So says the chronicler Leofric, the minstrel and priest.
It was late when they got back to Crowland. The good Abbot received them with a troubled face.
“As I feared, my Lord, you have been too hot and hasty. The French have raised the country against you.”
“I have raised it against them, my lord. But we have news that Sir Frederick—”
“And who may he be?”
“A very terrible Goliath of these French; old and crafty, a brother of old Earl Warrenne of Norfolk, whom God confound. And he has sworn to have your life, and has gathered knights and men-at-arms at Lynn in Norfolk.”
“Very good; I will visit him as I go home, Lord Abbot. Not a word of this to any soul.”
“I tremble for thee, thou young David.”
“One cannot live forever, my lord. Farewell.”
A week after, a boatman brought news to Crowland, how Sir Frederick was sitting in his inn at Lynn, when there came in one with a sword, and said: “I am Hereward. I was told that thou didst desire, greatly, to see me; therefore I am come, being a courteous knight,” and therewith smote off his head. And when the knights and others would have stopped him, he cut his way through them, killing some three or four at each stroke, himself unhurt; for he was clothed from head to foot in magic armor, and whosoever smote it, their swords melted in their hands. And so, gaining the door, he vanished in a great cloud of sea-fowl, that cried forever, “Hereward is come home again!”