by James Wilde
Heaving on the oars with all his strength, he felt the boat sweep towards the moored ships. His quarry was ahead, the distance between them shortening by the moment. It was too late to turn back now.
Hereward choked down his doubts. He had set his course; in truth had set it long ago. Perhaps even the day he had led his brothers away from England. If fate chose to ruin his plans, so be it. His life was no longer his own.
Keeping his head low, he watched the three men drag themselves up on to the deck of the ship. It was long and narrow, like the knarrs the northmen used for trade, with a square-rigged sail to speed it across the waves. He was only a whisper behind.
Guiding the boat into the shadows cast on the water so he would not be seen, he loosened his shoulders. Slow strokes. No splashes. Silent, silent.
Once he was alongside, he stood up, balancing against the sudden rocking, and then hauled himself aboard. Cloaked in preparation for the ocean chill, rows of sailors perched on their benches, their backs to him. They were waiting for the order to row out of the harbour and away.
The three new arrivals turned as one the moment the Mercian stepped down on the boards. Two of them recoiled, sailors by the look of them. Their faces were beaten to the texture of leather by the wind and sun.
The third was Justin Verinus, Karas Verinus’ murderous beast of a nephew.
The pale-faced youth stared blankly. ‘How did you know I was leaving Constantinople this night?’ His whispery voice was almost lost beneath the lapping against the hull. He drew his blade.
Hereward looked past him. The sailors were rising from their benches. Their cloaks slipped from them.
Justin glanced round at the sound of movement as the men found their balance on the rocking deck. His mouth fell in shock. These were not sailors, not his men. They were warriors. Swords and axes were already in their hands. Mail-shirts gleamed in the moonlight. Some on the flanks had bows, the nocked arrows pointing towards him.
On the edge of his vision, Hereward caught sight of the two sailors who had accompanied the Verinus bastard edging away from their charge. Their faces were ashen. They knew what was coming. Every man there knew. Stumbling, they dropped over the side to their boat. The Mercian heard their oars splashing as they rowed away as fast as they could.
Hereward drew Brainbiter, levelling it at Justin Verinus, then the fighting men. The blade glinted in the moonlight, but he knew all there could see it was a poor defence against a war-band.
And then the ranks of warriors parted. A towering figure clambered across the benches and the oars and the rope. No one spoke. No one moved. Hereward felt a cold deep in his bones. This was the moment he had long known was coming, the moment when fate would decide his days yet to come.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Varin, the Blood Eagle, pointed his axe at the Mercian.
‘You have been betrayed,’ he boomed. ‘The leader you trusted has led you into a trap. Are you so blind that you cannot see those closest to you want you dead? Is this the great warrior? No, I see a cur before me, too jolt-headed to know it is chasing its own tail. Step forward, Hereward of the English. Your misery ends this day.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ARIADNE HAULED HERSELF up the mooring rope. Seawater sluiced from her sodden clothes. The swim from the quayside had been cold and she shuddered as she pulled herself on to the deck.
On the adjacent ship, the battle between Hereward and Varin raged under a moon so bright it was as clear as day. The fight was so furious! She felt terror course through her as she realized the Englishman was close to being overwhelmed. And even if he could defeat his enemy, the war-band would be upon him in an instant to hack him to pieces.
There was no hope.
How did it come to this, she thought, choking back a sob? She burned with shame at the way she had failed Hereward. And now he would die.
From the moment he had left the Boukoleon palace, she had followed him, as Salih had bid her do. But he had been led into this trap before she had recognized it for what it was. Before she could act.
Sparks flashed across the gulf of night as the two seasoned warriors clashed weapons. Ariadne jolted with each blow as if she were there fighting beside them.
Turning, she searched the shadows of her vessel until she saw the figure standing in the prow, watching the battle on the neighbouring ship. It was the one she had seen at the harbour just before he had rowed out here.
Leo Nepos.
Staggering across the rolling deck, she grabbed his arm. ‘Save him,’ she pleaded.
Leo jerked round in surprise. ‘I am here to bear witness on the day the Nepotes won the crown.’ He pushed up his chin. ‘Today, Justin Verinus will die, and Hereward of the English too. And then the road to the throne is clear.’ He turned back to the battle.
