Conquest

Hereward was a prodigiously tall six feet one inch. His heavily muscled frame carried no fat and his long, athletic legs formed a strong base for a powerful upper body. Even as a teenager he could beat all the men of the village in whatever challenge they threw at him, and as soon as he had hair on his chin several of the more precocious girls of the village were inclined to take him off to the woods to have their way with him.

His behaviour became intolerable to his parents.

Matters came to a head in the spring of 1053, shortly after Hereward’s eighteenth birthday. It was a beautiful day, the sky crystal blue and the air still but enlivened by the cacophony of birdsong. Hereward and his father had been hunting with the village freemen in the Bruneswald. All men feared the seemingly endless Bruneswald. In the deepest parts it was as dark as night, and even the most daring hunters did not venture too far from the main tracks, for fear of what they would find, human or otherwise.

They had had a good hunt. As usual, Hereward, who had seen the deer first and had his arrow in flight before the others could reach for their bows, had bagged the main kill. As the hunting party approached the village, Hereward threw his prize across the neck of his father’s horse and rode off to the north, shouting as he went that he had a couple of things to attend to in the fields.

Leofric knew that he would be wasting his time trying to stop his son. He could only bellow into the distance, demanding that he be at his table by sunset. He watched Hereward disappear through the trees; his only son, a man-child he loved deeply, but who was a constant source of pain to him. The boy’s sense of fun was infectious but his body had outgrown his mind and he did not know how to control himself. No one had the fortitude to stand up to him, and his behaviour brought dissent and unrest to the village and challenged the authority of the church and its priest. Word had even reached Leofric’s distant relative and his namesake, Leofric, Earl of Mercia. In no uncertain terms, the Earl had already told Leofric to control his son, or he would do so.

Leofric had pleaded with the Earl to nominate Hereward for King Edward’s housecarls, but the answer was always no; he was too undisciplined to serve with the King’s elite corps.

Leofric suspected the worst, listening to the receding thud of hooves as his son rode away. He knew that Hereward was going to see a woman who was not only the most desirable in the district but also the kept woman of Thurstan, Abbot of Ely.

Thurstan was a devious man with powerful friends.

Gythin rushed to Hereward as he approached her small cottage. ‘Hereward! I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here; I’m so frightened.’

A striking woman, several years older than Hereward, Gythin had long auburn hair and bright hazel eyes. She had clear skin and strong features: high cheekbones, a small pouting mouth and a thin beak-like nose. She reminded Hereward of a bird of prey — beautiful but dangerous. He had been sharing her bed for several weeks, an experience very different from the quick trysts with the village girls.

He loved her body: she had strong shoulders, broad hips and a firm flat stomach. Sex with her was a revelation. She had taught him how to be gentle with her, how to touch her, how to tease her and how to control himself. There had been many long nights spent rehearsing these heavenly techniques. Hereward hoped this would be another, but Gythin’s cry of alarm had made his heart race.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I think Thurstan knows about us.’ Her words came quickly and breathlessly.

‘He hasn’t sent for me for three weeks. He always sends for me — or he sends me money — but I haven’t seen anyone in days. I have a terrible feeling about this; I must leave Bourne. Maybe the sisters at Huntingdon will take me.’

Hereward adopted his most mature bearing, galvanized by this sudden cry for help. He grabbed her and held her tightly; she was soft and vulnerable in his arms. As she lifted her eyes to meet his, he saw how terrified she was and he realized how much she risked by letting him bed her. He also realized how much he cared about her.

These were strange feelings for him; he had not cared about anyone before — except himself. His parents had always been there, and he readily took them for granted; his male friends were good company, but their time together was usually spent in a superficial haze of debauchery; his female acquaintances were merely passing fancies, assignations of little consequence — at least for him. Gythin was different; she listened to him — soothed him — but, somehow, was also able to chide him and scold him, without evoking his anger. She often told him how dangerous anger was. How she had seen it all too frequently in men, leading to the most terrifying of consequences.