Hereward the Wake

When the weak but saintly King Edward the Confessor ruled in England, the land was divided into four parts, of which Mercia and Kent were held by two powerful rivals. The two earls, Leofric of Mercia and Godwin of Kent did not only dislike each other, but also each other’s families, each other’s power and wealth, and their sons were also enemies.

Their wives were as different as their lords. Lady Gytha, Godwin’s wife, of the royal family of Denmark, was imperious, arrogant and scheming, the best match there could ever be for her husband the earl, who was so ambitious that he would stick at nothing to win kingly power for his children. But Lady Godiva, Leofric’s beloved wife, was, on the contrary, a tender, religious, faithful and loving woman, who had already won an almost saintly reputation when she saved her husband’s oppressed citizens at Coventry. She then pitied the people of that town, who were suffering under her husband’s taxation. Lady Godiva asked her husband again and again to lower the sum of money they had to pay. At last he said he would do it if she agreed to ride naked on a horse through the streets of Coventry. Lady Godiva took him at his word, and, having asked all the people to stay indoors and shut their windows, rode through the town, clothed only in her long hair. So Leofric had to agree not to oppress his citizens anymore. Fortunately, her sacrifice awoke a nobler spirit in her husband, so he was to play a worthier part in England’s history. She, in turn, sympathized with the religious aspirations of Edward the Confessor, and would gladly have seen one of her sons become a monk, perhaps to win spiritual power over the king and his court.

For this holy vocation she chose her second son, Hereward, a wild, rebellious lad with rather an uncontrollable temper. He was a robust, strongly built youngster, with long golden curls and eyes of different colours, one grey, one blue. In vain Lady Godiva tried to educate him for the monkish life, but he utterly refused to follow her scheme. He did not like studying and had only the most primitive knowledge of the basic subjects, but spent his time in wrestling, boxing, fighting and other exercises. He would not be inspired even with the noble ideal of knighthood, to say nothing of an ecclesiastic career. His wildness and recklessness were only increasing with his years, and often his mother had to stand between him and his father, as Hereward was sometimes bold enough to confront the earl.

When he was sixteen or seventeen he became the terror of Mercia, because he gathered a band of youths as wild and reckless as himself, who chose him for their leader, and obeyed him absolutely, however outrageous were his commands. Earl Leofric understood little of the nature of his second son, and looked upon what he was doing as evidence of a cruel and lawless mind, a threat to the peace of England, while they were, in reality, only the signs of a restless energy boiling against the background of dull life in England of that time.

The disagreements between father and son were very frequent, and Lady Godiva could foresee a bad ending of the argument every time Hereward and his father met; yet she could do nothing to prevent it. None of the men would recognize that the other could be right, and so things went from bad to worse.

Nevertheless, in all Hereward’s deeds there was no wickedness. He hated monks and loved playing tricks upon them, but took his punishment, when it came, also with cheerfulness; he robbed merchants, but then returned all that he had stolen, satisfied with that he had had fun; his band fought other bands, but it was not because of hatred, but more for exercising their strength, and the youths did not keep any offence after the fighting was over. There was, however, one feature in Hereward’s character that was not noble enough: he was jealous of admitting that any man was stronger or more attractive than him. But it cannot be denied that his vanity had solid grounds, as he indeed was marked with extraordinary might and beauty.

So, what brought Earl Leofric’s terrible wrath upon his son were not matters of pointless wickedness, but of recklessness and lawless personal violence. Called to attend his father to the King’s court, the youth, who had little respect for anyone who disliked war and fighting, said something with an evident contempt for saintly king, his Norman prelate and the monks. He said it too loudly, and thereby shocked the weakly Edward, who honestly believed that piety to be the whole duty of man. But his wildness abused the king a lot. In his simple, somewhat naïve patriotism Hereward hated the Norman favourites who surrounded the Confessor; besides, he was all covered in marks of the personal injuries he received when fighting the Normans in simple boyish fights, and he kept on talking of more injuries which he gave them, until at last his father could endure the disgrace no longer.

