The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  As they walked away, the knight could feel Neophytos’ eyes heavy upon his back.

  ‘His smile was too confident,’ Guthrinc muttered. ‘By rights, the Nepotes should be afraid of what Karas does next.’

  ‘The Nepotes are the least of our worries,’ Deda replied as they stepped out into the sun-drenched courtyard. It had an old oak in the centre, with a stone bench shaded under its spreading branches. Around the edges, mullein flowers filled the air with their sweet scent. ‘Let them and Karas tear chunks out of each other like starving dogs. I fear for Alric.’

  ‘You gave him hope and that is good,’ Rowena said. Deda thought how careworn she looked. He felt a note of sadness that in all these years he had not been able to give her a better life. ‘But the truth is harder,’ she continued. ‘We have few allies left in this city. Who do we turn to next? Who will listen to us now that the Comnenoi are gone?’

  ‘I will speak to Wulfrun,’ Guthrinc said. ‘He still has the ear of those who stand at the emperor’s shoulder.’

  Deda leaned against the oak, his arms folded as he reflected. ‘Karas may have one more task left for Alric – to speak for the prophet and tell the city that the rule of the Verini is God-sent.’

  ‘If that is true, we may have more time to buy his freedom,’ Guthrinc said. ‘But I would not wager his life upon that thin hope.’

  ‘Agreed,’ the knight replied, the shadows of leaves dappling his face. ‘Then we have little choice.’

  For the rest of the day, Deda waited in the Vlanga, listening to the rumours the spear-brothers had heard from the other guardsmen. Once night had fallen, he crept back to the Great Palace and Rowena let him into the kitchens. In an instant, her smile faded as she read his taut expression. ‘You still feel the same way?’

  The knight nodded. ‘I cannot turn my back, you know that.’

  ‘No, you are an honourable man.’

  ‘But I must do this alone—’

  Rowena scowled, silencing him.

  Deda took her hand. ‘I would never put your life at risk.’

  ‘In England, I could have suffered in silence in my village and watched the Normans kill my kin, my neighbours, crush everything I held dear. Yet I followed the rebels under Hereward’s standard, knowing full well that my days could end at any moment. We are one, you and I. We know there are times when all must be risked, for if not, what would we have? Dust and ashes.’ She kissed him on the cheek and whispered, ‘Do not worry about me. I am with you. Follow your heart, my husband, and I will be at your side.’

  Deda heard the fire in her voice. He let himself sink into her eyes and her smile for a moment, feeling that he had made no better choice in his life than the one to join with her. ‘Then if our days end, they end,’ he said. ‘We will be together, and we will know that we always fought with honour.’ Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed it. ‘Come, then. We are as one.’

  Emboldened, he turned and hurried from the kitchen and along the dark palace corridors. Rowena followed, her skirt swishing across the flagstones.

  The palace was still at that hour. Occasionally bursts of laughter echoed dimly and distant singing rose up through the shadows from the quarters where the Varangian Guard idled away their time until their blades were needed. Deda and Rowena moved as carefully and quietly as they could. If the Guard was called, there would be no hope for either of them, and then no hope for Alric.

  Down the steps they crept, and down to the dank dark where the reek of shit and piss and filthy straw drifted through the air. At the entrance to the corridor that led to the cells, Deda held up his hand to bring his wife to a halt. Ahead, a candle flame danced.

  He felt Rowena rest her fingertips upon his shoulder, her touch wishing him luck, and then he pulled away. He drew his sword deftly and eased forward, sliding one foot in front of the other. Ahead, voices murmured. Two men by the sound of it, as he had anticipated.

  Slipping his sword hand behind his back, he stepped up to the circle of wavering light. He had not encountered these guards before. One squatted on a stool against the wall, looking fat and dull-witted, and probably drunk too from the way his eyes moved slowly from his cup to the new arrival. The other was tall and rangy, his face scowling, his hand never wavering far from the short sword at his waist. Jumping to his feet, he blocked the way to the chamber beyond.

  ‘What is your business?’ he snarled.

