The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  Hereward marvelled at how the sanctity of a church had now settled on the palace. As he passed the nobles who had been granted access to Megistus, he saw either beatific expressions filled with hope that the doom could be averted, or features crumpled by dread at what was to come. A few showed hungry eyes.

  The emperor was a fool to think he could ever have kept the prophet a secret, not when every man and woman in Constantinople craved salvation. Or the power and standing that came from an audience with God’s chosen one.

  Outside the half-open door of the chamber that had been set aside for the revenant, the Mercian paused to watch. Still filthy in his rags, the old man rocked on his stool. Alric stood behind him, his shoulders hunched in weariness. Hereward felt a pang of concern for his friend.

  The parade of desperate nobles had been ceaseless. And now it was the turn of the Nepotes. Juliana knelt before the godly man, her golden hair almost brushing the flagstones. Her mother stood beside her, head bowed in reverence. Kalamdios lolled in his chair with Leo at his shoulder.

  Hereward snorted. It would take more than a few words to expunge the stain on their souls.

  Turning away from his eavesdropping, he carried on along the corridor. He knew the substance of the Nepotes’ weasel words without having to hear them. Feigned grace, pronouncements of charity and supplication, all mingled with coded musings designed to draw from the prophet any news that might aid their own advancement. When is the right time to act? How great is the risk? Never for a moment would they think that God opposed their rise to power.

  The whispers fell behind him as he climbed a short flight of steps. Here was the chamber where the emperor conducted his most important discussions, ones that he could not risk being overheard. Two of the Varangian Guard kept watch at the door, their axes held against their leather breastplates. They nodded to the Mercian as he eased in.

  Hereward was greeted by a full-throated tirade. Nikephoros paced along the far side of the room, near the windows that overlooked the Bosphorus. Red-faced, spittle flying, he shook his fists as he demanded a plan that would save his neck, Constantinople’s riches, and the empire, no doubt in that order. Even at that distance, Hereward could smell the fear on him.

  ‘Robert Guiscard has long since built his excuse to attack us,’ the emperor was saying. ‘He says he has taken up the cause of that bastard Michael Doukas.’

  ‘His daughter was betrothed to Michael’s son,’ someone muttered hesitantly.

  ‘Aye, that Norman dog thought he could buy his way to our riches with a marriage,’ Nikephoros spat back. ‘But it has been two years since Michael wore this crown. Two years!’

  Wulfrun leaned in to Hereward, glaring. ‘I sent word long ago.’

  ‘There is an army of fearful folk laying siege to the palace, if you have not looked out of the window.’

  ‘When I find the loose tongue that spoke of the prophet, I will cut it out myself.’ The commander turned back to the group of men standing in a crescent in front of the emperor.

  Hereward looked around the chamber. Advisers and senators nodded and pursed their lips in a show of contemplation. These were Nikephoros’ most trusted men, too grand a circle for Deda to be admitted. But Falkon Cephalas was there, as he always seemed to be these days, just a hand’s breadth away from the throne of power. And towering over them all was Karas Verinus, his implacable gaze fixed upon Nikephoros. His face was cold, but his eyes held the murderous fire of a man who would happily have stepped forward and snapped the emperor over his knee.

  ‘Can you not hear my words? The prophet has spoken and there is no time to waste,’ Nikephoros all but shouted, hammering one grey, wrinkled fist into his palm. ‘Where is the fucking wisdom here?’

  ‘But the army is not ready for an attack,’ someone ventured.

  The emperor glared.

  ‘We are short of good men. There is so little gold . . .’ The man was beginning to babble under Nikephoros’ icy stare. ‘We cannot afford to keep seasoned warriors sitting in their huts and tents when there is no need for them, cleaning their axes and telling old battle-stories. We agreed we would buy them when there was need—’

  ‘We need them now,’ the emperor roared. ‘If we could talk the Turks into joining us to attack the Normans, as we did before, we would. But they see no gain now from such an alliance. They bide their time and wait for us to falter so they can seize what is ours.’

  ‘The Immortals are ready.’ Karas did not raise his voice, but his words carried such force that all the men there looked towards him.

