Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (25 page)

Hereward exchanged looks with Kraki and Guthrinc. They were ready. His fingers tightened around the haft of his axe, and, with a roar, he threw himself into battle.

A LRIC JERKED
awake. The screams of the dying rang through the sweltering heat. For a moment he thought he had descended into the very depths of hell. But then his wits began their march back from the edge of that great black ocean where they had fled when Ragener had started to take his third finger. Through the haze, he could smell burned flesh and he glanced down. To stem the bleeding, the stump above his knuckle had been seared by the blade the Hawk kept in the smouldering coals in one of the other rooms. He looked away, tears stinging his eyes.

Through the blur, his gaze fell upon Meghigda and he was surprised to see she was smiling. She tugged at his sleeve and whispered, ‘Our moment has come.’

‘What is this madness?’ he croaked.

‘Listen,’ she murmured, her eyes twinkling.

The monk forced his way through the swathes of pain until he could focus upon the crash of iron upon wood, the battle-cries, the moans, the rattle of mail-shirts, the shrieks. A battle was raging nearby. In that very hall?

‘Your friends are here,’ the queen said. ‘They have come to save you.’

Alric could scarcely believe her words. He had consigned himself to days of agony before a slow, lingering death. All hope had gone.

Trembling, he glanced towards the door. Ragener crouched there, craning his neck to see what was happening. Too much of a coward to join the battle, the churchman thought with contempt.

Whatever the sea wolf could see outside left him shaking with fear. When a loud crash reverberated as if something had fallen through the roof itself, he jumped to his feet and raced back across the chamber to kneel beside Alric, relief flooding his face. ‘You yet live – I did not think you would survive this time,’ he lisped. ‘Then you still have some value. Come with me. We will use your life to bargain for our own.’ He crooked the fingers of his good hand in the monk’s tunic and began to haul him upright.

But before he could stand, Meghigda leapt. Wrapping her headcloth around his neck, she yanked it tight. Fury twisted her face, and when Alric looked into it he felt afraid. ‘I am al-Kahina,’ she snarled, ‘priestess, soothsayer, slayer of devils, and I have seen your future, sea wolf. Only death awaits you.’

Eyes bulging, the Hawk bucked and thrashed as he tried to throw her off. But she was stronger than she looked, stronger than any of them realized. The muscles in her forearms were knotted like cords as she hauled the cloth tight and tighter still. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and her eyes burned with a cold fire.

Hard as the sea wolf tried to push backwards against her, she kept her grip, stepping back every time he thrust so his feet could gain no traction. Spittle flew from his mouth and his face turned red. Desperately, he clawed at the cloth, but he had only one hand and it was not enough.

Finally, his eyelids fluttered, his hand fell away and he became as limp as the weeds in a fenland lake. Once Meghigda was satisfied there was no fight left in him, she opened her fingers and let him crash to the floor. Alric could see that his tormentor’s chest still rose and anger flared in him. He had already choked one man to death, for the sake of Hereward. He could do it again.

‘Leave him,’ the queen said as if she could read his mind. ‘We must help the others.’ She felt inside Ragener’s tunic until her fingers closed around his knife, still stained with Alric’s blood. Turning, she bounded to the door.

Alric pushed himself up on shaking legs. His head spun and he felt too weak to stand. But Meghigda was filled with a righteous anger and he could not see her face danger alone. He felt a surge of admiration as he watched her. She was more fierce than many a seasoned warrior, and braver too. She had more courage than he had, he was sure. Now he could understand how men would follow her to the jaws of hell itself.

His vision blurred. His hand and arm sang with a pain so excruciating he had never felt the like before. Staggering across the chamber, he slumped against the wall next to the queen. ‘Tell me,’ he croaked, ‘how goes it?’

‘The battle is hard,’ she whispered, ‘but Hereward is clever. His men come from two sides, and from the roof itself. They fight like devils.’ She leapt back as a bloody sword flew past the doorway and crashed on to the floor.

The queen did not hesitate. As the battle raged near, she darted out into the melee.

Lurching out into the passage after her, Alric found himself looking across a hellish scene. The fighting raged from chamber to chamber. Blood puddled on the marble and bodies and shields and fallen weapons littered the floor. Through the curtain of pain, he found it hard to get his bearings. But then he glimpsed Kraki hacking with his axe and Guthrinc running his spear through a Norman warrior and he realized that Meghigda had been right. Hope surged within him.

