Hereward 05 - The Immortals (33 page)

The Viking narrowed his eyes. ‘What gold have you found in those words?’

Before Hereward could reply, Guthrinc grunted and pointed out across the black waters. In the distance, the ruddy glow of a fire-pot whisked across the swell. ‘A boat,’ he murmured. ‘Someone who knows these currents better than we do.’

‘Who would be out on the river at this hour?’ Sighard asked, sweating at his oar.

‘Someone up to no good,’ Hereward replied. He watched the red glow sweep towards the western bank and the port of Boukoleon.

As the torches along the quayside drew nearer, he felt relief that the dangerous lands to the east were now behind them. His men could rest, fill their bellies and lick their wounds while he pressed for reinforcements for the Athanatoi. On dry land once more, the spear-brothers tied up the boats, their voices rising as they spoke of taverns and beds. But they fell into silence when an urgent whistle reached their ears. Hereward followed the sound to Maximos, who was crouching at the foot of a flight of stone steps. He had prowled along the quayside, curious as to why there had been no harbour men or wall guards to inspect the new arrivals. A body lay sprawled at his feet.

The Mercian could see that the man had died from a single sword thrust to the heart. From the fallen helm and newly painted shield, the victim seemed to be a soldier, though Hereward did not recognize the brown cloak and tunic.

‘A fresh kill,’ Maximos said, pressing the tips of his fingers against still-warm flesh.

Hereward slid Brainbiter from its sheath and looked up the steps. Blood dripped down the stone. Another body slumped at the top. Standing, Maximos drew his own sword and together they crept up the flight.

More corpses trailed away from the steps, their blood puddling on the flagstones. Hereward counted four in all. Beyond them, a figure waited in the shadows under an archway, a bloodstained double-edged sword held at his side.

As the Mercian raised Brainbiter in anticipation of a fight, the swordsman stepped forward into the circle of light beneath a hissing torch. It was Deda.

‘It seems,’ the knight said in a wry tone, ‘that you were expected.’

ROSY DAWN LIGHT
flooded the courtyard. Fingers of shadow reached across the flagstones from the stone-faced ranks of the Varangian Guard to the splintered wooden block in the middle of the square. Crimson capes flapped in the cool breeze, a reminder of the blood that was to come.

As he stumbled out of the door from the Boukoleon palace, Wulfrun blinked in the first sunlight he had seen in days. He was pleased that his men showed no emotion. Even Ricbert, his aide and confidant for so many years, revealed none of the grim thoughts that must be rushing through his head.

Did his men accept the accusation that he was a traitor? Wulfrun could not believe it. Brothers in battle knew the true hearts of everyone they fought alongside.

Glancing at the block, he smiled tightly. He was more than aware of the bitter irony as he remembered dragging the hated Hereward to this spot to end his days. Perhaps this was God’s judgement for holding the desire for vengeance in his heart for so long. His time in that dark cell had passed in a haze of pain. But he had not confessed to any of the false accusations put to him. Nor had he betrayed the Nepotes. He had long since decided that he would go to his death rather than see any harm come to Juliana. After a while, the torments had lessened. Perhaps Falkon Cephalas realized he would never speak. Or perhaps someone had intervened on his behalf. At least he faced his execution with his body intact, his eyes still seeing. He could hold his head up and look death in the face.

Flanked by two guards, the commander trudged across the dusty stone to where his executioner waited. He nodded to Dorlof, the Rus, whose arms looked as though they could chop down an oak with a single stroke. That was good. The thought of a weaker swordsman taking five or six attempts to hack through his neck did not fill him with pleasure.

Turning his face to the sun, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth for the last time. Birdsong filled his ears. Simple joys, the best in life.

‘Wulfrun of the English. You know the charge against you?’

His eyes jerked open and he felt a surge of rage at the sound of that grating voice. But he would not show his feelings.

‘Aye,’ he boomed.

Falkon Cephalas showed an emotionless face too, a noble one, almost, and most definitely practised, Wulfrun thought. He had placed himself on a high pedestal and it seemed he had taken a liking to his new position. Nikephoritzes stood at his side, his eyes fierce and unreadable. Others from the court waited behind, all witnesses to a traitor brought low, as Falkon intended. They would spread the word far and wide. No one was beyond justice, not even the feared battle-leader Wulfrun of the Varangian Guard.

