The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  ‘Wulfrun is with us,’ she announced.

  Simonis clapped her hands together. Kalamdios rocked his head, his mouth making strange noises of assent. Only Leo seemed unmoved.

  ‘I will be ready,’ the youth said. ‘When I wear the crown, all will be changed.’

  Varin loomed in the doorway, with another, smaller figure hovering behind him. ‘My axe is also ready,’ the Blood Eagle declared. ‘It yearns to drink Hereward’s blood.’

  ‘If he only knew that the moment he brought you back to Constantinople, he set in motion his own doom,’ Simonis said.

  ‘Every man is the architect of his own victory, and his own demise,’ Varin replied. He stepped aside so the other man could enter. Falkon Cephalas bowed.

  ‘I have more news on Karas Verinus’ plans.’

  ‘And he still suspects nothing?’ Simonis enquired.

  ‘He thinks me loyal to him, yes,’ Falkon said, with a nod to Varin. ‘And thus he too is an architect of his own demise.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IN THE HEARTH, the fire had died down. The embers glowed red in the grey swirl of ashes. As the ruddy light ebbed, the shadows closed in across the feasting hall. The air was fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and the succulent juices of the lamb that had been roasting over the flames earlier that night. Snores sawed through the dark from the unconscious warriors face down upon the ale-puddled table or sprawled on the floor where they had slipped off their stools. All was still.

  With heavy-lidded eyes, Kraki peered through the mead-haze. This could be England. This could be the great hall in Eoferwic, with the snows piled high against the timbers and the bitter wind soughing through the thatch. But it was the Vlanga, and a place made for those whose hearts ached for their lost homeland and all they had left behind. At times there was comfort to be found in the familiar surroundings. Some days, though, it felt like a blade in the belly.

  In the faint glow by the hearth, Kraki thought he saw a figure standing, a woman. He squinted. It was Acha, he was sure. The only woman he had ever cared about. He had sent her away to save her life. She deserved better than days of running and fighting and, no doubt, an early death. Yet there was not a night when he did not yearn for her.

  Kraki snorted. The mead had made him weak, a farmer. She was a woman, nothing more. When he had first picked up the axe his father had given him, he had accepted the warrior’s life. Fire and blood, blood and fire. And death. Death was always close. These Varangians knew a thing or two.

  Death waits in silence.

  Yearning for some woman, mewling like a child in his head, that was not the warrior’s way.

  And yet, and yet . . .

  The trail of smoke whisked and Kraki felt a blast of cooler air. The door had opened.

  ‘Who is there?’ he slurred.

  From the dark walked another figure, a man this time.

  Kraki nodded. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Making plans.’ Hereward sat at the long feasting table opposite his friend.

  Kraki could see the Mercian was not himself. No doubt one of his regular brooding moods. ‘Drink,’ he said, fumbling for a fallen goblet. ‘You need to learn to find joy in life. All this sourness will turn your blood to vinegar.’

  ‘I have no thirst.’ Hereward gently pushed the goblet away. ‘The feast went well. That is good. You have earned this.’ He glanced at Guthrinc, whose breath was rumbling against the wood of the table nearby. He looked across the rest of the spear-brothers too, to be sure they were all asleep. ‘I would have speech with you.’

  Kraki reached for one of the few jugs that remained upright on the table and poured himself another drink. ‘You are going to put the spear to my joy now, I can hear it in your voice,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I have had dreams, of my ending.’ The Mercian stared away into the dark, remembering. ‘Dreams while I sleep, dreams while I wake. My raven comes to me to warn me.’

  ‘Dreams.’ Kraki snorted dismissively.

  ‘Portents.’

  ‘You will outlive us all.’

  Hereward smiled, though the Viking sensed an odd twist to it. His friend looked tired. Lines had appeared that he had not seen before.

  ‘Aye, that may be true. But a wise leader would make plans.’

  Kraki nodded. He could not deny that.

  ‘If I fall, you must lead the spear-brothers.’

  The Viking fluttered a dismissive hand and gave a drunken chuckle.

  ‘You must agree to this.’