  With the speed of a striking snake, Deda whipped his sword round so that the point now rested just above the man’s breastbone. As his drunken partner jerked alert, the knight curled one foot round a leg of his stool and yanked it away. The fat man crashed back and slumped unconscious to the floor.

  ‘One of your captives leaves with me,’ Deda said, his smile taking the edge off his words. But he nudged the tip of his blade into the tall man’s flesh for emphasis. He watched the guard’s eyes narrow as he calculated he was not paid enough to risk his neck. The man nodded.

  Deda felt a touch of relief. He had no wish to kill an innocent man.

  The fat man on the floor groaned and clutched at his head, while the other guard trudged through the arch at the rear of the chamber with the knight’s sword at his back.

  ‘That one,’ Deda said, waving a hand at Alric’s cell. When the guard turned to him, frowning, the knight snapped, ‘Open the door.’

  With a shrug, the tall man threw the door wide. The cell was empty.

  For a moment, Deda stared. He felt his confusion turn to dismay. ‘Where is the monk?’ he asked.

  ‘He has been taken,’ the guard replied, caring little. ‘I would not expect him to see the dawn.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE LINE OF torches trailed out of the New Church into the night. Laughter rose up, and excited chatter, as the procession of nobles emerged from their prayers. It was the edge of spring and the night was balmy. Bats flittered over the rooftops and the scent of new vegetation drifted on the warm breeze. The devout gathered in the square in front of the Nea Ekklesia, waiting for the slaves to rush out with amphorae of spiced wine to fill goblets, and to offer chunks of roast lamb and cheese. Eyes were bright, and faces too. This was a celebration, and not just of the Lord above.

  Crouching in the dark, Ariadne watched the Nepotes and their allies in their struggle for power mill around the wide space. News had swept through the city earlier that day that the Turkish horde had moved even closer to the city. There had been too much worry, too much sweat and fear and doubt. The people had all but exhausted themselves. Yet she could see no sign here of the doom that everyone said hung over Constantinople. Whatever these nobles had been praying for, it was not salvation.

  Creeping forward, Ariadne searched the night clustering hard around the church. Beyond, the lights of the Great Palace and the Chrysotriklinos twinkled, but there in the shadows groups of armed men waited. They kept watch to ensure the Nepotes’ safety, no doubt, but Ariadne had never seen so many.

  For a while, she watched them enjoy their celebration, and then she spotted Leo. She felt a bittersweet mix of feelings: joy, but also sadness at the way they had parted at the harbour. He stood aside from the others, with Varin towering over him. They seemed deep in conversation, Leo’s face dark and troubled, and after a moment the Blood Eagle rested a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. Ariadne frowned, unable to understand what was passing between them.

  Anxious, she waited until Leo broke off the conversation and wandered away to the edge of the circle of light cast by the torches. Here was her chance. As she sneaked close to him, al-Kahina called to her, but Ariadne pushed her voice away. She could not look away from Leo. How sad he looked, how burdened.

  ‘Leo,’ she whispered from the shadows under a sweet chestnut tree.

  As he turned, recognizing her voice, he looked around to make sure he was not being watched. Varin had disappeared into the throng, and those nearest were lost to their conversation and their wine.

  ‘Will you hear me out?’ She saw his fa
ce hardening.

  ‘Away. I told you – I am done with you,’ he said in a hushed voice.

  ‘There is still time to heal this wound,’ she said quietly. ‘We are alike, you and I. We should not fight.’

  At her words, he softened a little. ‘No, this is not a night for fighting.’ He glanced over the heads of the nobles. ‘It is a time for joy, for two days hence the seasons change and a new age dawns over the empire.’

  ‘Is this not a secret that should be kept close to you?’ she asked, happy that he had trusted her.

  But he only snorted. ‘What can you do? What can anyone do?’

  ‘What of Karas Verinus?’

  ‘Karas Verinus does not yet know he has lost.’ Leo glanced away suddenly, and Ariadne could see there was something he was not telling her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Leo shook his head. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To beg you not to go through with this bloody plot.’

  Laughing, Leo shook his head in bafflement. ‘Can you not see me seated upon the throne, with the crown upon my brow and my loros shining in the sunlight?’

