by James Wilde
Once he had made them understand what he wanted, they beat him around the face to show him his place, then all but hauled him through the camp to the commander’s tent. As they dragged him through the flaps, they threw him to his knees and cuffed him again for good measure. He did not cry out.
Ragener breathed in sweet perfume. Such an odd scent for the tent of a military leader, he thought. As he looked up, he saw three women sprawled on embroidered cushions, local girls by the look of it, all of them seemingly naked under the thin covers draped over them. And when he looked higher, he saw a tall, muscular man looming over his playthings. This could only be Drogo Vavasour. Naked to the waist, his torso and arms were a map of his life, a mass of scar tissue from axe, sword and spear. From Drogo’s reputation, Ragener expected a face as stern as granite cliffs, but the Norman was laughing silently to himself as he looked down on the sea wolf, his eyes playful. He swaggered across the tent to a trestle where a pitcher and goblet stood beside a cross, and bowed his head to the cross in a moment’s silent contemplation. When he glanced back, all humour had drained from his face. Ragener thought he saw only disgust there. ‘Remain silent until I am done,’ the knight commanded.
He took a leather strap with iron nails hammered through it from a small casket and knelt before the cross, bowing his head in supplication. The first lash of the strap raised bloody weals across his back. Ragener winced, but this strange Norman did not stop there. Only when his back was running red did he stand up. Eyeing the women with contempt, he spat something in his native tongue and they fled from the tent in terror, not even pausing to hide their nakedness.
Once they had gone, the Norman turned back to his guest, or captive, Ragener was not sure which. ‘We are all cauldrons of sin,’ he intoned, ‘and we must drive those devils out of us through suffering, as our Lord did upon the cross.’ Reaching behind him, he trailed one finger across his back. When he examined the bloodstained tip he nodded, pleased, and poured himself a goblet of wine.
The sea wolf furrowed his brow as Vavasour’s face lightened once more. It was almost as if he was two men sharing the same body.
By the time he had crossed the tent and was looking down upon his visitor, he was grinning. ‘Half a man,’ he said, cocking his head in mock-puzzlement, ‘or perhaps not a man at all. What manner of creature are you?’
‘My name is Ragener. The Hawk.’
‘The Hawk, you say?’ Drogo flashed a look at his guards. Ragener saw the faint mockery, and pushed aside his anger. ‘And an English hawk too. Why have you dragged what remains of your body into my camp?’
Ragener clambered to his feet. ‘In Hastinge, in Wincestre, aye, all over England I heard tell of the great Drogo Vavasour.’
The Norman raised his goblet in a silent cheer.
‘Here is King William’s most feared warrior, a man who killed more English than any other at Senlac Hill, who, they say, cut off the cock of the former king Harold and held it up high for all to see.’
Vavasour feigned a proud nod.
‘Who herded the English rebels in Cestre into a village and roasted them alive, dining on a goose leg while he listened to the screams. Whenever King William spied a threat to his crown, he sent for Drogo Vavasour, it is said.’
‘You are skilled in the art of flattery, Hawk.’
‘For your service to the king you have been rewarded well, with land and gold. But there is one thing that has slipped through your fingers.’
The Norman’s eyes narrowed.
‘Hereward, the last of the English rebels. The man who murdered your brother.’
CHAPTER SIX
A SUFFOCATING BLANKET of heat was pressing down on him. Hereward stirred, wrinkling his nostrils at the reek of baking seaweed. He tasted brine upon his tongue, felt granules of sand grinding into his cheek. His head throbbed to the beat of the pounding waves. With weary strokes, his thoughts swam up from a world of darkness.
Coughing out seawater, he thrust himself up and looked around. He was lying in foaming surf amid the shattered bones of the ship. What remnants remained suggested the vessel had been torn to pieces. The coarse sand stretched up to a line of brown rocks. Above it was a sky burned silver. No trees, no vegetation of any kind. A bare and lifeless land.