  ‘There are better men here. Guthrinc—’

  ‘When we met, in Eoferwic, you led Earl Tostig’s huscarls. He trusted you with his life, and Tostig was not a man to risk his own neck. Aye, you were a bastard among bastards who would have gutted me with a smile, but you knew how to win in any battle. And now, here in this city, our brothers need a leader who knows how to win.’

  ‘You talk like a man who has had a bellyful of ale. Enough of this.’

  Hereward leaned across the table, his face hardening. ‘Agree.’

  ‘If it will still your damn tongue, aye, I agree,’ Kraki snapped.

  The Mercian was satisfied. Nodding, he leaned back. ‘There is more.’

  Kraki cursed and searched around for any remaining ale.

  Grasping the Viking’s wrist, Hereward insisted, ‘Heed me. When I fall, if I fall, do not mourn me. That is the hour of most danger. You will need to be ready to fight, to save all your necks, not mewling like babes.’

  ‘You think we would shed tears for a bastard like you?’

  Hereward nodded again, pleased. He was silent for a moment, but then found more words, drawing them up from deep within him. ‘Make sure my son in England is safe.’

  Kraki’s hand hovered over his goblet. How long had it been since he heard his friend mention the boy? ‘You would want me to send word to the monks at Crowland Abbey?’

  ‘Aye. When he is older. A year, perhaps two. If he is still there.’

  ‘And tell him about his father?’

  The Mercian shook his head. ‘Better he grows up not knowing who I am, or that he shares this cursed blood of mine.’

  ‘Done. Now leave me in peace to enjoy my drink.’

  Grinning, the Mercian pushed back from the table and walked towards the door.

  As he found some dregs in another goblet and drained them, Kraki felt the back of his neck prickle. He knew Hereward must be standing there, watching him. An urge to say farewell rushed through him. But when he looked up, his friend was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MOONLIGHT SILVERED THE ripples crossing the green pool. Around its edge the two men wandered, past the soaring columns and the statues of old emperors, under the portico to the lion’s head where the fresh spring water trickled out. The tinkling reverberated around the fountain house. During the day, the crescent-shaped monument would be filled with citizens drinking or raucous wedding parties, but at that time of night the two visitors could enjoy the peace.

  Karas Verinus turned and admired the view across Constantinople. Perched there atop the Third Hill, the Great Nymphaeum gave him clear sight of the city and all its wealth and power and beauty, all that would be his in just a few short days. The moon had near turned night to day. The white stone of the great buildings glowed, with the dome of Hagia Sophia dominating all. Lamps flickered here and there like fireflies in the fields of his youth. Karas nodded, pleased with what he saw.

  Here, in this sanctuary that had been consecrated to the water nymphs, men and women who worshipped the old gods came to drink deep of the spring waters that they believed were a source of magic. He picked up two cups and handed one to Justin. The youth stared at it blankly.

  ‘Drink,’ Karas urged, holding his own cup under the stream. ‘Drink and raise your cup to the power that rules the heavens.’

  With a shrug, Justin took a cup of the cold water and swilled it back.

  ‘On my first day in Constanti
nople, I came here and looked across the city, as we do now,’ Karas continued as he searched the view for familiar landmarks. ‘I took a cup of this water and made my oath.’

  ‘What oath?’

  ‘The same one you are now going to make.’ The general looked down at his charge. Justin seemed younger than his years, so it was easy to think of him as a boy. But Justin was a man, with as many summers to his name as Karas had when he first came here. The general scrutinized those unsettling black eyes. He had had his doubts about Justin – what man would not? But he had the blood of the Verini in him. For better or worse, Justin was the hope of days yet to come.

  For a moment, Karas rested one hand on Justin’s shoulder, a silent communication of acceptance. Then he said, ‘You are ready?’

  ‘I am. I have always been ready.’

  ‘You know what will be demanded of you?’

  Justin nodded.

