Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (27 page)

Hereward could remember little of that time. After he had seen Alric so close to death, his rage had consumed his wits. Ragener would pay for the misery he had inflicted upon the monk. They had set the churchman between the benches astern, and Salih ibn Ziyad had tended to him as best he could. But they had lost too much time finding a Muslim leech to provide them with herbs and balm, and locating supplies to see them through the journey. Night was already falling when they had set sail north-east from Afrique with the fire-pot ablaze on its hook to give them enough light to row by. Once they had reached open water, though, the wind filled their sail as if God himself was speeding them on their way.

Hereward prowled to the mast where Maximos watched the horizon. His gaze had barely left the ocean since their departure. ‘No sign of that dog,’ the Mercian said. ‘If he sailed to Rome instead, or—’

Maximos shook his head. ‘He is driven by lust for gold. Constantinople can be his only port.’ Worry etched lines into the Roman’s face, and when his guard was down flickers of fear lit his eyes. How deeply he must care for Meghigda, Hereward thought. Lowering his eyes, Maximos added in a quiet voice, ‘If Ragener reaches Victor before us, all is lost.’

‘At least you know the sea wolf will not end her days. That bounty is keeping her alive.’

‘There is a world of pain between life and death …’ He caught himself. ‘But once she has been delivered …’

‘We may still have time to save her.’

‘You do not know Victor. He wants vengeance for the loss of his son. Meghigda will suffer until she speaks the truth, and Victor is skilled in the art of suffering. There is no resisting him. He stabbed my father in the head and left him for dead. He ordered my cousin’s balls to be sliced off. My mother … my sister …’ He shook his head, looked away. ‘I know not … I pray not … And he would have ended my days too if Arcadius, his son, had not pleaded for mercy.’ He swallowed, pressing down upon the well of emotion. ‘I owe Arcadius everything.’

Hereward frowned, struggling to comprehend this degree of agony. ‘And all this in Constantinople, city of gold, with its men of learning, and books, and philosophy, and laws, and churches?’

Maximos laughed with contempt. ‘Aye, Constantinople, where cut-throats wear fine silk. The greater the gold, the greater the power, the worse the crimes. Do not mistake it for England. That will be your undoing.’

‘We will do everything in our power to save Meghigda, you have my word on that. And Ragener will pay …’

Hereward’s words died in his throat when he glanced along the deck and saw Salih beckoning to him. The wise man’s face was drawn. Pushing aside his fears, the Mercian clambered over the benches and crouched down beside his friend.

The monk’s face was bloodless. Though his chest still rose and fell, he had not stirred since they had left the basilica in Sabta. Hereward bowed his head for a moment as guilt clutched at his heart.

‘You have my thanks for all you have done to help Alric,’ he murmured.

‘God is within him. I could do no other.’ Salih rested a friendly hand upon Hereward’s shoulder and added, ‘You have offered your axe to help save my queen. I … and all the Imazighen … will never forget that.’

Hereward felt troubled by the weight of that hand, and the strength of the compassion behind it. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked.

‘Your friend ails. I have done all I can for him, but it has not been enough.’

‘He still breathes.’

Salih nodded, allowing the words, and the understanding, to settle gently. ‘Wounds fester. You have seen this after a battle.’

Every warrior had seen it. Men who received only a scratch had died days later. He could never forget the fruity stink of the rotting flesh. Reaching down, he unfastened the cloth tied around the stumps of Alric’s severed fingers. That same sickly-sweet reek wafted up. The skin had started to blacken.

Hereward felt a wave of anger rush through him. Here was another reason to make Ragener suffer. Would there be no end to the miseries he had inflicted? He would not lose his friend, not this way. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

The Mercian sensed the other men gathering around. Shadows fell across Alric. A stillness descended upon the ship. Only the sounds of the world rolled on, the wind in the sails, the lapping of the waves against the hull, the shriek of the gulls.

‘If you would save his life, we must stop the black rot eating its way into his body.’ As Salih held his gaze, Hereward knew the words that would come next. ‘You must cut off his hand.’

‘No!’ The Mercian leapt to his feet, bunching his fist as if he were about to strike the wise man for his audacity.