His gaze flickered towards sudden movement. A figure silhouetted against the glare whirled across the beach in a wild dance of flailing arms and kicking legs. Lank wet hair flew and a high-pitched tuneless song rolled out. Squinting, Hereward realized it was Hengist finding his mad joys in the midst of disaster. The Mercian hauled himself up on shaking legs. Where there was one there could be more. His crew would fight to the last, even against turbulent seas, and they had been close to shore when the ship had been wrecked.
‘Hengist,’ he yelled, cupping his mouth. ‘How many more yet live?’
Grinding to a halt, the other man beamed, then raised his head and his arms to the sun. Hereward cursed under his breath. Striding up the beach, he surveyed the shoreline. Sodden figures lay in the surf. Some did not move – dead or dazed, he did not know. Others clawed their way out of the foam or struggled to stand. His heart grew heavy. How few there were. He could not see Guthrinc, or Kraki, and perhaps fifteen more.
His gaze fell on a slight, still form and he felt a pang of fear. Racing along the beach, he dropped to his knees beside Alric. The monk lay face down, unmoving.
Hereward spun his friend on to his back and held his face between his huge hands. ‘Monk,’ he urged, shaking the other man. ‘Monk.’
Alric jerked and vomited a mouthful of seawater. Feebly, he tried to bat away Hereward’s grip as if he were swatting a fly. ‘You have laid a curse upon me,’ he croaked, ‘to be thrown into the sea whenever I cross the whale road.’
With a grin, Hereward released his grip. His friend jolted back on to the sand. ‘You live, monk,’ the warrior called back as he strode to the next survivor. ‘That is all that we can hope for on this journey.’
One of his men cried out, and he turned to see a figure clambering over the rock pools at the margin of the cove. It was the woman, still wrapped in the soaking cloak that had covered her nakedness aboard ship.
‘Take her,’ the Mercian commanded.
Two of the warriors raced down the beach and collected the woman.
Once they had gathered the men together at the top of the beach, Hereward saw that his first impression was correct. Near half the crew were missing, and five of their number there were dead. He bowed his head for a moment, feeling the weight of loss as if he had killed each one himself. And in truth he had, for he was their leader. He had made the choice that allowed the storm to claim them. Closing his eyes, he ran through the names, remembering the faces, the lives.
Eadlac. The best riddle-maker amongst them. Guthmaer. A gentle man who carved toys for children. Aliwin. A farmer from Wessex, dour but brave. Scirheah, who had sired ten children. His heart had broken to leave them all behind. And Yonwin, who took four cups of mead to find the courage to talk to the woman he secretly admired.
Every one felt like a knife in his heart.
Hereward forced aside his grief. It would not do for the others to dwell upon such matters. He eyed Sighard, who already seemed to have a cloud over him.
‘No dark thoughts,’ he commanded as he searched the faces of the ones who had survived. ‘Look around you. This cove is small. Our spear-brothers could have washed up anywhere along this coast. They could be hunting for us now.’ He cocked his head to listen for any calls, but only the wind moaned across the arid landscape. ‘We will search until we find them.’
Alric, though, was peering away from the sea, across the brown rock and sand that stretched to the horizon. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘Where do we find water? What would you have us eat – the dirt beneath our feet?’
Hereward watched the brows of his men knit with worry. ‘We will survive,’ he snapped, annoyed by the effect the churchman’s words were having, ‘as we always do. No land is
dead. If there are no birds, there will be lizards. And if not lizards, there will be rats. And if we find none of them, we will dig for worms and insects. You will eat what carries you to the next dawn. And by then, if God wills, we shall have found a village—’
His words drained along with the blood in Hengist’s face. A rare spark of sanity gleamed in the man’s eyes as he pointed past his leader’s shoulder and out to sea. Hereward turned to see sails billowing, red, yellow, blue, on ships of varying shape and size. He counted at least thirty. Some were warships, others little more than merchants’ vessels. But all of them had the shields of warriors hung along their sides. Spurs of light glinted in the molten sunlight, reflecting, he guessed, off helms, and axes, and perhaps mail-shirts. These were fighting men.
‘A war-fleet,’ Alric said, his brow knitting. ‘Here?’
