Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (39 page)

Victor Verinus was dead.

Racked with horror, Rowena clawed her way out of the chamber and scrambled towards the door to the street. She knew now that the Nepotes were capable of anything. If they found her there, if they suspected for a moment what she had witnessed, her life would be over.

As she stumbled out into the cool night, a figure stepped towards her. In her shock, Rowena cried out, clasping her hands to her mouth to silence herself.

But it was only Alric. ‘You must come with me,’ he urged, looking around as if he feared for his own life. ‘I know Victor Verinus’ plan. Tonight rivers of blood will be spilled.’

BLACK RATS FOUGHT
over crumbs of bread. Cloaked in the gloom in the corner of the piss-reeking cell, ringed tails lashed the air, claws raked, fangs were bared. Hereward sat on the filthy straw, his back pressed against the cold stone, and watched the frenzy. The hungry vermin had turned on each other in a moment to get what they most desired.

Beneath the Boukoleon palace, where not long before the Varangian Guard had dashed the hopes of the English, the low-ceilinged cell was large enough to accommodate Hereward, his men, Deda and Salih ibn Ziyad. Through a grille in the solid door, wavering light washed from a single torch in the corridor. For men used to seeing in the black fenland nights, it was enough.

The Mercian glanced around the faces of his spear-brothers. In twos and threes, they sat whispering, some laughing. They did not look like men who had been told they faced certain death when the sun came up. Only Salih sat alone, brooding. Head bowed, wrapped in his black robes, he looked like a battlefield raven waiting to feast.

Hereward felt the weight upon his shoulders. All his men’s hope of a new dawn had been placed in him, but he had led them only to this, as he had led them to defeat at Ely. They deserved better. And now they expected him to find some path out of this plight.

‘No one blames you for what happened. You have done only the best for us, but sometimes fate decrees that even the strongest man’s will is not enough.’

Hereward jerked his head up at the words. It was as if his very thoughts had been read.

Sighard stood in front of him. ‘You are our leader, Hereward, but this is not your burden alone.’

‘Then why are your brothers so spirited?’

‘Would you have it any other way?’ Sighard squatted. ‘Turn your thoughts out, not in. We are all warriors. There are days when you fight better than you ever have before, and the sod turns under your foot and you fall before a weaker man’s spear. You know that. And you know that death waits for all of us, and he can come on a summer’s day as readily as a winter’s night. How you meet him … that is the mark of a man.’ He smiled. ‘Clear your head of the doubts that nag you. You know what I say is true.’

‘I promised you gold and glory—’

‘You promised us the chance of gold and glory. And you gave us that. We are all thankful. We could have died at Ely, but you helped us live. And in Afrique, and here in this pit of vipers. We owe you all we have. And if there was mead here we would drink to you, aye, even as we walked to our death.’

The Mercian felt warmed by Sighard’s words. For so long he had been a solitary wolf in winter woods. Now he had brothers who would die for him. Who accepted his word without question. And who accepted the failures alongside the victories. He could ask for no more from this life. ‘We still live,’ he said with a firm nod. ‘And so we still fight.’

Sighard grinned. Glancing around, he leaned in and whispered, ‘One more thing. The blackness was eating my heart. I wished only to die. But you would not let me. You … and Kraki … you made me fight when I had laid down my arms. I owe you my life. That I will never forget.’

When Sighard had returned to the others, Hereward thought on what he had said. They had reached their lowest ebb, but they had been here before and fought their way out. Given a chance, they would do so again.

When the door ground open, he was ready. But as he jumped to his feet, he paused. Wulfrun stood framed in the dancing torchlight, his helm tucked under his arm. Hereward thought that the commander looked as if he had been told of the death of a loved one. ‘Follow me,’ he intoned, and spun away.

The English glanced at each other in surprise, but they did not need to be told twice. Grinning, they stumbled over each other to get out into the corridor.

Wulfrun waited with Ricbert, the guard who had seized them. He heard the smaller man ask, ‘You are sure of this?’

‘No,’ the commander said. ‘But this world has been turned on its head. If we run with dogs instead of lions, so be it.’

He led the way up steep stone steps and into a chamber that looked out over the night-garden. ‘Take your weapons,’ he commanded, sweeping his arm towards a jumble of axes, spears and shields in one corner. Thinking it was yet another trap, the English hesitated until Hereward plucked up Brainbiter and slid it into its sheath.

