Conquest (52 page)

Hereward was torn between two wildly contrasting emotions: elation at the King’s words, which were at least the beginnings of justice and compassion, and ignominy that he would live when so many had died.

‘Sire, I am ashamed at the prospect of survival amid so much death.’

‘Why feel shame? Isn’t it what you fought for?’

William summoned Robert of Mortain and told him to take the girls away. Hereward begged to be allowed to see them, but the King was adamant.

‘Your girls will stay in England as guarantors of your future conduct. You have my word that they will live and prosper for as long as you remain beyond England’s shores and well away from its affairs.’

Hereward could hear Gunnhild and Estrith’s howls of protest as they were taken away. They were harrowing sounds that he would hear for the rest of his life.

‘Sire, you have my word as to my conduct, but please let the girls go to their home in Aquitaine with the others.’

‘I believe you now, but circumstances change over the years. The presence of your children here will ensure that you are never tempted to change your mind. They will be well treated at Mortain’s court; he is a good man. They will be given a dowry and allowed to marry by choice; husbands will not be forced on them.’

‘And what of my other family, sire?’

‘They will be given a safe escort to Aquitaine with the young English knight, Edwin. They may take their money with them, but they must know nothing of your fate, or your whereabouts; neither must your daughters. It will be for the best if they come to accept that you are dead. They
will all leave Ely today, your girls with Count Robert to live in Cornwall, the rest of the family on a ship to Normandy. You will stay hidden in this chapel under guard until you are fit enough to travel.

‘When you are ready, you will be spirited away to Normandy’s border with France. From there, you can go anywhere you choose, on condition that no one knows your true identity and that your destination is far from England and Normandy. Nobody must know what has been said in this chapel. Your fate will become a mystery and your deeds the stuff of legend; you should be content with that.’

Without another word or parting gesture, William turned and left.

St Etheldreda’s Chapel was sealed, except for one of the King’s physicians who came and went under cover of darkness.

After ten days of treatment and healing, Hereward and all his belongings were packed on to a cart. A month later, he was in Paris, recovering from his ordeal; he would never see England again.

Hereward’s struggle and the resistance of the people of England were over.

The events surrounding the end of the Siege of Ely were soon woven into legend. Some stories suggested that Hereward had escaped into the Bruneswald to fight another day; others said he had died under torture at William’s own hand and that his body had been taken for burial at nearby Crowland Abbey.

The most fanciful tale claimed that he had died from his
wounds, but that his soul would never leave his body until England was free and that on dark nights his spectre could be seen high above Ely Abbey, hovering over the Great Fen like a beacon.

Epilogue

The sun had been up for an hour over the western Peloponnese by the time Godwin of Ely came to the end of his story, a story that had been almost three days in the telling.

Godwin of Ely and Hereward of Bourne were one and the same man. Godwin, the old recluse, who had lived for years in his lonely eyrie, was indeed the guardian of the Talisman and the leader of the English resistance to the Norman Conquest.

Only three men had heard his account of the life and times of the Lincolnshire thegn, Hereward of Bourne: Prince John Comnenus, the son of Alexius I, the Emperor of Byzantium; Prince John Azoukh, close friend and lifelong companion to John Comnenus; and Leo of Methone, priest of this remote valley in Hellas.

Godwin was exhausted. He was very pale and was lying heavily in his padded resting place amid the rocks of his mountain hermitage. Prince John Comnenus ordered the fire to be built up and told his stewards to prepare food. But when hot soup was served, the old warrior was too weak to raise the bowl to his mouth and refused it.

Godwin looked very frail, so much so that John Comnenus became concerned. ‘Godwin of Ely, we must take you down the mountain so that we can take care of you properly.’

‘No thank you, sire. I will spend my remaining time here in my home. I have been here for many years; I’ve grown very fond of it.’

‘How can we make you more comfortable?’

‘I am fine; the morning sun will refresh me.’

John Comnenus realized that Godwin would not be persuaded to move. Although he looked feeble, he seemed content.