  ‘At last. I knew I could count on you, Karas,’ Nikephoros said, nodding. ‘Speak. I would know your thoughts.’

  ‘The Immortals are good Roman men. They fight because of the fire in their heart, and their love for you, not for gold. Under the command of Tiberius Grabas, they have never been stronger.’ Karas pushed his way past the elders to stand in front of the emperor. ‘And their ranks have never been so many. We have no need of an army of filthy barbarians with such warriors riding under our standard. Swift, they are, and they strike like God’s lightning. Set them free to attack Robert Guiscard. The Norman bastard will not be prepared. He will not know what fate is bearing down upon him until he falls beneath the swords of Rome.’

  ‘The Normans are not fools.’

  Heads jerked round as Hereward spoke.

  ‘Still your tongue,’ Wulfrun hissed, grabbing the Mercian’s arm. ‘Are you mad?’

  Hereward shrugged the commander off and stepped forward. ‘And they are not weak.’

  The emperor squinted over the heads of his advisers. ‘Who speaks?’

  ‘Hereward of the English.’

  Nikephoros nodded. ‘Aye. You know those Norman bastards better than most. What say you?’

  The Mercian sensed Karas’ gaze upon him. The general would not take kindly to having his words challenged, even less so before the eyes of the emperor. ‘Our spies have told us the Normans are sixteen thousand strong, and they are armed with the best weapons in the world. Their army is not made up of mud-soaked ceorls wielding wood and stones, you must trust me on that. They have knights too, many of them, with double-edged swords, and crossbows that can put a bolt right through a man’s chest and out of the back. Aye, I will say it . . . they are the best fighting men in the world, if not the fiercest. You Romans know this. That is why you pay them more gold than most to have them join your army.’

  ‘You think the emperor’s army is not up to this challenge?’ Karas’ voice was steady, his stare piercing.

  ‘Warrior to warrior . . . aye, that could be true, but I would not wager any coin upon it. To be sure of defeating the Normans, you need more. A fortress of tree and water and bog, as we had in Ely. If there had been no treachery in that final battle, we would have crushed the Bastard’s army. But here you do not have such a stronghold. There will be six Normans to every Roman who rides under the Immortals’ standard, and the battle will give the lie to the name of your men. It will be a slaughter.’

  ‘I would imagine from your words that you do not think much of Romans,’ Karas said.

  Hereward sensed Wulfrun looming at his back, silently urging him to walk away from this confrontation. ‘Romans, English, Normans . . . who is best . . . this means nothing to me. I care only about good men losing their lives for no gain.’

  ‘So, we heed the words of barbarians now?’ Karas kept his stare fixed on Hereward.

  ‘Aye,’ someone else agreed in a sneering tone, trying to curry favour. ‘We pay these barbarians to fight for us and to die for us, not to hear their witless words.’

  A ghost of a smile flickered on the general’s lips.

  Hereward stiffened. He was sick of these Romans, with their plots and their cunning and the way they used words as weapons, twisting everything to get what they wanted.

  ‘Hereward stands here because he knows the Norman ways better than most,’ the emperor said, but the Mercian could hear that his voice was wavering. Nikeph
oros would not make a stand on such a thing as this, where there was no advantage to himself. And Karas would keep his pride, and good men would see their days ended.

  The door creaked open at his back. He turned to see Alexios marching in. The young warrior was pink-cheeked, his hair plastered to his head with sweat. Breathless, he looked around the room and said, ‘Would that I had been here for the start of this council, but I was summoned to the gate of Rhesios, for no good reason, it seems.’ His gaze settled briefly on Karas before moving on to the emperor. ‘But it is good that I found my way to this door, for I have much to say on this matter. Hereward speaks true.’

  A sudden silence fell on the room. Karas’ features hardened. Hereward guessed Alexios had been listening at the door. As he spoke, he seemed to be fully aware of all that had been discussed.

  ‘Faced by enemies on two fronts, we need all the strength in our army that we can call upon,’ Alexios continued. ‘To attack the Normans now, while we are unprepared . . . Aye, the Immortals are a force that would make any enemy tremble. Aye, they are swift. And if all goes well upon the day, they may draw out a glorious victory.’ The young general looked around the room once more, but then fixed his attention fully on Nikephoros. ‘But there will be deaths, and many of them. If they fail . . .’