  Yet Ariadne felt sure she heard an edge of bitterness in those words. ‘I see you dead!’ she said, too loud. Heads turned towards them.

  ‘Why do you care so?’

  ‘Why?’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘Your kin dreams of power, of glory, but only death can lie at the end of this road you are upon. And I do not wish to see you dead. My heart would break.’ At that moment, she hated herself for revealing the emotion she had kept locked away for so long. She felt exposed, and as weak as she was when her father treated her worse than a dog.

  Though she expected mockery, Leo only nodded. ‘I have heard those words of death once this night already.’

  Ariadne looked behind him until her gaze settled on the scarred visage of Varin, the Blood Eagle, away in the crowd. The warrior seemed to have become more of a father than Kalamdios. How strange that was, she thought. A man who unleashed slaughter was more caring than Leo’s own blood. ‘Then heed him.’

  ‘I hear him, and I hear your words too. Do not think that I am not moved by them. But we can never escape the pull of days gone by. What we did when we were different folk affects us for the rest of our time.’

  ‘I cannot believe that. We all can find another road.’

  Shaking his head, Leo hesitated, and as he looked down Ariadne saw his hand trembling. For a moment, his face softened further and she glimpsed the boy she remembered from when they first met, all those seasons ago. She saw a deep sadness there. ‘There could never be any hope for us,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘You were right when you said that to me. My kin will not allow it.’

  ‘Then run away with me! Let us leave Constantinople . . .’ Her voice drained away and she felt a pain like a knife to the heart when she saw her enthusiasm was not mirrored in his face.

  ‘You could never understand. Your kin betrayed you, and you escaped their shadow. But I . . . I am bound to mine as if I were fettered. Here . . .’ he touched his head, ‘and here.’ His heart. ‘However much I hate what they have made me do, I can never walk away. I am one of the Nepotes, now and for all time. My blood is theirs. We are one. What they want, I must want, and I could not deny that even if it meant my own death. Now leave. We will not speak again.’ Leo turned his back on her and walked away, but his voice floated back. ‘Pray for me. Pray for us all.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THE HAGIA SOPHIA towered over the city. With its vast dome and its ornate mosaics and alabaster statues, and gold glimmering everywhere, every man and woman in Constantinople recognized it as a monument to God’s glory. In their minds, the Lord lived here and kept the empire safe.

  Rowena thought how comforting that must be as she pushed through the sea of bodies washing up to the door. Every street, every alley surged with life, up to the Basilica Cistern, and the Milion mile-post, and even the north wall of the hippodrome. The din of voices rang off the stone walls of the great buildings all around. The morning sun lit faces hopeful, angry, jeering, laughing, all of them seeking distraction from the grind of life that only seemed to be getting worse.

  ‘The people see this as an act of rebellion against an emperor who is failing to protect them. It cheers them.’ Rowena heard Anna Dalassene’s voice float out from the cool dark of the church as the matriarch came to greet her.

  ‘There will be real rebellion soon enough, and when the blood flows, they will look back upon this one fondly,’ Rowena replied as she stood on the threshold marvelling at the crowd. Stepping inside, she breathed deeply of the sweet incense. There was a calm here that she had not felt for days.

  Rowena set down a basket of bread covered with a linen cloth, food for the hungry woman seeking sanctuary and the only reason she had been allowed entry to the Hagia Sophia. She felt exhausted. The spear-brothers had searched high and low for Alric. Questions had been asked, but it seemed not a soul knew what had happened to him. There was no hint of execution, no sign that even Karas Verinus knew of his whereabouts. But she would bow her head before God’s Table here in the great church and would pray for his safety.

  And she would pray for the spear-brothers too. In their hooded eyes and drawn faces she could see the depth of their pain at losing their leader. Hereward had been the best of them. She felt her own grief as sharp as vinegar. She owed the Mercian everything, including her life – if he had not aided her in the fenlands, the Norman bastards would surely have taken her head – and her husband, for he had brought her to Deda and all the joy he had given her. Would they now lose Hereward’s confessor and friend Alric too? Never.

