by James Wilde
With a great leap, Hereward cleared a mat of branches and leaves and darted a little further up the slope before turning to face his enemies. He watched them come, his features cold.
As the war-band drew out of the mist of rain, they came to a halt. Grins sparked on their faces. They could see they were many and here was only one rabbit, and a weary one at that.
The Mercian laid the blade of Brainbiter across his left palm and tapped it a couple of times, showing he was ready for what was to come. A few frowns crumpled brows. In the face of their overwhelming force, they had expected terror, not this calm.
‘Who is your master?’ Hereward called.
‘Little good that knowledge will do you, dog,’ one of the men shouted back. ‘Your days are done.’
Hereward grinned like a wolf. ‘Come, then. I will take a few of you with me to hell.’
Laughter rang out, but the Mercian was pleased to hear that some of it was laced with unease. He showed his back to them and walked up the hill.
The laughter turned incredulous, and then the command echoed and the force moved as one. Hereward broke into a run, making sure not to show the changing nature of his grin. Only when the screams tore through the thunderous rainfall did he stop and turn.
Along the line of the advancing war-band, the dying now cried out for salvation. Bloodstained hands reached up to the heavens. The survivors reeled back in horror.
The shallow pits his men had dug along the hillside and then disguised with branches and leaves had done their work well. Each one was now filled with men impaled on the stakes hidden beneath. If time had been on the spear-brothers’ side, the pits would have been deeper, the spikes smeared with shit so that even a scratch would bring death, as he had learned in his wandering in Flanders. But this would suffice.
Twenty more at least were now out of the fight. Hereward nodded, pleased. As howls of anger rose up, he shook his sword in mockery and ran on. The war-band thundered after him.
Further up the slope, the spear-brothers waited for him. Axes at the ready, they stood in a line, ready to fight and perhaps to die, though no one would have guessed it from their grins. Only their cold eyes showed how grim their position was. Yet even Alexios and Derman had found the strength to stand with them.
Pushing his way into the heart of the line, Hereward roared, ‘We are at the gates of hell, brothers. Let us drag our enemies through with us.’
As the war-band rushed out of the gusting rain, he felt a shadow flash across him. His raven was here, he was sure. If this was the moment his premonitions had been warning him of, he was ready.
Wave upon wave of rogues crashed upon the rocks of the English defence. The axes slashed down, splitting heads, carving open shoulders and necks and chests. With gritted teeth, the spear-brothers battled through a mist of blood that turned them red from head to toe.
As he kicked another wounded man down the hill, Hereward wondered what was driving these cut-throats to fight on with such fury – lust for gold or fear of what fate awaited them if they failed? But their strategy was clear, as it had been by the shore. Overwhelm by force of numbers.
And though the English had the advantage of height and weapons and armour, the Mercian could see that sooner or later that plan would work. He sensed his brothers flagging. Their arms were growing heavy, their strikes weaker. With each blow, it took them a moment longer to wrench their axes out of flesh. And soon that moment would be long enough for one of their enemies to thrust a sword past their defences.
‘Go.’ Hereward squinted through the blood dripping into his eye-sockets. ‘I will hold them off here.’
‘And run through that mud up the hill?’ Guthrinc retorted. ‘No. My thanks, but I would rather stand here.’
‘Less talk,’ Kraki roared. ‘You are buzzing in my ear like a fly!’
When Derman stumbled back with a gash across his arm, Hereward felt sure their time had come. But then he heard a drumbeat, distant at first then growing louder, louder even than the rain.
The war-band heard it too. The attack slowed. Brows furrowed in hesitation.
The drumbeat grew louder still, and then through the wall of rain rode armed men, a host of them coming from all directions between the trees.
‘The Immortals,’ Hiroc exclaimed. ‘Those bastards did not leave us to die alone after all.’
The Athanatoi fell upon the cut-throats, who scattered wildly. But fighting or running, they were no match for armoured knights on horseback. What the hooves did not claim, the swords did. And when the Varangian Guard swept through the forest, no one remained to sate their axes.