  ‘They will not fail,’ Karas said.

  ‘If they fail, the Normans will know that our defences are thin and they will ride straight for Constantinople. And what then? Will we arm the women and children and set them on the walls? And if the Immortals claw a bloody victory but are left ragged, what then for our war with the Turks?’

  ‘But the prophet said there could be no delay,’ the emperor protested. His voice had grown reedy.

  ‘Would you rush to the doom that he has prophesied?’

  ‘What, then?’ Nikephoros began to pluck anxiously at his sleeve.

  ‘There is much that is within our power,’ Alexios said. His calm, commanding tone seemed to soothe the emperor a little. ‘All that I would counsel is that we move with a steady step, to the limits of our powers and no further. We take no risks in search of cheap glory.’ He stared at Karas, a challenge that everyone in the chamber recognized. The seasoned general had been humiliated by this man young enough to be his grandson.

  Though Karas remained apparently emotionless, Hereward knew that inside he would be simmering, and that was when he was at his most dangerous.

  The emperor jabbed a finger first at Alexios and then at Karas. ‘You are both wise heads, whatever the years that lie between you, and you know the might of our army better than any. By the time the sun sets, you will give me a plan that you have both agreed on, or you will feel the edge of my displeasure.’

  Alexios nodded his agreement. Karas said nothing.

  Grabbing Hereward’s arm, Wulfrun leaned in until his hot breath burned the Mercian’s ear. ‘You have caused enough trouble here. Take your leave. Wait in the guardhouse. I would have speech with you.’

  Hereward saved his smile of satisfaction until he had stepped out of the door. If he had poked a stick into a wasps’ nest, so be it. He could not sit idly by while the empire stumbled even deeper into distress, not when the lives of his spear-brothers were at risk.

  The guardhouse at the rear of the palace was empty. At that hour, some warriors of the Guard would be sharpening their blades on whetstones as they waited to replace the band that kept watch upon the emperor. But since the prophet had put dread into the heart of everyone in the city, there was no rest for any man skilled with a weapon. The bulk of the Varangian Guard roamed the walls, the streets, the fora, searching for threats everywhere.

  Pulling off his helm, Hereward set it upon a stool. He would wait here for Wulfrun to give him a tongue-lashing, both of them knowing it would do no good.

  The door swung open at his back, and as he turned Hereward saw that a man he did not recognize had arrived, swathed in a cloak to mask his identity. When he looked up, the shadows within the hood fell away to reveal a face only God could love. Ragener the Hawk glowered at him with his one good eye, wheezing through the holes where his nose had been.

  ‘You must be quicker than that if you would stick a knife in my back,’ Hereward cautioned.

  ‘He is here,’ the sea wolf said.

  A shadow loomed across the threshold, and then Karas pushed his way into the chamber. Ragener swung the door shut behind him.

  Hereward nodded, understanding. ‘My words were too strong a brew for you.’

  ‘I have watched you, English.’ Karas’ voice was low and steady, but his gaze was filled with contempt. ‘Clawing your way up out of the mud, eyes fixed upon the sun. Your hunger put iron in you as you pulled your way up to the heights. How high did you think you could climb? To the very top?’

  Hereward narrowed his eyes, waiting for the general to make his move. Karas was not a man who coped well with any challenge to his word.

  ‘You think you are the equal of a Roman.’ Karas began to prowl along the wall, his gaze fixed upon the Mercian. ‘But you are nothing. A barbarian, little more than a beast of the field.’

  ‘This day has been long coming,’ Ragener muttered, barely able to contain his glee. ‘A judgement, at last.’

  Karas’ fingers had closed around the hilt of his sword. His breath was short, as if he could barely contain his simmering anger. ‘I have heard tell of England. No stone houses, only wood.’ He raised his arms up and spread them to the glory that was Constantinople. ‘A land of rags and ashes and fires to keep the night at bay. A land of men who can only beg for scraps, or die in battle. Barbarians. You are not fit to live with civilized men, English.’

