Crusade

The deed was done. William had secured his northern border, and Canmore could be at peace in his Alban realm — for a while, at least.

My blood ran cold as I contemplated the circumstances. Malcolm and his Scottish warriors were a formidable force, but he stood there humbled by the overwhelming strength and ambition of William and the Normans. As for me, I remained the embodiment of the defeated English, a mere witness to yet another Norman conquest.

Even so, my determination to find my own destiny grew ever stronger.

On hearing the outcome upon our return to Dunfermline, the Queen was relieved that Malcolm had acted with such restraint, but greatly upset that part of the price was the loss of her son and brother.

Duncan took a small retinue and left within hours to reach William’s army before it had gone too far. I left two days later to make my way to William’s neighbours and enemies in Flanders and France. However, I would be back far earlier than I anticipated.

I travelled with only a dozen men and two stewards, and moved quickly through England’s ravaged North.

It was a difficult journey for me. The Great North Road was a hive of activity with cartloads of provisions of all sorts going backwards and forwards. York and Durham and the burghs towards the southern part of Northumbria were alive with masons and carpenters about their work, but it was a different story away from the routes under the watchful eye of the Norman overlords and their garrisons.

Ragged little children would often appear at the side of the road, begging for food. Sometimes, half hidden by the trees, the remnants of abandoned villages could be seen. There was fear and loathing just beneath the surface. It was well disguised, but it was there — as was the deep-seated melancholy of a once proud people, now vanquished and forlorn.

When we got to Mercia, I left my men at Peterborough and, disguised as a monk, rode to Ely to find out more about what had happened there a year earlier.

What I found filled me with a heartfelt sorrow. The burgh of Ely, although small, was thriving. The causeway across the Fens, which King William had built to break Hereward’s resistance, was thronged with merchants and farmers. There was a considerable garrison of Normans at work on a huge motte and bailey, their work almost complete. Although all trace of the bloody encounter of thirteen months ago — which had seen England’s final capitulation to the Normans and the deaths of so many brave men — had gone, I shuddered at the thought of it.

Few would speak about the events of 1071, and those who did merely repeated the oft-told myths and rumours. The new abbot, a man called Theodwin, was not a Benedictine monk but a secular governor, placed there by the King to keep order and oversee the garrison and the building of the fortifications. I was told that the King also intended to tear down the abbey and St Etheldreda’s Chapel to build an enormous cathedral, modelled on the ones in his homeland. The door of her chapel was still barred and had not been opened since the King ordered it to be sealed at the end of the siege. Many believed that it had become Hereward’s tomb, his body still lying where it had been left after his execution at William’s own hand.

Outside the abbey I did find a man who would speak to me. I did not recognize him — perhaps I should have done, as he was one of the few survivors of Ely and had campaigned with us in the North. But he was only a wretched shell of his former self.

His name was Wolnatius. He had been blinded after being captured at the collapse of the final redoubt and had barely survived the following winter. But when a new community of monks arrived, they took him in and cared for him. He was reluctant to speak to me until I gave him details, which only I could have known, about events in York during the rising and he was able to feel the Cerdician seal on my ring.

He had been close to Einar when he fell, had seen Martin brutally slain by the King and confirmed that Hereward had been taken alive — and flogged, he assumed, to death. Like many others, he thought his body had been buried by the Normans in a secret location to prevent it becoming a shrine to the English cause.

‘Like King Harold?’

‘Not exactly, my Lord Prince. Harold lies in an unmarked tomb in Waltham Abbey.’

‘How did he get there?’

‘Sire, it is said that Edith Swan-Neck returned to his makeshift grave on the beach near Senlac and took him to Waltham. The monks loyal to his memory keep his resting place a closely guarded secret. I am sure they will let you visit it.’

‘I will indeed visit him there and pray to his memory.’

Brave Wolnatius had little more detail to add. He wished me well and promised to be at my coronation when it happened. In return, I guaranteed him a place in my honour guard on that propitious day. As I left, I gave him a little silver to help with his care. He grabbed my arm and buried his face in my sleeve, sobbing like a child.