One of the riders guided his horse up the hill to where the spear-brothers waited. ‘We have searched high and low for you,’ Tiberius Grabas called through the pounding of the rain.
‘You did not need to rush,’ Kraki shouted back. ‘We were almost done here.’
The spear-brothers laughed, which only made Tiberius scowl more. He had never learned to understand this strange humour.
‘Ah, they only wanted Alexios,’ Hiroc grumbled. ‘The rest of us . . . we were just lucky.’
Hereward tipped his face back to let the rain wash the blood away. But then a thought came to him and he set off down the slope, with the querying calls of his men ringing at his back.
At the stake pits, he came to a halt and walked along the line. Most of the men were already dead, their blood drained into a slurry at the bottom, but one still clung on to life.
Hereward crouched at the edge of the pit and peered down at him. ‘There is no saving you,’ he said as the man croaked a plea. ‘Your wounds are too great.’ He heard the spear-brothers run up behind him, but he kept his eyes on the dying man. ‘Loosen your tongue and I will spare you these agonies. Send you to heaven in peace.’
‘Anything,’ the last of the war-band gasped, his head sagging.
‘Who commanded you to attack us?’
For a long moment, there was only silence. Hereward feared the man had died. But then he said, ‘A man with a face that no woman would ever look upon. Nose gone. Scars . . . lips . . .’
‘Ragener,’ Sighard exclaimed.
‘That bastard,’ Kraki snarled. ‘Then Karas Verinus is behind this. That dog only does his bidding.’
Hereward stood up, feeling his resolve harden. Karas had made the decision to see them all doomed. Looking down at the wounded man, he said, ‘Give up your sins. You will have a good death.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE SCREAM RANG out through the forest.
From the shelter of a vast, overhanging rock, two riders peered down to where the war-band had marched into the dense forest, convinced their prey was close at hand.
‘What is the meaning of that?’ one of them asked.
‘It means we have lost,’ the other replied from the depths of his hood. He searched the tree-line, praying that he would see his allies swarm out, holding Hereward’s bloody head high and dragging Alexios’ corpse behind them.
Ragener felt despair crush his heart. All the fears that had burdened him on the long ride from Constantinople had been realized. He had hoped that once this business was finished, Karas Verinus could no longer doubt his loyalty or his worth. Now his only hope was that he could keep his head on his shoulders.
Francio grunted as if he had expected no less. He was the general of that rag-swathed war-band and looked no more the part than any of his men. His leather breastplate was cracked and worn and seemed to have been stolen from a man twice his size. His breeches were filthy with mud, as were his face and hands, and his hair hung in greasy ringlets. He stank as if he had shit himself. True, the sword at his side had gold embedded in its hilt, also stolen no doubt, but the blade was badly notched and looked as though it would shatter in any battle.
Ragener clenched the fingers of his good hand, trying to push aside his contempt for this man and all who served under him. It was their fault he had failed. Their weakness that had betrayed him.
When he had first entered the secluded valley where they had made their camp, Ragener had thought he had found a band of thieves who would slit his throat and leave him for dead. But no, this was the army Karas Verinus had been building ready for the day when he would make his move on the throne.
Karas was clever. He knew he could not bring his own well-trained warriors from his estate in the east. Nikephoros was suspicious of anyone who showed their power in Constantinople. Nor could he pay gold for axes-for-hire when the empire’s own army was buying every roaming fighting man that could be found.
But these curs . . . he could not call them warriors . . . Ragener simmered as he recalled how they had mocked him for his shortcomings. Half-a-man, they called him. If they had not been so many, he would have slit all their throats in their sleep. But once he had told them what Karas required, they had ridden west immediately, choosing the wilderness rather than the great road, skirting any villages where there might be prying eyes, and finding a narrow, dangerous pass in the highland that only Francio seemed to know.
