Hereward 05 - The Immortals (23 page)

THE BODIES SHIFTED
in the breeze blowing through the lonely forum. The ropes at their necks groaned with each swing; the wood of the gibbet creaked. Four men there were, two nobles and two merchants, and a woman. The sixth was little more than a child. The crows had already feasted, and soon, as the grey light of dawn gave way to rose and blue, they would feast some more.

Wulfrun eyed that final, tiny frame and felt a pang of cold deep in his heart. Could a boy truly have been any threat to an emperor? But Falkon Cephalas cared little for such details. He knew that any men or women who passed through the forum would see their own faces on those rotting remains. And they would hold their tongues when they felt like complaining about the one who ruled them, and they would not let their growling bellies drive them to fight over the price of grain in the market. These six were only the latest. Bodies hung everywhere in the city, ripe fruit reeking of decay. And there would be more, many more, in the days to come, Wulfrun had no doubt.

Constantinople had not known such peace in his lifetime. No whispers of plots reached his ears. No grumbles about uprisings.

But at what cost.

At that hour, the forum was deserted. Through the eyelets of his helm, he searched the side streets and the doorways for any sign of Falkon’s dogs. Those cut-throats pretending to be soldiers were everywhere these days. Nothing seemed to pass their notice.

Once he was sure he was not being observed, he whistled, long and low. After a moment, he spotted movement in one of the streets leading on to the forum. A hooded figure stood in the half-light, beckoning to him with a slender hand.

Wulfrun strode over. As he neared, he felt his heart lift when he glimpsed Juliana’s pale face in the depths of the hood. Anger twisted his features for a moment, and he felt a hot rush of hatred for Falkon Cephalas. Too many days had passed since he had last seen the woman he loved, but he could not risk being seen entering the house of the Nepotes.

‘Is it true?’ she hissed once they had stepped deep into the shadows where no one would notice them.

Wulfrun felt shocked at how the brightness seemed to have drained from her. Her face was filled with sadness. Removing his helmet, he softened his face and his voice. ‘Take your mother and father and Leo and leave your house the moment you return.’

‘Then Falkon Cephalas suspects the Nepotes.’ Juliana’s eyes widened in fear as the future unfolded before her. ‘Who would have pointed the finger of blame at us?’ Her face hardened and she bared her teeth. ‘Who would have dared?’

‘Folk lie to save their own necks.’

Juliana blinked away hot tears. ‘There is no fairness in this. Our plan unfolds. All is within our grasp—’ She caught herself when she realized whom she was with. They would continue with their dance – he pretending he did not know of the Nepotes’ treachery, she pretending he thought only good of them. The lies had become so great he could barely shoulder them. But he loved her, and he lusted after her, and that stew of fierce emotions had swallowed any sense he might have had.

‘Hurry now,’ he urged. ‘Leave the city with only what you can easily carry. Falkon will have no reason to pursue you once you are away from Constantinople, and I will send word when it is safe for you to return.’

Juliana’s eyes flashed. ‘If the chance presents itself, kill him,’ she snarled.

Wulfrun all but recoiled. He had never seen such savagery in her before. ‘Go,’ he said.

Putting on a smile for his sake, Juliana leaned in to kiss him upon the cheek. But as her lips brushed his skin, he felt her stiffen. ‘Oh,’ she breathed.

Ten of Falkon’s brown-cloaked men were racing across the forum, swords drawn. Wulfrun knew then that this could only have been a trap. Falkon must have planted the seeds to ensnare not only the Nepotes, but also an enemy at the heart of the emperor’s court. Wulfrun of the Varangian Guard. Wulfrun the traitor.

‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘I will hold them off.’

‘There are too many,’ Juliana cried as she edged away. ‘You cannot defeat them. Come with me.’ She reached out to grab his hand, but he turned his back on her.

The commander sized up the force sweeping towards him, with the rising sun glinting off their helms and the bosses of their shields. Juliana was right: there were too many and they were too fast for both of them to escape. He was strong, but Juliana would have no chance. He knew what he must do.

He looked just once in her eyes, peeling back the layers of deception in search of the honest love that he had always hoped was there. It was a child’s wish, he knew, but he had lied to himself too much to back away from the truth this time. Silently, she begged for him to go with her. But he only spun back to his foes and slipped his helm on. He heard her footsteps race off.

