Each of them refused.
‘This is madness. We have to get the women and children off the island.’
In exasperation, Hereward gave Einar a direct order to lead Alphonso, Martin and the family off the island. ‘Do it. Do it now!’
The big Northumbrian nodded reluctantly and pulled Martin and Alphonso away. Hereward pushed Edwin towards them, and Einar included him in his corral. When Hereward tried to do the same with Edmund, he shook his head in defiance.
In a parting gesture, the four men turned to Hereward and placed a clenched fist over their heart, the salute of the Brotherhood.
Hereward’s defensive strategy had been well rehearsed and, after little more than an hour, the civilians were safely inside the abbey precincts and Ely’s walls were well manned.
Hereward quickly gathered his senior command together to agree on the positions each would take, before returning to the ramparts, where he had left Edmund holding the gold, crimson and black of his standard. However, as he approached, he noticed not just one figure standing beneath his colours, but four.
They all stood erect and motionless, silhouetted against the sky like sentinels.
Hereward stopped for a second, thinking he must be mistaken, but there, standing beside Edmund, were Einar, Martin and Alphonso.
‘What’s happened, where are the girls?’
Einar answered for all of them. ‘They all got away safely. Edwin has been put in charge and Gohor is a fine soldier. They will take care of them.’
‘But what about when they get to France?’
Martin then answered. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve got every intention of fighting my way out of here and joining them at St Cirq Lapopie.’ He moved towards Hereward. ‘The girls knew we had to stay. We’ve been through too much together to miss this fight. When I’m old and I’m telling the famous story of Hereward Great Axe, I can’t say that, when it came to the final battle, his three loyal companions went home!’
Alphonso made a similar point. ‘In Spain, we sing songs about heroes, but not about men who go home before the last battle!’
‘Are you all sure? This is a battle where the odds suggest our only victory will be a moral one.’
Einar responded. ‘With the three of us behind you, the odds are better than you think.’
There were embraces all round, before each chose his position for the onslaught.
William’s final attack on Ely’s ramparts, a masterclass of military coordination, was launched thirty-six hours later. It began with a hail of stone missiles and a torrent of boiling oil, followed by wave after wave of arrows shot high into the air. The stones inflicted terrible injuries on the defenders and massive damage to Ely’s buildings. The oil, delivered in clay pots which shattered on impact, burned people and homes far and wide. The arrows landed with a deadly cadence, and killed or maimed the defenders in droves. It was a lethal bombardment, against which there was no protection.
Then came a pause in the barrage, as King William ordered his infantry to advance. Men in the front ranks carried scaling ladders, and row upon row of archers and crossbowmen followed behind the solid phalanx of foot soldiers. As the front line reached a point about 100 yards from the walls, the bowmen knelt and shot rapid bursts of bolts directly at the defenders on the ramparts, to murderous effect. Then, while the deadly cascade continued, the infantry surged forward at a run and flung their ladders at the walls.
The battle for the ramparts took nearly four hours. Hundreds of William’s assault troops were killed and the piles of corpses beneath the ladders grew and grew. However, the men of the Brotherhood had no means of protecting themselves against the torrent of arrows and bolts which, slowly but surely, whittled away at their numbers. It was simply a matter of arithmetic: if William was prepared to send enough men up the scaling ladders, no matter how many were killed, they would eventually overwhelm the defenders.
With his companions constantly at his side, his standard always flying proudly as a beacon to the Brotherhood, Hereward ran along the thin ribbon of defenders. Wherever there was the prospect of a breach, he would stop to lend support. The Great Axe was not effective so close to his own men, but his sword meted out terrible retribution to any Norman foolish enough to clamber over the ramparts within his reach.
By the late afternoon, there was nothing more that Hereward and the defenders could do. The Normans had driven the Brotherhood from the ramparts along most of Ely’s walls and were swarming down the inside stairways. Hereward ordered a shield wall to be formed in front of the abbey; it would be the Brotherhood’s final redoubt.
It was then that Alphonso fell, hit between the shoulder blades by a lance thrown from the ramparts. Much as he tried, he could not get up. Blood poured from the deep wound in his back and, within moments, there was no movement at all.
Alphonso was the finest soldier Hereward had ever known. He could adapt to any conditions, fight on any terrain and use any kind of weapon. He was at his best on his own, or in a small group, and Hereward had learned more from him about the art of warfare than anyone — including William of Normandy, Harold of Wessex and Rodrigo of Bivar.
Now he was dead, killed by an aimless weapon thrown at random by an enemy he never saw.
The Brotherhood’s shield wall held for over an hour, but there were too many Normans and too few Englishmen. As quickly as an English battle-axe cut down a Norman adversary, another replaced him, until the wall was unable to steady itself against the weight of overwhelming numbers. The carnage was horrendous. Men were being hacked to pieces in a flailing mass of swords, axes and spears. Hereward stalked the redoubt with Martin and Einar, constantly moving up and down the line to reinforce weak points.
He was powerless to prevent the blow that killed Einar. He had rushed to a hole in the shield wall and had managed to close it when a spear was thrust between two shields, impaling him below the ribs. He fell to the ground on his knees, clutching at his chest and trying to stem the flow of blood, but it was futile. Hereward managed to get Einar to his feet, but he was losing consciousness. Martin and Edmund came to help; they pulled him away from the melee and laid him down.
He tried to speak, but was fighting for breath. Blood spluttered from his mouth as his chest filled and his lungs were swamped. There was nothing they could do, other than hold him as he fought for air. He looked at Hereward and, despite the pain of his wound and the terror of suffocation, managed to grasp his hand and summon a brief smile. Then he was still. Hereward gently placed his head on the ground, carefully wiped the blood from his face and beard and placed his weapons on his chest. Despite the mayhem just an arm’s length away, Hereward took his time, making sure the mighty Northumbrian met his death in the manner of a noble warrior.
Einar had been proud of his Viking blood, loyal to his English homeland, and a true friend.
By the time Hereward, Martin and Edmund got back to the shield wall it was in disarray. Earl Morcar was frantically trying to encourage the left flank, Thorkill of Harringworth was nowhere to be seen and had presumably perished, but Siward Bjorn still stood on the right, vigorously trying to keep his part of the wall in one piece.
Hereward did a quick count; there were barely 500 of the Brotherhood still fighting.
William summoned his cavalry. With the Matilda Squadron in the centre, the Normans formed up just beyond the walls of the burgh and streamed through the gates in a charge. The Norman infantry parted, to give their cavalry a corridor along which to attack, and they came on at full gallop.
Hereward rushed forward and took a solitary position in front of the shield wall. He ordered the remaining Brotherhood to close ranks behind him, raise their shields and spears and follow him to meet the Norman cavalry head-on. At the final moment, Hereward signalled to his men to fix their spears firmly in the ground and close their shields. Now it was time to deploy the Great Axe of Goteborg.
An irresistible force met an immovable object. Destriers reared and were impaled on spears; men were flung from their mounts and put to death on the ground by battle-axes; knights and sergeants barked encouragement; the fallen cried out in their death throes. Beyond the shield wall stood Hereward, the only man with space around him. Wielding his Great Axe in huge arcs, he fashioned a circle of death, despatching anyone who ventured into it.
He was used to fighting with armies of well-trained soldiers who fought with the steel of professionals, but now he was leading a band of zealots who fought with relentless vigour behind him. Their faith inspired him, multiplying his already prodigious strength, so that he cut swathes through the ranks of Norman cavalry. As he did so, the last of the Brotherhood followed him, wreaking havoc in the Norman ranks. The death toll rose inexorably.