And then they had made camp near the western shore, close to Robert Guiscard’s force but still hidden, waiting for the Immortals and the Varangian Guard to arrive, as Karas had said they would. The general had held back the messenger’s news of the Norman army from the emperor’s council just long enough to give Ragener a head start.
‘We must be away,’ the sea wolf growled, though his ragged lips took the edge off his words. ‘First, to our camp. The wounded must be put to the axe. There must be no sign here that leads back to Karas Verinus.’
‘As we agreed.’ Francio hesitated. He nodded towards the forest. ‘But what of the wounded in there?’
‘If I know that dog Hereward, there will be none of your men left alive.’
‘The emperor would have Karas’ head if he knew such a slaughter had been wrought upon some of his greatest warriors when the empire is staring into the face of doom.’
Ragener’s eyes darted towards the other man. ‘Do not think you can claw more gold with threats. Still your tongue. You know what Karas will do if you betray him.’
Francio fell silent.
Ragener watched the forest, still hoping. He understood his master’s plan. It mattered little if all these rogues were slaughtered. Karas could find two more to replace every one that fell. When the time came and the truth of his plot was revealed, he would need but numbers, not men skilled in battle.
Only one thing made this business bearable. Hereward might have won a small victory here, but he would reap the whirlwind. Karas Verinus would only be driven to greater fury.
With a loud curse, Ragener dug his heels in his horse’s flank and rode off to slaughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE DAWN SUN turned the plain into a ruddy sea. A cloud billowed on the Via Egnatia, which carved through that wide, flat land to the purple hills, misty on the horizon. One by one, the guards above the Golden Gate turned and watched it roll towards the city. The sound of drumming hooves rose up, and after a moment the wind drew back the bank of dust to reveal a column of riders. Helms and axes glinted.
Eyes narrowing, the guards gripped the edges of Constantinople’s western wall and peered through the thin light. Though this war-band was not large and their pace was slow, fear of the Norman invasion had driven deep into their hearts. They would take no chances.
But as the column neared, they glimpsed familiar crimson cloaks flapping in the breeze, the colour dulled by the mud of the road. At the front of the column of shimmering knights the great standard of the empire fluttered. Word leapt from lips to lips and then swept deep into the waking city. The heroes of the empire had survived.
When the warriors passed through the gates and into the shadow of the houses clustered near the walls, the guards looked down on heads bowed with weariness, blood-spattered tunics, and filthy makeshift bandages tied round raw wounds. Some clutched the necks of their mounts. Others looked as if they would slip to the ground at any moment. Many were being supported by their brothers.
Bedraggled, beaten, the Varangian Guard was home.
The Athanatoi too were fewer in number than when they had ridden west, their armour dented from the blows of numerous weapons.
If this was victory, it looked very much like defeat.
Hereward rode in at the head of the Varangian Guard, his spear-brothers close behind him. When he looked up, he saw the rising worry in the faces of the men on the walls, and he knew this sickness would sweep across a city already cowed by fears that its days were numbered. The fires would be fanned and would quite possibly burn Constantinople to the ground.
Thrusting one fist into the air, he bellowed, ‘Victory!’
His men caught up the proclamation. Their full-throated bellow reached up to the top of the walls, and the Immortals too managed to raise a rolling cheer. Hereward was pleased when he saw relief fill those watching faces. There would be time enough later for talk of what went wrong.
He jumped down from his horse and waited for Alexios to limp up to him. On the long ride home, the Roman’s wound had mostly healed, but he still looked too pale.
‘We cannot waste a moment,’ Hereward whispered. ‘You must tell the emperor of Karas Verinus’ treachery.’
‘It is our word against his.’
‘Aye, but I would wager that dog Ragener would loosen his tongue if he thought another part of him was about to be lost.’
Alexios raised his head, his defiance growing. ‘You are right. This is our chance to bring that bastard to his knees. He has gone too far, sending Romans to slaughter in service to his own lust for power. He must pay.’