Feeling dazed, Ariadne followed his gaze, and saw Justin cowering aft, by the swinging firepot, away from the flashing blades. But Ariadne found her eyes drawn once more to Hereward. He seemed to know his days were ending. There was no fire in him. The Blood Eagle parried his strikes with ease. His axe came closer to his opponent’s flesh with each moment. She could hear his snarl, and the grunting of both men. She winced at the screech of steel on steel.
‘You can stop this,’ she pleaded again. ‘Hereward does not need to die. Nor does my brother. He can be sent away . . .’ She felt her heart sink. Where was Salih? She could not change the outcome of this night on her own.
‘If your brother lives, he will always be a threat to us.’ Leo was unable to take his eyes off the battle.
Slipping on the deck, Hereward went down hard. With a roar, the Blood Eagle swung his axe.
Ariadne cried out, but Varin had been a moment too slow. Rolling to one side, the Mercian pushed himself to his feet. Alerted by her cry, he met her eyes across the swell and yelled, ‘Stay back.’ Even as the words left his lips the Blood Eagle came at him again.
How had the Nepotes learned that her brother would be leaving Constantinople this night, at this place, so they could set their trap?
‘Justin Verinus will die,’ Leo repeated, his voice firm. ‘And once I am certain that he and Hereward are dead, I will carry the news back to my mother and father and sister and we will rejoice.’
Ariadne felt the blood throb in her head. Al-Kahina was calling to her, taking hold. ‘I cannot let this stand.’
Leo glared at her. ‘Then we are done. The next time I lay eyes upon you, you will be my enemy.’
Through the haze of the warrior-queen, Ariadne felt as if a blade had stabbed into her heart. But she would not back down.
Barely had the look of hatred crossed Leo’s face when she saw Justin move on the other ship. He was seizing his moment. Snarling his hands in his cloak to protect them, he grabbed the firepot and hurled it along the deck.
Cries of alarm rang out from the war-band as the red-hot coals skidded along the boards. Hereward and Varin wrenched round in their life-or-death struggle, seemingly oblivious. In the confusion, Justin hurled himself over the side.
Leaning over the gunwale, Ariadne searched the inky waters for her brother until the moonlight picked him out. ‘Justin,’ she yelled. ‘Swim towards me.’
His arms flailed, splashing – he was not a good swimmer – but somehow he crossed the short distance. Feeling the strength of al-Kahina inside her, she reached down and helped him clamber aboard. Sodden, he collapsed on to the boards gasping for breath.
Leo had drawn his sword. ‘Good,’ he snarled. ‘Now I can claim this victory for my own.’
Justin staggered to his feet. Ariadne saw a smirk creep on to his lips. He was not scared. In fact, he seemed to relish this confrontation.
‘No more,’ she shouted. ‘This is madness.’ She stepped between them. ‘I will not let you kill my brother,’ she said to Leo, baring her teeth. Looking directly at Justin, she added, ‘And I will not let you kill the one I love.’
For a moment she stared across the water, distracted by t
he rising panic on the other ship. The flames were roaring up from the hot coals. They cast a hellish light over the scattering war-band. Some tried to stamp out the fire, but it must have caught on sailcloth for the flames only leapt higher. Terrified cries rang out.
When she turned back, Justin was staring at her with eyes that seemed to contain no life.
As fast as a snake, his fist slammed against her cheek. She felt a burst of pain and she flew back on to the deck. Tasting blood in her mouth, she shook her head. Justin cared nothing for her. He had never cared. Now he had drawn his own sword and was readying to attack his rival.
Beyond him, smoke billowed out across the black harbour waters. As Ariadne clambered back to her feet, she caught sight of the warriors opposite ripping off their mail and helms as they hurled themselves over the side. She gaped. The heat must be like a furnace, the smoke choking, yet still Hereward and Varin fought on.
She found she could not tear her eyes away from that monumental battle upon the blazing ship. Even Leo and Justin were gripped, their swords hanging in their hands.
