Conquest

The King was only fit to leave his bed over a week after the mysterious events in St Etheldreda’s Chapel. Dressed in full armour, he donned his royal regalia and rode into Ely in great pomp. However, he entered St Etheldreda’s Chapel cautiously, with only Robert, Count of Mortain, his half-brother and most trusted lieutenant, for company.

Gunnhild and Estrith, who sat either side of their father, moved closer to him as the King appeared. William was still pale and vapid. Hereward, however, looked alert and tolerably comfortable. His daughters had done a remarkable job in keeping him alive.

The King looked around nervously and beckoned to Robert of Mortain to take the girls outside. Looking back anxiously, they struggled and screamed, but had no choice.

The Talisman still lay across St Etheldreda’s praying hands. The gold piece was still on the virgin’s breast, and the rosary still decorated her clasped fingers.

‘You have put a spell on this place, Hereward of Bourne. The hand of the Devil is at work in this chapel.’

‘There are no devils here; there is only goodness in this place.’

‘You conjured a trick to deceive me. Your wife was a sorceress; her girls have inherited her proficiency in the black arts.’

‘This has nothing to do with the black arts. It is about truth and justice.’

William inhaled a deep sigh, sat down on a bench and stared at St Etheldreda’s tomb. He suddenly seemed vulnerable. ‘I was born the son of a duke, but my mother was a tanner’s daughter from Falaise. I have had to fight all my life to be recognized as the rightful heir to the Dukedom of Normandy. Now I am a king but, again, I have to fight to be accepted. Why won’t the English recognize me? Why?’

‘Sire, Normandy is used to being ruled with an iron fist. England is a different land, with a diversity of people, languages and customs. England has always been ruled according to ancient traditions: that its rulers can be challenged; that oppression is to be resisted; and that independence is to be cherished. This is the land you have won in battle; it is very different from Normandy. You must understand that.’

‘Would you have let your daughters die when I challenged you?’

‘I had no choice, sire. I could not renounce a sacred oath under pain of death — either theirs or mine. I hope Gunnhild and Estrith, young as they are, understand that. It is a terrible thing for a father to place his daughters in mortal danger, but that peril was wrought by you, not by me.’

The King stood. ‘Something happened to me in this chapel. Whether it was visited upon me by God, the Devil, St Etheldreda or the Talisman, I do not know, but it was real. I saw a vision of Christ’s blood and a blinding light. I felt pain, like a giant hand gripping my chest. I couldn’t breathe; I believe the Hand of God was telling me to stop.’

‘Then listen to it, sire.’

The King walked towards the window of the chapel. ‘Hereward of Bourne, I acknowledge the hand that stayed my arm. Although you may be surprised to hear this, I have considered what you have said to me. The resistance of the English has made me think. They surprised me at Senlac Ridge, and the defence of Ely by your Brotherhood has been beyond my comprehension. You are an exceptional man. I have never regarded anyone as my equal. When I was a child, I feared everyone, because of the endless plots to kill me and take my dukedom. When I became a man, I had the strength and desire to make other men bend to my will; there was no room for respect, let alone for the recognition of an equal. But I respect you, Hereward of Bourne. You are the only man I have met who shares my determination and resilience.’

The King paused. There was a glimmer of compassion in him as he looked at Hereward.

‘I will not change — I am too old for that — but I will acknowledge that the English are worthy of my respect. There are things about them that I have come to admire. I will not forget; my fellow Normans will not forget.’

Hereward sighed. At long last, at the cost of thousands of lives, including those of his loyal comrades and closest friends, the King had relented. It might have been divine intervention, the mystical influence of Torfida and her father, or simply a stroke of good fortune created by nature; regardless, the King had conceded.

Hereward thought about the Old Man of the Wildwood and his long journey with Torfida and the Talisman. Now, it all made sense.

‘I am going to spare you, Hereward of Bourne.’

‘But, sire, I cannot live when all around me have died. I will happily face execution. My journey is at an end.’