While the boys assisting the wall-guards scrambled to lead the horses to water, the Varangians and the Immortals bellowed for meat and wine. Hereward and Alexios climbed back on to their mounts and, leaving the others behind, rode along the Mese into the city.
As they passed through the forum of the Ox, already starting to buzz with citizens, Hereward furrowed his brow. He saw eyes dart towards them, narrow and suspicious. In the forum of Constantine, he caught sight of small groups of armed men, their faces hard and scarred, their clothes shabby. He sensed their eyes following him and Alexios as they rode by.
‘Something is amiss,’ he murmured.
‘There is a strange mood in the city,’ Alexios agreed, frowning. ‘Are they so scared their spirits have been broken? Where are the cheers for the returning heroes? They must know who we are.’
As they approached the Milion, with the dome of Hagia Sophia looming behind it, the money-changers in Argyroprateia kept their heads down. More knots of armed men waited in the shadow of the hippodrome.
‘You have seen them before?’ Hereward asked quietly, nodding to one of the groups.
Alexios shook his head.
When the two men hurried into the sun-drenched hall of the Great Palace, Hereward found it alive with the emperor’s advisers and other officials, readying themselves for the day’s business. He saw heads swivel towards the new arrivals, but no greetings were uttered. On the far side, Falkon Cephalas walked with another man, his hands clasped behind his back as he listened intently. He, at least, nodded to them.
‘So. You yet live.’
Hereward turned to see Wulfrun walking towards him. The Guard commander’s face was unreadable, as always. Juliana Nepa walked beside him, her golden hair bright in the shafts of sunlight. She smiled at Hereward and Alexios.
The Mercian stiffened. She was cunning, that one. Who there could ever think badly of her? ‘It takes more than an army of Normans to kill us,’ he replied.
‘We thought the worst.’ Wulfrun looked from Hereward to Alexios and back. He seemed untroubled by the notion. ‘Word was sent that you were cornered, with no hope of escape.’
‘Word from one of Karas Verinus’ men, no doubt.’
Wulfrun nodded.
‘He spoke too soon.’
‘Though who could fault him?’ Alexios added. ‘Karas
was certain of the outcome long before the battle was joined.’
Wulfrun narrowed his eyes, questioning, but it was Juliana who stepped forward. ‘You say the general has been plotting?’
‘In that, he is a match for the Nepotes,’ Hereward said.
‘Hold your tongue,’ Wulfrun snapped. His eyes were filled with a cold warning.
When Juliana glanced past them, her face hardening, Hereward turned to see Karas Verinus striding down the steps, no doubt from the chamber where he had been advising on the matter of war on two fronts and the enemies waiting beyond the walls.
‘His lies will soon be done,’ Alexios said in a low voice.
Karas marched across the hall, his back straight, his head high. Yet he could not resist a look towards the two new arrivals, the mud and the blood making them stand out among the finely dressed advisers. The general tried to keep his face calm, Hereward could see. But he could not prevent a flash when his eyes fell upon them. The Mercian felt as if he had looked into a furnace. Karas seethed with anger that Alexios and his English enemies had not been destroyed. But more than that, Hereward glimpsed a hint of a greater threat to come.
‘We should wait no longer,’ he murmured to Alexios. The Roman commander nodded and led the way south through the palace complex to the Chrysotriklinos.
When they pushed their way into the octagonal throne room, they found it swarming with members of the court. Hereward could see from their faces that they had already received news of the war-band that had arrived at the Golden Gate, but they were unsure who yet lived and who had been lost.
Their faces racked with worry, their hands clenched, Anna and Maria waited by one of the sixteen windows. Hereward watched the relief flood them when they saw the new arrivals. Anna threw her arms around her son and embraced him. Maria surely wished to do the same, but wisdom prevailed. The emperor’s wife only smiled. ‘I am pleased that you are well, my son.’
The Mercian looked to the throne, where Nikephoros appeared a wizened husk of a man, but his implacable gaze lay heavy on them. If he felt jealousy, he hid it well, yet there was no warmth there.
