Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome Read Free Page A

hopes of the English crumbled.
    In the end, his leadership had amounted to naught. He winced. To save England from the brutal retribution of the king, to save his birthland of Mercia, to save all the desperate men and women who had rallied to his standard, he had been forced to take the Bastard’s deal: leave the shores of his home for ever, and do so in secrecy so that the people for whom he had fought so hard would think he had abandoned them. What choice did he have? If he had stayed the king would have killed and maimed and starved the English until he had wiped out all trace of them. He had accepted that final twist of the knife; it was the only honourable course. And his most loyal warriors had followed him even then. He owed them everything. Now their fate lay on his shoulders alone. He could not, would not, fail them again. But there was hope. Though England was forbidden to him, he had heard there was a need for fighting men in the east. Perhaps there they could find a new home.
    The ghost ship drifted closer still until his men could throw their hooks into the wood and drag it alongside. Before Hereward could peer into the vessel, cries rang out all around. Men crossed themselves or clutched the lead hammers that hung round their necks.
    Leaning over the side, the Mercian saw what had dismayed them. Blood sluiced along the deck from prow to stern, a lake of it, gleaming darkly in the midday sun.
    ‘Still wet,’ Kraki mumbled, moistening his lips. Thirty pairs of eyes flickered towards the horizon, searching for whatever had brought about this curse.
    ‘You have waded through a sea of Norman guts on the battlefield,’ Hereward called to his crew. He pushed scorn into his voice, trying to cut through their superstition. ‘Are you afrit of a little blood?’
    Kraki heaved himself off his bench and leaned in. ‘Now it is not ghosts that trouble me.’
    Hereward stared into the distance. They had sailed without incident past Normandy and Brittany, Guyenne and Navarre. But then they had put in to the rocky shore of Leon and Castile to replenish their food and water and there the fearful fishermen had issued their warning. A vast fleet of sea wolves was laying waste to the coastline, searching for one of their number who had robbed them of some great prize.
    A cry rang out from the prow.
    Hereward whirled. A figure was standing on the side of the ship, arms outstretched, ready to throw himself into the waves. The Mercian glimpsed the red hair, the pale skin, and realized it was Sighard, the youngest of the war-band. Men scrambled over the benches. They knew as well as Hereward that a black despair had eaten its way into the lad’s heart since his brother had been slain by the Normans.
    For an instant, Sighard teetered on the brink. But just as he lifted one foot to take a last step on to the green fields of the whale road, a huge figure rose up and strapped his mighty arms around the lad’s chest. Guthrinc was an English oak who towered over every man there, with a heart just as big. He wrenched back, and the two men sprawled across the deck.
    Hereward thrust his way through the circle of warriors that had gathered around them. Guthrinc kept his arms wrapped around the lad, just in case.
    ‘Let me die. I am no use to anyone,’ Sighard mumbled, one arm thrown across his freckled face.
    ‘You are a brother to us all,’ the Mercian said, crouching down. ‘You have proved yourself in battle a hundred times. There is not a man here who would not give up his life for you. Do you hear?’
    ‘Let me die,’ Sighard repeated.
    As Hereward stood up, Alric caught his arm. The monk’s brown hair was lank from salt spray, his sodden tunic clinging to his slim frame. They had been friends for long years now, and knew each other better than any men there. Alric pulled the Mercian to one side and whispered, ‘You cannot leave Sighard to his own devices. I have seen this affliction before. There will be smiles, and kind