During an audience of the king, Leofric formally asked for a permission to outlaw his own son. Edward the Confessor, surprised, but not displeased, felt even sorry as he saw the father’s affection beaten by the judge’s severity. Earl Godwin, Leofric’s greatest rival, was present in the council, too, and he pleaded to forgive the noble lad, whose faults were only those of youth. But that was sufficient to make Leofric more insistent in his petition. The curse of family feud, which afterwards made England lie powerless at the foot of William the Conqueror, was already felt. It felt so strongly that Hereward behaved more aggressively seeing Godwin’s attempts to save him more than when learning of his father’s sternness.

“What!” he cried, “shall a son of Leofric, the noblest man in England, accept pity from Godwin or any of his family? No. I may be unworthy of my wise father and my saintly mother, but I am not yet sunk so low as to ask a favour from Godwin. Father, I thank you. For years I have been disturbing the peace of the land, and thus have caused your displeasure; but I shall now go in exile, and in exile I may go abroad and win my fortune at the sword’s point.”

“Win your fortune, foolish boy!” said his father. “And where will you go?”

“Wherever fate and my fortune lead me,” he replied recklessly. “I can do anything – serve the Emperor in Constantinople, kill dragons and other monsters, follow a quest to the north – but never shall Mercia see me again till England calls me home. Farewell, father; farewell, Earl Godwin; farewell, reverend king. I go. And pray that you may never need my arm, for it may happen that you will call me and I will not come.”

So Hereward rode away, followed into exile by one man only, Martin Lightfoot, who left his father’s service for that of his outlawed son. Also, that time at court Hereward first saw and liked of a lovely little Saxon maiden named Alftruda, a servant of the pious king.

Hereward was now legally outlawed in Mercia by the wish of the king himself, but the decision had only nominal weight in Northumbria, where Earl Siward ruled almost as an independent lord. Hereward went there, for there lived his own godfather, Gilbert of Ghent, and his castle was known as a good training school for young candidates for knighthood. Sailing from Dover, the young man landed at Whitby, and made his way to Gilbert’s castle, where he was well received. His godfather was smart; he knew that an outlawry could be reversed at any time, and Leofric’s son might yet come to rule England. Thus Hereward was added to the number of other young men, mainly Normans or Flemings, who were seeking to perfect themselves in chivalry before taking knighthood. He soon showed himself a brave warrior, a superb wrestler, and a dangerous fighter, and soon no one wanted to fight the young Mercian, who beat them all in manly sports. The envy of the young Normans was only controlled by two things: Gilbert’s presence and fear of Hereward’s strength. But one day, in Gilbert’s absence, an incident occurred which placed the young exile so far above them that only by his death could they hope to stop being much inferior to him.

Gilbert kept in his castle court an immense white Polar bear, feared by all for its size and strength, and called the Fairy Bear. It was even believed that the huge beast had some family relation to old Earl Siward, who bore a bear upon his crest, and was said to have been as dangerous and strong as a bear in his youth. This white bear was so much scared of that he was kept on a chain and in a strong cage.

One morning, as Hereward was returning with Martin from his morning ride, he heard cries from the castle yard, and, reaching the great gate, entered and quickly closed it behind him, for there outside the broken cage, with broken chain dangling from his neck, stood the Fairy Bear, looking savagely round the courtyard. Not far from it stood a deadly frightened girl of about twelve years of age. She happened to stay outside when everybody rushed inside the castle. There were sounds of men’s voices and women’s cried from within, but the doors were closed, while the girl, in her terror, beat on the doors and begged them, for the love of God, to let her in. The cowards refused, and in the meantime the great bear, irritated by the dangling chain, ran towards the child. Hereward rushed forward, shouting to distract the bear, and just managed to stop him attaching the girl. The savage animal turned on the newcomer. Taking his battle-axe, the youth threw it masterly and split the skull of the furious beast, which fell dead. It was a blow so mighty that even Hereward himself was surprised at its deadly effect. Then the little girl, who turned out to be no other than the king’s servant, Alftruda, and who had been watching with fascinated eyes first the approach of the monster, and then its sudden death, now ran to Hereward, who had always been kind to the pretty child, and flung herself into his arms.

“Kind Hereward,” she whispered, “you have saved me and killed the bear. I love you for it, and I must give you a kiss, for my dame says so do all ladies that choose good knights to be their champions. Will you be my champion?” As she spoke she kissed Hereward again and again.

“Where have they all gone, little one?” asked the young noble.

