by James Wilde
CHAPTER THIRTY
HEREWARD FELT NO fear as he looked up at the man about to take his life. A part of him almost welcomed death. No more whispers from the devil inside him. No more fleeing a past he could never escape. Peace, at last.
The sounds of fighting had ebbed away. Only the moans of the dying rolled out through the basilica. We have won, he thought with a note of irony. Though he could feel the eyes of all his men upon him, no one was close enough to save his worthless life, not even Maximos who lay in a heap of tangled limbs and half stunned by the fall.
Drogo uttered some prayer or other in his own tongue and swung the blade down.
But the blow never came. The Norman knight crashed against the wall, a slender figure flailing against him.
Only when he pushed himself back out of harm’s way did Hereward see it was Alric. The Mercian felt a pang of horror. The monk looked half dead. His face was bloodless, his eyes fluttered and he could barely stand on his buckling legs. And yet for all that, still he had saved his friend’s life.
Acid rose in Hereward’s mouth. Drogo Vavasour would not be thwarted. Jerking round, the knight hooked one arm across the churchman’s throat and brought his sword up. The monk hung there like a child, too weak to move. ‘Your life for his,’ the Norman growled.
The Mercian could see his men waiting for his order. Drogo was the only Norman left standing. Getting to his feet, Hereward half raised his axe, then let it fall to his side as Vavasour pressed his blade against Alric’s side. His friend would be gutted before he could move.
The tableau was broken when a figure clawed its way out of a chamber further along the passage. Ragener the Hawk lurched towards them on trembling legs, a headcloth trailing from his fingers. ‘Wait,’ he croaked. ‘Before you claim your vengeance—’
‘Take her,’ Drogo snapped. ‘And never let me set eyes upon your cursed face again.’
The sea wolf stumbled up to Meghigda’s prone form. For a moment, he looked down upon her with loathing, and then he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her towards the door.
‘Leave her be!’ Salih cried from the end of the passage. He thrust his way forward as Maximos too cried out.
‘Stay back,’ Drogo spat, digging his sword into Alric’s side. ‘I gave my word that that snake would go free.’ He stared at Hereward and added in a cold voice, ‘And we are men of honour, are we not?’
As Maximos jumped to his feet, Kraki and Guthrinc grabbed his arms to hold him back. The Roman raged and tried to throw them off, but they were too strong for him. With their spears, Sighard and Hiroc barred Salih’s way. He spat an epithet in his guttural tongue, but he could only watch as Ragener dragged his queen, his love, through the door and out of that blood-soaked place.
Vavasour tightened his arm around the monk’s neck, jerking the younger man like a child’s corn doll. ‘One more time,’ he said, backing towards the door. ‘Your life for his. Do not doubt me. I have waited too long for this. It is all I have thought of. Come with us … just you … down these steps and out. I will take your head and leave it – and your friend, alive – for your men.’
Before Hereward could respond, Alric’s lips began to move. At first no sound issued from his mouth. But then a rustle of a prayer floated out, his voice rising steadily in devotion, as if the words had released a last reserve of strength within him.
The Mercian could not understand why his friend had chosen this moment to make his supplication, but then he saw a strange shadow cross the Norman knight’s face. His eyes darted uneasily towards the monk.
Ending his prayer, Alric said in a husky voice, ‘I am God’s servant upon this earth. Would you defy his word by taking my life?’
Drogo’s sword hand wavered. ‘Still your tongue.’
‘Your cross hangs in that chamber there,’ the monk croaked. ‘You know our Lord listens to you. You know he watches. Are you not afraid of his wrath?’
For an instant, the Norman’s eyes widened in fear. His lips pulled back from his teeth in frustration and he dragged the monk towards the door. Glowering at Hereward, he said, ‘This is not an ending. It is a beginning. Now that I have found you, I will not lose you again. One day, when your eyes are fixed on a distant horizon, I will be at your back. You will not hear me. You will not hear death coming for you. There will be light, and then only darkness, and silence. Think on this as you go about your days. Think on it, and know you will never know peace again.’