Hereward narrowed his eyes. ‘We knew the sea wolves were hunting one of their own who had stolen something from them.’ His gaze flickered towards the woman who sat alone, further along the beach.
‘You think that woman is the prize?’ Alric asked, his brow furrowing. ‘What value could she have? And why would Ragener the Hawk have stolen her from his own, risking their wrath?’
‘The ruined man said she was cursed,’ Hengist reminded them.
‘Then give her back,’ Sighard called, flashing a sullen look. ‘At least then we will not have to fear their anger.’
‘We have offered this woman the hand of friendship. Now that she is in our care, we defend her with our lives,’ Hereward said, his voice cold. He did not deign to look at the younger warrior. ‘And you are mistaken if you think a pack of sea wolves will think twice about slaughtering us, if we give up this woman or not.’ He half drew Brainbiter. ‘They would kill me for this alone. And some of you still have your axes. No, they will take from us what they want and leave us as a feast for the gulls.’
His men shifted with unease. All knew there could be no gain in standing their ground.
‘We will head inland,’ Hereward said. ‘They will find the wreckage on the beach and see our footprints, and follow. Our only hope is to keep going until they deem it too far to be worth their while.’
Alric gripped his forearm. ‘What about the others? If any have survived—’
‘We will return when we can,’ Hereward snapped. It was an inadequate reply, and all there knew it, but there was nothing else he could say. His missing spear-brothers deserved more than to be abandoned while enemies roamed all around. But he had no doubt that Kraki, or Guthrinc, or any of them would have insisted that he follow the same course.
As he began to climb towards the rocks at the shore’s edge, Hereward felt Alric tense beside him. The monk’s gaze was turned to the approaching ships. From the bellows and jeers that echoed across the sea, there could be no doubt that the small band of men on the shore had been seen. On the lead vessel, a dragon-headed craft in the style of the Northmen, the oars plunged into the swell to guide it home. One of the pirates danced along the row of poles, pausing only to shake his axe at the English.
‘A forest of spears at our backs, a sea of sand and rock ahead,’ Hengist muttered. ‘I do not like this choice.’
‘It will keep your mind off your empty belly,’ Hereward replied with dark humour.
When the woman stood before the Mercian, she looked into his face with the same fierce defiance he had seen when she had leapt out from beneath the bloody sailcloth. Here was someone as strong as the good wives who had stood firmly at Ely while the vast army of William the Bastard waited beyond the walls, threatening to end their days. He pointed towards the ships. ‘Them,’ he said. ‘Or us.’
She looked back and seemed to understand his meaning. She nodded.
Hereward bowed his head. ‘You need have no worry here,’ he said. ‘We shall protect you with our lives.’
Her brow knitted for a moment and she flashed him a curious look. But then she lowered her eyes, pulled the hood of the cloak over her black hair and strode over the ridge and into the baked landscape. With his eyes, Hereward urged Hengist and Sighard to accompany her. Dropping to his haunches, he snatched up three small slivers of driftwood that he had ordered his men to bring up from the tideline. He embedded them in the sand in an N shape and nodded. It was the sign they had used in the dense, intractable fenlands to mark the secret paths that wound among the treacherous bogs out of sight of the king’s men. ‘If Kraki or Herrig or any of the others yet live, they will see this and know we have gone on ahead,’ he said, hoping against hope.
But when he looked up, he saw that Alric was frowning, distracted. He looked from the wall of colourful sails to the knot of men trudging into the arid land.
‘What ails you, monk?’
‘Ragener’s words,’ the churchman muttered. ‘That the woman is cursed. The Hawk said she would bring a host of enemies upon our heads. What if this army will pursue us to the ends of the earth to get her?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CONSTANTINOPLE BOILED UNDER the merciless sun. The narrow streets throbbed with life, too many people pressed into too small a space, red-faced, sweating, tempers fraying. Forges and abattoirs, steaming dyeworks and cesspits, all pumped their reek into the haze that hovered over the cluttered buildings. From every corner, the din boomed up to the heavens: the thunder of hammers, the rattle of looms, the voices roaring to be heard, whether slavers at the blocks, merchants and market traders, guildmasters and apprentices, or sailors unloading the ships at the quaysides. In Constantinople a man could find anything, so they said, except peace.
