The Bloody Crown

by James Wilde

  Once the crowd sensed the drama was done and began to drift away, he climbed the steps and bowed to Anna. ‘Only one thing remains to be said. The emperor insists you leave this place and take refuge in the convent of Petrion. You know it well.’

  Anna nodded.

  ‘For your own protection, of course. The emperor cannot guarantee your safety in Constantinople, where there are so many loyal to him who might still think you a traitor. Is this agreed?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And in good time Maria will join you there, for her own safety too. You will be well treated. Your kin may visit, and bring you food. The guards will look on you with kindness.’

  Guards, Rowena thought. Anna would be a captive in everything but name. And yet Rowena could see she had no intention of resisting. And why should she? In a day’s time, the world may well have changed for good.

  When Falkon Cephalas had left, the two women walked slowly back through the shafts of sunlight into the belly of the church.

  ‘And so Nikephoros thinks he has sucked the poison out of this wound,’ Anna said. ‘He is safe. The Comnenoi have been crippled. And while the emperor looks to me, he does not search for treason in those who once enjoyed my favour.’ She eyed Rowena, smiling.

  Rowena bowed in thanks. She had long been suspicious of this woman and her lust for power. But Anna matched her flint with kindness for those who were her friends.

  Rowena moved closer, her words hushed. ‘Nikephoros and Karas may no longer be a threat to you, but never forget there is no safe place anywhere in this city.’

  For a moment Anna frowned, and then she looked past Rowena’s shoulder and knew what the other woman meant.

  A smile playing on his lips, the hated Nepotes church spy Neophytos was watching her like a hawk.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ‘THIS IS THE place?’ Kraki growled.

  When the moon drifted out from behind the clouds, the blanket of shadow unfolded across the cemetery. The Viking scanned the rows of graves, the markers, the dunes of brown dust and yellowing grass and weeds. It was as dismal a place as any boneyard he had ever seen.

  ‘Aye, I saw it with my own eyes,’ the boy insisted. His black hair stood up on his head like a cock’s comb and he never seemed far from a mocking grin. Perhaps nine summers lay on him, but he had a tongue as sharp as someone twice his age. Kraki had not been sure he could trust those sly eyes, and still doubted it, but he was now clutching at straws. For all the gold he had offered, no one else in the entire city had come forward with news of where Hereward’s body lay.

  The lad pointed to a mound with no marker. ‘There.’

  The Viking held up his torch and grunted. All the spear-brothers thought him mad, except Hengist, who was mad. They told him Hereward’s remains would have been tossed into the sea, but there were more ships and boats out there than folk in the forum of Constantine on a sunny day, and the only bodies that had snarled in their nets since Hereward died were a couple of beggarly-looking fellows in clothes that had been tattered even before they entered the sea. Bringing the Mercian home was all that mattered to Kraki. It was a matter of honour, for no warrior abandoned an ally. A friend.

  ‘Shall I dig?’ Sighard asked hesitantly.

  Kraki nodded and set the torch into the dirt. At least someone had agreed to accompany him this night, more out of pity than anything, the Viking suspected. But he thought how bereft Sighard looked, and how anxious. This would be hard work for even a cold-hearted bastard like himself.

  The gritty ground crunched as Sighard plunged in the wooden spade. At the end of the grave, the boy stood with his arms folded, a wry expression on his face. Narrowing his eyes, the Viking tugged the leather pouch of gold from his belt and tossed it over. The coin clanked at the boy’s feet. The lad looked down at it hungrily, but he did not stoop to pick it up.

  ‘If my friend lies in the grave, take it,’ Kraki said. ‘If I find you have tried to cheat me, your arse will burn like the sun.’

  Licking his lips, the boy eyed the pouch, and then shook his head. ‘I cannot take it.’

  Kraki snorted, thinking this was some ploy to demand more. But the lad only kicked the pouch back across the grave, then turned on his heel and fled.

  Sighard leaned on his spade and watched the boy disappear into the night. ‘We are in the pits of madness when even beggars turn their nose up at good coin.’