Vavasour hurled the churchman away from him. Lunging, Hereward caught Alric and slowly lowered him to the filthy stone. He heard the Norman thunder down the steps, and his own men cry out as they gave pursuit, but now his only care was for his friend.
‘Stay with us, monk,’ he urged. ‘Your days are not yet done.’ He cradled his friend in his arms, sickened by how frail he felt, just a sack of bones. The churchman’s breathing was shallow, barely there at all. His eyelids fluttered intermittently, the space between each movement growing longer.
‘Stay with us,’ Hereward pressed.
His gaze drifted to the monk’s ruined hand and he felt his rage grow. Better that than the desperation that clutched at him, or the guilt of the responsibility for all this suffering. Since they had met, Alric had faced death too many times, and all of it, all of it, was his fault.
As he held his friend to his heart, he heard footsteps pounding back up the steps. Sighard burst in, breathless. ‘The Norman is gone. He has run towards the battle. Kraki and Guthrinc are searching for him. Maximos and Salih are gone too, after the woman …’ His voice drifted away when he realized Hereward was paying no heed.
Alric had stirred. His lips were moving as if he wished to make confession. Hereward pressed his ear close to the churchman’s mouth. Even then the words were so faint he could barely hear them.
‘You must forgive me,’ the monk croaked. ‘I murdered your brother.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A BLADE OF shadow carved a line across the sun-bleached heart of the forum. A man raced across it, his face contorted with terror. Behind him boots thundered upon stone and crimson capes flapped. On every side, the crowd surged as cries of panic swelled across Constantinople. But no sound issued from those running men. Death always waits in silence. The Varangian Guard were hunting down their prey.
Like a frightened rabbit, the fleeing man ran hither and thither, searching for a way to lose himself among the churning bodies. But the citizens scattered too fast ahead of the approaching warriors, and he was left with nowhere to hide. On the edge of the forum, he glanced back in fear at the wave of steel about to break upon him, and he stumbled. As he sprawled on the flagstones, the Varangian Guard swallowed him up.
Standing in the line of shadow bisecting the forum, Deda the knight watched the warriors drag the fugitive to his feet and haul him back the way he had come. The captive’s face was bloodless, his knees so weak he could barely stand. From what he had heard of the Guard’s fearsome reputation, Deda had expected their victim to be hacked to pieces there and then. Perhaps they wanted answers first.
As the milling crowd calmed, Deda kept his head bowed, his black hair falling in ringlets around his face. Yet his eyes flickered all around, watching for any sign of danger. He felt the weight upon his shoulders, the weariness deep in his bones. Normans were not well liked here; he could not afford to lower his guard for a moment, as he had never rested since he had left England with his wife. Threat was a regular companion these days.
Sensing no enemies, he turned and looked along the shadow to the base of the stone column, then up its dizzying height. Framed against the azure sky, the marble statue of Constantine blazed in the sunlight. In this forum where Nova Roma had been founded, the forgotten sculptor had fashioned the ancient emperor as Apollo, the sun god of the Rome of old, even though Constantine had been the man who had brought forth the word of the Christ. It was fitting, Deda mused. Constantinople was a strange place, caught between pagan and Christian, east and west. Not
as openly savage as his Norman homeland, nor as placid as England, where he had, for a while, hoped to find a new home. Even after so many days, he found much of this place a mystery. People said one thing, but meant another. Hands offered in seeming friendship were often turned at the last to their own advantage. Trust was as thin as the autumn mist.
‘Men do not run unless they have something to hide.’ Wulfrun had ghosted up to his side and was looking up to the top of the column. His face was as graven as the statue atop it. Deda allowed himself a secret smile. So grim, these guards. Did they not see that life was good?
‘Men run for many reasons,’ he replied. ‘Some of them are even good.’
The commander shrugged. ‘We shall see, once he has answered all our questions, and given up those who aid him.’
‘Plots?’
‘Everyone plots.’ Wulfrun looked around. ‘Where is your wife?’