  ‘The Verini have waited for this for long years. When I was a boy, my father told me that it was the destiny of our blood to wear the crown of the empire. Our enemies have always conspired to keep us away from the throne. I . . . betrayed by all at court when I had slaughtered a sea of Turks at Manzikert, made to carry the stain of that defeat by the cowards who had really caused it. My brother, murdered when he believed his hands were almost upon the prize. And you . . . now it is your turn to avenge us both.’

  Justin pushed up his head. The moon shone from his eyes.

  Karas was pleased by what he saw there. ‘Then tomorrow we take our first step into a new age. This has been long in coming. True, the prophet threw my plans awry. His warnings of doom, the ride to war, the near-revolt here within the walls . . . but now all bends before our will once more.’

  ‘And what of Ragener? Could he still not cause upset?’

  ‘By rights, that ragged dog should be long dead.’ Karas gritted his teeth, pushing his simmering anger down inside him. ‘But he is a coward at heart. He will lie low like a rat in a drain. He would never dare defy me. Worry not. He will be found, and his days ended. Now, raise your cup.’

  Justin held up his offering, the water shimmering.

  ‘Soon you must leave the city and wait until you are summoned,’ the general continued. ‘Our enemies here will want to strike at me through you. If I have no heir, the throne will be hard for me to gain and keep alone, they know that.’

  ‘I will make ready to leave.’

  Karas raised his own cup. ‘Then this is our oath, before the eyes of God. Our enemies will be crushed. Their blood will run like rivers in the streets. And when all is done, the crown will sit upon the brow of one of the Verini. So do we swear!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘COME, NOW, OR lose your friend for ever.’

  Hereward jerked his head up from the slow, meditative strokes of the whetstone along the edge of Brainbiter. In the doorway, the lamplight limned Wulfrun. Ricbert stood at his shoulder. Beyond them, the sound of running feet echoed across the courtyard of the Boukoleon palace.

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘The monk Alric. And the prophet too. They have been taken from their sanctuary.’ The commander and his aide turned away from the door. The cool night air rushed in over the bags of sand the Guard used for cleaning mail, and the whetstones and the hammers.

  Hereward cursed under his breath. This was a moment he had long expected, and dreaded. He hoped he was ready for it. Sheathing his sword, he hurried out and caught up with Wulfrun and his escort of seven guardsmen. ‘Who has taken him?’ he demanded.

  ‘Some traitor who does not want the emperor to have God on his side.’ Flames flickered in the eye-holes of Wulfrun’s helm. As he held that gaze for a long moment, Hereward thought the commander was on the brink of saying more, but he turned away. ‘Would you waste what little time we have asking questions, or do you want to aid your friend?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We know little . . . who has taken them, or how they escaped the palace guards,’ Wulfrun said. ‘But my messenger said they were travelling north, towards the gate of the Neorion.’

  ‘And the harbour beyond.’

  ‘With a ship and a fair wind, they can be far from the city by sunrise.’

  As the Mercian followed the knot of warriors out of the palace gate and into the tangle of streets, he steeled himself for what was to come. The guardsmen loped through the streets faster than any man could ride, darting along narrow rat-runs and reeking alleys as they passed in the shadow of the church of Urbicius and into the Pisan quarter. At that late hour, the city was still.

  ‘This is the perfect time to spirit away the emperor’s prizes and leave him weakened,’ Wulfrun growled. ‘God has abandoned you. I can hear the cries of Nikephoros’ enemies even now.’

  ‘The prophet’s voice has changed the course of things here,’ one of the other Varangians grunted. ‘Many must be angry that their plans have been shaken.’

  As they neared the towering gate of the Neorion, the moon broke through the clouds. The road became a white wake punching through the wall’s shadow.

  Once they had passed through the gate, Wulfrun held up a hand to bring the band to a halt. The air was scented with cinnamon from one of the storehouses clustered around the basin. Through a gap in the jumble of buildings, Hereward watched the moonlight glinting off the waters of the Golden Horn. During the day, the Neorion harbour throbbed with life. Sailors and merchants ferried a stream of goods from the ships into storage, ready to be sent out across the river. The air sang with the sound of hammers from the boat-makers who lined the water’s edge.

  Now only the wind whistled among the buildings.