  ‘Dig,’ Kraki said.

  As Sighard returned to turning over the loose soil, Kraki realized he was shaking. So many questions had he asked, in every tavern and workshop and forum, it seemed, but however much he wanted what he sought he still dreaded this moment.

  The spade dipped and turned, dipped and turned. Sighard wiped away the sweat springing to his brow. And then Kraki heard the crunch of wood upon wood.

  Sighard stared at him. Kraki stared into the grave. For a long moment the two of them stood, frozen, and then the Viking sighed and nodded.

  Dropping down, Sighard scrabbled away the rest of the soil with his bare hands until he had uncovered the box. Cracking his knuckles, he tucked his fingertips under the edge and tore off the lid. The reek of rot rushed out and both of them recoiled.

  When Kraki leaned back in, he prayed silently to himself that he would see some other dead face staring sightlessly back at him. He thought of Hengist’s words, that Hereward was a giantkiller, a hero who would never die.

  And then the two warriors’ eyes settled on the bloody body.

  Kraki collapsed to his knees, burying his face in the dust so that Sighard could not see his emotions. A shudder rushed through him.

  Tears streaming down his face, Sighard raised his face to the sky. ‘What do we do now?’ he croaked.

  Kraki pushed himself up, letting the anger rise within him. ‘Now, we fight.’

  Fat drops of rain began to fall, dappling the dust around the graves. In the distance, the heavens rumbled. Kraki cocked his head, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Thunder,’ Sighard said.

  The Viking shook his head. The dim sound of a horn rolled out from the ebbing rumble. A warning from the walls. As the two spear-brothers looked at each other, the sound swept towards them, caught up by other horns until it seemed the whole world was blaring an alarm.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  1 April 1081

  BLACK CLOUDS SWEPT in, flooding the plain beyond the western wall with a deep dark. The rain began to drum along the stone. Thunder crashed high in the heavens. Yet beneath the storm, the world throbbed. Away in the night, hooves pounded the ground, another storm, one of steel, drawing ever nearer. Pressing the horn to his lips, the herald pushed back his head and blasted the alarm again.

  Deda looked out from the wall, praying for lightning to reveal what was coming. He could understand the grim faces of the spear-brothers standing next to him. They could be forgiven for thinking that fate had turned against them. The Verini and the Nepotes were already preparing to bring down war within the walls, and now this.

  ‘An army, a good-sized one by the sound of it,’ Guthrinc murmured. The English stood apart from the Varangians, who had been summoned to the wall by Karas Verinus to welcome his murderous nephew Justin home from wherever he had been travelling, and to guard him as he made his way back into Constantinople; the privilege of the emperor’s military adviser.

  Deda’s eyes flickered towards Karas as he stood beside Wulfrun. The knight had expected to see a look of triumph upon the general’s face. Surely this force could only be men that Justin had gathered, ready for the battle for the throne. But Karas looked as confused as every man there.

  The army rumbled closer still. The world shook. Deda felt his heart sink. Already that night he had endured disappointment in his search for Alric. He had bribed one of the slaves at Karas’ hall, but the monk was not being held there, nor had he been seen at all. Desperate now, he had hoped the spear-brothers would help him. But Kraki and Sighard were nowhere to be found, and the others were alrea
dy following Karas’ orders.

  ‘Give us light,’ Wulfrun bellowed under the roar of the storm.

  Several Varangians thrust pitch-dipped arrows into the flames of a torch, then nocked their bows and sent them into the heavens. As the shafts plunged down, the gloom fled from the light and the landscape came alive. As one, the guardsmen jerked alert, gaping and pointing. A torrent of warriors on horseback raced towards the city. Helms and armour flared briefly in the dancing flames, gone in an instant as the night engulfed them once more.

  ‘How many are there?’ Ricbert gasped.

  Karas rested both hands on the wall and leaned out, peering into the dark. The rain lashed his leathery face. ‘More important, who are they?’

  More flaming arrows blazed through the night sky.