  Hereward felt only contempt for the Roman and his petty insults. ‘I have heard men say such things. Before they looked up my length of steel, with the last of their breath drifting away in the wind.’

  Karas continued to prowl around his prey. He was savouring this moment, waiting for his chance to strike. ‘You think highly of yourself.’ The general’s face hardened, his eyes glittering. ‘Because you dared to challenge a king. And lost. Aye, I have watched you over these past years as you raised your eyes up and dreamed of being our equal, of gaining power, perhaps, or gold, some standing that would give you value. I wondered if you would ever become a threat.’ He waved a dismissive hand at Ragener. ‘He says you are like a hungry wolf. That you are only biding your time. Yet I see only a barbarian, with yearnings that far exceed his wits or his skills. You are no threat. And if you had kept your lips sealed you would have been able to pass your days thinking you could be something better.’

  Hereward held his gaze. ‘We English bow our heads only to God. And we never keep our mouths shut.’

  ‘And that is your undoing. This day, English, you have sealed your fate.’ Karas slowly drew his sword.

  Unsheathing Brainbiter, Hereward levelled it at his opponent. Karas was bigger than him, and no doubt stronger, despite his years. But the Mercian felt no fear. He had faced worse.

  ‘Kill him,’ Ragener urged. ‘Cut him to pieces. Make him pay for what he did to me.’

  The door swung open, almost bowling the sea wolf over. Alexios and Wulfrun stepped in. From the relief etched in the younger man’s face, he had come searching for his friend, fearing that an angry Karas had come to avenge his humiliation. Wulfrun seemed only mildly disappointed that Hereward was still alive.

  With irritation, Karas eyed the new arrivals, then sheathed his sword. ‘Your fate is sealed, English, and that of your brothers too. All of you are a stain upon the glory that is Constantinople. If not this day, then soon. Death waits in silence, you know that well. No man hears it when it stalks him. Go about your business. But know that when you least expect it, your days yet to come will be stolen from you.’

  Without another word, he strode from the chamber. Ragener hurried after him.

  Hereward sheathed his sword. Alexios and Wulfrun were both watching him with grim expressions, as if he were already a dead man.
And perhaps he was.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE WOMAN FELL, screaming, in the centre of the crowded street. As she disappeared beneath the heaving bodies packing the Mese, men turned from bellowing their complaints to throwing wild punches. The violence surged along the throng like fire in a summer forest. Stalls crashed over, merchants clawing the hungry away to protect their wares.

  Ariadne felt Leo grab her shoulders and pull her back into the safety of an alley. She gasped as the riot thundered out of control. The rabble-rousers and the preachers who had whipped up the crowd into this frenzy fled in fear, stunned by the speed of the escalation.

  For too long now, Constantinople had been on the edge. Fear coursed everywhere: fear of the enemies beyond the walls, of the prophet’s dire warnings that had rung out for days now. And all on top of the anger that had been mounting for seasons at the shortage of grain, the coin that seemed to buy less and less, the emperor’s failure to solve any problem, however small.

  And then, that morning, whispers had rushed through the crowd that the Turks had closed off the trade routes to the east. Now there would only be more want, more hunger, more suffering. The empire was falling to its knees.

  ‘We should leave,’ Leo shouted above the din.

  ‘Wait,’ Ariadne shouted back.

  The fighting began to move away. The dazed citizens and dismayed merchants picked themselves up. Peering out of the alley, Ariadne nodded to a filthy boy crouching on the other side of the street. With a grin, the lad darted to a group of children cowering in another alley.

  Within a moment, they were scurrying among the legs of the wealthy men and women hurrying along the Mese. The children were fast, like rats, leaping and weaving, eyes bright with anticipation. Some paused when they saw an opportunity, putting on a sad face and reaching out an upturned hand, pleading for alms, or bread. Others slipped along furtively, unnoticed, eyeing fat purses. Ariadne nodded with approval. When these were sure they had room to escape, their hands would flash. A knife to cut a string, or just a wrench to free a loop, and they would be gone again, with cries of alarm ringing at their backs.