Hereward 05 - The Immortals (7 page)

Soon after the Roman had disappeared into the house, Wulfrun heard slight footsteps skipping nearer. Even now, even after everything, he felt his heart beat faster in anticipation.

A moment later Juliana appeared at the door, her blonde hair fairly glowing in the candlelight. Laughing with excitement, she hurried up to him. ‘A surprise!’ she exclaimed. ‘But still so stern. One day I swear you will arrive at the door with a smile upon your face and I will not know you. Take off your helm so I can see the real Wulfrun.’

He could never deny her. Pulling off his helm, he held it in the crook of his arm. And she was right, as always; he felt the weight of his duties sliding off him.

And yet he must have shown his worries, for Juliana frowned with concern and stroked his cheek. ‘How is Godred?’ she murmured. ‘He has been like a father to you. I know his sickness is a weight upon your shoulders.’

‘He yet lives.’

Juliana seemed untroubled that his answer said nothing. Smiling brightly, she stepped back and took his hand. ‘Soon you will command the Varangian Guard truly. You will wield the power.’

‘The power is a burden,’ he said, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice, ‘and I have shouldered it for Godred for seasons now.’

‘But still,’ she replied, her eyes gleaming, ‘you will be the commander. Come. My mother and father would see you.’

As he followed Juliana into the next chamber, Wulfrun pushed aside his greatest fear: once he was the emperor’s chief defender, what would the Nepotes demand of him?

Her father, Kalamdios, sat on the wooden chair that had been his prison ever since Victor Verinus had thrust a blade through his skull and into his brain. His face was fixed in a permanent scowl, his fingers twitching at his side, though he could not lift his hands, nor walk, nor make any sound beyond an infant’s mewling. A trail of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes rolled in greeting. Juliana’s mother, Simonis, glided from the antechamber, holding out a goblet of wine for the guest. He thought how beautiful she looked, little older than her daughter, though silver now streaked her auburn hair. Wulfrun recalled how he had spied on Victor Verinus preying upon her body in a show of dominance over the whole Nepotes clan. He could understand why all of them had hated the man so. And yet, as he peered into Simonis’ eyes, she seemed unaffected by all she had endured at her oppressor’s hands. His gaze flickered towards Juliana. So beautiful, so young. She must have caught the eye of Victor the Stallion. He had thought he would have known if that bastard had laid hands upon her. But now, seeing her mother’s untroubled demeanour, he was not so sure. Tortured by doubt and desire, he wrenched his gaze away and all but snatched the goblet from Simonis’ hand.

Once he had swilled down a deep draught, he calmed enough to tell the Nepotes of the night’s murder, and watched all their faces fall. He had been right – another plot in the making. ‘Poor Sabas Apion,’ Juliana said, righting herself. ‘He was always kind to me.’ She plucked at the sleeve of her dress, remembering something, and then said, ‘I am worried, Wulfrun.’

‘How so?’

‘Once Victor Verinus was dead, we all thought our time of misery was over. But in the long weeks since then, it is as if death has been following us.’ She looked up at him with limpid eyes. Her worry was real.

‘What say you?’

Simonis rested one hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘The men we hire to keep us safe … many have been murdered. Yes, they are rogues and cut-throats and they spend their nights in the worst parts of the city. But soon we will not be able to find a single man who will take our coin to protect us.’

‘You believe you have an enemy?’

Biting her lip, Juliana hesitated as if she were giving too much away. ‘Maximos was followed one night by a dark-skinned man with a knife. He escaped with his life by a hair. A man he knows from the time he was a captive in Afrique.’

‘Salih ibn Ziyad?’

Juliana nodded. Wulfrun frowned. Only once had he met this earth-walker from the hot lands to the south, but he had been left in no doubt that Salih was dangerous. He was a wise man who knew many things, yet he could take a life in an instant with that silver knife of his.

‘And I … I too was followed,’ Juliana continued. ‘I ran through the market to escape—’

‘You?’ Wulfrun thundered, his hand falling to the haft of his axe.

