by James Wilde
The other was the young girl, Victor Verinus’ daughter, Ariadne. As thin as a blade, her skin was dark from the dirt of the streets. Her stare had all the cold threat of a seasoned warrior. They held knives dripping with the blood of their victims.
‘You will pay for this,’ Wulfrun growled. But as he strode into the street, the murderers melted away into the shadows. Though he heard no running feet, he knew they were gone.
This was bad business. It was clear that Salih ibn Ziyad was hunting the Nepotes, though why he could not guess. But now Wulfrun would have to make good his oath: to defend the family who were in their own way as deadly as this new enemy, even though it could cost him his life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE RAT GNAWED on the knob of bread. Black eyes gleamed and needle claws raked the damp flagstone. From under hooded brow, Hereward watched the vermin in the shadows of the reeking cell. Humiliation heaped on humiliation. That was all he had endured since the English had sailed into Constantinople, and he had had enough. His anger simmered.
At his neck, his fingers closed around the sliver of wood imbued with God’s power, and he felt the furnace in his heart die down. Alric had given him a great gift indeed. But if the Lord would offer him one more chance, he vowed there would come a time when he would choose to let that fire roar free, like a blaze in a tinder-dry forest, and then these Roman bastards would learn the meaning of regret. If he had to fight his way out of the city, he would. He would not go meekly to his death.
And yet the hours of his life were creeping away from him. All night he had lain here, brooding upon a plan to escape, but in his heart he knew that it was vain hope. The Boukoleon palace was swarming with Varangian guardsmen, and it was only a short walk from this miserable cell to the yard where he would face the axe. Hereward stared into the gloom. Many times he had faced death, but never had he thought it would come like this.
Footsteps echoed along the corridor without, and a moment later the door groaned open. Thin dawn light fell across the filthy straw.
Stooping to step under the lintel, Wulfrun strode to the centre of the chamber. His face was like stone. He had waited for this day for a long, long time. To see the hated Hereward of the English, the man he blamed for his father’s death, facing execution. How his heart must sing, the Mercian thought. He glowered at the commander, and felt surprised to see no hint of triumph there. The guardsman would not meet his gaze, and almost seemed troubled by what was to come.
‘It was only ever a matter of time,’ Wulfrun said, his voice like pebbles falling upon wood.
‘You think I set out to murder that man?’
‘I know Sabas Apion is dead. I know his blood was still wet upon your blade when you were captured. You may have enjoyed the emperor’s favour for saving his life during the plot by the Verini, but even he will not forgive this crime, not the killing of a man held in such high regard at court.’ He pushed back his cloak and let his hand fall upon the hilt of his short sword. ‘Why did you kill him?’
‘It seemed only fair payment for a man about to do murder.’
‘Murder? Why would Sabas Apion care if a dog like you lived or died?’
‘He cared not at all. But he had his heart set upon ending the days of another who was there. I was in the way, that was all.’
‘Another, you say?’ Wulfrun levelled his cold gaze at Hereward, weighing the truth.
The Mercian did not flinch. ‘My tongue always speaks true.’
Wulfrun nodded slowly, seemingly accepting his captive’s account. ‘It matters little. This time your luck has run out.’ He drew his sword and flicked the tip up.
So, the hour had come. Hereward pushed his back up the wall, steeling himself. ‘You would see an innocent man go to his death?’
Snorting, the guardsman urged his captive out. ‘Do not sully the word. You have not been innocent since you were a babe. If you are not guilty of this crime, there are more than enough others to suffice.’
Hereward eased out of the cell into a dank corridor, blinking at the sunlight breaking through a small window high up on one wall. There was little point in pressing Wulfrun further, he knew, however much reluctance he sensed in the guardsman. The judgement had been made.
Raising his chin, the Mercian strode along the corridor and up a narrow flight of steps. He was surprised by the images that rushed through his head unbidden. He thought of his wife, Turfrida, and the last time they had seen each other, on another bright dawn. And he thought of Alric and hoped the monk would bear his grief well. And then, as if from nowhere, a memory swept up of the son he had left behind in England. He could not understand his feelings – regret, hope that the lad would see better days than he ever had, worry.
