Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army Read Free Page A

cold slime next to the shaped stone. The clutching fingers of the reeking bog dragged his feet down. Bubbles gurgled and burst around his groin, his waist, rising higher and higher still. When the pungent mud reached his chest, he felt his foot settle on solid ground. He waded forward a few paces, every iota of his wits focused on the sensations from his feet. Tapping one shoe in front of him, he felt the bumps and hollows for the narrow path of the ridge. As he moved on, he turned his head to see Alric immediately behind him and the rest of the war-band following in his wake, easing into the bog one by one. He made out the silhouette of Fromund with a barely conscious Swithun, and watched briefly as Fromund held the wounded man’s arms and lowered him into the marsh, where clutching hands guided him in and supported him. As Hereward worked his cautious way onwards he felt pride at how Swithun’s brothers were prepared to risk their own lives to bring the fallen warrior home.
    Once before, when he was a boy, he had taken this path, though his chin had barely reached above the surface. But then he had been filled with the stupidity and bravado of youth. He remembered the sludge gushing down his throat. Choking, fighting for air, the dark closing over his head. His panic as he realized death had him in its grip. He shook himself back to the present.
    Hands scrabbled for his back, almost throwing him off-balance.Hereward wrenched his head around. ‘If you pitch me to my death, by all that’s holy, I will drag you down with me.’
    ‘Forgive me,’ the monk replied in a tremulous voice. The Mercian could see he was shaking and would likely soon make a fatal error. He grasped the man’s shoulder and whispered warmly, ‘Have faith. All will be well.’
    Alric forced a worried smile, his teeth pale in the gloom.
    In silence, they waded into the dark.
    Enveloped in the stink of rotting vegetation, they heaved against the sucking mire. With each step the silt licked up until it reached their shoulders, and they began to shiver from the cold despite the heat of the night. Hereward glanced back at the trail of warriors snaking into the marsh. The end of the column was lost to the dark, but the faces of those nearest were taut with stark concentration. Everyone there knew a wrong step could be the end of them. ‘Slow and steady will see us through this,’ he hissed in encouragement. Yet time and again he heard a muted splash as someone snatched at the man in front for support when his feet slipped off the narrow ridge. Alric’s muttered prayers droned out, the words laced with mounting desperation.
    As they rounded a spur of land dense with trees, a torch glimmered among the branches barely ten spear-lengths away. Hereward hissed for his men to halt. Norman voices rang out through the dark, drawing nearer. He squinted, watching the light gleam off helms. Five men, he guessed, exploring the finger of dry land reaching into the marsh. Hereward watched the light from the lofted brands dance across the gleaming surface of the mud towards the huddled English. Once it revealed them, they would be easy targets for the Norman archers.
    Closer the light glimmered until Hereward could almost touch it with his hand. It wavered there, taunting them. The voices chimed louder, insistent tones mixed among the barked orders. Had they been seen? He wished he understood more of that strange tongue than the few words he had gathered. His chest tightened.
    After a few moments the orange light began to ebb and the voices receded as the Normans retreated back into the willows. Alric let out the long sigh he had kept trapped in his throat. ‘God watches over us,’ he whispered.
    When he was sure the king’s men had gone, Hereward uttered the order to continue. It rustled back along the line into the dark. He watched the torches wavering through the trees all around, like fireflies. The Normans had the scent of their prey. They would not give up