‘I saw the blade. And now this, with Sabas Apion … Wulfrun, I am scared.’ She flung herself at him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Unused to such contact, he did not know what to do. After a moment he let his arms enfold her. ‘I will keep you safe,’ he murmured. Her breasts pressed hard against his chest and her hips ground into him, but she was young and innocent and she did not know what she was doing, he told himself. It was a prayer he had repeated many times. And pure she would stay until he had earned enough gold to gain the approval of Kalamdios and they could wed in honour. Then it would be he and he alone who would have her. Until that day Juliana would be beyond his reach, even though it would be torture to him.

Wulfrun pulled back before she felt him hardening. ‘I vowed I would let no harm come to you,’ he said, looking deep into her eyes, ‘and I spoke truly. Whatever enemies you have are my enemies.’

‘You are a good man, Wulfrun of England,’ Simonis said with a smile. Her dark eyes glittered with triumph.

Before he could fathom the meaning of that look, a throat-rending cry echoed from the door. A death cry, such as Wulfrun had heard many times before. Urging Juliana back, he darted to the entrance hall. Swinging up his axe, he wrenched the door open.

Both guards lay sprawled on the flagstones, dead. Two figures waited on the other side of the street, their presence taunting whoever might discover the bodies. One was Salih ibn Ziyad, black bristles lining a grim slash of a mouth, eyes burning with a fierce intelligence.

The other was the young girl, Victor Verinus’ daughter, Ariadne. As thin as a blade, her skin was dark from the dirt of the streets. Her stare had all the cold threat of a seasoned warrior. They held knives dripping with the blood of their victims.

‘You will pay for this,’ Wulfrun growled. But as he strode into the street, the murderers melted away into the shadows. Though he heard no running feet, he knew they were gone.

This was bad business. It was clear that Salih ibn Ziyad was hunting the Nepotes, though why he could not guess. But now Wulfrun would have to make good his oath: to defend the family who were in their own way as deadly as this new enemy, even though it could cost him his life.

THE RAT GNAWED
on the knob of bread. Black eyes gleamed and needle claws raked the damp flagstone. From under hooded brow, Hereward watched the vermin in the shadows of the reeking cell. Humiliation heaped on humiliation. That was all he had endured since the English had sailed into Constantinople, and he had had enough. His anger simmered.

At his neck, his fingers closed around the sliver of wood imbued with God’s power, and he felt the furnace in his heart die down. Alric had given him a great gift indeed. But if the Lord would offer him one more chance, he vowed there would come a time when he would choose to let that fire roar free, like a blaze in a tinder-dry forest, and then these Roman bastards would learn the meaning of regret. If he had to fight his way out of the city, he would. He would not go meekly to his death.

And yet the hours of his life were creeping away from him. All night he had lain here, brooding upon a plan to escape, but in his heart he knew that it was vain hope. The Boukoleon palace was swarming with Varangian guardsmen, and it was only a short walk from this miserable cell to the yard where he would face the axe. Hereward stared into the gloom. Many times he had faced death, but never had he thought it would come like this.

Footsteps echoed along the corridor without, and a moment later the door groaned open. Thin dawn light fell across the filthy straw.

Stooping to step under the lintel, Wulfrun strode to the centre of the chamber. His face was like stone. He had waited for this day for a long, long time. To see the hated Hereward of the English, the man he blamed for his father’s death, facing execution. How his heart must sing, the Mercian thought. He glowered at the commander, and felt surprised to see no hint of triumph there. The guardsman would not meet his gaze, and almost seemed troubled by what was to come.

‘It was only ever a matter of time,’ Wulfrun said, his voice like pebbles falling upon wood.

‘You think I set out to murder that man?’

‘I know Sabas Apion is dead. I know his blood was still wet upon your blade when you were captured. You may have enjoyed the emperor’s favour for saving his life during the plot by the Verini, but even he will not forgive this crime, not the killing of a man held in such high regard at court.’ He pushed back his cloak and let his hand fall upon the hilt of his short sword. ‘Why did you kill him?’

‘It seemed only fair payment for a man about to do murder.’

‘Murder? Why would Sabas Apion care if a dog like you lived or died?’

‘He cared not at all. But he had his heart set upon ending the days of another who was there. I was in the way, that was all.’

‘Another, you say?’ Wulfrun levelled his cold gaze at Hereward, weighing the truth.

The Mercian did not flinch. ‘My tongue always speaks true.’

Wulfrun nodded slowly, seemingly accepting his captive’s account. ‘It matters little. This time your luck has run out.’ He drew his sword and flicked the tip up.