In the yard, under a rosy sky, three guardsmen bore witness by the door into the palace. Hereward found his gaze drawn to the block, and the tall, broad-shouldered executioner who stood beside it.
‘Dorlof is one of the Rus,’ Wulfrun murmured at the Mercian’s back. ‘He is strong. He will take your head with one clean stroke.’
That was some comfort.
When he had crossed the yard, Hereward looked the unflinching Rus in the eye, then knelt. He felt a strange peace settle upon him. He had never feared death, and there had been times when he would have welcomed it. But one regret haunted him: he had failed his spear-brothers. What hope now for them?
Hereward heard Dorlof shift and the sound of knuckles cracking. He sensed the axe being swung up high.
He was ready.
‘Hold!’ A woman’s voice cracked with authority.
Craning his neck, Hereward glimpsed a woman in a crimson dress standing by the door to the palace. Tall and slender, her silver-streaked black hair was a mass of ringlets falling down her back. She was pointing imperiously at the executioner. ‘Bring him to me.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘YOU HAVE FRIENDS in high places,’ Wulfrun growled.
Hereward’s head was still swimming from the speed with which he had been snatched away from the jaws of death. The journey from the yard to this door on the first floor of the palace had passed in a blur. All he knew was that both the executioner and Wulfrun had not hesitated to obey the woman’s command.
The guardsman swung the door open and steered him into a large chamber with a view over the gleaming blue-green sea. His saviour stood by the windows, sipping from a golden goblet. Hereward noted the languorous way she held her cup, the tilt of her chin, and decided that here was someone not used to being ignored. She narrowed her eyes as she sized him up.
‘Hereward of the English,’ Wulfrun said, bowing his head.
‘You have my thanks,’ the woman replied in a voice at once both lazy and weary. ‘I can see why our emperor holds you in such high regard. You may leave us.’
Wulfrun frowned. ‘He is a murderous cur,’ he began. ‘You would not be safe …’
‘He will not harm me.’ His saviour curled her lips into a seductive yet manipulative smile. ‘I have learned much about Hereward of the English in these hours before dawn. He is a man of honour, I am told, not the cut-throat you threatened with execution.’
‘I will not harm you. You have my word on that.’ Why this woman had saved his neck, why she had taken the time to find out about him, Hereward could not begin to guess, but he was thankful none the less.
‘I will remain without,’ the guardsman said in his emotionless tone. He glanced at Hereward – a warning – and added, ‘Should you need me, you have only to call.’
Once he had gone, the woman poured another goblet of wine and handed it to her guest. The Mercian took it, but he did not attempt to hide his suspicion. He had long since learned that in Constantinople nothing was given freely or without obligation.
‘You know me?’ she asked, that same smile playing on her lips as she watched him attempt to get the measure of her.
‘I am rarely a guest at court.’
She laughed silently and began to circle him. ‘My name is A
nna Dalassene. I wielded power once, and could have wielded more. Once I had a husband, John Comnenos, the commander of the western armies. His brother Isaac sat upon the imperial throne. And when Isaac … sickly old Isaac … gave up his crown, my husband refused to press his claim to rule the empire. He saw no value in it.’ A flicker of irritation crossed her face. Here was an old wound, still festering. ‘And then my husband died. Now I only have my children.’
Hereward sipped his wine. It had a sweetness to it, far finer than the bitter swill they served in the tavern near the English hovel.
‘This last night, you saved the life of my son.’
‘The young swordsman, the one Sabas Apion tried to kill? That is why you saved my neck?’
‘To give my thanks, yes.’
‘If you can keep my head upon my shoulders, you still wield some power.’
