Conquest

‘From this day forward, Hereward of Bourne will be banished from his lands and his people and will be placed beyond the law and the sight of God. All his rights to taxes, titles and service are confiscated forthwith, as are his lands, holdings and possessions. Anyone granting succour, solace or having anything to do with this man will, in turn, also be banished. This proclamation will be heard across the land by order of our sovereign lord, King Edward.’

As the Earl finished speaking, the entire assembly rose and the King’s housecarls presented arms. Edward remained seated, slightly slumped on his throne, saddened by the finality of the act of banishment. In his thirteen-year reign, he could remember only four occasions when he had ordered that a man be made an outlaw.

Hereward knew what he had to do: he bowed to the King, turned, and made his way towards the huge double doors of the Great Hall of Winchester.

His father watched him go with tears in his eyes.

No one else looked at Hereward as he limped into the streets of Winchester. Only the blacksmith approached him, to snap around his neck an iron collar and daub his head with pig’s blood — the symbols of an outlaw. A mounted housecarl then rode in front of him to the city walls and closed the gates behind him. Now, no burgh would open its gates to him; no village would give him food or water; no man, woman or child would speak to him; even priests were required to shun him. The heavy collar of the outlaw, inscribed with the chilling word ‘condemned’, ensured that no one could mistake his status. Although a blacksmith would have the tools and skill to remove the collar, the clasp bore the King’s seal and breaking it was punishable by banishment.

Hereward’s fate was to be a living death.

As Hereward walked away from Winchester, he attempted to walk with the proud, upright gait of a dashing young thegn, but it was futile. There was no semblance of pride left in his heart; he was a broken man. For the second time he had come close to death and once again endured a long and painful recovery from wounds so severe that they would have killed most men. This time, however, his rehabilitation had been a period of deep introspection and regret, not one of simmering rage. Gone was the festering anger brought about by his first encounter with mortality; he had thought only of his stupidity and selfishness. He now realized he had been stupid in believing in his own invincibility, in thinking only of his own pain and revenge, and in failing to bring Thurstan to justice by legitimate means.

The torment of being hoisted like a defenceless animal, and tortured for several hours, had been a purgatory in which an entire childhood of fears and nightmares had been visited upon him. Now, many months later, the memories still haunted him.

Throughout Hereward’s recovery, he had longed to be able to return to Bourne — to seek forgiveness for a lifetime of conceit and bullying, and to see Gythin again in a time before the whole tragic business had begun — but he knew these thoughts were no more than daydreams. He knew that he would never see his family again and he knew that Gythin had gone for ever.

Hereward’s melancholy was suddenly jolted by the distinct sound of a horse snorting. It was only a few yards away, but its rider was difficult to discern; he wore a dark hooded cape and neither horse nor rider bore any distinguishing features. As soon as the mounted figure spoke, Hereward realized it was his nemesis, Thurstan.

‘You should have killed me.’ Thurstan paused, assuming Hereward would answer.

But no response came. No anger rose in Hereward’s heart and he resumed his journey, turning his gaze to the track ahead.

‘Make sure the forest hides you well; you will need its every leaf and branch to conceal you and its darkest corners to prevent you casting shadows. Look behind every tree and bush and in the tall grass in every clearing, because if I ever hear word of you, I will hunt you down and, when I’m ready, I will strike, be sure of that.’

Hereward did not turn round, and seemed oblivious to everything that had been said to him.

Thurstan did not move for several minutes, nor did he blink, but fixed his eyes on Hereward’s back as he disappeared into the gloom of the forest.

The distraught figure walked for the rest of that day and slept for only three or four hours before continuing on his aimless route deep into the forest. At every turn, he took the lesser track and was soon walking a path barely wide enough for a man’s shoulders. By the end of the second day, he was marooned in the vast wildwood of southern England.