And yet, even then, Wulfrun could not help but think it was the greatest city on earth. He had been to Eoferwic, and to Wincestre, but they were like villages compared to this heaving, ceaseless mass. Here, on the high west wall above the Kharisios Gate, he could look down upon the grandeur, far removed from the grit of life.
Shielding his eyes against the glare, the captain of the Varangian Guard peered into the distance. Even then he could not see the far side of the sprawling city. Everywhere he looked, great stone buildings reached up towards the sun, the likes of which he had never seen in England. The monasteries and palaces, the great monuments to great men whose names were unknown to him, the hippodrome, the bath-houses, the zoo with its strange beasts that screeched and yowled and roared. And above it all, the magnificent dome of the Hagia Sophia floating against the blue sky. When he had first arrived from the west, he had knelt in that church to give thanks to God and had been almost blinded by the glittering of the gold which covered every surface like pebbles on a beach.
He felt his chest swell with pride. His father would have cried tears of joy to see his boy serving in the defence of such a place. ‘All who are lost will find a place here in Constantinople,’ he had been told when he sought a position in the Varangian Guard, and that surely was true.
‘Use those things with points on the end!’ The voice rang out along the top of the wall. The captain turned and saw his aide, Ricbert, leaning over the edge. He was shouting down to the guards who massed by the gate, watching the new arrivals streaming along the road that crossed the moat and the smaller walls into the city proper.
Ricbert came to meet him. ‘These days they hire children, not men,’ the smaller man sighed. ‘Old women could beat them with sharpened sticks and rotting fruit.’
‘There was a time when a toothless old hag could have laid you on your back with one blow.’ A smile flickered on Wulfrun’s lips. He remembered the callow youth fighting like a dog in the marketplace, more skin and bone than muscle. Ricbert didn’t have much to commend him – no brawn, no skill with axe or sword, and a tongue that was too quick to mockery – but Wulfrun had seen something in him. He had dragged the smaller man along the streets by the scruff of his neck and thrown him at the feet of Hakon the Grim, who was recruiting to fill the Guard’s depleted ranks. Hakon had turned up his nose, but he had bowed to Wulfrun’s wishes. Many did not survive the ordeal of proving their worth. They now r
ested in the boneyard by the Petrion Gate, their graves unmarked, their names forgotten. But Ricbert surprised all except Wulfrun. He was flattened, beaten, broken, his wits kicked out of him, the lobe of his left ear and the tip of a finger lost to sharp teeth, but still he clawed his way back from the brink. And now he had found a role at which he excelled. The Varangian Guard had never seen a better master of spies. No whisper escaped his ears. His eyes were like a hawk’s.
Ricbert sniffed. ‘Some of those old hags would afrit even Hakon the Grim,’ he said in an indignant tone. His face darkened as he glanced along the great Land Wall behind him. Four spear-lengths wide, it towered the height of seven men above the ground. From the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmara it stretched, guarded by ninety-six towers with views across the rolling landscape to the west and north. No enemy could ever breach it.
‘What is wrong?’ Wulfrun asked.
‘Not all enemies are beyond the Land Wall, as you well know,’ Ricbert replied. ‘And there are enemies and enemies. Enemies of the emperor, enemies of the empire. And we have our own enemies too. Watch your back, Wulfrun.’
‘You speak in riddles.’
Along the wall, beyond the red banner of Constantinople with its white crescent of Diana, goddess of the hunt, and the white star of the virgin Mary, he glimpsed a throng approaching. The wall guards parted as if a sword carved through them. Ahead of a group of well-armed warriors strode a towering man, a good head or two above Wulfrun, who was himself taller than most of the local men. Long hair the colour of iron streamed out behind him. Despite his age – he had seen more than fifty summers – his chest was broad and his jaw was square. His lined face was tanned the colour of leather.