‘What has brought this change of heart?’ he asked.

Sliding his helm on to his head, Wulfrun said, ‘Victor Verinus is dead. How, I do not yet know. But his plot has not died with him. The Varangian Guard are abroad in the city, searching for your men, and far from where they are needed. Victor’s men lie in wait to slaughter the emperor and any of his advisers who stand with him.’ He paused, seemingly gathering his strength. ‘And those who killed the Stallion will wait for Victor’s plan to unfold and, blameless, will then seize control.’

‘Who murdered him?’

Wulfrun moistened his lips. ‘The Nepotes.’

‘The family of your woman.’

Wulfrun would not meet Hereward’s eye. The commander sent Ricbert out and a moment later the aide returned with Alric and Rowena.

‘They pleaded for your worthless lives,’ Wulfrun said, his face like stone, ‘and I listened.’

‘The Verini planned to attack the emperor at the monastery as he prays for those who died at Manzikert,’ Alric said. ‘The Varangian Guard would not be allowed upon the sacred ground during those prayers, even if they had been near. And thus the emperor would be undefended.’

‘How did you learn this?’ Hereward asked.

Smiling, Alric tapped his head with his good hand. ‘Sometimes I have brains of mud, but this day God blessed me. The poisoning of the sacrist had been weighing heavily upon my mind. But with Nathaniel in that role, he could place others of a like mind around him. Together they could allow Victor’s men into the monastery and hide them away until they were needed.’

Ricbert glanced at Wulfrun. ‘My spy who died upon the altar … he must have had news of this plot.’

‘It seems many of us have mud for brains,’ the commander muttered. ‘I should have seen this unfolding …’ He caught himself, not wishing to show weakness. But then his features darkened. ‘I have bad news. Victor Verinus did not die without bringing more misery into this world.’

Wulfrun led the way into another chamber. A body lay upon a table. Hereward felt a wave of sorrow when he recognized Meghigda. He could see that her neck had been broken. In death, the troubles that had weighed upon her features had been replaced by a look of peace.

Salih ibn Ziyad cried out as if a blade had been stabbed through his heart. Remembering the agony of grief he had felt when his wife was killed, Hereward winced when he saw the raw emotion burn into the other man’s face. Salih fell to his knees in front of the table, his hands clasped and his head bowed. From his mouth flowed a babble of words in his own tongue, each one filled with passion.

‘As a leader, she had no equal,’ Hereward said, ‘and as a warrior too. She was brave and honourable. Is this truly what Constantinople is – a place where nothing good can survive?’

‘There is a sickness here,’ Wulfrun agreed, ‘but honour will shine through. I believe that above all else.’

Rowena broke away from Deda’s embrace. ‘Maximos could have saved her at any time. He killed Victor’s son, not her, but Meghigda never betrayed him. Yet he remained silent unto the end.’

Hereward flinched. ‘Maximos?’

‘’Tis true,’ Rowena said.

Wulfrun cursed under his breath. ‘Plots upon plots. I was tricked by that bastard Maximos’ grins and slapping of backs.’

‘As were we all,’ Hereward snapped. He swallowed his anger, for now.

But Salih rose up like a wraith from the grave. ‘Maximos’ days are numbered,’ the wise man hissed. ‘He will pay for this.’ He rested one hand upon the hilt of his silver dagger and swore an oath in his own tongue.

Beckoning to Hereward, Wulfrun led him out of the chamber. In the corridor, the commander said, ‘We have our differences, you and I. But now I am asking for your aid. Help me save the emperor’s life. Without the spears of your men, he will certainly die.’

For all that the other man hated him, Hereward felt only respect for Wulfrun. To live by a code of honour in a city like Constantinople was worthy of any praise. ‘Very well.’

Wulfrun looked surprised at the response, but he nodded. ‘If I know Victor, the men he had in place will be savage. We are few and they will be many. I have sent word to the Varangian Guard, but they may not return in time. This course may only lead to all our deaths.’

The Mercian rested one hand upon the hilt of his sword. ‘I am sick of running like a dog, sick of hiding. Let us fight like brothers, shoulder to shoulder. And if we die this night, so be it. We will not be alone in hell.’