So, the hour had come. Hereward pushed his back up the wall, steeling himself. ‘You would see an innocent man go to his death?’

Snorting, the guardsman urged his captive out. ‘Do not sully the word. You have not been innocent since you were a babe. If you are not guilty of this crime, there are more than enough others to suffice.’

Hereward eased out of the cell into a dank corridor, blinking at the sunlight breaking through a small window high up on one wall. There was little point in pressing Wulfrun further, he knew, however much reluctance he sensed in the guardsman. The judgement had been made.

Raising his chin, the Mercian strode along the corridor and up a narrow flight of steps. He was surprised by the images that rushed through his head unbidden. He thought of his wife, Turfrida, and the last time they had seen each other, on another bright dawn. And he thought of Alric and hoped the monk would bear his grief well. And then, as if from nowhere, a memory swept up of the son he had left behind in England. He could not understand his feelings – regret, hope that the lad would see better days than he ever had, worry.

In the yard, under a rosy sky, three guardsmen bore witness by the door into the palace. Hereward found his gaze drawn to the block, and the tall, broad-shouldered executioner who stood beside it.

‘Dorlof is one of the Rus,’ Wulfrun murmured at the Mercian’s back. ‘He is strong. He will take your head with one clean stroke.’

That was some comfort.

When he had crossed the yard, Hereward looked the unflinching Rus in the eye, then knelt. He felt a strange peace settle upon him. He had never feared death, and there had been times when he would have welcomed it. But one regret haunted him: he had failed his spear-brothers. What hope now for them?

Hereward heard Dorlof shift and the sound of knuckles cracking. He sensed the axe being swung up high.

He was ready.

‘Hold!’ A woman’s voice cracked with authority.

Craning his neck, Hereward glimpsed a woman in a crimson dress standing by the door to the palace. Tall and slender, her silver-streaked black hair was a mass of ringlets falling down her back. She was pointing imperiously at the executioner. ‘Bring him to me.’

‘
YOU HAVE FRIENDS
in high places,’ Wulfrun growled.

Hereward’s head was still swimming from the speed with which he had been snatched away from the jaws of death. The journey from the yard to this door on the first floor of the palace had passed in a blur. All he knew was that both the executioner and Wulfrun had not hesitated to obey the woman’s command.

The guardsman swung the door open and steered him into a large chamber with a view over the gleaming blue-green sea. His saviour stood by the windows, sipping from a golden goblet. Hereward noted the languorous way she held her cup, the tilt of her chin, and decided that here was someone not used to being ignored. She narrowed her eyes as she sized him up.

‘Hereward of the English,’ Wulfrun said, bowing his head.

‘You have my thanks,’ the woman replied in a voice at once both lazy and weary. ‘I can see why our emperor holds you in such high regard. You may leave us.’

Wulfrun frowned. ‘He is a murderous cur,’ he began. ‘You would not be safe …’

‘He will not harm me.’ His saviour curled her lips into a seductive yet manipulative smile. ‘I have learned much about Hereward of the English in these hours before dawn. He is a man of honour, I am told, not the cut-throat you threatened with execution.’

‘I will not harm you. You have my word on that.’ Why this woman had saved his neck, why she had taken the time to find out about him, Hereward could not begin to guess, but he was thankful none the less.

‘I will remain without,’ the guardsman said in his emotionless tone. He glanced at Hereward – a warning – and added, ‘Should you need me, you have only to call.’

Once he had gone, the woman poured another goblet of wine and handed it to her guest. The Mercian took it, but he did not attempt to hide his suspicion. He had long since learned that in Constantinople nothing was given freely or without obligation.

‘You know me?’ she asked, that same smile playing on her lips as she watched him attempt to get the measure of her.

‘I am rarely a guest at court.’

She laughed silently and began to circle him. ‘My name is Anna Dalassene. I wielded power once, and could have wielded more. Once I had a husband, John Comnenos, the commander of the western armies. His brother Isaac sat upon the imperial throne. And when Isaac … sickly old Isaac … gave up his crown, my husband refused to press his claim to rule the empire. He saw no value in it.’ A flicker of irritation crossed her face. Here was an old wound, still festering. ‘And then my husband died. Now I only have my children.’