Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army by James Wilde

Author:James Wilde [Wilde, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781409030065
Publisher: Random House UK
Published: 2012-07-19T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

SNOW ENGULFED THE hooded rider. His horse staggered into the face of the furious blizzard as the blasting wind wrenched at his cloak. Night had fallen and the trail of hoofprints filled as fast as it was made. Balthar squinted past the stinging flakes, but he could see no more than a spear’s-length ahead. The bitter cold reached deep into his bones and his belly growled with hunger. And now he felt fear grip his spine. How long before he succumbed to the warm-sleep, or his steed plunged him into a ravine? The mountains were treacherous even in clear weather and daylight. He dug his knees into the horse’s flanks, trying to turn it around. But the beast writhed and threw its head back as it started to become panicked now the drifts had reached halfway up its legs.

Balthar looked all around. He could see no sign of William’s vast army anywhere. The last thing he remembered was his shadow, Faramond the knight, riding beside him as the snowstorm began. In the warm depths of his cloak, his eyelids had begun to droop as the bitter cold descended. When he had next looked up, he was alone. For all he knew, the army could be close enough for him to ride back in moments, but he had no sense of the direction from which he had come. He called out for help until his throat was raw, but the howling wind stole his words.

If only he had taken more care. But exhaustion had hollowed him out and he wished only to rest. William’s campaign across Northumbria to the banks of the Tees had been relentless. They had left behind a land soaked in gore and covered with corpses where the carrion birds blocked the sun as they flocked. But still that was not enough to satiate the king’s blood-lust. Barely had the last victim fallen, than the king had turned his entire army around and pushed south-west towards Cestre where the last and perhaps weakest of the northern uprisings still simmered. He had held out hope that Balthar could be back in Wincestre with Godrun before the buds on the trees had started to open. He choked back a sob, afraid that he might never see her beautiful face again.

Digging his heels into the horse only drove it into a frenzy. As it fought its way through the growing drifts, its leg plunged into some hidden crevice and it slid to one side. Balthar heard the bone snap even above the gale. Convulsing, the beast went down. Thrown from its back, Balthar crashed into the deep snow, slamming against the rocks hidden beneath. He shook off his daze and scrambled to his feet only to see the poor creature lying on its side, eyes rolling wildly, breath steaming in the cold. Had he had a weapon, he would have put it out of its misery, but nothing could be done.

He buried his face in his hands. Why was God punishing him so? He had done no wrong.

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