  In the moment before they winked out, it was Karas’ turn to gape. Deda saw it too: the double-headed eagle standard of Constantinople at the head of the column of warriors rushing towards them. These were the empire’s fighting men. But why were they arriving this night, he wondered? And why was Karas so concerned?

  As the general’s face hardened, heads snapped round to a new arrival making his way along the wall from the steps. The old man was wrapped in a fine emerald cloak decorated with a filigree of gold thread, his hair tonsured to show his devotion to God. Deda blinked away the rainwater, doubting his own eyes, but this could be none other than John Doukas, who bore the honorary title of Caesar and had ruled the empire as regent when the last emperor Michael Doukas was but a boy. Yet the Caesar had long been out of favour in the court, for treasonous plotting more than anything, and had been in near-exile at his estate in the east.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Karas barked, still reeling from the sight.

  ‘Karas Verinus, my old friend,’ John said. Though the greeting was warm, Deda knew these two men had long been suspicious of each other. ‘Why, I am here to welcome the return of the son of my other good friend Anna Dalassene.’

  The knight watched the general look back out into the night, realization dawning upon him.

  ‘I hear tell Alexios Comnenos has won over the commanders of two of our armies in the Thracian countryside,’ the Caesar continued in a faintly mocking tone. ‘Why, that must be the sound of them approaching now.’

  Karas glowered. ‘You support the Comnenoi now? I remember the day when you would have gladly seen all of them dead.’

  ‘Allies are not always friends, as you well know. Who best serves the needs of the Doukai in the court in days yet to come? Nikephoros? You? I think not.’

  Deda braced himself against the gale blasting the top of the walls. The rain lashed down, but the two old men seemed oblivious.

  ‘The walls will hold firm,’ the general spat.

  ‘Unless a man awash with gold robbed from a tax collector showered coin upon the guards to make sure the gates were open. And then his army could ride unhindered into the heart of Constantinople.’

  Karas held the other man’s eyes. In that long moment, Deda thought that if the general could have choked the life from the man before him he would have done.

  ‘Constantinople seethes with plots, Karas Verinus,’ the Caesar continued. Deda watched his lips tighten into a supercilious smile. ‘Some are barely hidden. But the cleverest among us keep their plans far from the light.’

  Deda could not hide his grin. Karas, a bastard among all bastards, had been outmanoeuvred by Anna Dalassene. She was more cunning than he had ever guessed.

  ‘Then this is a battle to the death,’ the general snarled, no longer making any pretence at loyalty. ‘I will rouse my army. And we will see who is fit to take this throne.’

  Deda felt shocked. He could scarce believe it. This was the moment they had all dreaded – a war upon the streets of Constantinople.

  The Caesar gave a slight bow in response, which only seemed to anger Karas more. As the general stalked away, he grabbed a messenger and commanded, ‘Bring Justin to me when he arrives.’ And then the gusting rain folded around him and he was gone.

  The onrushing army crashed into the wavering circle of light from the torches above the gate. Deda glimpsed Alexios and Isaac at the head, determined to seize their moment.

  Wulfrun was running along the wall, his voice booming above the storm. ‘To the palace. We must defend the emperor.’

  As the Varangian Guard raced towards the steps, Guthrinc glanced at Deda. The knight had never seen him so worried. ‘Please. Find Kraki,’ he called. ‘At the boneyard near the gate of St John de Cornibus. Before we all die fighting for an emperor we despise.’

  The thunder cracked. Lightning flashed. The pounding rain drowned out any other words. And then came the rumble of hooves and the tramp of marching feet as Alexios and his army surged through the gates to war.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  THE WOMAN HURRIED with purpose through the crowds, thrusting aside any who stumbled into her path. Juliana Nepa’s blonde hair was plastered to her head by the driving rain, but her face was flushed with passion, her eyes afire. She felt so much excitement she could barely contain herself.

  In this night torn by screams, with people milling in terror in the streets, she saw only opportunity. Now was the time to act. The walls had been breached, everyone knew, though no one could rightly say by whom. And now it was rumoured that Karas’ own army was massing for a battle that would rip Constantinople asunder.