“We were all out here in the courtyard watching the young men at their exercises, when we heard a crash and a roar, and the cage opened, and we saw the dreadful Fairy Bear. They all ran, the ladies and knights, but I was the last, and they were so frightened that they closed the door in and left me outside; and I thought the bear would eat me, till you came.”

“The cowards!” cried Hereward. “And they think themselves worthy of knighthood when they will save their own lives and leave a child in danger! They must be taught a lesson. Martin, come here and help me.”

They put the body of the dead bear just where the castle door, opening, would show it at once. Then Hereward asked Alftruda to call to the knights inside saying that all was safe and they could come out, for the bear would not hurt them. He and Martin, listening, heard with great glee the argument within as to who should risk his life to open the door, the many excuses given for refusal, and, best of all, the cry of horror with which the knight who had dared to open the door shut it again on seeing the Fairy Bear waiting to enter. Hereward even carried his trick so far as to thrust the bear heavily against the door, making all the people within cry for the protection of the saints. Finally, when he was tired of the joke, he convinced the knights that they might go out safely, and showed how he, a youth of seventeen, had killed the monster with one blow. From that time Hereward was the favourite of the whole castle, petted, praised, beloved by all its inhabitants, except his jealous rivals.

The foreign knights became so jealous of the Saxon youth, and disliked his sarcastic humour so much that they planned several times to kill him, and once or twice nearly succeeded. This insecurity, and a feeling that perhaps Earl Siward did have some relation to the Fairy Bear and would wish to avenge his death, made Hereward decide to leave Gilbert’s castle.

The spirit of adventure was strong upon him, the sea seemed to call him; now that he had become evidently superior to the other noble youths in Gilbert’s castle, his ambition called him on. Accordingly, he took a sad leave of Alftruda, an affectionate one of Sir Gilbert, who wished to knight him for his brave deed, and a mocking one of his angry and unsuccessful rivals.

Boarding a merchant ship, he sailed for Cornwall, and there was taken to the court of King Alef, a minor British chief, who, like a true patriarch of old times, was getting rid of his children as he could, and had betrothed his fair daughter to a terrible Pictish giant, breaking off, in order to do it, her engagement with Prince Sigtryg of Waterford, son of a Danish king in Ireland.

Hereward was chivalrous, and little Alftruda had made him feel pitiful to all maidens. Seeing at once how the princess hated and feared her new betrothed, a horrible, misshapen creature, nearly eight feet high, he decided to destroy him. He arranged a quarrel with the giant, and killed him the next day in fair fight. But the vengeful Pictish tribe made Kind Alef throw Hereward and his man Martin into prison, so he promised trial and punishment for them in the morning.

To the young Saxon’s surprise, the princess appeared to be as grieved and as revengeful as all the native Picts, and she not only rejoiced at the fact that the two men would be thrown in the prison and executed the next day, but herself helped to bound them. When they were left in their lonely cell, Hereward began to blame the princess for hypocrisy, and said that it was impossible for a man to know what a woman wants.

“Who would have thought,” he cried, “that that beautiful maiden loved a giant so horrible as this Pict? Had I known, I would never have fought him, but her eyes said to me, ‘Kill him,’ and I did so; this is how she rewards me!”

“No,” replied Martin, laughing, “this is how”; and he cut Hereward’s bonds. “Master, you were so angry with the lady that you could not see what was happening. I knew that she must have pretended to grieve, for her father’s sake, and when she came to test our bonds I was sure of it, for at that moment she put a knife into my hands, and told me to use it. Now we are free from our bonds, and must try to escape from our prison.”

In vain, however, they searched for an exit; it was a tiny chapel, with walls and doors of great thickness. Having tried every possible way and sitting down on the altar steps, Hereward asked Martin what good was freedom from bonds in a secure prison.

“Much,” replied the servant; “at least we die with free hands; and I believe that the princess has some good plan, if only we are ready.”

While he was speaking they heard footsteps just outside the door, and the sound of a key in the lock. The two stood ready, one at each side of the door, to make a dash for freedom, and Martin was prepared to kill any who should enter. To their great surprise, the princess entered, accompanied by an old priest. The princess turned to Hereward, crying, “Pardon me, my deliverer!”