Wulfrun felt cold blood chase his feelings away. This was what he needed to be now – a savage warrior of the Varangian Guard, who cut down all enemies in his path, a man who would give up his own life for the oath he had sworn.

When the first soldiers reached him, he glimpsed the fear in their eyes and felt good. The long-handled Dane-axe felt like an old friend in his hands. In a full arc, he swung the weapon. The impact jolted up his arms. But the blade was sharp, and it sliced through meat and bone as if through water.

The first head lolled forward on a strip of skin and sinew.

For a moment, his opponents hesitated. These were not true soldiers, forged in the heat of war. Their battlefields were night-cloaked streets, filthy alleys and desolate cemeteries, their choice of attack a quick stab with a short-bladed knife or a rip across a bared throat.

Wulfrun hooked another, ripping out the man’s side in a gush of blood.

He whirled his blade with all the skill he had learned over the years, but his thoughts were flying with Juliana, racing to safety and the promise of days yet to come. He prayed he would see her again, but knew in his heart he would not.

His enemies began to order themselves better as they remembered they had the advantage of numbers. From every side they came at him, swords thrusting. Wulfrun felt barbs of pain and heard his own blood spattering. Two more fell before they wrestled his axe from his grip. And then the blows were raining down upon him and the silver sky spun overhead.

There had never been any hope that he could defeat them all. But he had bought Juliana’s life, and that was enough.

Rough hands dragged him into the forum. Through his daze, he found himself looking into the smug face of Falkon Cephalas. The Roman was pleased that he had caught the fish he really wanted. ‘Wulfrun of the English,’ he said, ‘you have betrayed not only your oath, but yourself. Like a virgin boy, you have sacrificed everything you had earned for the love of a whore who cared less about you than the earth beneath her feet.’ Smiling, he swung his arm out to the bodies swaying on the gibbet. ‘Now, feast your eyes upon your new home.’

Windsor, England, 15 September 1073

THE DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD
trembled over the bared neck. In a tunic filthy with mildew smudges from the sprawling forest, the kneeling man mewled. Beside him, the carcass of a deer leaked blood, an arrow still protruding from its neck. A breeze swept through the treetops to the grassland at the foot of the hill, plucking up the bitter tang of the hunter’s fear-sweat as his terror-filled eyes rolled up to the Norman nobles gathered in a circle around him. Though he tried to plead for his miserable life, his throat had closed and only splutters and gulps came out.

The warrior holding the sword looked towards the man who held this wretch’s life in his palm. For now, King William gave no sign of his thoughts. He was a mountain of a man in his emerald tunic embroidered with gold leaves, broad of shoulder and heavy with muscle. The monarch showed power in every sinew, not just in the crown he had stolen. And that was how he kept his grip upon the throne – by exhibiting strength on a daily basis. He knew how folk saw him, nobles and commoners alike: as the Bastard he had been dubbed since his earliest days. He couldn’t have cared less.

King William eyed the pathetic thief. His tunic was little more than rags, his arms were like straws, his cheekbones sharp beneath the skin. Starving, no doubt. Even so, the ceorl should have known better than to hunt the king’s deer, and so close to the grand new castle soaring up on the bailey nearby. The thief could not claim ignorance. This had been a royal hunting ground for the old English monarchs since the days of the Romans, or so he had been told.

‘What say you, my lord?’ William de Warenne was a fighting man, lean, with a good length of bone. But these days the noble had a weak stomach for bloodshed. He would need to stiffen his resolve if he was to govern England. After so many years of struggle, the Bastard hated leaving this rain-soaked isle in the hands of another, but Normandy was beset by trouble on all sides and his leadership was required.

The king raised his eyes to an overcast sky the colour of steel, pretending to seek guidance from God himself. ‘I am inclined towards mercy,’ he murmured.

William de Warenne nodded, relieved. ‘England is yours. The rebels have been cowed, angry voices stilled. Few complain, now, about aught but the hardships that burdened them before your grace arrived upon these shores. Now that peace has arrived, finally, the English look to you as a stern father who has dealt punishment and now offers the hand of kindness.’