  Juliana felt the euphoria rush through her. How long had her family waited for this moment to seize the throne? In the chaos, the Nepotes’ own force would be rising up to crush Karas’ army, if her mother and father had already given the order. And she had no doubt that the moment news reached them of this new army that would have been done.

  Fate had gifted them an even greater chance than they had ever dared imagine. Though the Nepotes had not planned to make their move upon the throne until the morrow, no better moment would ever present itself. As the ground shifted under their feet, weaker men would have bemoaned their lot, but not the Nepotes. They would seize this day.

  Ahead, the door to the hall of the Nepotes glowed under the wavering light of the torch above the jamb. Juliana breathed a sigh of relief. Running a hand through her sodden hair, she composed herself. Now the Nepotes would be seen as the saviours of the empire. When the force that Varin had amassed brought order, no one would question their intentions. After this madness, the people would want a strong leader on the throne.

  Leo would be emperor by dawn.

  Pushing the door open, Juliana darted inside. ‘Mother!’ she called into the depths of the house. ‘The hour has come early. Bring Leo. Varin, gather your men. We must march on the palace now.’

  As she hurried into the next chamber, she thought of preparations that would be required for the coronation. Leo would need to be dressed in his ceremonial jewelled loros. Neophytos must be alerted so he could prepare himself to be the new Patriarch. Sour voices would be raised in the church, of course, but Cosmas would step down once he had seen what riches awaited him in his days yet to come. She and her mother must don their finest dresses, one gold with black embroidery, one black with gold embroidery, ready for the moment when they stood behind the throne and watched the crown being lowered upon Leo’s brow.

  The moment when, finally, after all these years, they would have won.

  And then she could marry Wulfrun, and there would at last be time for love, and all those tender exchanges that had been set aside in the plotting and struggles of recent years. Peace, finally. Peace for all of them.

  Her thoughts tumbled into one another. So much to do. But there would be time enough for preparation as Varin led his army of rogues to the palace. Nikephoros would not stand a chance, not with his Varangian Guard scattered across Constantinople trying to bring order. No one would mourn the passing of that wizened bag of bones.

  As the torrent of calculation finally ebbed away and the echoes of her footsteps faded, Juliana frowned. The house was silent.

 
‘Where is everyone?’ she demanded.

  The words rolled out through the chambers like distant thunder. The house was empty.

  Juliana cursed. Her mother and father and Leo must have left for the palace already. Perhaps it had already fallen to Varin and his men. They should have waited for her! Hitching up her skirts, she spun on her heel and hurried back to the door.

  She would not be denied her moment of glory, not after all the sacrifices and the suffering.

  Though she was loath to go back into the tumult and the bloodshed with no one to protect her, she steeled herself and stepped outside. But as she passed the entrance to the shadowed garden, she glimpsed movement. Her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Mother?’ she said once more. But she knew it was not Simonis. Leo, then. Hiding. She had always feared he was a coward at heart.

  Her eyes glittering, she marched out into the night.

  Juliana’s nostrils wrinkled. The breeze smelled oddly musky. As she grew accustomed to the dark, she realized there was something amiss. The tree, her tree, the one she had sat under since she was a girl . . . its silhouette now looked strange. She felt the hair on the nape of her neck prickle, but she could not stop herself from stepping forward.

  At that moment, the full moon broke through the storm-clouds and a beam of silver light streamed down as if God had chosen to illuminate the scene especially for her.

  Juliana recoiled. She felt the acid rise in her mouth and thought for a moment that she would vomit.

  Hanging in the branches of the trees, her father had been freed from the prison of his body and preserved on the brink of taking flight to the heavens. Kalamdios was naked. His head lolled to one side. His eyes were open and staring, his swollen tongue protruding from his lips. His arms were outstretched, his feet crossed at the ankles. Pink wings glistened behind him, his lungs, torn out through broken ribs and unfolded. Black blood pooled on the earth beneath.