Though the fighting had seemed to be evenly matched, the odds turned when al-Kahina flung herself into the fray. Crimson gushed as she rammed her knife into the neck of one Norman and then slashed it across the throat of another. Her eyes blazed and her hair flew wildly around her head as she waded into the battle without a care for her own safety.

When yet another warrior fell under her blade, Drogo Vavasour wrenched round and saw what havoc she was wreaking. Throwing himself back, the knight swung his shield up and clattered it against the side of her head. The knife flew from her grasp. Stunned, she slammed against the wall and went down hard.

Alric cried out; he could not help himself. But it was clear even then that the Normans had lost; Meghigda’s interference had been decisive. Furious, Drogo looked around as man after man fell.

Hearing the monk’s cry, Maximos saw the fallen queen and raced to her aid. But the floor was so slick with blood that he slipped and careered into Hereward. The two warriors crashed to the ground.

Vavasour seized his chance. Darting forward, he swung his sword up and cried, ‘Now, English dog, I will take that head.’

HEREWARD FELT NO
fear as he looked up at the man about to take his life. A part of him almost welcomed death. No more whispers from the devil inside him. No more fleeing a past he could never escape. Peace, at last.

The sounds of fighting had ebbed away. Only the moans of the dying rolled out through the basilica.
We have won
, he thought with a note of irony. Though he could feel the eyes of all his men upon him, no one was close enough to save his worthless life, not even Maximos who lay in a heap of tangled limbs and half stunned by the fall.

Drogo uttered some prayer or other in his own tongue and swung the blade down.

But the blow never came. The Norman knight crashed against the wall, a slender figure flailing against him.

Only when he pushed himself back out of harm’s way did Hereward see it was Alric. The Mercian felt a pang of horror. The monk looked half dead. His face was bloodless, his eyes fluttered and he could barely stand on his buckling legs. And yet for all that, still he had saved his friend’s life.

Acid rose in Hereward’s mouth. Drogo Vavasour would not be thwarted. Jerking round, the knight hooked one arm across the churchman’s throat and brought his sword up. The monk hung there like a child, too weak to move. ‘Your life for his,’ the Norman growled.

The Mercian could see his men waiting for his order. Drogo was the only Norman left standing. Getting to his feet, Hereward half raised his axe, then let it fall to his side as Vavasour pressed his blade against Alric’s side. His friend would be gutted before he could move.

The tableau was broken when a figure clawed its way out of a chamber further along the passage. Ragener the Hawk lurched towards them on trembling legs, a headcloth trailing from his fingers. ‘Wait,’ he croaked. ‘Before you claim your vengeance—’

‘Take her,’ Drogo snapped. ‘And never let me set eyes upon your cursed face again.’

The sea wolf stumbled up to Meghigda’s prone form. For a moment, he looked down upon her with loathing, and then he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her towards the door.

‘Leave her be!’ Salih cried from the end of the passage. He thrust his way forward as Maximos too cried out.

‘Stay back,’ Drogo spat, digging his sword into Alric’s side. ‘I gave my word that that snake would go free.’ He stared at Hereward and added in a cold voice, ‘And we are men of honour, are we not?’

As Maximos jumped to his feet, Kraki and Guthrinc grabbed his arms to hold him back. The Roman raged and tried to throw them off, but they were too strong for him. With their spears, Sighard and Hiroc barred Salih’s way. He spat an epithet in his guttural tongue, but he could only watch as Ragener dragged his queen, his love, through the door and out of that blood-soaked place.

Vavasour tightened his arm around the monk’s neck, jerking the younger man like a child’s corn doll. ‘One more time,’ he said, backing towards the door. ‘Your life for his. Do not doubt me. I have waited too long for this. It is all I have thought of. Come with us … just you … down these steps and out. I will take your head and leave it – and your friend, alive – for your men.’

Before Hereward could respond, Alric’s lips began to move. At first no sound issued from his mouth. But then a rustle of a prayer floated out, his voice rising steadily in devotion, as if the words had released a last reserve of strength within him.

The Mercian could not understand why his friend had chosen this moment to make his supplication, but then he saw a strange shadow cross the Norman knight’s face. His eyes darted uneasily towards the monk.

