but the calm was soon interrupted by the rumble of heavy cavalry. As the riders began to cross the causeway, three abreast in tight formation, their horses’ hooves clattering on the timber of the new bridge sent a chilling echo around the Isle.
The attack was a hopeless failure.
William had to put a large body of cavalry on to the causeway for the attack to have any momentum, but the structure appeared unable to support such a volume of men and horses, especially in the middle where it crossed the much deeper course of the River Cam. The pontoon began to give way after about 250 yards, and the charge lost its discipline. The lead horses panicked and, within minutes, hundreds of men and their steeds were floundering in the murky waters and deep mud.
Few got out alive.
William ordered his senior engineer to be executed on the spot and twenty of his sappers were flogged in front of the entire army.
Although the design of the pontoon was flawed, what William did not know was that its imperfections were significantly exacerbated by Hereward’s cunning. Night after night, Alphonso and Hereward and their squads of saboteurs had slipped into the cold waters of the Great Fen to partially sever the structure’s ropes and timbers beneath the waterline. Thanks to their handy work, the pontoon was doomed.
William rarely made mistakes, so to have made two in one day was unprecedented. Not only had he built an inadequate causeway, he had also failed to realize the significance of the day chosen for the attack. If he had owned an astrolabe, he would have known that it was the twenty-third day of June.
Hereward knew the date, because he had used his precious gift from Rodrigo of Bivar to calculate it. He had made plans for a religious service, followed by the roasting of an ox, because 23 June was the feast day of St Etheldreda, the virgin martyr of Ely and patron saint of the Brotherhood. When William belatedly heard of the coincidence, his fury knew no bounds. He dismissed his seers, sending them back to Normandy bound hand and foot and dressed as harlequins complete with foolscaps. He stormed around his camp in a drunken rage, berating everyone in sight.
William ordered a new, much more substantial causeway, to be built. It would begin opposite Aldreth, on the southern tip of the island at the furthest point from the Burgh of Ely. Norman soldiers were despatched far and wide to round up hundreds of English peasants to provide the forced labour to construct it. The new structure would be much longer, almost a mile, and would be solid and permanent. It would be based on piles formed by stone gabions, topped by sheepskins of sand and covered by heavy timbers of elm and oak.
Protected by towers and sentry posts and wide enough for cavalry six abreast, it would form an important part of the fortifications being built all over England to ensure that the kingdom remained under Norman rule for generations to come.
William would not repeat his earlier mistakes.
As July and August came and went, Hereward watched the new causeway grow. He knew that he needed to buy some extra time, to allow winter to come to the aid of the Brotherhood.
He organized raiding parties, large and small, all of which he led himself, to harass the Normans. Using small boats along the hidden waterways and streams of the Fens, he ambushed Norman patrols, burned their supplies and scattered their horses and livestock. On one of these punitive raids, Edwin, Earl of Mercia, was caught trying to cross a mere by a troop of Norman cavalry and cut down. His body was later recovered and, presided over by Bishop Aethelwine, he was given a funeral befitting an earl of England. His death meant that Morcar, Earl of Northumbria, became the last English earl not under the heel of the Normans.
In the middle of September, Hereward returned to Ely from a three-day raid on one of William’s supply camps on the road to Cambridge, to face disturbing news.
Bishop Aethelwine, Siward Bjorn, Earl Morcar and Martin Lightfoot came to see him with a report that, although morale remained high, Abbot Thurstan’s monks had been fomenting dissent within the Brotherhood. Earl Morcar had discovered that Thurstan was sending messages to William and that a deal had been done between them for the end of the siege.
In return for encouraging opposition within Ely, William would grant significant new lands to Thurstan and endow Ely Abbey with a considerable sum from his treasury at Winchester. Several monks were very tempted by this and, with Thurstan’s encouragement, had started a whispering campaign to spread doubt through the ranks. The monks were also talking seditiously to the townspeople, some of whom, especially the wealthier ones, had no real sympathy for the Brotherhood’s cause and would much prefer to trade with the wealthy Normans.
Hereward gave swift instructions to convene a court of fifty randomly-selected members of the Brotherhood in the cloisters of the abbey. Thurstan was summoned to appear before it. Earl Morcar presided and conducted an elaborate trial with witnesses and formal statements.
Thurstan spoke eloquently in his own defence, arguing that the ‘messages’ in question had all come from William and that none had gone the other way. He also claimed that it was the duty of monks to listen to all God’s children, to hear their concerns and to offer advice; that was all his clerics had been doing. Where previously there seemed to be certainty about his guilt, Thurstan’s clever arguments and subtle oratory were creating a sense of doubt within the court.
Then, a young monk, one of Thurstan’s men, rose from the back of the cloisters. ‘My Lord…’
The entire court turned to see where the faint voice came from.
The boy breathed deeply and spoke more loudly, trying to suppress his nervousness. ‘… Abbot Thurstan has been plotting for many weeks to undermine the Brotherhood and reach a settlement with the King for the future of the abbey. He cares nothing for our Oath and thinks only of himself.’ The boy sat down, relieved to have found the courage to speak, but still fearful of the consequences of his words.
Earl Morcar addressed him directly. ‘What is your name, young monk?’
‘Rahere, my Lord.’
‘Thank you, Rahere. Thank you for your faith in the Brotherhood.’
Thurstan seethed with anger at Rahere’s denunciation. He sat and rocked like a child, his face contorted in rage. ‘The boy lies! How dare he impune my name!’
Earl Morcar shouted Thurstan down and stood to address the court. ‘Members of the Brotherhood, Thurstan, Abbot of Ely and twelve of his monks stand before you. They are accused of dishonouring our Brotherhood, defaming our Oath and undermining our cause in an insidious negotiation with the King. How do you judge them? Guilty or not guilty?’
A great cry of ‘guilty’ rang around the cloisters.
The Earl then turned to Hereward. ‘Hereward of Bourne, founder of our noble Brotherhood, what would you have us do with them?’
‘Execute them!’ was the cry from many throats. ‘Execute them! Execute them!’ The cries grew louder.
Hereward rose. ‘Like you, I am sorely tempted to have them cut down here and now. Indeed, there is much history between Abbot Thurstan and me, a past so grievous it would warrant a bloody end to our relationship. We now know he did not take the Oath honestly, but out of expediency, to protect his own interests. He and his monks have wronged us, and now we are entitled to punish them. But our Oath does not mention vengeance, it talks only of justice. Our purpose here in Ely is to foster tolerance and forgiveness. Therefore, let us abide by our Oath and expel them from our midst. Let that be their punishment.’
Earl Morcar looked around. Most of the men nodded their heads in agreement, and Morcar declared that Hereward’s suggestion had been accepted.
Edmund of Kent was delegated to expel the guilty clerics. He summoned three small rowing boats and, stripped to their loincloths, the traitors were bundled into the craft.
Thurstan was a pathetic sight: hunched, disfigured and pale as a ghost, he cowered in the bottom of the last boat to leave as the disgraced monks rowed themselves to the Norman positions.
By the time the autumn gales of October arrived, King William’s second causeway was almost complete. Hereward’s subversive tactics had stalled the King’s plans, but not enough to allow winter to bring respite to the defenders of Ely. He needed just a fraction more time — a salvation that would be denied to him, as it had been to England’s stricken King on Senlac Ridge.
Now it was only a matter of days before England’s final redoubt would face the second Norman onslaught.
Under the guardianship of Bishop Aethelwine, who had become the new Chaplain to the Brotherhood,
