The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  Finally, the smoke cleared enough for him to see the angel suspended in the blackthorn. He had come full circle. Dashing behind the tree, he dropped low and pressed his back against the trunk, waiting out of sight.

  The baying of the hunters grew louder and then ebbed away. The beat of footsteps slowed, then stopped.

  Glancing around the tree, Hereward saw the group of Turks, rooted as they stared up at the Blood Eagle. He watched their faces lit by the fire, their eyes widening, the features growing taut. A familiar sight – fear. He didn’t understand the Turkish tongue, but he knew they must be asking themselves what devil could do such a thing. And they were right: it was the work of a devil.

  As a superstitious dread descended on them, they began to shift uneasily. And that was when Varin burst out of the swirling smoke. For all his size, he was as silent as a ghost. His axe swung. Blood sprayed. A head flew, bouncing across the dirt.

  The Turks spun round, but they were caught by the speed of the attack. A collarbone cracked open, a chest peeled back. Varin was more skilled with his weapon than any man Hereward had seen. The Viking hooked the blade around the legs of another and ripped out the hamstrings. The Blood Eagle left his victims alive, to scream in agony and terror of the end that was coming. So throat-rending were those cries, they would roll out across the village, through the muffling smoke to the ears of the remaining warriors of the hunting band.

  Varin knew how to create fear well enough.

  As the surviving Turks milled, they finally found their courage and their swords. Dancing out of the reach of that swinging axe, the men circled, waiting for an opening.

  Hereward darted out from his hiding place. Where Varin was like a great oak, the Mercian was light on his feet. When his blade punched through the back of the nearest Turk, the other warriors jerked round, shocked. Hereward watched the calculations play out on their faces. Though they outnumbered their foes two to one, the Seljuks saw that they would not survive this encounter. As one, they spun on their heels and fled away into the smoke.

  Varin watched them go with contempt. ‘I told you. Frit.’

  ‘There are near twenty more. If they attack as one, we are done for.’

  The Blood Eagle wrinkled his nose. ‘I would wager we will not see another Turk this night.’

  Hereward cocked his head, listening. No war-cries, no call and response of hunting warriors. Only the crackle of the dying fires.

  On the edge of his vision he glimpsed sudden movement. He turned, too late. Varin had rounded on him, flames flickering in the dark eyelets of his helm. The haft of his axe rammed up. Hereward’s ears rang as he caught a glancing blow on the side of his head, and he spun back. Pain lanced through his skull. For a moment his wits flew away.

  When his vision returned, he was lying on his back, staring up at Varin. The orange glow of the fires limned the Blood Eagle.

  ‘I will mount you on a tree so all can see the beauty of your flight to Valhalla.’

  The Mercian stared at the axe hanging over his head.

  With a grunt, the Blood Eagle swung his blade down.

  Hereward rolled aside with barely an instant to spare. He felt the rush of air from the blade, and the jolt when it slammed into the ground where his head had been. A cloud of dust swirled up as Varin wrenched the axe free.

  Rolling on to his belly, the Mercian closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword and thrust himself to his feet. Though his instinct had been lightning-fast, he was still too slow. The Blood Eagle was bounding away into the trees with long, powerful strides.

  Hereward cursed himself. He had let his guard down like a boy on his first day on the field of battle. His muscles burned from exhaustion and his head still rang, but he would not see his struggles amount to naught. With a snarl, he raced in pursuit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SPECTRAL HAZEL TREES were beginning to loom out of the previously utter gloom. A glow of silvery dawn light seeped through the forest canopy as Hereward loped among the thick tangle of brush. His chest was burning and his legs were numb, but he did not slow even for a moment.

  Ahead of him, Varin pounded on, seemingly tireless.

  The night had passed in a blur of clutching branches, steep-sided valleys and sudden drops where the land had slid away. But Varin had spent long months in that trackless waste and he knew well the paths the forest creatures made, tracks that Hereward would never have seen. At times, the Viking appeared more beast than man. He wove through undergrowth without hindrance, as if he could sense obstacles before he saw them.