‘Some.’ She fluttered fingers in the air, pretending to dismiss the words. ‘In Constantinople, all men – and all women – need allies. Here, enemies lurk everywhere. There are few who can be trusted. But you rushed to Alexios’ aid with no thought for your own safety. You fought for a stranger, because you saw one man threatened by four cut-throats, and knew there was no justice there.’ Stepping closer, she peered deep into his eyes. Her stare was unflinching. Hereward thought he had never seen eyes filled with such confidence, such power, since he had stood before William the Bastard in Wincestre. ‘A man of honour,’ she added quietly, ‘and they are rarer than hen’s teeth in Constantinople.’
‘Why did the man I killed want your son dead?’
‘Many want Alexios dead. As many would see my blood spilled too. There is a war within Constantinople. A quiet one, but no less a war. You must know that.’
Hereward nodded. ‘The emperor is not well liked. Some think the empire would fare better with a stronger man on the throne. Some covet the power that goes with the crown.’
‘And there are those who believe I still covet the throne, for one of my sons.’
‘Do you?’
‘We have an emperor, a young one. I would not see him harmed.’
‘A good answer, but not to the question I asked.’
Swigging back her wine, Anna set the goblet aside. Her eyes flashed. ‘It matters not whether I see a path to the throne, merely that others think I desire it. For many a day, I could not set foot in Constantinople. The emperor’s uncle, the Caesar, John Doukas, feared my claim to the throne. I have little love for him …’ Anna caught herself. Hereward could see from her sour face that in truth they were bitter enemies. ‘He branded me a traitor, saw me banished, to a monastery on Prinkipos. All to make sure I would be no threat to him. But power waxes and wanes, as we all know, and John Doukas no longer wields any at the court. Perhaps he no longer has aught to his name,’ she added with an enigmatic smile. ‘And so I am back.’
‘But still you have enemies on every side.’
A cold smile. Anna poured herself more wine. ‘I need a good man … a warrior … a trusted, honourable man who can watch over my son and keep him safe from the knives in the dark.’
‘I am a soldier now. I aided your son in his hour of need, but I would not see out my days wiping the spittle from his chin.’
Anna’s eyes narrowed. Hereward saw steel there. Here was a woman not accustomed to being questioned or denied. ‘A soldier? The man who challenged a king? Who could have taken the crown of England for himself if he had not been betrayed? A lowly soldier?’ Her words boiled with scorn. ‘Wulfrun,’ she called. ‘Take him back to the cells.’
‘Wait,’ Hereward growled as the door ground open.
Anna waved the guardsman back out.
‘So,’ the Mercian said, holding out his arms to the chamber, ‘this is no reward for an act of kindness. I must earn my life.’
Gliding across the room, Anna perched upon the stone of the window. A halo of sunlight glowed around her head. ‘I need you, Hereward of the English. What you witnessed last night is only the beginning. My son’s life hangs by a thread, and I would do anything … drive any bargain … to keep him alive. I can trust no one else in Constantinople. So, yes, if you would see another dawn, you must agree to my terms. It may yet cost you your life. But if you accept this offer, I will use what influence I have with the emperor to have your sentence lifted. The emperor will have his own terms, of course. He cannot ignore the murder of a man like Sabas Apion. But at least here is a chance for life. Do not turn your back upon it.’
Hereward stifled his simmering anger. He should have known that nothing in Constantinople came without a price. But as his thoughts raced, a flame flickered to life deep in his head. Smiling, he said, ‘I will watch over your son, but let us haggle some more. I have a mind to strike a bigger deal by far.’
CHAPTER NINE
THE GULLS WHEELED across the face of the sun. Brassy light glinted off the swell below as the line of men stood in the sweltering heat at the front of the Boukoleon palace, their heads bowed. Ahead of them, a salty breeze stirred the banner on the sea wall. It offered little respite. The dull yells of the men working on the quayside to the east fell away, the shriek of the birds ebbed. A stillness descended on the waterfront.
Hereward eyed his spear-brothers as he stumbled out of the palace gate after more long hours locked in his cell. He felt a dull anger that his men had been rounded up. Sullen, the warriors peered out from under heavy brows, the looks of men seething at yet another unjustified indignation heaped upon them.
‘You thought your freedom could be so easily bought?’ Wulfrun whispered in his ear with barely concealed satisfaction.
