Stewart Binns: Conquest

William lifted his Baculus high into the air and, with a guttural cry, struck a fearsome blow to the side of Martin’s head. He died instantly, keeling over without making a sound, blood pouring from his ears, mouth and nostrils.

Hereward let out a cry of anguish and tried to free himself, but to no avail. He looked at William with loathing.

William was coldly impassive. ‘Before you also receive my justice, the justice you have been at pains to recommend I should exercise wisely, I have a surprise for you.’

At a signal from William, Hereward was pulled up on to his knees. Then, from between a gap in the circle of cavalry, a bedraggled line of humanity appeared, wet and dirty and shivering from cold. It was his family, with a badly beaten Edwin beside them.

‘You should have killed me when you had the chance.’ It was Thurstan’s voice. The Abbot spoke sneeringly as he threw a bloodstained tunic on to the ground, which Hereward presumed was Gohor’s. ‘My monks knew exactly where your boat was hidden. They have lived on this Isle all their lives and know its every nook and cranny. They followed as your happy band refreshed it with provisions. When the boat pulled away, we simply let it disappear out of sight, before the Norman butescarls took it in tow and brought your loved ones to face their King’s judgement.’

Hereward felt a burning hatred that knew no limit. Thurstan was right; he should have killed him when he had the chance. Hereward again strained at his bindings, but even his great strength was unable to make any impression on them.

The King began to speak, but Edmund of Kent, who had not yet been manacled by his captors, grabbed the reins of a knight’s horse, pulled a lance from his grasp and hurled it at Thurstan. It struck the crippled abbot squarely in the chest, knocking him on to his back. He grabbed the lance with both hands in a futile attempt to pull it from his ribs, but it was embedded too deeply. He was dead within seconds.

William bellowed to his knights and Edmund was cut down.

Hereward cried out in desperation. ‘Stop! Stop this killing! It is me you want, my Lord King. You are right, I have spoken for the justice of kings, and I am now ready to receive it. Kill me now; let it be an end to it. Spare the others, spare my family, I beg you, William, King of England, Duke of Normandy, I beseech you.’

‘So it is true, you do acknowledge my sovereignty of this land.’

‘I do, sire, I did many months ago. What we fought for here was the right to be fairly treated as Englishmen.’

‘How could I have failed to hear? You made such a din about it all over my kingdom! It is good that you now beg before your King, because I intend to make you pay for your conceit.’ William turned to his knights. ‘Have him lashed!’

Hereward was held down while his bindings were removed and he was stripped of his armour and clothes. His hands and elbows were tied again, and he was strapped to a post where he was flogged repeatedly.

His family screamed and begged the King to show mercy. He ignored them, not even glancing in their direction. Hereward did not cry out; his only sounds were deep intakes of breath to counter the searing pain of each blow. Eventually, he lost consciousness.

A pail of cold water brought Hereward back to consciousness with a shudder.

Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, then barked a question at him. ‘What say you now about the King’s justice, Hereward of Bourne?’

Hereward answered with difficulty. ‘I say the King has the right to administer justice as our sovereign lord. But he also has the responsibility to administer that justice according to the dictates of his own conscience. I would ask him this: is his justice compassionate?’

William rose in a fury, picked up his Baculus and strode towards Hereward.

As he lifted the huge mace, Hereward made himself as upright as he could and looked William in the eye. ‘Strike well for England, my Lord King. Do what you think is right.’

William took aim but, as he did so, a flicker of light from the many torches that had been brought to the ever-darkening scene was reflected in the Talisman that still hung from Hereward’s neck.

William saw the face of the Devil.

He stopped, suddenly intimidated, remembering the stories he had heard about the charm that the English leader carried around his neck. The Baculus hovered above Hereward’s head for several moments before the King let it fall to his side.

‘Lock up the women and children. Leave Hereward of Bourne where he is – no food, no water, no fire. He is to be guarded at all times. We shall see how defiant he is in the morning.’

By dawn the next day, Hereward was a pitiful sight; still naked and deathly pale, he shivered uncontrollably. Although the lacerations on his back had dried, early morning rain had moistened them and they stung sharply from the salt of his perspiration.

King William appeared with his retinue about an hour after dawn. Hereward’s family members were once again brought forward. They were calmer than the night before, but only through exhaustion. So that he could fully comprehend what he was about to witness, Hereward was roused by ice-cold water and a few well-aimed kicks.

Loaded on to carts, the survivors of the final redoubt of the Brotherhood were paraded before their stricken leader. Earl Morcar was shackled hand and foot, gagged and blindfolded, but he was the only man still whole. All the others had been tortured and brutalized. Some had had their eyes gouged out, others had lost hands, tongues, ears, or feet; all had been whipped and beaten. Hereward recognized almost all of them: Siward Bjorn, Bruhar the Brave, Wolnatius, Siward the Blond – ninety men, England’s finest, now mutilated such that few had much chance of survival.

‘So, Hereward of Bourne, this is what has become of your “Brotherhood”. This is what happens to men who dare to challenge me in my own domain.’

Hereward’s words came slowly from the edge of consciousness. ‘You can’t kill all Englishmen. Eventually, you will have to accept that strong kingdoms are those that are ruled with the goodwill of their subjects.’

William turned ever more puce. He walked over to Hereward and bellowed at him. ‘Is there no limit to your defiance?’

‘Sire, I beg you. I beg for compassion for the people of England.’ Hereward slumped against the post to which he was still bound.

‘Drag him into the cloisters! Bring the family!’

William led the procession into the broad cloisters of Ely Abbey, long since deserted by the citizens of Ely. Still under the care of Bishop Aethelwine, they had dispersed to their homes around the burgh – safe, for the time being, from the King’s wrath.

Hereward was on the threshold of death as he was dragged into the Chapel of St Etheldreda and thrown at the base of her tomb. Gunnhild and Estrith were pulled from the others, dragged into the chapel and spreadeagled over the image of the virgin martyr. Once more, Hereward was revived. This time, cold water was not sufficient and they had to use hot torches on his feet until he regained consciousness sufficiently to hear the King’s enraged voice.

‘Will you, Hereward of Bourne, sacrifice your children for the Oath of the Brotherhood?’

Hereward failed to respond and the King bellowed more loudly.

‘Will you sacrifice your brood for the Oath of the Brotherhood?’

As Hereward raised his head, he could see two of William’s henchmen, each with a sword to the throat of his girls.

‘They will die here and now on the Virgin’s tomb unless you renounce the Oath of the Brotherhood.’

William was shaking and sweating, his voice tremulous with rage. Estrith and Gunnhild screamed as he shouted his demands; their cries echoed around the abbey.