Great Hall, an armed monk stepped towards him. ‘Do you have business with Abbot Thurstan, sir?’
‘I do.’
Hereward brushed past him and, for the second time in his life, pushed open the heavy oak door of the hall. The timbers of the roof were still charred, the large table he had clambered on to all those years ago was still in the same place, and Thurstan was once again sitting at its head. But gone was the air of opulence surrounding him. He wore a plain black cassock, which looked worn and dirty, and absent from his neck was the ornate gold chain and crucifix. He was hunched over his food, his back arched and misshapen, and his hair was thin and grey and grew in sparse tufts. His eyes were sunken and his skin had the jaundiced pallor of a man in poor health.
He did not look up but, as if reliving their previous encounter, repeated the same phrase. ‘Do close the door; Ely’s winter chills me to the bone.’
Hereward, also in a reprise of their first meeting, did not respond.
Thurstan began to move, but struggled to raise his head. Whatever was afflicting his spine — something, no doubt, resulting from the injury Hereward had inflicted on him — he could not lift his chin much beyond his chest. Hereward could see that Thurstan’s chair still had the deep gash of the axe that had almost taken off his head all those years ago.
With the help of two young monks, the Abott hobbled over to the fire and sat on a bench close to the hearth. ‘I suppose you have come here to kill me?’