  Yet still Hereward had kept pace with him, just close enough to hear the beat of his quarry’s feet but far enough away to be lost in the dark. If Varin realized he had an enemy upon his trail, he showed no sign of it.

  Finally the beat of footsteps slowed. The Mercian slowed too, dropping low to creep forward until he could see his prey. Varin was hunched over a babbling stream, cupping a handful of the cool water to his lips. As he slaked his thirst, his eyes darted around, like an animal’s.

  Crouching beside a blackthorn, Hereward waited and watched. Ahead, the trees thinned and the light of daybreak was brighter. A still lake stretched out beyond, the waters dark. There was only the birdsong for company.

  For a moment, Hereward scanned the landscape. After the fall of Ely, the remaining English rebels had hunted deer in the vast, dark forest that stretched from the fenlands deep into Mercia. The bucks were fast and powerful, and he soon learned that he always needed an advantage to bring one down.

  Keeping low, he crept among the trees. The Blood Eagle was stalking along the edge of the stream. Even there, Varin did not let his guard down. His axe swayed in his grip, ready to strike out at any moment. His head was half-cocked, listening for even the faintest crack of a twig.

  The Mercian kept his breath tight in his chest, waiting for his moment.

  When Varin stepped out from under the shade of the trees and looked out across the lake, Hereward knew he had him where he wanted him. Gathering speed as he padded forward, he rose up and then threw himself off the higher ground. Varin must have heard something, for he half turned, but it was too late. The Mercian slammed into the bigger man’s back, pitching him forward. Crashing on to the ground, the two warriors rolled in a tangle to the water’s edge.

  Finding his balance, Varin pushed himself upright with a roar. But Hereward was ready. He thrust both hands into the Viking’s chest, hurling him even further back. An instant later, Varin’s eyes widened as he realized his opponent’s plan, but by then it was too late. Deep into the sucking mud at the lakeside he sank, until it came high above his knees. The weight of his armour and his own large frame dragged him down.

  Snarling with frustration, Varin strained to pull himself free, but the mud held him fast. Given time, he would drag himself out, Hereward could see, but that opportunity would be denied him.

  The Mercian snatched the Dane-axe from where it had fallen.

  ‘Fight me like a man,’ Varin growled, seeing he was now at a disadvantage. His eyes darted to the swinging blade. Hereward could see from the Viking’s eyes that he thought his time had come, but he showed not a flicker of fear.

  In the instant that the Blood Eagle raised his shield and braced himself for the hacking blow that he expected to take his life, Hereward spun the axe round and thundered the haft into Varin’s forehead. Stunned, the warrior crumpled into the black mud.

  For long moments, Hereward grunted and cursed as he dragged the unconscious man back on to solid ground. Varin weighed as much as a mule, it seemed. Once his foe was free of the mud, the Mercian pulled his arms back and slid the long-handled Dane-axe beneath them to pin them before binding Varin’s cloak tightly round the wrists and to the haft. The Viking was held fast. He could walk, but he could not fight. Only then did Hereward slump back on to the grass and breathe deeply of the cool dawn air.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BARBS OF SUNLIGHT glinted off the chopping waves. The shrieking g
ulls wheeled overhead and the wind moaned as the small boat strained against the furious currents.

  ‘You owe me your life,’ Varin said, the heat from his stare at odds with the chill of his whispery voice. ‘Without me, the Turks would have long since hanged you from a tree, lopped off your legs and dragged out your guts for the ravens to feast on. Is this how you repay me?’

  Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Hereward heaved at the oars. ‘I take you away from your hard labours for a goblet of wine in Constantinople. Is that not payment enough?’

  ‘You have worked hard to bring me to judgement,’ the Blood Eagle continued with a wry smile. He was sitting in the prow, leaning back as if he did not have a care in the world. ‘I hope you are well rewarded for your efforts.’

  ‘Duty drives me, not lust for gold.’ Squinting, the Mercian tried to see Constantinople on the horizon, but a shimmering heat haze hid the way ahead.

  Varin snorted with derision. ‘Duty? Then you now have masters who command respect, who command your sacrifice?’