‘You must. It is the only way.’ Salih held out both arms, imploring.

‘And leave him with only one hand? No! There must be another way.’

The wise man grabbed Hereward’s arm. ‘He will still have his wits … his eyes … his tongue. He will still speak to God—’

‘No!’

‘Then you condemn him to death.’

Hereward felt the words like a knife. He looked down at the monk, so pale, so close to death.
He
had made his friend this way.
He
had brought this misery down upon him.

Guthrinc rested his huge hand on Hereward’s shoulder. ‘You know this must be done,’ he murmured. ‘We have done it time and again upon the battlefield.’

But not like this
, the Mercian thought.

‘The monk will forgive you,’ Guthrinc continued, his voice growing quieter still. ‘He will forgive you anything.’

Hereward felt a blade in his heart.

Kraki strode forward. ‘I will do it.’

‘No,’ the Mercian said, holding up one finger to the Viking. ‘It is my burden. Fetch me my axe.’

Sensing the weight of feeling upon their leader, the other men shuffled away. Hereward could feel their eyes flickering towards him, each gaze filled with pity.

‘Losing the hand might kill him,’ the warrior whispered.

Salih nodded. ‘But if we do not act, he will certainly die. This is the right course.’

Hereward nodded. He knew; he had always known. He thought back to the basilica and the last time the monk had spoken. Had the sickness already reached his brain that he thought he had killed Hereward’s brother? Why would he say such a thing? He crouched down, pressing his lips close to Alric’s ear. ‘You
will
live, monk. You have answers to give me.’ It sounded too harsh so he added in a gentler tone, ‘Live, monk. Live.’

Salih jabbed a knife into the glowing embers of the fire-pot. The hot blade would stem the blood and, Hereward hoped, stop the black rot reaching its fingers into his friend’s arm, and thence into his heart.

‘When you are done, I will pray over him. His fate will be in God’s hands.’

Kraki strode up and handed over the axe. Hereward weighed it in his palms as Salih lifted the monk’s frail form and stretched his arm out across a bench. As he looked down at his friend, all the Mercian could think was how he had taken this same axe and lopped off Ragener’s own hand, and thereby set this entire chain of events in motion.

Raising the weapon above his head, he whispered, ‘Forgive me.’

The axe swept down.

THE BLADE SHIMMERED
on the purple velvet cloth. It was a warrior’s knife, steel polished so brightly it reflected the faces of all who peered down at it. The handle was an angel, intricately carved from ivory, inlaid with sable and capped with gold. A knife fit for a hero, perhaps the best in all Constantinople.

Rowena sighed as she admired the craftsmanship. Around her the market throbbed with life. Merchants jabbered at customers. Bodies jostled for space among the wooden tables and the sellers sitting cross-legged with their wares laid out on cloths. The rich scent of rare spices and cooking food wafted in the air. But Rowena was lost to all of it. She stared at the gleaming knife, but her thoughts were only of Deda and how much she yearned to buy this blade for him. He asked for nothing. When their bellies had growled as they trudged through dark forests on their way out of England, he had always given her the biggest share of what little food they could scrape together. While she had slept, he kept watch. When she was too tired to walk, he carried her. And when their lives had been threatened by rogues and murderers, he risked his own neck to save her without a second thought. Words could never begin to express her gratitude for all that he had given her, or the love she felt for a man with a heart as big as an oak.

‘A fine gift for your husband,’ Simonis breathed in her ear. ‘He would be proud to have such a blade in his hand.’

Rowena felt surprised at the other woman’s seemingly uncanny ability to know what was on her mind. ‘I could not afford this,’ she whispered, feeling her disappointment swell. ‘Not now, not—’

‘Do not say another word,’ her mistress cautioned. ‘We all know hardship here. But this is not an ending.’ She glanced at Juliana, who gave a rueful smile. ‘Our stories are not yet written. Each new day brings new hope. We can rise up. We can reach a better place. Everyone in Constantinople knows that if there is a fire in your heart, you can earn your rightful place in the sun.’ Simonis rested a comforting hand on Rowena’s arm. ‘One day, perhaps soon, you will return here and buy this blade. I know it.’

