engulfed Hereward as he strode into the small thatched building. It was late afternoon, too early for most drinkers and for Edgar’s whores, who were still sleeping off their exertions from the night before. Only half a dozen men sat at the long oak tables. They stiffened as the visitor removed his cloak, revealing his sword and battle-axe. Hereward’s weapons gleamed as he stood in readiness.
Edgar, who had been preparing a new brew, broke the silence. ‘You’re welcome, young sir. Sit and drink with us.’
‘Thank you, sir. I seek three men. I will know them when I see them, and they will know me. I am Hereward of Bourne.’
Edgar was not a man to be awed by an eighteen-year-old boy, even one as formidable as Hereward. ‘Aren’t you a bit young to be about the Earl’s business?’
‘This is not the Earl’s business, this is my business.’
‘Sir, we live by the law here. If you have a score to settle, you should go to Earl Leofric — ’
Before Edgar could finish, a dark man, whom Hereward had last seen all those months ago, stepped forward. ‘You are lucky boy, a few minutes more with me and you would be pretty gelding, but I see I leave my mark on your face. I thought I would meet you again. Now I finish what I start…’
Hereward sensed movement in the room; his two other quarries had slipped in behind him. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw the blades of their swords, poised ready to strike.
‘Woman was very beautiful, but she was harlot. She didn’t want to die, she beg us, took us all, but the whore didn’t make us forget our duty — we kill her anyway. We gave you beating but you heal good. It is shame your recovery has been waste of time. Are you ready to die, boy?’
There must have been a signal between the three of them, but Hereward did not see it. His two foes to the rear had each taken a full pace before he sensed their movement. He turned quickly and instinctively sank to his knees as both their swords flashed over his head. As he made his turn, he sank his axe deep into the midriff of the attacker to his left, inflicting a mortal wound, and then rose and thrust his shoulder into the side of the second man, knocking him over a nearby table. But his main adversary was already at his back, about to strike. Hereward had just enough time to halt the foreigner in his final stride by jamming the point of his blade into his throat.
His foe held only a dagger but, instead of submitting, he smiled. ‘You are quick boy… and good with axe. I hope you are also good with sword.’
The second man had regained his feet and started to circle towards Hereward, stepping over the body of his friend, now in his death throes on the floor in an ever-widening pool of blood. He had picked up a burning log from the fire and threw it at Hereward, hitting him hard on the forehead, the hot embers scorching his face. At that moment, both his foes struck: the first slashed him across his upper arm with his sword, but he parried the thrust of the leader’s dagger with his sword. Hereward turned away from danger and dropped his axe so that he could take a firm grip of the wrist of the leader, using his great strength to neutralize the danger of his dagger.
Hereward’s sword arm, although wounded, was free and he quickly put it to lethal use by plunging his blade through the chest of the second man, shocking the life out of him. He released his grip of his sword, allowing the victim — still impaled on the end of it — to fall backwards into the fire. But Hereward did not loosen his grip on the wrist of the man he most wanted to kill; now he had him at his mercy. He used his right elbow as a bludgeon to batter the Spaniard’s face, shattering his cheekbone. Then, with one hand, he held him around the neck in an unbreakable headlock and, with the other, slammed his hand relentlessly on the table until his dagger dropped to the floor.
He started to squeeze the life out of his victim, as the all-powerful adrenalin of vengeance pumped through his veins. The Spaniard was a strong man with the hands of a mason, but he could not break Hereward’s grip. Edgar the Tanner looked on in shock: Hereward’s first victim lay on the floor, his lungs slowly filling, drowning him in his own blood; the second’s lifeless body was beginning to be consumed by the open fire; and the third, the leader, was being slowly and agonizingly strangled to death.
Hereward did not look at the man, nor speak to him; he just stared into the distance, thinking of Gythin. The man struggled at first, but then his movements subsided, his face swelled and his eyes bulged as if they were going to burst. Finally, the puce of the man’s gorged face paled, his lids closed over his blood-filled eyes and his body went limp.
Hereward held on, savouring the act of retribution.
The only sounds were the spit and crackle of the fire and the gentle dribble from the man’s leggings as his bodily fluids drained away for the last time.
It took Hereward only a few minutes to walk from Edgar’s tannery to the abbey. Blood flowed down his arm, and his face was blackened by soot and etched with scarlet burns, but he did not falter. He almost ran across the cloister of the abbey, avoiding the beautifully decorated stone crucifix in the centre of the crosswalk. It was deserted except for a few benches lining the quadrangle to facilitate prayer and contemplation.
Hereward threw open the heavy wooden door of the Great Hall. At one end, a huge fire spat flames towards the blackened roof timbers high above and filled the air with woodsmoke. There were several armed monks in the shadows, two more stood by the Abbot, along with his man-at-arms. They looked like Normans, with their distinctive chain-mail armour and nose-guard helmets.
The Abbot was a man to behold: his robes were a rich fawn, like chamois leather, and around his neck a heavy chain held a glistening gold crucifix, encrusted at its four corners by large rubies. He did not move, nor even look up, as Hereward made his dramatic entrance; he seemed to be in meditation, staring at the Scriptures that lay before him on the pages of a beautifully decorated Bible. Apart from his ostentatious garb, he had the appearance of a devout man of God: he was clean-shaven, had tonsured, cropped hair and the stern face of an ascetic. His left hand rested on the Holy Book, his right was hidden from view beneath the table; Hereward assumed it held a dagger. Silence reigned for a moment as the young thegn of Bourne surveyed the scene.
‘Do close the door; Ely’s winter chills me to the bone.’ The Abbot spoke in the clear, precise tone of an educated cleric practised in speaking down to congregations. ‘The usual arrangement is to make an appointment with my clerk.’
Hereward did not respond.
The Abbot still did not move his head, nor glance up from the page. ‘Do you read the Holy Scriptures?’
Again, Hereward said nothing.
‘You should. Let me read to you from the Book of Revelation of St John the Divine: And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.’ Finally, the Abbot looked up.
This brought an instant response from Hereward. ‘You are right; I bring Hell with me, Thurstan, Abbot of Ely. I intend to take you to Leofric, Earl of Mercia. There I will ask that you be tried for murder before the King. If you resist, I will kill you.’
Thurstan smiled. He looked down at the Scriptures once more. ‘You misunderstand. Let me continue: And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. You see, I am Death. I have the power of the sword and the beasts of the earth are mine… I think you have already felt my power… and met my beasts.’
‘Your beasts are no more. They have felt my power.’
Thurstan’s face turned to anger for the first time. His demeanour suddenly became vicious, contorted and cruel.
Now Hereward recognized his enemy, the kind of man who could, without a hint of remorse, order the murder of a woman in cold blood.
‘You are a naive boy. The Beast is legion; however many you kill, there will be multitudes more. Look around you.’
With that, Thurstan’s men stepped forward from the gloomy shadows of the hall and drew their swords. More than ten yards and the formidable obstacle of a large refectory table separated Hereward from Thurstan. However, without hesitation or regard for the impossibility of the odds, Hereward leapt on to the end of the table and raised his battle-axe. Almost immediately, the blades of the nearest swords slashed at his legs and he had little choice but to hurl his axe in an attempt to impale his quarry.
Hereward had practised the technique for many months. It was a close call, but Thurstan moved just enough to his left so that the wide blade of the axe missed his head and smashed into the back of the ornate oak chair he was sitting on. Nevertheless, his evasive movement, downwards and to the left, had raised his right shoulder