Everything seemed to slow. All sound drained away. She felt as though she were in a dream and there was only that moment, for ever. Hereward and Varin, lit by the flames. The Blood Eagle’s mad grin. His axe sweeping up, shimmering in the ruddy glow.
Hereward fell. In that instant, she thought she saw him look towards her, or perhaps it was part of that terrible dream. His face, even then, showed only courage and acceptance.
The axe came down.
Ariadne screamed.
Exhausted, Varin drew himself up and raised his axe high. He roared his triumph into the night, even above the din of the flames, a howl that sounded like a beast at hunt.
Ariadne felt her rush of despair turn to anger. ‘I am al-Kahina,’ she snarled. ‘I am al-Kahina. I am al-Kahina.’ A vow, a prayer. She would not see another loss this night.
When she turned to Leo and Justin, they seemed struck by whatever they saw in her face. Yet they were still determined to kill each other, she could see it.
In a flood of rage, she flung herself at the two men as their swords came up. She crashed into them, spun round. The world whirled. A hilt crashed against her forehead. She felt a momentary blackness and then she was falling, with another body tangled in hers.
Down they plunged into the icy waters, and down further, until the darkness and the cold swallowed them. For an instant, she felt the urge to let go, to drift away, let all the miseries end. But then, with her lungs burning, she kicked up until she broke the surface.
Once her mind settled, she felt panic once more, and wrenched around, searching for whoever had fallen with her. But she was alone on the swell. Craning her neck up, she saw Leo peering over the side of the ship. How filled with loathing he seemed when he saw her. She turned her head away from that heart-breaking stare, and when she looked back he was gone.
Though she splashed around and dived down several times, Ariadne could find no sign of her brother. Whether he was alive or dead, she did not know. But she could feel the cold creeping deep into her bones and she knew she needed to reach the shore soon if she were to live. Her heart heavy, she swam back through the rolling cloud of smoke and the reek of burning, crawled up the stone steps from the water, and collapsed on the quayside. She was shaking from exertion and shock. Through slit eyes, she made out a crowd of nervous onlookers drawn by the blazing ship and the smoke. They feared the Turks or the Normans. None of them knew what a tragedy had unfolded this night.
Ariadne closed her eyes, feeling only despair.
When she opened them again a few moments later, she saw movement further down the harbour. Varin was striding along the edge of the quay, carrying Hereward’s limp body in his arms. A few of the warriors from the burning ship had clambered up the steps to follow him, soaked and shivering.
For a moment she lay there, gathering her strength, until she heard the sound of running feet moving through the storehouses to the harbour. Varin and the body were gone, but Wulfrun was racing from the shadows with a band of Varangians. They ground to a halt, staring at the burning ship. She had seen the commander leave. Why had it taken him so long to bring reinforcements? Unless, she thought, he had been in no rush to save the hero of the English.
Pushing herself up, Ariadne blinked away hot tears. ‘He is dead,’ she yelled in anger. ‘Hereward is dead.’
Another Varangian, a broad, red-haired warrior, stepped out from behind a heap of ballast stones where he must have been watching the fight aboard the ship.
‘’Tis true,’ he said. ‘I saw it with my own eyes. You are too late. Hereward is dead.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE OWL SWOOPED above the rows of graves. Its mournful hoot echoed through the stillness of the cemetery pressed hard against the wall beside the gate of St John de Cornibus. The lamp of the full moon carved deep shadows from the markers and mausoleums across the bright boneyard. Beyond, the houses of the Venetian quarter were silhouetted against the star-sprinkled sky.
The chink of steel upon stones rang out. Two men, beggars in threadbare tunics, toiled in a new grave, breaking the hard-packed ground with borrowed picks and turning out the rocky earth into a pile beside it. Every now and then they would pause to wipe sweat from their brows with the backs of their hands, smearing streaks of brown dirt.
Arms folded, another man towered over them, observing their labours. ‘Good,’ Varin grunted. ‘Keep digging.’ Though his arms ached from the battle, it was a good exhaustion, the kind felt after a job well done. At his feet, the rough-hewn coffin leaked blood into the dust. Ropes had been tied around the top and bottom, ready for it to be lowered into the grave.