‘This knife would make you happy?’ Juliana asked, her forehead furrowed.

Rowena could hear the compassion in the girl’s voice and felt touched. ‘To show my love for Deda, and my thanks for all that he has done for me. His sacrifices have been great. And I … I can give him so little in return.’

‘You give him your love and support,’ Simonis encouraged her. ‘He is a good man. For him, that is more than enough.’

Smothering her disenchantment, Rowena looked down at the merchant. He had a wild beard and a milky eye, and oiled skin despite the heat. A Viking by the looks of him. She shook her head and moved away.

As they passed a large display of dyed silk, Rowena realized that Juliana was not with them. When she glanced back, she glimpsed the girl pushing her way through the heaving bodies. She was holding the knife.

‘For you,’ Juliana said, proffering the blade. ‘I had some coin saved in my purse, and …’ She smiled awkwardly.

‘I cannot accept this,’ Rowena replied, her eyes bright. ‘It is too much.’

Simonis cupped Rowena’s hand in hers. ‘Take it,’ she urged in a gentle voice. Her smile eased the sadness that always seemed to haunt her features.

Rowena blinked away a stray tear. After the long weeks of doubt and fear and worry since they had fled England’s shores, weeks when it had seemed they might never know joy again, this simple act of kindness burned into her. The speed at which she had become friends with the Roman women had taken her by surprise. Though she worked in their house, they never treated her as a servant. They shared with her what food they had. They chatted brightly and openly about their deepest thoughts, and offered warm words and support when she had revealed the suffering she had endured in William the Bastard’s England. Their shared hardships had seemed to create a bond from the very beginning, and it felt good to know that she was not alone in that strange city.

But as they moved away, Rowena glimpsed an unguarded glance between Simonis and Juliana and began to suspect the truth. The Nepotes barely had enough coin to buy food. Juliana could not have afforded that knife. Realizing that the blade must have been stolen, she slipped away as the others watched a falconer at play. When she eased through the crowd to the Viking merchant’s pitch, she found him angrily berating a group of men nearby. She had been correct. In passing, she dropped the knife back on the cloth, and was lost in the churn of bodies when she heard the merchant’s startled cry of discovery. She could never have kept something she knew to be stolen. But it did not diminish the other women’s kindness. They wanted only the best for her, and she knew that it was only her desperate life that had driven Juliana to such extremes.

As she made her way back to her friends, she heard shouts ring out from the heart of the market. ‘Enough!’ someone was crying. ‘The emperor must pay!’ another voice exclaimed. The bellows roared into a tumult. Within moments, men and women were fleeing past her, eyes wide in terror. As the crashing of overturned stalls thundered out, Rowena threw herself into the flow. Protests against the emperor’s rule seemed to be rising up on a daily basis. Frustrations had turned to simmering anger – she had heard the loud protestations in the fora time and again – and that in turn had become violence. Four dead in as many days, or so she had been told.

Retracing her steps to where she had last seen Simonis and Juliana, she did her best to search all around. But she was like a leaf caught in an autumn flood, thrown this way and that by the surge of bodies. Slammed into a wall, she staggered, dazed, until a hand caught her arm. It was Simonis.

‘This way,’ she urged, dragging Rowena into an alley where Juliana was hiding. ‘It is not safe here.’

In the shadowy refuge, Rowena rested one hand against her head and caught her breath. The crowd thundered past the entrance to the alley.

‘This emperor will destroy us all,’ Simonis fumed as she listened to the din of angry protests.

Juliana crept forward to peer into the narrow street. ‘We should not tarry here,’ she said. ‘This kind of trouble always draws thieves …’

The words died in her throat. When Rowena looked up, she saw the girl backing away from a man who had lurched into the entrance to the alley. He was tall and thin, dressed in threadbare clothes, and streaks of dirt marred his face.

As his gaze fell upon the three women, a hungry grin spread across his features. Rowena felt disgust. She had seen that look too many times before.

‘Leave here,’ she demanded, holding her chin up in defiance.

The rogue glanced over his shoulder at the racing crowd. Rowena could read the thoughts passing through his mind. Folk were too frightened to pay any heed to what was happening in the alley. He licked his lips as he examined each woman in turn.