The Saxon was still sad and surprised, and replied: “Do you now say ‘deliverer’? This afternoon it was ‘murderer, villain, cut-throat.’ How shall I know which is your real mind?”

The princess almost laughed as she said: “How stupid men are! What could I do but pretend to hate you, since otherwise the Picts would have killed you then and us all afterwards, but now you were our prisoners. How else could I have come here tonight? Now tell me, if I set you free, will you swear to carry a message for me?”

“Where shall I go, lady, and what shall I say?” asked Hereward, meekly.

“Take this ring, my ring of betrothal, and go to Prince Sigtryg, son of King Ranald of Waterford. Say to him that I am beset on every side, and pray that he comes and claims me as his bride; otherwise I fear I may be forced to marry some man of my father’s choice, like that Pictish giant. From him you have saved me, and I thank you; but if Sigtryg delays his coming it may be too late, for there are other hateful suitors who would suit my father, but not me. Ask him to come with all speed.”

“Lady, I will go now,” said Hereward, “if you will set me free from this cell.”

“Go quickly, and safely,” said the princess; “but before you go you must bind me hand and foot, and put me, with this old priest, on the ground.”

“Never,” said Hereward, “will I bind a woman; it is disgraceful!”

But Martin only laughed, and the maiden said again: “How stupid men are! I must pretend to have been overpowered by you, or I shall be accused of having freed you, but I will say that I came here to question you, and you and your man bound me and the priest, bound us, took the key, and so escaped. So shall you be free, and I shall have no blame, and my father no danger; and may Heaven forgive the lie.”

Hereward reluctantly agreed, and, with Martin’s help, bound the two hand and foot and laid them before the altar; then, kissing the maiden’s hand, and swearing loyalty and truth, he turned to leave. But the princess had one question to ask.

“Who are you, noble stranger, so chivalrous and strong? I would like know for whom to pray.”

“I am Hereward Leofricsson, and my father is the Earl of Mercia.”

“Are you that Hereward who killed the Fairy Bear? No wonder that you managed to kill the Pictish monster and set me free.”

Then master and man left the chapel, after carefully turning the key in the lock. They succeeded in getting a ship to carry them to Ireland, and eventually reached Waterford.

The Danish kingdom of Waterford was ruled by King Ranald, whose only son, Sigtryg, was about Hereward’s age, and was as noble-looking a youth as the Saxon hero. The king was at a feast, and Hereward, entering the hall with the captain of the ship, sat down at one of the lower tables. But he was not one of those who can pass unnoticed. The prince saw him and his noble bearing, and asked him to come to the king’s own table. Hereward gladly did so, and as he drank to the prince and their goblets touched together he dropped the ring from the Cornish princess into Sigtryg’s cup. The prince saw and recognised it as he drained his cup, and soon left the hall, followed by his guest.

Outside in the darkness Sigtryg turned hurriedly to Hereward, saying, “You bring me a message from my betrothed?”

“Yes, if you are that Prince Sigtryg to whom the Princess of Cornwall was promised.”

“Was promised! What do you mean? She is still my lady and my love.”

“Yet you leave her there without your support, while her father gives her in marriage to a horrible Pictish giant, breaking her betrothal, and driving the helpless maid into despair. What kind of love is yours?”

Hereward said nothing yet about the killing of the giant, because he wished to test Prince Sigtryg’s sincerity, and he was satisfied, for the prince burst out: “I wish to God I had gone to her before! but my father needed my help against foreign invaders and native rebels. I will go immediately and save my lady or die with her!”

“No need of that, for I killed that giant,” said Hereward coolly, and Sigtryg embraced him in joy and they swore blood-brotherhood together.

Then he asked: “What message do you bring me, and what means her ring?”

The other replied by repeating the Cornish maiden’s words, and asking him to start at once if he wanted to save his betrothed from some other hateful marriage.

The prince went to his father, told him the whole story, and got a ship and men to journey to Cornwall and rescue the princess; then, with Hereward by his side, he set sail, and soon landed in Cornwall, hoping to reach his bride peaceably. Alas! – he learnt that the princess had just been promised to a wild Cornish leader, Haco, and the wedding feast was to be held that very day. Sigtryg was greatly enraged, and sent forty Danes to King Alef demanding the fulfilment of the promise, and threatening vengeance if it were broken. To this the king returned no answer, and no Dane came back to tell of their reception.

