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

until they had fresh heads to perch atop their gates.
    As he advanced, he heard low voices behind him and he glanced back. Alric listened to the next warrior in line and then leaned in. ‘Swithun’s wounds were too great,’ he murmured. ‘The cold has sapped the last of the life from him.’
    Hereward bowed his head for a moment, then said, ‘Let him go.’
    ‘We should take him home for a Christian burial—’
    ‘I will not risk another man’s life. Two is enough for this night.’
    Alric hesitated, then nodded. He passed the order back. As the warriors released Swithun’s body to the mud, the monk intoned a brief, sombre prayer in the Roman tongue, adding in English that the warrior had finally escaped the suffering and would be welcomed in to the peace and plenty of heaven. That small comfort was welcomed by the other men, Hereward saw. The monk had done well.
    They heaved on around another spur of land, and then finally the mud began to recede. Hereward glimpsed the familiar silhouette of the three broken ash trees where he knew the second stone marker stood. With a low hail to his men, he waded ashore.
    The English collapsed on the dry bank, heaving in gulps of warm night air. Hereward allowed them a moment, but his gaze never left the constantly moving torches.
    ‘We can follow a track home from here, yes?’ Alric whispered as he wiped the mud from his face with a dock leaf.
    The Mercian shook his head. ‘No home for us yet. Now we fight.’
    Alric gaped in horror. ‘We barely escape from the enemy with our lives and now you would take the fight to them with a handful of weary men. You are mad. You will kill us all.’

C HAPTER T HREE
    THE MOON CREPT from behind the clouds, painting the willows silver. Through the dark shadows pooling around the trees the English ran, spears held low. The sound of their feet was barely a whisper on the turf. All around, the torches of their enemies ranged. Alric could see no clear path through their ranks.
    The monk struggled to keep up with Hereward’s loping gait. ‘Are you hell-bent on damning all of us?’ he hissed between gasps.
    ‘I told you: trust me.’
    Alric scrabbled with his hands to fight his way through a curtain of hanging branches that his friend avoided with ease. He looked back at the other men, who trusted every word their leader uttered, and prayed they would be well. Have faith , he thought bitterly. If only Hereward knew how much faith he had shown on their long march together.
    A waft of burnt wood made his nose wrinkle. He peered into the dark, searching for any sign of a settlement, and soon glimpsed the outline of buildings.
    ‘Where is this place?’ Alric gasped as they emerged into a circle of six thatched houses around a green in a clearing.
    ‘Norham,’ Hereward replied without glancing back. He kicked open the nearest door and peered inside. The hearth was dead, the ghost of woodsmoke lingering in the air. Alric glimpsed no sign of life within. Had the whole village fled the Normans?
    ‘Burn it down,’ Hereward yelled to his men. ‘All of it. Do it quickly and let us be away.’
    ‘Stop,’ the monk whispered in protest. ‘These are our people. You cannot destroy their homes.’ He threw himself in front of the Mercian, ducking from side to side to keep himself in between the warrior and the dwelling.
    With a grunt of frustration, Hereward grabbed his friend’s tunic and dragged him around the back of the house where the air reeked of rot. Choking, the monk pressed the back of his hand across his mouth and nose. Rough hands propelled him towards a pile of cordwood. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw it wasn’t firewood at all. The bodies of the villagers had been piled up in a jumbled heap, men, women and children. The blood had long since dried brown, but the gaping wounds spoke of sharp swords.
    ‘They will no longer miss their homes,’ Hereward hissed.
    ‘How long have they been dead?’ Alric