Conquest

‘Of course I’m Welsh.’ The reply came in English from the now deeply entangled, much scratched and severely irritated youngster. ‘You sound like an Englishman. If you are, you’re either a fool or a very brave man to be this far from home.’

He spoke in perfect English, and almost without accent, as he slowly and painfully pulled himself from the undergrowth. His woollen smock and leggings were torn in several places and blood already seeped from the scratches to his skin beneath.

‘When my Lord hears of this, he’ll cut you in half!’

‘Who is your Lord?’

Before the young man could spit out his answer with all the venom his rage could muster, he noticed the collar on Hereward’s neck.

He hesitated. ‘That’s the seal of Edward, that limp-wristed English King. No wonder you look like you’ve been living in a pigsty.’

‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Don’t call me “boy”. You’re not much older than I am; you’re a long way from home and wear the collar of an outlaw. I’m the one who should be asking the questions.’

Hereward smiled again. ‘I am Hereward of Bourne. I was outlawed by Edward, King of England, at Winchester. That was over a year ago, and now I am making my way to Ireland.’

‘Why were you outlawed?’

‘That is no business of yours. Let me help you up.’ Hereward held out his hand.

The young man grabbed it but, as he did so, he moved his right foot behind Hereward’s legs and kicked him hard behind the knees to unbalance him. As Hereward fell, the boy twisted the hand that had been offered to him and neatly locked it behind the bigger man’s back.

‘Very good, boy.’

With his chin resting firmly on Hereward’s shoulder, his breath quickened by the sudden exertion, the young man hissed, ‘My name is Martin Lightfoot, messenger of my Lord, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, King of the Welsh.’ With his free hand, Martin pulled his seax from his belt and held it at Hereward’s throat. ‘You smell, you filthy Englishman. I think I should kill you to rid our country of your foreign stink. If I throw you into the river just here, you should wash up on the English shore where you belong.’

Using his free hand, Hereward grabbed his adversary’s wrist firmly, then slowly pulled the seax away from his throat. Try as he might, Martin could not resist the Englishman’s considerable strength. With his arm still locked behind his back, Hereward got to his feet, leaving the Welshman dangling forlornly from his shoulders. It took only a moment for Martin to realize that his Saxon foe was more than a match for him.

He released his grip and catapulted himself to the ground well away from Hereward’s grasp. ‘You are a big son of an English pig, that’s for sure.’

Hereward ignored the insult but was curious about Martin’s lord. ‘I thought the Welsh were ruled by different princes, each the lord of his clan.’

‘It has taken my Lord Gruffydd five years of campaigning to bring Wales under one banner. We defeated the tribes of Morgannwg and Gwent here only yesterday, and now the whole of Wales is united for the first time in our history.’

‘Will you take me to your King?’

‘Why would you want to see my Lord — he’ll kill you for sure.’

‘Perhaps, but it was a king who outlawed me from my homeland; maybe this king will free me so that I can find a new home.’

‘Why would you trust me?’

‘You have an honest face; and besides, I have the parchment that you’re supposed to give to your king.’

Martin had not noticed that, in the struggle, Hereward had grabbed a parchment from the young man’s belt.

‘You filthy Englishman! Give it back to me. My Lord will have my head on a pole.’

‘I’ve heard that such delightful punishments are favoured by your Celtic princes. We’d better hurry so that you can complete your mission.’

Martin, rapidly calculating his predicament, realized that he had little to lose by doing as the stranger asked, so he turned and resumed his steady pace towards his original destination. ‘You’d better keep up, and remember to give me the parchment when we get to the gates.’

Hereward followed as quickly as he could, but the young Celt ran like a deer. By the time Martin reached the ferry, Hereward was almost fifty yards in his wake.

Martin yelled to the guards well before he arrived at the riverbank, but in Welsh, so Hereward had no idea whether he was sounding the alarm or just announcing his arrival. The guards drew their weapons but looked more curious than threatening as Hereward approached.

‘Come quickly!’ signalled Martin. ‘I mustn’t delay.’

The four oarsmen were pulling hard before Hereward had sat down. A rope had been stretched across the fast-flowing river to keep the boat on line but, even so, it was a struggle to get across.