The Bloody Crown Read online

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE MONASTERY CORRIDOR thundered with the sound of marching feet. Monks threw themselves against the walls as the Varangian guardsmen surged across the flagstones. Swept up in that flood of black and crimson, leather and steel, two men skipped to keep up. One was Falkon Cephalas, the other the emperor. His face as white as his hair, the latter looked a day past death.

  Hereward strode at the head of the band, his Dane-axe at the ready for any sign of trouble, as it always was when Nikephoros ventured out in public. To his left, only a step behind him, Wulfrun’s implacable gaze was fixed on the way ahead.

  ‘Out of the way,’ the commander boomed when one of the churchmen strayed into his path.

  Not a moment had been wasted when word reached the palace of this new prophet who foretold disaster for the empire and all who lived within it. The news had been delivered by the Patriarch Kosmas himself, who had received direct communication from the abbot at the monastery of St George. There could be no doubting the truth. God’s own disciples had sealed it. Blanching at the fate uttered by this miraculous being, the emperor had insisted upon hearing the terrible pronouncement for himself.

  When they reached the door, Wulfrun growled at Hereward to wait. He feared a trap, the Mercian knew, a scheme to lure the emperor out of his safe haven to where he could be slain for one of the many grudges the swelling army of plotters held against him.

  Yet as the commander marched into the room, the Mercian thought how distracted he seemed. He had not complained even once at Hereward’s insistence that the spear-brothers form the core of this band guarding the emperor instead of Wulfrun’s own chosen men. Some weight had descended upon him in the past day. And he now eyed Hereward with even greater suspicion, if that were possible.

  Glancing back, the Mercian locked eyes with Kraki, then Guthrinc. A silent communication flashed among them. They were ready for whatever lay ahead.

  Behind them Nikephoros was trembling, his hands clutching insistently at the fabric of his tunic. Falkon Cephalas, though, remained as unreadable as ever. He glanced at Hereward, then looked away before his eyes could be studied.

  Once more the door swung open. With a grunt, Wulfrun beckoned.

  The Varangian Guard escorted the emperor and his chief adviser inside, where the abbot and the monastery’s senior brothers shuffled around with fearful expressions. When they saw Nikephoros, they bowed their heads, no doubt terrified that he would demand answers that only God could give.

  ‘Leave us now,’ Falkon Cephalas insisted, seizing the authority. He swept his arms to usher the churchmen out.

  As they filed from the chamber, Hereward glimpsed two lonely figures at the far end of the room. A wild-haired bag of bones in a filthy shroud squatted on a stool, watching the proceedings from under hooded brows. Alric stood behind him.

  With a deep breath, the monk drew himself upright. But the Mercian could see the unease etched in his friend’s face. His worry became clearer still when his gaze fixed on Hereward. So many questions lay there. Hereward nodded to him, offering strength.

  Edging forward, the emperor frowned to try to hide his own anxiety. In a show of deference, he pressed his hands together. ‘Who are you, prophet?’ he enquired, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Megistus,’ the old man murmured as if remembering. ‘That was my name when I was first alive and it is my name now.’

  ‘And it is true? God has raised you from the dead?’

  ‘It is true.’

  Nikephoros swallowed. ‘Oh, to be alive now, when God works his miracles around us,’ he said without much conviction. Steeling himself, he paused for a moment and then asked, ‘God has sent me a message?’

  ‘For your ears. For the ears of all who dwell here.’ Megistus shuddered, his eyelids fluttering. Craning his head back, he looked to Alric for help. The monk placed a steadying hand upon his shoulder. ‘I am still weak,’ the old man croaked. ‘But God has sent this virtuous man to be my strength. With his aid, I will deliver the Lord’s words to all who will listen.’ He patted the monk’s hand.

  ‘For God’s sake, one of you loose your tongue,’ the emperor snapped, looking from the old man to Alric.

  The air itself seemed to withdraw from the room. Not a man moved. Covering his eyes, Megistus lowered his head. ‘I see . . . blood, running through the streets. A river of it . . . an ocean. Drowning all Constantinople. Aye, drowning all the empire. The sun is going down, and the never-ending night is drawing in.’ He moistened his lips. ‘And I see the crown . . . the jewelled crown you wear upon your brow . . . drenched in yet more blood.’