THE FULL MOON
hung over the gleaming dome of the Hagia Sophia. Outside the monastery of St George, the street was a river of silver in the stillness of the evening. Shadows flitted across it, as silent as ghosts. The air was fragrant with the perfume of Constantinople’s gardens and peace lay across the roofs, but as the English closed upon their destination their thoughts were only of blood.

When the warriors were crouching by the low wall along the monastery’s front, Hereward heard a low whistle, and the rest of his men streamed from a dark passage between two grand houses. Hiroc the Three-fingered looked relieved as he knelt beside his leader. ‘The red-headed girl, Ariadne, said you would be here sooner or later. I thought it might be a trap. God knows, you cannot trust any of the lying curs in this city, but …’ He clapped the Mercian on the shoulder, allowing himself one of his rare smiles.

Once the new arrivals had been informed of the task ahead, Hereward sent Alric to the monastery doors. Victor’s men would be guarding the entrances in case the Varangian Guard returned, he guessed. But the monk returned a moment later, shaking his head. ‘They are barred,’ he whispered.

Hereward watched Wulfrun glower. The commander was afraid time was fast running out. The emperor was inside. Soon he would be alone in the church, praying before the altar. An easy target for a knife.

Crooking a finger at Herrig the Rat, the Mercian sent him scurrying across the approach to the monastery. Even in the moonlight, he was little more than a smudge of darkness as he weaved like his namesake, low and fast.

‘What can he do?’ Ricbert sniffed. ‘Make himself as small as vermin and wriggle under the door?’

Hereward gave a tight smile, but said nothing. When he reached the monastery, Herrig paused only briefly, scanning the walls. Then, finding cracks and crevices invisible to most eyes, he began to climb.

Wulfrun and Ricbert marvelled as the scout scaled the walls with a speed that belied the difficulty of the ascent. ‘He will fall and break every bone in his body,’ Ricbert said with astonishment. ‘Does he have no fear?’

In the fens, Hereward had seen Herrig claw his way up a soaring ash tree and leap from branch to branch on adjoining trees with scant regard for the danger. Nothing seemed to frighten him. The courage of madness, Kraki called it.

Herrig reached a window on the first floor, clambered over the edge and disappeared into the dark. The warriors waited, breath tight in their chests as they listened for any sign of discovery. Finally, the door swung open. With a gap-toothed grin, Herrig the Rat beckoned them forward.

When Hereward loped up to the door, the scout opened his hand. Two bloody fingers nestled in his palm. ‘For my necklace,’ he whispered, jangling the string of mementos of the Normans he had killed.

One of the dead men lay just inside the door in a pool of blood. His throat had been slashed. Hereward guessed the guard had never even heard Herrig creeping up on him. Holding up a hand to bring his men to a halt, the Mercian cocked his head. The monastery was silent. ‘Lead us to the church,’ he murmured to Alric.

But as they crept along the corridor under the light of sizzling torches, he heard footsteps drawing closer from somewhere ahead. He twirled a finger and his men pressed into doorways. The closer they could get to the church before they were discovered, the better it would be for them. But their hiding places were poor, and if whoever was approaching had sharp eyes they would be seen in an instant.

As the Mercian crouched in a doorway, his hand upon the hilt of Brainbiter, he saw Salih ibn Ziyad still walked along the corridor. The wise man seemed to have been in a dream ever since he had been forced to leave Meghigda’s side.

The footsteps were drawing near to a turn in the corridor. When Deda stepped out to intercept the wise man, Hereward dragged him back. There was no time. ‘Be ready,’ he whispered to his men as he watched Salih stride towards the turn.

But at the last, the black-robed wise man slipped into a doorway. The shadows swallowed him. An instant later, a man rounded the corner. He was unmistakably one of Victor’s cut-throats. His brow was low, his tunic shabby and stained. As he prowled forward, he gripped a double-edged sword with a notched, stained blade and no decoration upon the hilt. Hereward watched as the guard’s gaze fell upon the ill-concealed English. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to raise the alarm.

From his hiding place, Salih ibn Ziyad lunged. His silver dagger flashed. Blood glittered in the torchlight and the man plunged to his knees, clutching at his throat. The wise man was already moving on before his victim was dead.