And behind them stood a row of Falkon’s own guard, scar-faced rough fellows all, a travesty of the highly skilled and ordered team that Wulfrun commanded.

Falkon began to make a speech, something about treason and betrayal and dishonour. Wulfrun closed his ears. There was no need to hear those lies repeated. They were words for the polishing of Falkon’s name, nothing more.

Marching up to the block, he looked Dorlof in the eye. The Rus nodded, showing his respect.

‘Wait.’

The word rang out, an English voice. Wulfrun looked round and saw Alric pushing his way through the Guard. He must have been waiting behind them, perhaps hiding, until the captive was brought out to face his fate.

‘This man is innocent of all crimes,’ the monk announced, holding his arms wide. He strode in front of Falkon and met his eye, defying him. ‘The only true crime here is one against God’s will.’

Wulfrun glanced at Falkon and saw the fury rising in his face. What game was the monk playing? A few words, even godly ones, would not change the minds of the hard men gathered here. Instead, the churchman would only provoke retribution. Falkon Cephalas would never allow such a challenge to his authority. With his eyes, Wulfrun urged the monk to be silent, but Alric only raised his chin higher as he continued to speak.

‘The Lord will damn all who would doom a good man, a brave man, one who has served the emperor loyally.’

‘And you claim to speak for God, do you, monk? Blasphemy,’ Falkon sneered. He glanced furtively at his men, a silent command. The leader of his guard dropped his hand to his hilt and stepped forward.

Wulfrun felt a surge of gratitude that this man, that any man, would speak out on his behalf under peril of death. The monk owed him nothing. Indeed, Wulfrun had shown little more than contempt for all the English who had sided with the man who had brought about his father’s death. But he felt dismay, too. He could not bear to see the monk suffer Falkon Cephalas’ vengeance.

‘Enough,’ he called.

Alric glanced back at him, his righteous anger at Falkon still glowing in his face. But then his features softened, and something that looked like relief flashed across them. Wulfrun realized the monk was looking past him, and turned.

In the doorway to the palace, a frail figure wavered. It was Godred, the true commander of the Varangian Guard and the man who had guided him with kind words ever since his arrival in Constantinople. Made haggard by the illness that had assailed him, Godred looked on the brink of death. His eyes were rheumy, his cheeks hollow; barely more than skin draped on bone, he shook with every agonizing step. Yet he had put on his helm, and his crimson cloak, and he bore the splintered shield upon his arm that had served him well in battle upon battle. Though he was a shadow of the feared warrior he had been, he wore the colours of the Guard with pride, and with good reason, Wulfrun knew. He felt a surge of long-stifled emotion. No man in Constantinople was more respected, not even the emperor. And he had come there, from his deathbed, for Wulfrun.

And he was not alone.

As Godred stumbled, about to fall, a figure darted out from the palace to take his arm. Juliana looked to her love, her eyes shining in the first light. Wulfrun’s throat narrowed. She too had risked all to save him. All the doubts he had about her faded. But then his heart began to pound. Falkon would never let her leave alive. He did not want this.

‘He is here,’ Alric called, though to whom Wulfrun could not tell.

At the door to the palace, the emperor emerged, bleary-eyed at being woken at such an early hour. With sleep still heavy upon him, he looked even younger, Wulfrun thought, and a little bewildered. Behind him stepped Anna Dalassene, resplendent in a crimson dress embroidered with gold that sparkled in the dawn sun. Her lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, one that grew hard and triumphant when she locked eyes with Falkon Cephalas.

Wulfrun grinned, the first time in many a day. The Roman bastard had been outmanoeuvred. There could be no other explanation. Anna and the Doukai had long been rivals, but here she was guiding the emperor she no doubt secretly despised. Michael was still raw and easily swayed. Anna must have known he would respect her age and wisdom when she begged him to come here, to this dismal place of slaughter, expressing no doubt a litany of fears about what was to take place.

A hush fell over the yard. Nikephoritzes gaped, puzzled. Falkon’s face hardened.

Godred bowed to the emperor. ‘Do you remember when I carried you on my shoulders as a boy?’ he said, his face crinkling in a smile.

‘I do, loyal Godred.’ Michael’s face lit up at his memories of the man who had shown him more kindness than any other in Constantinople.