Varin looked around. The cemetery was a lonely place. Haunted, some said. Silence lay heavy upon it. Yet in the distance he could hear cries, of alarm, or anger, or rebellion or fear, the sound of a city on the edge.
Rubbing the small of his back, one of the men pushed himself upright and leaned on his wooden shovel. ‘Why give him a burial? I have never known the like. ’Tis easier to toss the dead over the wall, into the sea. Let the fishes finish them off.’
The other paused with his pick mid-strike and waited for the Blood Eagle’s reply.
‘Our masters are wiser than you,’ Varin said. ‘Here Hereward will lie in an unmarked grave. His friends will never know whether he is alive or dead. None will be able to mourn for him. And in time he will be forgotten.’
The gravedigger sniffed. ‘Men die all the time.’
‘Not a man like this.’ Tapping one boot against the coffin to emphasize his words, the Blood Eagle added, ‘A man who is second in command of the Varangian Guard found drifting in the Bosphorus, this cannot easily be forgotten. Justice will be demanded. Vengeance.’
‘You fear his friends, then. That they will come for you.’
Varin prowled around the hole. ‘I fear no man. Nor death either. No, this is by order of your masters. They have plans that must continue apace. They would rather the city hear whispers of Hereward’s death, and doubt, and wonder, and no one know whether truth or lie. A man with questions looks one way for answers and sees not what is happening in the other.’
The gravedigger scratched his head. Varin could see these thoughts demanded too much of him. When the man made to open his mouth again, the Blood Eagle held up his hand. ‘Still your tongue. You are being paid to dig, not talk.’
Muttering under his breath, the man returned to his labours.
Soon after, the grave was done. The diggers crawled out, wheezing. Varin allowed them to slake their thirst from a hide before they grasped the ropes on the coffin. Staggering against the weight, they lowered the box into the hole. Blood dripped into the dark.
The coffin dropped to the bottom of the grave with a thump, and the men let the ropes down on top of it. They began to refill the pit as fast as they could. The job done, they stepped back to examine their handiwork – a faint mound of freshly turned earth with no ma
rker to show who lay beneath.
‘Done,’ one of the gravediggers said.
‘Done,’ the Blood Eagle repeated.
Then he took his axe and ended their days, as the Nepotes had insisted, and tossed their bodies over the wall into the sea.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE ASHES IN the hearth were cold. Kraki stared at them, remembering Hereward coming to him as if in a dream, to talk of death and what must be done in days yet to come. How could he call himself friend? He had made light of the Mercian’s fears, had all but laughed in his face. And he had not said farewell. His eyes dropped to the goblet of wine that sat untouched on the table in front of him.
On the benches around the feasting table, the spear-brothers sat with their eyes fixed on horizons only each man could see. Alexios stood by the seat that Hereward normally occupied, his face drawn as if he had not had a moment’s sleep. In front of the door, Wulfrun and Ricbert stood like sentinels. They had not moved since they had delivered the news. Kraki had never known a mood so grim, not even after England had fallen.
‘What now for us?’ Sighard asked into the silence.
‘We do not whine like children, that is first above all things,’ Kraki growled.
‘Aye,’ Guthrinc agreed, nodding slowly. ‘Hereward believed he should have died in Ely when England fell. He has been counting every day since as a gift from God. He knew this time was coming.’
‘But he was our leader.’ Sighard looked around the stony faces. ‘Without him—’
‘Without him, we will be the men he has taught us to be.’ Kraki glared at the younger warrior.
Drawing himself up, Alexios paced around the table, becoming more determined with each step. In his expression, Kraki could see the celebrated general who had commanded great armies.
‘Hereward is not gone,’ Alexios began, his voice commanding attention. ‘Not while he lives in our hearts. You are right to mourn. Warriors could not have asked for a better leader. This long battle that has been fought since you left England’s shores was the one Hereward wanted, to lead you to a place where you could find peace, and reward for all your sacrifices. The standard has fallen, but now it is up to one of you to grasp it and lead the others on in the days yet to come. Who will shoulder this burden?’