  ‘I took an oath.’

  The Blood Eagle nodded thoughtfully. ‘You are an honourable man. A rare find in Constantinople.’

  Hereward’s back was burning from the midday sun, but he could not afford to relax for even a moment. The currents in the turbulent Bosphorus were treacherous and claimed even seasoned sailors. He would be glad when he had come to the end of his journey. Some wine, some meat in his aching belly and a good night’s sleep still seemed as elusive as a dream.

  After he had captured Varin, they had trudged for a day and a half through the woods until they had reached the salt marshes. With what little gold he had in the pouch at his waist he had bought the use of a creaking boat that looked as though it might sink at the first wave. And then the hardest part of the journey had begun. He had been rowing so long now that even his strong arms had grown numb, and there was still the better part of a day to go.

  ‘The empire has been cursed with weak emperors for too long now.’ Varin settled back against the prow. ‘Too much gold, too much wine, too many women, too little care. Too few wits. This empire reached from horizon to horizon and they have sold it cheaply like a poor merchant at the market.’

  ‘What care you? You were well paid.’

  Varin nodded. ‘Aye. True.’ His heavy-lidded eyes seemed to stare at distant things beyond Hereward’s ken. The Mercian had seen that look before, on men who had spent too long at battle. ‘But gold is not enough to feed a man’s soul. The gods have plans for all of us.’

  ‘And what did the gods plan for you?’

  ‘I was born to kill. That is the only skill that great Odin granted me. What use my sitting in the dark beneath the Boukoleon palace while Emperor Michael, that callow youth, gives away his empire to the Turks, piece by piece? The old man who followed him, Nikephoros, is little better. He fights to keep his grip upon the throne, but he shies away from taking a stand against the enemies outside the walls. No, Odin called to me. I answered.’

  Pausing in his rowing, Hereward leaned down to scoop out the seawater that was starting to sluice around his feet. It seemed to be coming in faster now. What hope this vessel would keep them afloat until they reached dry land? ‘And Odin filled you with enough hate for the Turks to make you slaughter them like a butcher’s stock.’

  Varin frowned. ‘Hate? Not I. They were enemies. I felt no more or less for them than for any man who looks down a length of steel at me.’

  ‘I saw the women and children lying dead in that village.’

  ‘You would know my heart? You think what I do is easily explained? Is murder, nothing more?’

  ‘It has been said that you hunt the Turks because of a blood-feud.’

  ‘Aye. It has been said.’

  Hereward could see he would get no more out of Varin on this front. Instead, he went on, ‘You torture them. You sever their ribs and rip out their lungs while they are still alive. They die in agonies, choking. That is not how a good warrior treats his enemies. All deserve an honourable death.’

  ‘You think the blood eagle is torture? It is an honour, reserved for the greatest of foes.’ The Viking’s voice rang with sincerity.

  Hereward studied the face before him, trying to get the measure of his prisoner. Enough madness lay there to cast doubt on any words he uttered. But then all warriors were mad, to a degree. Yet there were no shifting eyes, no tics around the mouth, nothing to indicate cunning or deceit. He seemed a plain man, who said what he believed.

  Varin leaned forward, grunting as he rested the Dane-axe that pinned his arms back upon the sides of the boat. ‘The blood eagle gives wings to the soul and carries it on to the world beyond. In days long gone, we gifted it to our greatest enemies. The mark of the northmen for those who fought with valour, whose names would for ever be told around the fires. We know this from our old songs, from the verse.’ He closed his eyes and murmured, ‘Ok Ellu bak, At let hinn’s sat, Ivar, ara, Iorvi, skorit.’

  ‘Then it is not a story told by Christian priests to make the English afrit of all northmen?’

  Varin spat over the side. ‘I heard this at my father’s knee when I was a boy, and he heard it from his father afore him. Christians! Their churches may have spread across the northlands like a plague, and my brothers and sisters bow their heads to the cross, but in the villages, away from eyes of judgement, they hold tight to the hammer-tokens hanging round their necks. Some of us still keep the old ways alive. It is who we are, fire and ice and blood, the path of the All-father. We will never let those ways die.’