  ‘Nikephoros will not let this challenge stand,’ she said.

  ‘This was not the way I wished it to go. But what choice did I have?’ Anna walked back along the nave to escape the roaring of the crowd. Rowena followed. Clerics knelt at prayer, mumbling over relic boxes, or whispered together in corners.

  ‘Holy Wisdom, that is the meaning of the name of this church,’ Anna said, looking up. ‘The Wisdom of God. Would that I had some.’

  Rowena thought Anna looked strong for all her ordeal, though her eyes seemed heavy with exhaustion. She followed the other woman’s gaze to take in the vaulting above the nave, high overhead. The sumptuous mosaics glowed as if they were set with jewels in the sunlight blazing through the myriad windows around the great dome. Never had she seen such magnificence. It made the churches of England look like beggars’ huts.

  ‘Whispers reach our ears that the Nepotes will make their move on the morrow,’ she murmured so that she would not be overheard.

  Anna looked about at the busy church. Rowena saw her features grow taut. ‘What hope, then?’

  ‘There are some of us prepared to resist, as you know, and we do what we can. Word goes out to allies near and far, but only silence returns.’

  ‘And Karas, when will he strike?’

  ‘Our eyes and ears tell us he has sent word to Justin to return to the city, but—’ Rowena choked off the words as the roar of the crowd rolled through the entrance.

  Anna’s furrowed brow smoothed and she smiled. ‘Come.’

  Rowena followed her as she glided serenely to the door. A wake cut through the swell of yelling people. The matriarch pressed her hands together as if in prayer and watched its progress. Rowena saw a triumphant smile flicker across her lips.

  A moment later, she gasped. ‘The emperor.’

  ‘The power of the crowd. Even royalty must heed it.’

  Rowena could see Nikephoros, surrounded by his advisers and Varangian Guard, making his way towards the great church. He had a face like thunder, furious no doubt at being wrong-footed by the matriarch of the Comnenoi. The group came to a halt at the foot of the steps and Falkon Cephalas walked forward.

  ‘Anna Dalassene, you have sought sanctuary in this sacred place,’ he called, ‘and all men, even emperors whose power is given by the hand of the Lord, respect the might of God.’

>   Anna bowed. ‘We are both humbled in his presence.’

  In the shadow of the church’s great door, Rowena smiled. The other woman had positioned herself as an equal to the man who now stood below her.

  ‘I seek only the safety of my kin, who have shown nothing but loyalty to you and the empire. The accusations against them are nothing but lies,’ Anna continued. ‘Will you give me your word that the Comnenoi will not be harmed?’

  Turning back, Falkon conferred with Nikephoros. When he returned to the steps, the adviser announced, ‘It is agreed.’

  But Anna was not done. ‘Swear this oath to me now,’ she cried. Rowena marvelled at the other woman’s audacity.

  The crowd caught her words and echoed them back, full-throated. The boom became a cheer that rang up to the Hagia Sophia’s dome. Nikephoros shifted uncomfortably. Glancing round, he saw that all eyes were upon him, every man and woman willing him on.

  Rowena could sense Anna smiling inwardly. When the accusations of betrayal were first mounted, she might have feared this throng would tear her limb from limb, but these, the ordinary people, had proved to be her greatest ally. Nikephoros could not deny such a number, not when he had such a frail grip on power.

  The emperor waved his hand. The Patriarch, who had been walking beside him, raised aloft the cross he held, one as long as a spear, Nikephoros’ own. It was large enough to be seen by all the crowd. When the cross was lowered once more, Nikephoros placed his hand upon it.

  ‘I so swear,’ he muttered, glowering at her from under his eyebrows when he was sure no one else could see.

  ‘Louder,’ Anna shouted over the emperor’s head. ‘Let us proclaim this oath to God himself, and to all the citizens of Constantinople.’

  Another cheer rang out, drowning out whatever curse Nikephoros let fall from his lips.

  ‘I so swear,’ the emperor boomed. Rowena thought she could hear fury in those few words.

  Then Nikephoros spun on his heel and marched towards the Great Palace with his group of the faithful close around him. Falkon, however, waited behind.