‘Hereward?’ the abbot began. ‘I thought you-’
‘Dead. Outlaw. Yes, Uncle, you are not the first to tell me these things.’ Hereward came to a halt in front of the older man and looked him deep in the eye. ‘I expect my father has had much to say about me.’
Brand’s face remained impassive. ‘I have prayed for you.’
‘Many have died by my hand, Uncle, but not the woman I was accused of murdering. That was a lie, designed to keep small men in great power. But God has dealt out his punishment for their sins.’
Abbot Brand folded his hands behind his back. ‘It has been many years since you were here as a boy. Though your learning improved, we failed to tame you. I always saw that as my failing, and I told your father so.’
‘Then you can make amends now.’
Alric studied the two men. He saw suspicion lying between them, a hint of unease in the abbot, but Hereward’s true thoughts were unreadable.
‘What would you have? Food? Clothing?’ The older man paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘Sanctuary?’
Hereward laughed. ‘I need no protection. No, Uncle, I need you to make me a knight.’
Taken aback, the abbot’s studied aloofness fell away.
‘You seem shocked. Am I not suitable? My father is a thegn. I hold land — or did before the bastard William came. I have my sword and mail, and I am well versed in all the knightly ways. And was I not a good protector of this very church for many years?’ From a leather pouch at his side, Hereward removed a smaller pouch tied at the neck. The coin in it jangled. The warrior held out the payment for Brand to take.
After a moment’s hesitation, the abbot took the pouch with a sigh. ‘What gain is there in this for you? It will not clear the stain upon your name.’
‘England needs a defender, Uncle. It needs an honourable man who will inspire hope in the hearts of our neighbours and fear in the hearts of our enemies. When I am knight, men will flock to my banner more readily. All will look to what I am now, not what I was before.’ Hereward’s eyes twinkled. Alric thought he saw mischief there.
‘You would rebel against the Normans?’ Brand said with horror.
‘Why would I not? The invaders crush the life from us.’
The monk felt impressed by his friend’s cunning. In the eyes of others, the title would transform the warrior from savage killer and outlaw to a man who fought for the highest principle, a warrior blessed by God.
‘Consider the consequences. If you stand against the Normans, you will bring all of William’s wrath down upon the fens,’ the cleric pressed. ‘We have kept our peace here as best we could. It has not been perfect but we have survived. William will brutally crush you, and all who stand with you, and he will not care what innocents get in the way. Do you wish that fate upon your neighbours?’
‘I would not wish upon my neighbours the life they now have.’
The abbot wrung his hands together, pleading. ‘There is only a small force here now. Just fourteen knights of high rank commanding barely five times that number.’
Hereward nodded. ‘And those fourteen slaughtered my brother? A good number. They will be the first.’
Brand looked sickened. ‘William will burn the whole fenland if he has to. He will go to any extremes if he feels his word is challenged.’
‘I will do the same. We will see who has the stomach for this battle.’
Seeing his nephew would not be deterred, the abbot relented. ‘Give me your sword and kneel. I cannot deny this request from my own blood, but my concerns are great.’
Hereward smiled. He knelt on the cold flags in front of his uncle, and bowed his head.
‘Then repeat the knight-oath.’ The abbot laid the tip of the sword upon Hereward’s right shoulder. ‘In the eyes of God, swear now to be just and honourable at all times.’
‘I so swear.’ Hereward’s clear voice echoed along the nave.
‘Swear now that you will defend the weak and uphold the virtues of compassion, loyalty, generosity and truth.’
‘I so swear.’
‘Swear now, by all that you hold sacred, that you will honour and defend the Crown and Church.’
‘I so swear… that I will defend the Crown, but not the invader who now wears it.’
Brand hesitated, still struggling with his reluctance, and then said, ‘Rise. In the eyes of God, you are now a knight.’ He balanced the sword on the palms of his hands and offered it to Hereward.
Alric saw a change in his friend, as if a mask had suddenly slipped away. His eyes afire, Hereward took the sword and slipped it into its sheath. ‘So be it.’
The abbot frowned. ‘When this reaches the ears of the Normans-’
‘Why would it?’ Hereward interrupted, his smile sardonic. ‘There are only we three present.’ He laughed. ‘I expect this to reach the ears of the Normans, Uncle. That is why I came here. I want them to dwell on the nature of the enemy they face. I want this night to ripple out across the fens, across all England, to wash up to the very feet of William the Bastard as he sits upon his stolen throne.’
Abbot Brand looked white in the pale candlelight. ‘What will you do?’
Without answering, Hereward showed the cleric his back and strode to the edge of the shadow at the end of the nave. As if as an afterthought, he turned back and said in a cold voice, ‘I will bring terror. I will bring blood. And England will be made free once more.’
In the instant before the dark folded around his friend, Alric glimpsed something in his friend’s face that turned him cold. It was as if another peered out through the eyes of the man he knew, something inhuman that had been hiding away but was now set free. Frightened, the monk hesitated for a long moment before following his companion.
When he slipped through the door and called after his friend, a cowled figure that had been spying upon the meeting separated from the shadows and followed him.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The torches guttered and spat in the breeze. Smoke stinking of pitch swirled in the thin light breaking through the branches where a few gold and copper leaves still clung. Holding aloft the burning brands, the Norman knights waited on the edge of the green. They were dressed for war, in helmets and hauberks, double-edged swords hanging at their sides. In front of them, the village men knelt on the turf, their heads bowed. They still wore the thin tunics they had been dressed in when they rose from their beds at first light, before the Normans had hauled them from their homes. Whimpering, the women huddled against the wall of one house, casting fearful glances at their menfolk as they wrapped their arms around their sobbing children.
Aldous Wyvill felt only contempt for the cowardly English. They had brought this upon themselves. ‘One final time,’ he said, his eyes moving over the sullen peasants. ‘What do you know of the outlaw Hereward?’
Only the wind answered him.
Grim-faced, the Norman commander nodded to his knights. He would brook no resistance. In response to his silent order, each knight raised a sizzling torch towards the thatch roofing the eight dwellings ringing the green. The village men looked up, their faces drained of blood, but still they remained defiant. The commander sighed inwardly.