‘Then, if you will permit me, I have one final question for you. How did my father come to wear the Talisman?’

Godwin took a deep breath, as if summoning the last of his strength and resolve. ‘After a long period of recovery and reflection, Hereward of Bourne became reconciled to never seeing his country or his family again. He found modest contentment in knowing that he had made some impact on the brutality of William’s rule. He was sure that the King would keep his word about his daughters, who had a good chance of a happy life, and that the survivors of his loyal family would live out their days in safety at St Cirq Lapopie.

‘As for England, he was relieved to hear that, as the years passed, the cruelty diminished and Norman rule became more bearable. He travelled to Constantinople and joined the Varangian Guard of the Byzantine Emperor, and served with distinction for many years. When your father became Emperor in 1081, Hereward, who had by then created a new name for himself, rose through the ranks to become Captain of the Guard, of what we now call the Old Order. They campaigned together until Hereward was well over fifty years of age, when he retired with Alexius’ blessing. Despite repeated pleadings, Hereward would take no title nor accept a gratuity of estates or wealth, asking only for anonymity, which your father gladly gave him.

‘Hereward asked your father if he would accept the Talisman, which, knowing its significance for Hereward, Alexius agreed to. So Hereward withdrew to a remote part of the Empire, the whereabouts of which were known only to the Emperor and a few men he trusted. He has been there for over twenty years and is now a very old man.’

‘That is quite a story, Godwin of Ely. I am grateful to you for sharing it with me. Now that my father has entrusted me with the Talisman, I wonder if you would return it to Hereward of Bourne for me?’

‘But I am sure he would want you to wear it, my Prince.’

‘I am flattered, but I don’t think it is necessary. Your story has taught me all I need to know about kingship. I think I understand the Talisman’s message.’ Prince John Comnenus placed his hand on Godwin of Ely’s shoulder. ‘I hope I can live my life as bravely and nobly as Hereward of Bourne did.’

‘You have made a good beginning, my Prince. Your father is a great Emperor and an even better man. You seem to have many of his qualities. Follow his advice, live by his example, and you will become a worthy successor. Byzantium will flourish under your reign and you will leave a legacy that will be remembered for generations to come. But remember, you are only a man; even emperors are mortal. Lives, even great ones, soon become memories. Learn from the past, but live your life in the present and hope that the future will benefit from what you do on earth.’ The old man leaned over and grabbed the Prince’s arm. ‘Remember, once your time is over, it has gone for ever.’

As the Old Man of the Wildwood had become wise beyond the grasp of ordinary men, so the Old Man of the Mountain had acquired extraordinary intuition and insight. Now he was able to guide the young prince, as his mentor had once guided him.

Prince John Comnenus, deep in thought, looked to the east towards his home in Constantinople. He realized that the story of Hereward, Thegn of Bourne, would always be with him. He hoped that when his reign as Emperor came to be judged by history, his deeds would stand comparison with those of Hereward, England’s last and finest warrior.

Leo of Methone abruptly interrupted his contemplation.‘My Lord Prince!’

John Comnenus turned back towards Godwin of Ely. His eyes were closed and he seemed very still.

The three men rushed to his side to rouse him, but the drama of his long life was finally over.

Godwin was facing north-west, towards England, and looked content. As he died, he would have been remembering those he loved. The faithful Edwin, the young envoy; Ingigerd and Maria, the family’s heart and soul, and their lovely daughters, Gwyneth and Wulfhild; Edmund of Kent, who finally committed Abbot Thurstan to the fate that he deserved; mighty Einar, his loyal second-in-command; Alphonso of Granada, the finest soldier he had ever known; Martin Lightfoot, a mercurial companion who could sing as well as he could fight, and whose stories filled their lives with humour; and his delightful daughters, Gunnhild and Estrith, whose love and understanding nursed him through the terrible ending of the Siege of Ely.

Finally, he would have thought of Torfida, the remarkable woman whose life had shaped his own. The prediction made by the Old Man of the Wildwood had come to pass; she did indeed become his guide and his inspiration, and it was her destiny to help him find his.

