enough for the blade to tear into his flesh and shatter his collarbone. As soon as Hereward realized that his axe had made a mark, he somersaulted from the table in an attempt to find a space within which to defend himself. But his legs were weak from the lacerations they had already received and, as soon as he hit the ground, he collapsed into a heap.
Thurstan’s men rushed towards him, poised to hack him to death.
‘Hold!’ Thurstan bellowed with as much volume as the deep gash to his shoulder would allow. The whole of the upper right-hand part of his robe was already dyed crimson from his wound. He sat motionless; even the slightest movement, in an attempt to extricate himself from the axe, cut deeper into his flesh. ‘Remove this confounded axe before it cuts me in two!’
Without hesitation, two of the Abbot’s warrior priests stepped forward. While one held Thurstan’s upper body, the other levered the axe upwards out of the deep gouge it had made in both the flesh and bone of its target and in the solid oak of the chair. The wood screeched as the blade was prised from it, but could not mask Thurstan’s howls.
‘This petulant son of Bourne is dripping blood all over my floor. Bring him here, hang him from the roof.’
Hereward was bound by the wrists and hoisted off the ground by a rope cast over the bracing piece of the roof’s massive cruck beam. He had numerous sword wounds to his legs and buttocks; he could not feel some of the toes on his left foot, and blood was rapidly draining out of him. He was left to hang like a carcass in a smokehouse, and a large spit pan was placed under his feet to catch the blood that seeped from his legs.
One of the priests made an all-too-apparent observation to Thurstan. ‘My Lord, your wound is deep. You too are losing much blood; I’m afraid you will have to bear the hot iron.’
‘I know that, you fool! Prepare me.’
A hot poker was thrust deep into the fire. As they waited for it to attain the deep-red glow of a branding iron, Thurstan was stripped to the waist and placed on the table. Two men held a leg each; two more stood on either side, holding his arms with their weight on his chest, while a fifth knelt on the table behind him and pulled his face away from his stricken shoulder. The deed was quickly done. As the iron sank deep into the Abbot’s shoulder, the wound sizzled and a cloud of pungent smoke carried the stink of burning flesh into the air.
After a while, unconsciousness spared Thurstan any further suffering and he was carried away to his bedchamber.
It was late evening before the Abbot reappeared in the hall. He was ashen-faced, grimacing with pain and able to stand only with the support of two men.
‘Is he alive?’
‘I’m not sure, my Lord. I think his blood is all but drained from him.’
‘Let’s see if a hot iron can rouse him.’
Hereward had lost consciousness some hours earlier, but now he could feel a dull pain. He did not have much feeling in his legs, and his head was jammed backwards by his arms. He could see only the dark beams of the roof and the flicker of firelight in its rafters. He could hear muffled shouts echoing in the distance and felt as if he were floating.
His strongest sensation was the smell of roasting meat; he could remember the hot iron on Thurstan’s wound and the sickening scent of scorched human flesh. Then he realized where he was and what was causing the pain: this time, the flesh being seared was his.
Thurstan had just enough strength to lift his left arm and prod the glowing red poker into Hereward’s wounds. As soon as the steam of the blistering flesh carried away the iron’s potency, Thurstan ordered that it be quickly reheated.
Hereward was now fully conscious and would have cried out if he could, but there was no air in his lungs to carry a sound.
He thought about his short life — remembering Gythin, his village and his parents — and, for the first time, he was frightened. He had always thought of himself as invincible; now he was helpless, lonely and minutes from death.
Tears stung his eyes and rolled down his face.
He now understood why other boys cried; he remembered the fear and loathing in their eyes as he bested them in their countless contests. He was suddenly overwhelmed by an immense sense of guilt. He knew that it was his reckless pursuit of Gythin that had caused her death, and he felt ashamed.
Never was a man less ready to meet his Maker; surely these were the fires of Hell already consuming his flesh.
Leofric knew instantly where his son had gone when he disappeared from the village.
The same loyal group of men who had accompanied him on the fateful journey to Gythin’s cottage once more travelled with him to seek the aid of Earl Leofric. The Earl helped him formulate a plan to save his son’s life.
With the Captain of the Earl’s Guard, a dozen of his men and a warrant for Hereward’s arrest, Leofric burst into Abbot Thurstan’s hall just after midnight.
The men stopped dead in their tracks at the scene before them. Hereward’s limp body, silhouetted by the dying embers of the fire, twisted slowly as it hung from the roof. The faces of his torturers glistened with sweat; the room was dark, more like a dungeon than a place of worship. Thurstan, again in a state of unconsciousness, was slumped in his chair with his men standing around him, not knowing what to do.
Hereward seemed lifeless, almost beyond hope.
For a few moments, a stand-off ensued between clerical law and the Earl’s secular domain.
Leofric spoke with the authority of a thegn of England, trained as one of Edward’s elite housecarls. ‘Who here speaks for Thurstan?’
A tall monk stepped forward. ‘I do.’
‘I have a warrant for the arrest of Hereward of Bourne. It is signed by Leofric, Earl of Mercia. I will take him now.’
‘This is a matter for the Church. It will be resolved when Abbot Thurstan recovers.’
‘You address a thegn of the realm, priest. This matter will be judged by the King at Winchester; he rules on all matters, temporal and ecclesiastical. I suggest you make a quick decision, or you will be held to account for what has happened here.’
The monk glanced at his colleagues and surveyed the Earl’s Guard with Leofric.
‘We will require guarantees that this young thug — ’
Sensing the priest’s capitulation, Leofric pushed past him before he could finish his sentence.
Hereward was cut down.
He seemed lifeless, his skin the pallor of limewash. Leofric rushed to him, pulled him up by his shoulders and searched for signs of life. His body was cool and stiff, as if rigor mortis had begun.
Leofric’s head sank in despair as he gently rested his son’s head on the stone floor.
‘He’s alive.’ The Captain of the Earl’s Guard spoke quietly but confidently. ‘He’s breathing.’
The Captain knelt, then pushed down hard on Hereward’s chest. As he released the pressure, the injured man’s lungs filled with air and the faintest of breaths could be felt across his lips.
Leofric leapt to his feet. ‘Get him on to the cart. Let’s get him to Peterborough.’
3. Outlaw in the Wildwood
In a petition that both fired his imagination and taxed his intellect, it was many months later that King Edward heard the plea of Leofric, Thegn of Bourne, concerning his son, Hereward. The evidence had taken the whole of a morning session and it was now well into the afternoon, and still the King had not passed judgement. No one at the King’s Council at Winchester could think of a precedent. Edward had withdrawn from the Great Hall and was pacing his cloisters deep in thought; the formidable Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex and England’s senior earl, who also happened to be Edward’s brother-in-law, strode a few feet behind.
Life in England under the saintly King Edward was peaceful, but there were great anxieties about the future. His formidable mother, Emma, was the daughter of Richard I, Duke of Normandy and, during the reign of the Danish kings, Edward had spent his early life exiled in Normandy. Much more comfortable with Normans, he had appointed