The Varangian Guard flanked the captives, hands upon axes. Though they outnumbered the English two to one, they did not underestimate their prisoners. Hereward nodded. That was good. To one side, Alric, Deda and Rowena watched his approach. They could not hide the worry etched in their faces.
‘You are no longer the lone beast running wild among the fields of Barholme,’ Wulfrun continued. ‘Now every action you take affects others. Every word you speak in anger. Every drop of blood you spill.’
‘These are good men. They do not deserve to be punished for my crimes.’
‘Yet they will be. And in this way, perhaps, there is a chance to hold you to account. Your life and theirs are now entwined. Remember this the next time you would draw your sword.’
Hereward’s gaze flickered to a small knot of nobles watching the scene, and to a short man with greying black hair standing a spear’s length in front of the group, who appeared to command their respect. He showed a smile that did not seem to fit the moment as he looked out across the English warriors.
‘You are dead men all, though your legs do not yet know it. It is for the emperor and the emperor alone to decide when you go to your graves,’ he said in a lilting voice.
‘Who is that?’ Hereward asked.
Wulfrun grunted. ‘His name is Falkon Cephalas. The strong right arm of Nikephoritzes. Look on him. He would not stand there if you had not murdered Sabas Apion. You may well live to regret raising this one to high station.’
In the group of nobles, Hereward glimpsed Anna Dalassene, her chin raised, with studied indifference. One other familiar face leapt out, Simonis Nepa, tall and slender and cold. She cast a gaze at Hereward that barely disguised its murderous intent. Her kin, the Nepotes, had offered a seeming hand of friendship when the English had first arrived in Constantinople, but all they had truly wanted was to use the spear-brothers in their plot to steal the throne. They had never forgiven Hereward for the part he had played in its failure.
‘Stay strong, brothers,’ Hereward said as Wulfrun steered him along the line towards the watching nobles. The Guard commander gave him a shove to silence him.
‘Your life already hangs by a thread,’ he hissed. ‘A wise man would take care not to give any more offence.’
When they came to a halt, Falkon stepped forward, still smiling. Hereward wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of flower-infused wa
ter that the women often used on their skin in the summer’s heat. ‘By rights, your blood should already be draining into the dust,’ the Roman said with the faintest sibilance. ‘Sabas Apion was a valuable servant. His counsel will be much missed by the emperor. And his kin are demanding justice. You have made many enemies.’
‘Enemies I am not short of.’ Hereward sensed Wulfrun flinch beside him.
‘You saved the emperor’s life. He will not forget it. But this crime is too great to be ignored.’ Falkon glanced past Hereward’s shoulder to the line of spear-brothers. ‘The third one,’ he said, counting heads with his index finger. ‘Kill him.’
Stunned, Hereward whirled. Falkon had identified Turold. The Roman was clever: Turold wore his gentleness for all to see, in his easy smile, his open face. The death of such a man would undoubtedly be a blow to his brothers in battle.
Turold gaped in shock, not understanding what was happening. Grabbing his arms, the guardsmen hurled him to the ground. ‘I have done no wrong,’ the captive said, looking up in disbelief.
‘Stay your hand!’ Hereward demanded as a tumult of angry cries rang out from his men. Turning back to Falkon, he pleaded, ‘He is no warrior. He has made plans to give up his spear … to marry a Roman girl …’
Falkon nodded to one of the guardsmen. Hereward jerked at the sound of steel upon flesh and bone. Anguished cries erupted from his men.
Hereward felt only cold horror. When he turned, he was gripped by the sight of Turold’s head rolling to a gentle halt upon the flagstones. A growing pool of blood spread around the fallen body.
The spear-brothers threw themselves into a frenzy. In an instant, they were swallowed by the Varangian Guard, who rained blows down upon them.
‘Hold!’ Hereward yelled, fearing that more of his men would be slaughtered. ‘Harm no more.’ Turning back to Falkon, he felt his anger boil and it was all he could do to contain it. ‘Turold did not deserve to die,’ he croaked. ‘He had a gentle heart, quick to show kindness to all he met.’