  Nikephoros reeled back, his hand flying to his mouth.

  ‘He stokes the fires of your fears.’ Falkon had appeared at his master’s elbow. His lip curled in disbelief. ‘What do you desire, old man? Gold?’

  ‘He wants naught.’ Alric’s voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Only to be God’s tool upon this earth. Listen, heed, or walk away and face the judgement he tells of as surely as night follows day.’

  Hereward felt a tug of pride at his friend’s bravery. Alric had taken a stand against the most powerful in the empire. The heart of an Englishman beat in his chest.

  Roughly thrusting his adviser aside, the emperor barked, ‘Tell me more. I must know. Who spills this blood? When does this doom fall?’

  ‘Soon,’ Megistus replied. ‘God whispers in my ear, he shows me these things, but I know no more than what the Lord utters. Not even that these things will come to pass, or whether there is something within your power to avert them.’

  ‘God has sent a warning.’ Alric’s voice grew more confident with each word. ‘The Lord is not cruel. He would not send this message to you if there was no hope of changing the path.’

  Nikephoros dabbed at the sweat on his forehead, nodding furiously. He seemed pleased by Alric’s words. Hereward smiled to himself. The monk had done well. No one now could accuse him, or the old man, of treason. This was a warning, not a threat.

  ‘I hear the cries of women and the sobbing of infants. I see good men put to the sword.’ The old man’s eyes rolled up so only the whites were visible. ‘The best of the empire dying. I see our enemies storming the gates . . . the walls . . . the great, unshakeable walls . . . falling. In the east a fire burns, as bright as the sun. In the west, a sword carves the sky open.’

  ‘The Normans and the Turks,’ the emperor croaked.

  ‘But there are also enemies within these walls,’ Megistus whispered. ‘Friends who hide daggers behind their backs. Be watchful, O emperor, for they will strike while your eyes turn east and west.’

  Hereward saw Wulfrun stiffen. His commander must surely be thinking of his love, Juliana, and those cunning Nepotes.

  ‘The sands run out faster than you think.’ The prophet bowed his head, growing weaker. ‘Even now, as we talk, the vipers slither from their nest. You must act soon, O emperor, sooner than soon, or all this will come to pass.’ Megistus slumped on his stool and Alric caught him.

  ‘Is he . . .?’ Nikephoros stammered.

  ‘He lives, but he is weak,’ the monk replied as he supported the old man. ‘But he has more words within him, have no doubt of that.’

  Nikephoros snapped round to Falkon. ‘Bring the prophet and this monk to the palace. God speaks through this vessel and I would have God at my side at all times. We will make no decision without the prophet’s consent, for fear . . . for fear . . .’ He choked down the rest of his words and whirled away. ‘And let no man speak of what was said in this room,’ he boomed, ‘or I will have that bastard’s head.’

  Hereward gave a tight smile. There could be no hope of that. This would be all over the city before sunset. And then the anxious chatter would turn to fear, and to panic, and what then? Would the plotters bide their time, as they had been, waiting for the best moment to seize the throne? Or had their hands been forced?

  Wulfrun stared at him as if he knew what the
Mercian was thinking. This prophecy may itself have brought about the carnage it foretold.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CROWD CLOGGED the street outside the palace. Paupers in rags with their alms bowls raised high. Merchants waving purses stuffed with gold as if that were enough to buy them salvation. Servants and slaves, whores and butchers and ironworkers. Their wails of terror, their desperate pleas and prayers, rang up to the heavens.

  ‘This is madness,’ Kraki shouted above the clamour.

  Guthrinc drew himself up to peer across the heads of the throng. ‘Barely a day since the prophet clawed his way out of the grave and now the whole city knows what he has to say.’

  ‘Nay, the whole empire,’ Sighard exclaimed.

  Hereward surveyed the turmoil with a shake of his head. ‘This is a Christian city. There are more churches here than moneylenders, so they say. No wonder they are fearful if they think the Lord has warned them of their doom. What say you, Hengist?’

