Conquest

Hereward had practised the technique for many months. It was a close call, but Thurstan moved just enough to his left so that the wide blade of the axe missed his head and smashed into the back of the ornate oak chair he was sitting on. Nevertheless, his evasive movement, downwards and to the left, had raised his right shoulder enough for the blade to tear into his flesh and shatter his collarbone. As soon as Hereward realized that his axe had made a mark, he somersaulted from the table in an attempt to find a space within which to defend himself. But his legs were weak from the lacerations they had already received and, as soon as he hit the ground, he collapsed into a heap.

Thurstan’s men rushed towards him, poised to hack him to death.

‘Hold!’ Thurstan bellowed with as much volume as the deep gash to his shoulder would allow. The whole of the upper right-hand part of his robe was already dyed crimson from his wound. He sat motionless; even the slightest movement, in an attempt to extricate himself from the axe, cut deeper into his flesh. ‘Remove this confounded axe before it cuts me in two!’

Without hesitation, two of the Abbot’s warrior priests stepped forward. While one held Thurstan’s upper body, the other levered the axe upwards out of the deep gouge it had made in both the flesh and bone of its target and in the solid oak of the chair. The wood screeched as the blade was prised from it, but could not mask Thurstan’s howls.

‘This petulant son of Bourne is dripping blood all over my floor. Bring him here, hang him from the roof.’

Hereward was bound by the wrists and hoisted off the ground by a rope cast over the bracing piece of the roof’s massive cruck beam. He had numerous sword wounds to his legs and buttocks; he could not feel some of the toes on his left foot, and blood was rapidly draining out of him. He was left to hang like a carcass in a smokehouse, and a large spit pan was placed under his feet to catch the blood that seeped from his legs.

One of the priests made an all-too-apparent observation to Thurstan. ‘My Lord, your wound is deep. You too are losing much blood; I’m afraid you will have to bear the hot iron.’

‘I know that, you fool! Prepare me.’

A hot poker was thrust deep into the fire. As they waited for it to attain the deep-red glow of a branding iron, Thurstan was stripped to the waist and placed on the table. Two men held a leg each; two more stood on either side, holding his arms with their weight on his chest, while a fifth knelt on the table behind him and pulled his face away from his stricken shoulder. The deed was quickly done. As the iron sank deep into the Abbot’s shoulder, the wound sizzled and a cloud of pungent smoke carried the stink of burning flesh into the air.

After a while, unconsciousness spared Thurstan any further suffering and he was carried away to his bedchamber.

It was late evening before the Abbot reappeared in the hall. He was ashen-faced, grimacing with pain and able to stand only with the support of two men.

‘Is he alive?’

‘I’m not sure, my Lord. I think his blood is all but drained from him.’

‘Let’s see if a hot iron can rouse him.’

Hereward had lost consciousness some hours earlier, but now he could feel a dull pain. He did not have much feeling in his legs, and his head was jammed backwards by his arms. He could see only the dark beams of the roof and the flicker of firelight in its rafters. He could hear muffled shouts echoing in the distance and felt as if he were floating.

His strongest sensation was the smell of roasting meat; he could remember the hot iron on Thurstan’s wound and the sickening scent of scorched human flesh. Then he realized where he was and what was causing the pain: this time, the flesh being seared was his.

Thurstan had just enough strength to lift his left arm and prod the glowing red poker into Hereward’s wounds. As soon as the steam of the blistering flesh carried away the iron’s potency, Thurstan ordered that it be quickly reheated.

Hereward was now fully conscious and would have cried out if he could, but there was no air in his lungs to carry a sound.

He thought about his short life — remembering Gythin, his village and his parents — and, for the first time, he was frightened. He had always thought of himself as invincible; now he was helpless, lonely and minutes from death.

Tears stung his eyes and rolled down his face.

He now understood why other boys cried; he remembered the fear and loathing in their eyes as he bested them in their countless contests. He was suddenly overwhelmed by an immense sense of guilt. He knew that it was his reckless pursuit of Gythin that had caused her death, and he felt ashamed.

Never was a man less ready to meet his Maker; surely these were the fires of Hell already consuming his flesh.

Leofric knew instantly where his son had gone when he disappeared from the village.