The king choked down his contempt. William de Warenne always thought flattery was required. If he truly knew his liege, he would realize that obedience was the only thing that was necessary.

‘You must feel that fortune has deserted you,’ the Bastard said to the cowering man. ‘To stumble across the king himself as you go about your crime, when I have been absent from this place for so long.’ He clenched inwardly. Behind those words hid a deluge of misery. The invasion of Scotland and the crushing of Malcolm after that monarch had dared to try to conquer the north of England. Before the blood had even dried, his presence had been needed in Normandy to counter the invasion of Maine by the repulsive Fulk le Rechin, the Count of Anjou. He had hoped his swift campaign to seize le Mans would have been the end of it. But no. The new Count of Flanders was flexing his muscles, and Philip of France was determined to do all in his power to contain the Norman might.

Sometimes he wondered if this was his curse. To fight and fight but never reach satisfaction. As soon as one threat was destroyed, another rose up.

Pressing his hands together, he feigned a prayer. But from under his half-closed lids, he studied the faces of the nobles around him. They were Norman lords who had been well paid for their support in seized English land, and three visitors from the court of Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, King of Gwynedd, who had come in a show of respect when they had heard he was back on English soil. They still feared him, he could see that, even though silver had started to streak his hair and some of his girth had turned to fat. That was good.

The king jerked from his reflection at a loud hail. Looking back, he saw Richard fitz Gilbert striding down from the sturdy timber walls of the castle he had been constructing, on and off, these last three summers. A brother to the king in all but blood, the Norman noble was a tall man, strong where William de Warenne had grown weak. The king nodded. He had made the right decision. Richard would be a perfect counter-balance to William de Warenne as joint Chief Justiciar in the coming months.

The nobleman was not alone. Another man was stumbling to keep up on the steep, muddy slope from the castle’s gate. From his tunic, he looked like a monk. He was squat, his spine twisted, his dark hair lank against his head.

When he had bowed to the king, Richard’s eyes sparkled with mockery as he held out a hand towards the trembling monk. ‘This is Centwine, a faithful servant of the Lord who spends his days in service at Crowland Abbey, to the east,’ he said with ironic respect.

The king stifled his smile. ‘I have heard of this abbey. The monks there are said to be the most devout in the land.’

‘’Tis true, my lord,’ Centwine said, bowing his head almost to his waist. ‘And we are faithful servants of our king. We offer prayers for you every day at Matins.’

‘This
faithful servant
has journeyed alone from the east with a tale to tell,’ Richard continued. ‘One of some value, I would wager.’

The monarch heard the edge in the other man’s voice. The business had grown serious. ‘Speak,’ he commanded.

‘I … I come with news of Hereward of the English, who led the war against you from his fortress in Ely,’ the monk stuttered, his eyes fixed firmly on the sodden grass.

William snorted with scorn. ‘Hereward is long gone from these shores. By now, he is probably dead.’ He felt surprised at how even the mention of the English dog’s name still roused him to anger. Of all the men he had faced across the field of battle, Hereward was the only one who had come close to defeating him.

‘Not … not Hereward as such, my lord,’ Centwine burbled, ‘but his son.’

The king stiffened. ‘Hereward has a son?’

‘My lord, when his wife Turfrida was slain, the child was placed in the care of the monks of Crowland Abbey. They were charged with nurturing him and guiding him as he grew to be a man.’ The monk looked up, resolve hardening his face and his voice. ‘Some of my brothers are still loyal to Hereward, and they treat this boy as if …’ He all but choked on his words. ‘As if he were sent by God himself. This is blasphemy!’

‘Hereward’s son has seen but three summers. For now, he is unknown beyond the abbey walls. But when he grows, the story of his birth will spread, as these stories are apt to do.’ Richard locked eyes with the king, his look adding all that his words had not said. He was a wise man. He knew the threat this boy posed. The English were like children. They dreamed of heroes who would rise up and save them in their hour of need. Whatever William de Warenne said, the king knew that they still resented the fact that their land had been taken from them. They resented the Norman rule. They resented him. The boy would be a rallying point for those who secretly harboured desires to challenge their conqueror. Perhaps, in time, he would grow to lead a new rebellion, one that all the people could stand behind.