  ‘I have heard that from other northmen,’ Hereward said with a nod. ‘Warriors, most of them.’

  ‘They say we are a Christian land now, as they say England is too. But you know well the beliefs of kings and earls and thegns are not always echoed in the halls of ceorls. Good men do not easily forget the ways of their forefathers.’

  Hereward baled out the seawater as he weighed these words. When he looked up, he caught a glint in Varin’s eye and knew, a moment too late. Thrusting forward on the balls of his feet, the warrior half lifted himself from his bench. At the same time, he swung his torso to the left. The axe-head followed, slashing towards Hereward’s face.

  The Mercian jerked back. He felt the boat rock wildly beneath him. The blade whisked by a hair’s breadth from his cheek. Throwing his weight forward, Varin rose completely from the bench and crashed his full weight down upon Hereward. Pinned in the bottom of the boat, the Mercian felt cold water flood into his ears, stealing away all sound but the throb of blood in his head.

  Varin’s face loomed so close their noses almost touched. His features were calm, as if this were far from a matter of life and death. With a snarl, he wrenched his mouth wide and lunged for Hereward’s throat. The Mercian smashed his head forward before those jagged teeth could clamp on his flesh and rip him open.

  Varin jerked back, blood trailing from his nose. But Hereward rammed his head forward again and again. Pain lanced through his skull.

  As the Blood Eagle reeled, the Mercian rolled him to one side and wriggled out from under his bulk. Shaking the throbbing dullness from his head, he clasped his hand across the back of Varin’s head and thrust the Viking’s face down into the seawater in the bottom of the boat. Spluttering and thrashing, the Viking tried to force himself up. Hereward held him fast.

  When Varin was on the brink of drowning, the Mercian yanked his head up so he could suck in a juddering breath and then forced his face down into the water again. Three more times he submerged his opponent, and only when he was sure the fight had been washed from him did he snarl, ‘Enough?’

  ‘For now.’ Varin spat blood and brine.

  Hereward dragged the warrior up and hurled him back on to his bench in the prow. ‘Are you mad? Without me, this boat will sink. Your hands are bound. You cannot bale. You cannot row. You cannot swim. You would only drown.’

  ‘Aye. But I would be free.’ Varin licked his lips. ‘Free to choose my own
way of passing. Free to walk into Valhalla with my head high.’

  Hereward slumped back on to his own bench. When he resumed the baling, he kept one eye on his prisoner.

  ‘I will try to kill you every chance I get,’ the Blood Eagle said.

  ‘Aye. That I am starting to see.’

  ‘But you are hard to kill, harder than any other man I have fought. I will give you that.’

  Grunting, Hereward pulled back on the oars. During their struggle, the boat had been caught in one of the strong currents, and he had to strain to steer them back on course.

  For a long moment, Varin watched his captor, no doubt trying to understand this man who had risked his own life rather than ride with an army. ‘Why do you bring me back to Constantinople?’ he said eventually. ‘Why not end my days in that village I set afire and be done with it? You would have saved yourself the risk of marching a captive through the enemy’s land. No more bloodshed to fan the flames of the Turks’ wrath, no more fear of sparking a war.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted? To force a war?’

  ‘Better now than when the Turks had grown confident enough to attack on their own terms.’ He levelled his unsettling, unblinking stare at his captor. ‘Speak.’

  ‘I am no executioner.’

  ‘As good as. The moment I set foot in Constantinople I will find myself without a head.’

  ‘You will not be executed.’

  Varin looked out to sea. ‘I took you for a man of honour. Not a liar.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  The Blood Eagle shook his head, disbelieving. ‘Now you speak like a madman. I am worth nothing.’

  Hereward squinted towards the horizon. Now the day was drawing on, the heat haze was starting to fade and he thought he could just make out the gleaming dome of Hagia Sophia in the distance. ‘In the Vlanga, where the Varangians are at ease among their own and speak their mind, your name is still on many a lip. A great warrior, they say, perhaps the greatest the Guard has known. A lost soul, driven to the edge of madness by battle.’