He would also have been contemplating his homeland; a realm he must have assumed had already forgotten him. In truth, he had changed it more than he could have imagined. His legacy would be generations in the making, but would be part of a new England, where the storytellers would one day call Hereward of Bourne ‘The Last of the English’.

In fact, he was not the last of his kind; he was the foremost. He was ‘The First of the English’.

John Comnenus organized an honour guard for the funeral. A soft piece of ground was chosen, not far from where they had spent the long days and nights of storytelling, and Godwin of Ely – for that was now his name – was buried facing England.

Men of the Varangian Guard dug a deep grave, so that he would never be disturbed, and so that they could place in it all his precious belongings.

Leo blessed each one as it was arranged around his body: the neatly wrapped robe of a Captain of the Varangian Guard of the Old Order; an awesome arsenal of weapons, including his English battle-shield in ash, his Byzantine bronze shield and his father’s sword; his personal standard in gold, crimson and black; and his astrolabe, a gift from Rodrigo of Bivar and the lodestone that he always carried.

The Great Axe of Göteborg was positioned on his chest, resting under his chin, and smaller items were laid either side of it: the Order of the Cotentin, given to him in Sicily; an array of medals awarded by the Emperor Alexius; the old iron key to Bourne Church; and his mother’s jewels, a few simple stones set in bronze.

A single gold piece from the reign of King Cnut, which King William had placed on the tomb of St Etheldreda, was put carefully into the palm of one hand. And in the other was placed a handful of bullion from the reign of Edward the Confessor, wrapped in a scroll from Osbjorn, Prince of Denmark. Finally, the Virgin Martyr’s rosary was draped over them.

The most precious items were arranged in a fine inlaid chest, a gift from John Comnenus, and placed above his head: the Roll of Honour of the Brotherhood of St Etheldreda; Torfida’s wooden inscription, his beloved’s last and most important message to him; her wedding ring of Russian gold; and her valued personal possession – a parchment map of the world.

Last of all, the Talisman of Truth, the ancient amulet that had given meaning to his life, was placed around his neck for the final time.

At the last, Prince John hesitated. He signalled to the funeral party to pause. The heir to the Purple of Byzantium then fell to his knees and reached into the grave to retrieve the Talisman from the neck of Godwin of Ely.

He turned to John Azoukh. ‘He sacrificed so much in its cause; I don’t think he would have wanted the Talisman to lie in his grave for eternity. After all, he was only its guardian. We will take it back to Constantinople; perhaps one day we’ll have need of it.’

Each of the Varangians present then took it in turns to cover the body of Godwin of Ely with the parched earth of the Peloponnese. Afterwards, Prince John ordered that everything on the hilltop be destroyed so that, in keeping with his oath to King William, no trace of his final resting place would ever be found.

Leo of Methone read an epitaph. ‘Here lies Godwin of Ely, known in a previous life as Hereward of Bourne. No nobler man has ever lived. May he rest in peace.’

John Azoukh placed a simple wreath of olive leaves on the grave.

Prince John Comnenus looked towards the north-west. ‘I would like to go to England one day. They are an interesting people; I feel certain we will hear more of them … I wonder if the domain of the Wodewose of England’s wildwoods extends all the way to the Peloponnese?

‘But I don’t suppose it matters – I’m sure he will welcome back the Old Man of the Mountain to the earth that gave him life.’

Postscript

In the year 1118, following the death of his father, Alexius I, John Comnenus became the Emperor of Constantinople. His reign was the high point of a Comneni dynasty noted for the wisdom and justice of its rule. Despite his less than handsome features, his own tenure as Emperor was so highly regarded that he became known as ‘John the Beautiful’.

The Norman dynasty prospered in England long after William’s death, and there were no more risings by the English people. A revolt of the earls in 1075 was little more than a dispute about levels of taxation within the feudal aristocracy. The wild reaches of Wales were soon subdued and King Malcolm of Scotland had to bow to William by the Treaty of Abernathy in 1072.