Deda searched the crowd until he saw Rowena’s head bobbing as she laughed with two other women. He was pleased. She had made friends quickly, as was her way. For a while he had feared that wrenching her away from all she had known would be like a blade to the heart. But she was wise, wiser than him. The old ways were gone and they would not be coming back, Rowena knew that. A fresh dawn, in a new home, where they could live their lives as they hoped, was all she wanted.
Leaving her friends, she hurried over. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Wulfrun. ‘I have never known a man of the fens to be so mirthless. Did you lie to us when you said you came from Barholme?’
‘Barholme lies behind me,’ Wulfrun replied without emotion.
‘You cannot escape your days gone by. They are always with you.’ Rowena’s words were playful, but Deda thought he glimpsed a shadow flashing across the commander’s face.
‘Come.’ The guardsman turned and walked towards the east.
When Rowena glanced at Deda with one eyebrow raised, he pressed a finger to his lips to caution her not to tease Wulfrun any more. Sighing a little too loudly, she brushed her shoulder against his in a silent promise that she would comply with his wishes.
When they left the forum, they strode to that part of the city where the wealthy merchants and senators lived. The dome of the Hagia Sophia rose up against the blue sky ahead.
Rowena marvelled at the fine, large houses on either side. The white walls were pristine. Pots of sweet-smelling herbs stood outside each door so that visitors might break a sprig and perfume their fingers as they entered. Here the streets were brighter, cleaner, not like the ones surrounding the shack where they had found lodging on their arrival. No beggars, no roaming dogs, no drunken men fighting in the filth. And yet Deda saw that Wulfrun’s fingers never strayed far from the hilt of his sword, and his eyes continually searched the alleys between the houses.
‘Never have I seen a place filled with so many wonders,’ she whispered. ‘And so many folk here! This must be the greatest city in all the world.’
Deda could not disagree. In their short time in Constantinople, he had met not only Englishmen and Danes, but Franks and Arabs and Jews, Syrians, Armenians, Lombards and Hungarians, and others he could not identify, with hair like raven-wings and narrow, slanting eyes. All the peoples of the world were in the process of making their way to this place, it seemed.
Wulfrun brought them to a halt outside an oddly shabby house with, Deda thought, an unsettling air hanging over it. ‘The house of Nepos,’ the commander said, waving a hand towards the door. ‘I promised to find you work. Here is your new home.’ He narrowed his eyes at Deda. ‘The Nepotes will not pay you. Do not shame them by asking. Come to me for your coin. Understood?’
The Norman nodded. This was an odd arrangement, he thought. But he would not question the kindness, if that was truly what it was.
A slave admitted them to a cool, quiet house. Deda looked around, puzzled by the stark surroundings. In England, a hall like this would be filled with gold chalices and plate, with sumptuous tapestries covering the walls. Hard times must have fallen upon his new employers.
‘Wait here,’ Wulfrun commanded. He stepped through an archway into an adjoining chamber where he was met by a young woman with hair that gleamed golden in the sunlight streaming through from the courtyard at the rear. After a brief exchange, she glanced over and flashed a sweet smile.
‘She is pretty,’ Rowena breathed. ‘It seems our fierce Varangian is in love.’
Deda gave a wry smile. ‘Sadly, it afflicts the best of us.’
The young woman disappeared and returned a moment later with a boy and an older woman, her auburn hair streaked with silver. Though still attractive, the Norman thought how sad she looked. But when she came over to them, a smile lit her face. ‘I am Simonis, mistress of this house, and this is my daughter, Juliana. We welcome you to the house of the Nepotes.’
‘And we thank you for providing us with shelter,’ Rowena said with a bow.
‘You will earn your keep,’ Wulfrun interjected.
Juliana laughed. ‘So gruff!’
The commander’s eyes darted towards her, but he remained solemn. Deda was pleased to see that the other man took no offence at the teasing. Perhaps there was more to him than there seemed. ‘Your mistress will find you work aplenty,’ he said to Rowena. Turning to Deda, he continued, ‘The boy’s name is Leo. His father is ailing so he is the man of this house and there is much that he must learn to do his duty. Teach him your skills.’