Sigtryg would have waited till morning, trusting in the honour of the king, but Hereward disguised himself as a minstrel and got to the wedding feast, where he soon won applause by his beautiful singing. The bridegroom, Haco, offered him any gift he liked to ask, but he demanded only a cup of wine from the hands of the bride. When she brought it to him he put her betrothal ring inside, the very token she had sent to Sigtryg, and said: “I thank you, lady, give back the cup, richer than before.”

The princess looked at him, then into the goblet, and saw her ring; then, looking again, she recognised her deliverer and knew that rescue was at hand.

While men feasted, Hereward listened and talked, and found out that the forty Danes were prisoners, to be released in the morning when Haco was sure of his bride, but released useless and miserable, since they would be blinded. Haco was taking his lovely bride back to his own land, and Hereward saw that any rescue, to be successful, must be attempted on the march. Yet he knew not the way the bridal company would go, and he lay down to sleep in the hall, hoping that he might hear something more. When everything was still, a dark shape came through the hall and touched Hereward on the shoulder. It was the princess’s old nurse. “Come to her now,” the old woman whispered, and Hereward went, though he knew not that the princess was still true to her lover. In her tower, which she was soon to leave, Haco’s aggrieved bride awaited the messenger.

She smiled sadly on the young Saxon: “I knew your face again in spite of the disguise, but you come too late. Give my farewell to Sigtryg, and say that my father’s will, not mine, makes me forget my promise.”

“Have you not been told, lady, that he is here?” asked Hereward.

“Here?” the princess cried. “I have not heard. He loves me still and has not abandoned me?”

“No, lady, he is too true a lover for falsehood. He sent forty Danes yesterday to demand you of your father.”

“And I did not know of it,” said the princess softly; “yet I had heard that Haco had taken some prisoners, whom he wants to blind.”

“Those are our messengers, and your future subjects,” said Hereward. “Help me to save them and you. Do you know Haco’s plans?”

“Only this, that he will march tomorrow along the river, and where the ravine is darkest and forms the border between his kingdom and my father’s, the prisoners are to be blinded and released.”

“Is it far from here?”

“Three miles to the east from this hall,” she replied.

“We will be there. Have no fear, lady, whatever you may see, but be bold and look for your lover in the fight.” So saying, Hereward kissed her hand and went out of the hall unnoticed.

Returning to Sigtryg, the young Saxon told all that he had learnt, and the Danes planned an ambush in the ravine where Haco had decided to blind and set free his captives. All was in readiness, and side by side Hereward and Sigtryg were watching the pathway from their covert. The bridal procession came in a strange way: first the Danish prisoners bound each between two Cornishmen, then Haco and his unhappy bride, and last a great group of Cornishmen. Hereward had taken command, so that Sigtryg might take care of safety of his lady, and his plan was simplicity itself. The Danes were to wait till their comrades, with their guards, had passed through the ravine; then, while the leader engaged Haco, and Sigtryg took care of the princess, the Danes would release the prisoners and kill every Cornishman, and the two parties of Danes, uniting their forces, would restore the order in the land and destroy the followers of Haco.

The plan was carried out exactly as Hereward had planned. The Cornishmen, with Danish captives, passed first without attack; next came Haco, riding angry and morose beside his silent bride: he was sure of his success, while she was looking eagerly for any signs of rescue. As they passed, Hereward sprang from his shelter, crying, “Upon them, Danes, and set your brothers free!” and himself struck down Haco and smote off his head. There was a short fight, but soon the rescued Danes were able to help their deliverers, and the Cornish guards were all killed; while the men of King Alef, who never cared too much about Haco, fled, and the Danes were left masters of the field. Sigtryg had in the meantime seen to the safety of the princess, and now, together with Hereward, he escorted her to the ship, which soon brought them to Waterford and a happy wedding feast.

The Prince and Princess of Waterford always recognised in Hereward their deliverer and best friend, and in their gratitude wished him to always live with them in their castle; but he knew “how hard a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes”, and would not stay. His reckless and daring temper drove him to deeds of arms in other lands, where he was going to win many a battle. But he always felt glad in his own heart that his first deeds had been to rescue two maidens from their fate, and that he was rightly known as Hereward the Saxon, the Champion of Women.