  Wulfrun hissed an order to his men that Hereward could not hear. One stayed behind, a red-bearded Rus named Tabor, fierce in battle but duller-witted than any other guardsman. The others divided into two bands and disappeared in opposite directions along the shadow of the wall. Wulfrun did not wait for questions. He bounded down the road, flicking his fingers for Hereward and Tabor to follow.

  Drawing Brainbiter, the Mercian hurried along behind. The moon showed them the way. Storehouses loomed on either side, aged timbers cracked and stained by the elements. The road zigzagged down the slope among them. Whatever might lie ahead was hidden by the constant twists and turns. As Hereward crept on, his nose wrinkled at the changing scents: the sharp tang of unfamiliar spices, the vinegary reek of spilled wine, the sweet aroma of olive oil.

  But then he could smell the sea upon the wind, and hear the lapping of the waves against the quayside. He saw Wulfrun crouch beside Tabor in the lee of the final warehouse and then beckon to him. Under the moon, the crescent of the harbour was brightly lit.

  Squatting, the Mercian glanced along the waterfront. The skeletons of hulls were drawn up by the workshops, the hammers of the boat-makers discarded alongside them. Rats scurried over heaps of ballast stones and piles of fresh timber next to rows of vast clay amphorae reeking of pitch. On the swell, ships of varying size and design from the four corners of the world strained against their creaking tethers.

  Hereward looked to Wulfrun. The commander raised a finger to his lips and pointed along the flagstones at the water’s edge. A body lay there, leaking blood from a slash across the throat. Further along the sea wall, another corpse sprawled.

  Keeping low, Wulfrun crept through the shadows by the workshops until he found the cover of a ballast heap. When Hereward and Tabor crawled beside him, the commander pointed once more, this time out into the harbour. A lamp swung on a small boat being rowed away from the quay. The dancing light revealed three cloaked men in it, one of them at oar.

  ‘The prophet and the monk and one man to guard them,’ Tabor rumbled. ‘Where is the other?’

  Nodding to the two dead men, Wulfrun whispered, ‘We cannot be certain there is only one more. We must take no risks until we know how many enemies await us.’

  Tabor nodded. ‘You speak wise words. We wait until we have more warriors at our back.’


  ‘And while we wait here, my friend could be lost,’ Hereward snapped.

  Wulfrun scrambled back from the heap. ‘Stay here until I bring more men.’ When Hereward glanced up, the commander had already disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘This is strange business,’ Tabor muttered. ‘I cannot make head or tail of it.’

  A red glow swayed on a ship at the far end of the moored vessels. The firepot had been lit ready for a night journey across the whale road. The small boat was rowing towards it.

  Tabor had seen it too. ‘We are too late.’

  Hereward knew what he had to do. Standing up, he said, ‘Stay here. There is nothing to gain by risking two lives.’

  ‘Have you lost your wits?’ Tabor growled. ‘You have so many enemies your life already hangs by a thread, and the lives of those who stand with you too. Why risk your neck here?’

  ‘I cannot stand by and watch my friend taken. Once they have got what they want from him, they will not let him live, you know that.’ Hereward leapt down the heap, calling, ‘Stay here. When the commander returns, let him know where I have gone.’ After an instant’s hesitation, he added, ‘And if I do not come back, tell my spear-brothers . . .’

  ‘I will tell all Constantinople that you died a glorious death,’ the Rus called back, ‘and a foolish one.’

  Hereward scrambled over the sea wall and into a boat barely big enough for two men, little sturdier than the hide and timber vessels the fenland folk used for fishing back in England. He felt unsettled to be back upon the water, but he soon found his balance. Dropping on to the rower’s bench, he grasped the oars and prepared to give chase.

  For one moment, he heard Tabor’s words echo in his head – This is strange business – but he pushed them aside. Everything was strange now, in this city of shadows, and there would not be an end to it soon.

  The night sky was now brilliantly clear and ablaze with stars. The moon cast a milky path across the black waters. Every vessel was as brightly lit as if it were day. Hereward lowered his head. He would have to take care if he were not to be seen.