‘You have heard the words of the monk,’ the old guardsman said, turning his attention to the assembled throng. His voice was little more than the rustle of autumn leaves, but so great was the hush that it carried across the square. ‘The execution of Wulfrun will be a sin in the eyes of God. But hear me – where too is the wisdom in this course? Our enemies are at the gates. I have sworn an oath to serve the emperor in all things.’ The old man lurched for a moment, his hand fluttering to his mouth, but Juliana held him steady. ‘And I serve not just with my axe and my good right arm,’ he continued, wheezing, ‘but my counsel … a wisdom forged in battle. And I say that this foul act today threatens the doom of Constantinople, aye, and the emperor too. Wulfrun is the fire in the heart of the Varangian Guard. There is no better man to lead, no better man to defend the emperor unto the last. This is my judgement, and if you value all I have given here over the course of my miserable life, you will heed me now. End Wulfrun’s days and you do not strike a blow for justice … you strike a blow against the emperor himself.’

Wulfrun failed to stifle a laugh. Falkon was scowling as if he was being stabbed with hot needles.

Michael raised his eyes to the lightening sky and strode to the bloodstained block. Bowing his head, Dorlof the executioner backed away. ‘No man has ever given me better counsel, loyal Godred,’ the emperor said. Nikephoritzes flinched. ‘This day I have heard only words of great truth and power issue from your lips. Whatever crime Wulfrun of the English has been accused of, it is balanced by the sacrifices he has made, for me, for the empire.’ Michael glanced at the captive and nodded his appreciation, then turned his gaze to Falkon. ‘I pardon him. Set him free. The true threat is out there, beyond the walls. Let us waste no more hours on these matters.’

Wulfrun could scarcely believe what he had heard. A shudder of relief ran through him, but this business was not yet over. When he glanced at Falkon, he saw seething resentment there. That serpent would demand retribution for his humiliation.

The emperor himself took Godred’s arm and led him back into the palace. Once they had gone, Juliana hurried over to Wulfrun. She was beaming, as relieved as he was that all had gone to plan. Wulfrun could see her fighting the urge to embrace him.

‘I could not leave knowing you were in danger,’ she told him.

‘You have made my heart sing,’ he said, ‘but now it is you who are in danger. Flee, before Falkon digs his claws into you.’

Her eyes darted. Falkon was ranging along his line of cut-throats and rogues, gesticulating. ‘Do not worry about me,’ she murmured, her voice strained.

Ricbert marched up, one eyebrow cocked. ‘What now for the sea of wine we had ready to mourn your passing?’ he said, feigning a deep sigh.

‘Take Juliana away from here,’ Wulfrun said. ‘Keep her out of the hands of Falkon’s men.’

The aide nodded, and steered the woman towards the palace door. As she disappeared from sight, she flashed Wulfrun a smile that promised much. Aware of the threat to his own life, Alric hurried after her.

As relief flooded him, Wulfrun felt the last of his strength ebb. He sagged down to sit upon the executioner’s block, sucking in a deep, juddering breath. As the sound of running feet passed by him, he lifted his weary head. The brown-cloaked rogues were racing towards the palace. Falkon demanded blood; nothing less would do.

ALRIC CRASHED THROUGH
the palace door. His heart was pounding, his back slick with sweat. Praying and ministering to children, that was where his strength lay, not in confronting powerful men. But the hastily assembled plan had worked well. A life had been saved. He could ask for no more, except, perhaps, escaping with his own miserable head still on his shoulders.

The gloomy corridor echoed with the sound of footsteps as Ricbert and Juliana hurried ahead. The woman glanced back at him, offering a silent prayer of hope, and then the guardsman dragged her along a branching corridor.

Alric ran after them. Behind him, the door slammed open once more and Falkon’s soldiers surged in pursuit, yelling at him to halt.

The monk did not dare look back. Sprinting on, he weaved a path through the labyrinthine corridors with the rogues closing on him by the moment. He imagined the fierce look in their eyes, the sharp edges of their swords as they prepared to run him through. They would not try to make a show of his execution, as they had with Wulfrun. They would not waste their time throwing him into a deep cell. He was less than worthless. His body would no doubt be tossed over the wall into the Marmara sea, a feast for the fishes, forgotten by all.