  Mad Hengist danced around them, his crimson cape whirling. Pale eyes stared from his rodent face at horizons none of them could see. ‘Today we are all mad. This is God’s work.’

  The others nodded. Watching his kin slaughtered by the Normans had driven him mad, some might say. But where others saw lunacy, the spear-brothers heard only wisdom.

  Hiroc the Three-fingered and Derman the Ghost skirted the edge of the crowd to join them. ‘There is no way through this,’ Hiroc grumbled, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘This is worse than William the Bastard’s army.’

  Sighard laughed. ‘You did not try hard enough, Three Fingers,’ he shouted, pointing.

  The crowd was parting as if Moses commanded it. Five men thrashed cudgels this way and that, cracking heads and shoulder blades until the way ahead was cleared.

  In their wake walked Juliana Nepa, her chin held high as if there were only calm around her. At her heels came the rest of the Nepotes: Leo scowling at the common herd, one hand upon the hilt of his sword, Simonis, as elegant as her daughter, and Kalamdios, drooling and twitching, held aloft on his wooden chair by four slaves. And at the rear, towering over them all, was Varin, glowering through the eye-holes of his helm, his Dane-axe held high as a warning to anyone who dared venture too close.

  ‘That . . .’ Kraki said, gaping. ‘That must surely be the Blood Eagle? He stands with the Nepotes now?’

  Hereward nodded. ‘Herrig the Rat has been watching the house for me, night and day. News reached my ears the moment Varin appeared at their door.’

  ‘The Nepotes and the Blood Eagle,’ Sighard said, turning up his nose. ‘They know their own kind, these wild dogs.’

  ‘This cannot be good news for the emperor,’ Kraki grunted. ‘The Nepotes alone were threat enough.’

  ‘Nor us,’ Sighard said, ‘when we are called upon to defend him.’

  Hereward smiled. ‘Look closer. The Nepotes are not here because of their lust for power. They are afrit, like every mud-spattered ceorl. They want good news from the mouth of the prophet. Hope.’

  Hiroc narrowed his eyes at his leader. ‘And you are not afrit? Through the lips of that old man, God has warned that all of us face Judgement Day.’

  Kraki shook his axe. ‘If we are to die, we die,’ he said, stealing the words from Hereward’s lips. ‘We will end our days with a battle-cry and our enemies’ blood upon the wind.’

  Hereward eyed his spear-brothers. They had fought so many battles against forces that many had said could never be defeated, they imagined this was merely one more. None of them could see the reality of the overwhelming threat arrayed against them. So much to gain if they could win. But a defeat would be the end of them all.

  ‘Where are your alms cups? Where are your prayers? Would you seek to enter this house blessed by God with only sour faces to buy your way in?’

  At the wry voice, Hereward turned to see Deda the Knight, standing in the shade of a wall. His long black hair gleamed, his pale Norman skin now well tanned by this eastern sun.

  Grinning, the Mercian clapped a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘How goes this new work, brother?’

  Kraki snorted. ‘So high he flies, it is a wonder he even remembers the warriors who saved his neck back in those sodden fens.’

  ‘I remember clearly,’ Deda replied with the ghost of an ironic smile, ‘and as I recall, it was I who saved your necks.’

  The Viking glowered, but Hereward could see that his eyes were sparkling. Wherever they were, whatever heights they reached, none of them would forget the bonds that were forged during the harsh struggles of those last days in England.

  ‘Come,’ Deda said, beckoning, ‘unless you would like to take up your arms and fight your way into the palace, like the Nepotes.’

  As the Norman skirted the surging crowd with Hereward at his side and the spear-brothers trailing behind, the Mercian nodded appreciatively. He had come to trust this warrior who had once been his enemy. Deda was a man of honour. No hunger for power or gold blackened his heart. He found joy in places where others saw only misery. Hereward had always thought that, if he could, Deda would have given up everything to be a farmer, sharing the simple pleasures of life with his wife Rowena.

