Conquest

As Hereward approached the door of the Abbot’s Great Hall, an armed monk stepped towards him. ‘Do you have business with Abbot Thurstan, sir?’

‘I do.’

Hereward brushed past him and, for the second time in his life, pushed open the heavy oak door of the hall. The timbers of the roof were still charred, the large table he had clambered on to all those years ago was still in the same place, and Thurstan was once again sitting at its head. But gone was the air of opulence surrounding him. He wore a plain black cassock, which looked worn and dirty, and absent from his neck was the ornate gold chain and crucifix. He was hunched over his food, his back arched and misshapen, and his hair was thin and grey and grew in sparse tufts. His eyes were sunken and his skin had the jaundiced pallor of a man in poor health.

He did not look up but, as if reliving their previous encounter, repeated the same phrase. ‘Do close the door; Ely’s winter chills me to the bone.’

Hereward, also in a reprise of their first meeting, did not respond.

Thurstan began to move, but struggled to raise his head. Whatever was afflicting his spine — something, no doubt, resulting from the injury Hereward had inflicted on him — he could not lift his chin much beyond his chest. Hereward could see that Thurstan’s chair still had the deep gash of the axe that had almost taken off his head all those years ago.

With the help of two young monks, the Abott hobbled over to the fire and sat on a bench close to the hearth. ‘I suppose you have come here to kill me?’

‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I am only interested in killing Normans, until they respect justice and the law.’

Thurstan’s face contorted into a sneer. ‘I see, vengeance used to be your hallmark, now it is self-righteousness.’

‘Thurstan, I have had to live with the consequences of my actions, just as you have had to live with yours. It seems I am coping with the legacy of my deeds somewhat better than you are handling yours.’

Thurstan’s face turned to fury. ‘What do you want in my abbey?’

‘Tomorrow, we go to the tomb of the virgin martyr, St Etheldreda, to swear an Oath to our Brotherhood of Englishmen and assert our rights as subjects of King William.’

‘Have you not learned your lesson by now? Senlac Ridge was lost, Harold is dead, England is William’s; he will do with it as he sees fit.’

‘All those things are beyond dispute, except the last. We mean to convince him that kings should rule with wisdom.’ Hereward clasped the Talisman, which he now wore openly outside his armour.

‘Ah yes, I’ve heard about this magic amulet you wear. You have become the hero of legend: a saviour, protected by a magic spell woven by a sorcerer from the forest and his enchantress of a daughter. So what do you expect from me?’

‘I expect nothing from you. We will stay outside the cloisters, which come under your jurisdiction, except for the right of passage to visit St Etheldreda’s tomb. However, if, as an Englishman, you feel you should take the Oath of the Brotherhood, that is for your conscience to consider. I intend to fortify Ely against an onslaught by William and no one will come or go without my direct authority. Other than that, just stay out of my way.’

‘And what of our reckoning — surely you must seek a resolution?’

‘I do not. God will punish you for your actions and, from the look of you, the fires of Hell already begin to burn brightly within you. As for me, your evil deed set me on a course which has brought me a life few have been fortunate enough to experience.’ He paused for a second and looked Thurstan in the eye. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. If you cross me in any way, take any action, or say anything that undermines the cause our Brotherhood has proclaimed, I will kill you in the blink of an eye.’

Hereward turned and left, his heavy steps once more echoing around the cloisters of Ely Abbey.

Built to hold her remains, and to allow pilgrims to make their devotions to her, St Etheldreda’s vault stood in a small chapel on the northern side of the cloisters of the abbey. Except for her hands, clasped in prayer and standing proudly from it, the stone slab of her tomb had her elaborately carved life-size outline cut into it. Laid across her hands by the nuns was a beautiful rosary in pearl and ruby beads, culminating in a delicate silver cross on which was chased the figure of the crucified Christ.

The daughter of a seventh-century East Anglian king, she had taken holy orders rather than relinquish her virginity in an arranged marriage imposed on her by her father, and was the foundress of the Abbey of Ely. She had become revered for her generosity, piety and wisdom and lived the rest of her life in poverty, bearing the constant pain of a large tumour on her neck, an infliction that she regarded as appropriate punishment for all the fine jewellery she had worn as a child. St Etheldreda was the perfect patron for the Brotherhood’s cause.