Ending his prayer, Alric said in a husky voice, ‘I am God’s servant upon this earth. Would you defy his word by taking my life?’

Drogo’s sword hand wavered. ‘Still your tongue.’

‘Your cross hangs in that chamber there,’ the monk croaked. ‘You know our Lord listens to you. You know he watches. Are you not afraid of his wrath?’

For an instant, the Norman’s eyes widened in fear. His lips pulled back from his teeth in frustration and he dragged the monk towards the door. Glowering at Hereward, he said, ‘This is not an ending. It is a beginning. Now that I have found you, I will not lose you again. One day, when your eyes are fixed on a distant horizon, I will be at your back. You will not hear me. You will not hear death coming for you. There will be light, and then only darkness, and silence. Think on this as you go about your days. Think on it, and know you will never know peace again.’

Vavasour hurled the churchman away from him. Lunging, Hereward caught Alric and slowly lowered him to the filthy stone. He heard the Norman thunder down the steps, and his own men cry out as they gave pursuit, but now his only care was for his friend.

‘Stay with us, monk,’ he urged. ‘Your days are not yet done.’ He cradled his friend in his arms, sickened by how frail he felt, just a sack of bones. The churchman’s breathing was shallow, barely there at all. His eyelids fluttered intermittently, the space between each movement growing longer.

‘Stay with us,’ Hereward pressed.

His gaze drifted to the monk’s ruined hand and he felt his rage grow. Better that than the desperation that clutched at him, or the guilt of the responsibility for all this suffering. Since they had met, Alric had faced death too many times, and all of it, all of it, was his fault.

As he held his friend to his heart, he heard footsteps pounding back up the steps. Sighard burst in, breathless. ‘The Norman is gone. He has run towards the battle. Kraki and Guthrinc are searching for him. Maximos and Salih are gone too, after the woman …’ His voice drifted away when he realized Hereward was paying no heed.

Alric had stirred. His lips were moving as if he wished to make confession. Hereward pressed his ear close to the churchman’s mouth. Even then the words were so faint he could barely hear them.

‘You must forgive me,’ the monk croaked. ‘I murdered your brother.’

A BLADE OF
shadow carved a line across the sun-bleached heart of the forum. A man raced across it, his face contorted with terror. Behind him boots thundered upon stone and crimson capes flapped. On every side, the crowd surged as cries of panic swelled across Constantinople. But no sound issued from those running men. Death always waits in silence. The Varangian Guard were hunting down their prey.

Like a frightened rabbit, the fleeing man ran hither and thither, searching for a way to lose himself among the churning bodies. But the citizens scattered too fast ahead of the approaching warriors, and he was left with nowhere to hide. On the edge of the forum, he glanced back in fear at the wave of steel about to break upon him, and he stumbled. As he sprawled on the flagstones, the Varangian Guard swallowed him up.

Standing in the line of shadow bisecting the forum, Deda the knight watched the warriors drag the fugitive to his feet and haul him back the way he had come. The captive’s face was bloodless, his knees so weak he could barely stand. From what he had heard of the Guard’s fearsome reputation, Deda had expected their victim to be hacked to pieces there and then. Perhaps they wanted answers first.

As the milling crowd calmed, Deda kept his head bowed, his black hair falling in ringlets around his face. Yet his eyes flickered all around, watching for any sign of danger. He felt the weight upon his shoulders, the weariness deep in his bones. Normans were not well liked here; he could not afford to lower his guard for a moment, as he had never rested since he had left England with his wife. Threat was a regular companion these days.

Sensing no enemies, he turned and looked along the shadow to the base of the stone column, then up its dizzying height. Framed against the azure sky, the marble statue of Constantine blazed in the sunlight. In this forum where Nova Roma had been founded, the forgotten sculptor had fashioned the ancient emperor as Apollo, the sun god of the Rome of old, even though Constantine had been the man who had brought forth the word of the Christ. It was fitting, Deda mused. Constantinople was a strange place, caught between pagan and Christian, east and west. Not as openly savage as his Norman homeland, nor as placid as England, where he had, for a while, hoped to find a new home. Even after so many days, he found much of this place a mystery. People said one thing, but meant another. Hands offered in seeming friendship were often turned at the last to their own advantage. Trust was as thin as the autumn mist.