  Yet now he had indeed risen high. The emperor himself listened to Deda’s words of wisdom during the councils of war and defence. As an adviser he was privy to the secret discussions that shaped the empire. Seasons had passed before Deda had eased his way into the heart of the government. But once Nikephoros knew that this warrior had once had the ear of the victorious William the Bastard, the emperor had seen value in his words of wisdom.

  Hereward smiled to himself. If only Nikephoros knew that William would have gladly choked the life from the Norman knight. Now Deda could perhaps place one finger on the empire’s rudder. And if necessary he could counter the influence of that plotting dog Karas Verinus, or at least keep an eye upon his movements.

  ‘What news?’ the Mercian whispered, when he was sure they could not be overheard.

  ‘The emperor is heeding the words of the prophet.’ Another smile flickered on Deda’s lips. ‘But then what wise man would ignore God’s advice? Falkon Cephalas is once more building his guard to keep this city’s army of plotters under his watchful eye. This time, let us hope the cure is not worse than the sickness.’

  Hereward grunted. How could he forget how Falkon had become a power that almost rivalled the emperor himself, with his rogues threatening the lives of any who stood in the adviser’s way? That murderous guard had been the death of one of the spear-brothers, the gentle Turold, and had threatened even Hereward himself.

  ‘Nikephoros is a vain man, and no great leader,’ he said, ‘but if there is one thing he watches with care, it is any threat to his own neck. He will not let Falkon Cephalas get out of hand.’

  ‘There is talk, too, that the emperor may send riders to the east to request the aid of the Caesar, John Doukas. The empire has honoured him with the title, and though the years are heavy on him he still commands some power to shape.’

  ‘Even though he betrayed the empire?’

  ‘Men are called traitors until they are of some use. Then they are merely friends.’

  ‘Then Nikephoros is finally ready to make war on the Turks.’

  Deda shrugged. ‘Except Karas Verinus presses to attack the Normans first. He sees Robert Guiscard as the greater threat.’

  Hereward frowned. ‘The same Karas Verinus who advised leaving the Normans well alone until the army is ready to take a stand against such a force of seasoned fighting men?’

  ‘It would seem he has had a change of heart. But only within the last day.’

  The Mercian pondered on this news as Deda led the way round to the back of the palace where a door in the wall led into the kitchen gardens. Since Nikephoros had made the palace his home, this entrance had been barred on the inside, to keep out enemies real and imagined. The Norman rapped on it twice, and the door swung open.

  Framed in the archway stood his wife, R
owena. Her hands and apron were dusted with flour, and white streaked her headdress. Once Deda had gained his position of trust, it had been easy to find her work in the palace kitchens.

  She smiled at her husband, but her dark eyes glinted with a sharp wit when she narrowed them at the spear-brothers. ‘I smell trouble,’ she said.

  ‘And you would know it well,’ Guthrinc said with a bow. ‘Have you told your Roman friends of our time in England?’

  ‘There is time enough for that,’ Rowena said with mock haughtiness. She ushered the warriors in and Deda helped her bar the door behind them.

  ‘Wulfrun waits within,’ the knight told Hereward. ‘He would speak to you about the part the Varangian Guard will play in the emperor’s plans.’ He eyed the spear-brothers. ‘Though he called for you alone. And you know he grumbles like an old woman on a cold winter night when he sees these rogues trailing at your heel.’

  ‘Then we had best make ourselves scarce,’ Guthrinc boomed with a clap of his hands. ‘I smell honey cake. And I would wager there is some good Roman wine close enough.’

  Rowena pretended to scowl, then beckoned the spear-brothers to follow her across the garden to where the kitchens steamed and smoked.

  ‘You do not need my advice,’ Deda said, leaning in to the Mercian, ‘but I would watch Wulfrun. He seems a changed man. We both know he has long carried a grudge, but now I am not sure he can be trusted at all.’

  ‘I will keep both eyes on him. But Wulfrun is a simple man. He can be guided along the right path.’

  Hereward could see Deda was unsure, but took his leave nevertheless and made his way into the palace, where the sound of the crowd in the street outside throbbed even through the thick stone walls.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE CLOYING SCENT of incense drifted among the shafts of sunlight. Along the corridor, whispered prayers floated, and hands that were easier as fists were now pressed together in prayer.