The Norman bowed to Leo. ‘I am honoured. I have no doubt you will be a good student.’
‘Will you show me how to use a sword to kill?’ the boy asked. His look seemed too old for his age. Remembering the harsh days of his own childhood in Normandy, Deda felt a pang of pity for whatever had advanced the lad’s years so fast.
‘Knights use a sword to fight for honour,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I will teach you about honour, if you so wish.’
As he turned away, Rowena caught his eye and a look flashed between them: a brief flare of hope that finally the days of struggle and threat could be put behind them.
When Simonis and Juliana led Rowena away to show her her duties, Wulfrun pulled the Norman to one side. ‘You are satisfied with this?’
‘Of course,’ Deda said. ‘I am in your debt that you have found work for a man and a woman from beyond this city’s walls.’
‘In Constantinople it matters not where a man comes from, nor a woman either, only what they can do. Men from all countries are running the emperor’s offices, and owning land, and making good coin as merchants.’ He held out his hands. ‘And here am I, an English mud-crawler, well paid for my services to the emperor himself. A good man will thrive here. A weak man, a poor man, will not survive. Make sure you are one of the former.’
‘I will.’
The commander leaned in so he would not be overheard. ‘I have more work for you than teaching the boy. I cannot always be around so I would have you guard this family too, as part of your duties.’
‘They need my protection?’
‘You will soon encounter a visitor to this house. Victor Verinus. He is vermin, feeding upon all the good things in life, and he is the source of much of the Nepotes’ misfortune. I would not have him cause more.’
‘And what would you have me do when I meet this man?’
Wulfrun sighed. Deda could see that this question had troubled him for a while. ‘Do not confront him. He is too powerful.’ He pointed two fingers to his eyes. ‘Watch. Whenever he is under this roof, watch, and hear all. And watch …’ the word hovered on his lips, ‘watch him around Juliana. See that she comes to no harm.’
The Norman nodded. He understood what the other man was saying.
‘And protect yourself. Victor Verinus will not like it that there is a spy in the house. Keep out of his way at all times.’
‘I have spent many a day around powerful men with tempers as taut as a bowstring,’ Deda said in a wry tone, ‘not knowing if I am to be given wine or the edge of a blade. That is a good wa
y to learn how to keep your head attached to your neck.’
‘Good. Report back to me alone.’ Looking around one more time as if Victor might be there listening, Wulfrun nodded and took his leave.
As the day wound on, Deda sat with Leo and listened to him read. The boy was too serious, rarely smiling at any of his teacher’s humour. But he was driven, and determined to learn all that he could to help his kin. The knight understood that. His own father had been a hard man, but he had instilled a sense of duty above all else. Later Deda let the boy take him to meet his father, Kalamdios. The older man’s troubles were great indeed, the Norman saw. He was locked inside a useless body, with hands that could only twitch and grasp. And yet his eyes were keen with a fierce intelligence, passion even. The knight felt unsettled that he could not read what he saw there. Was it hatred for the world, despair at his lot in life, or something else?
At dusk, Deda was gnawing on a thin meal of bread and salted fish in the courtyard when he heard a booming voice. Setting aside his food, he strode into the entrance hall where a tall man with a leathery face and long grey hair looked around as if he could smell something unpleasant. He fixed a cold eye upon the new arrival.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Deda. I am a knight.’ He offered a friendly smile and a slight bow.
The other man cocked his head, listening to the accent. ‘A Norman?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not enough that you nibble at our western borders, now you see what you can loot from the city itself?’ Contemptuous, he fluttered his fingers at the surroundings. ‘You will find little in this place.’
‘I am only here to serve the Nepotes.’
At that the man laughed. ‘What gain is there in that?’
‘A roof, and food.’
The visitor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who brought you here?’
Deda did not answer.
‘A knight, you say?’ The tall man prowled around him. Deda sensed eyes sizing him up. ‘What use do the Nepotes have for a knight?’