Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (16 page)

When he came round, he was being dragged across the sand. Craning his neck, he saw the bodies of the old men littering the dunes, their blood already turning brown in the heat. Only a handful of the women and their children had survived. Wailing, they knelt in a circle under the cold gaze of their captors.

‘Who are you?’ the monk gasped.

A hard boot in his gut ended his questions.

Relief flooded him when he saw that Meghigda had survived. Small surprise if she was as valuable as he had been told. Head bowed, she knelt, the tip of a sword pressed into the back of her neck. But Alric could see that her face was contorted with loathing.

‘Be strong,’ he called to her.

Glancing at him, she spat a clot of blood into the sand. ‘Let the monk live,’ she called. ‘He is a man of God.’

‘I know full well who the monk is. We are old friends.’

Alric flinched at the strangely familiar voice. Squinting against the glare of the boiling sun, he searched for the speaker, but only silhouettes hovered before his eyes. ‘Who is there?’ he asked.

Laughter rolled out. A figure swaggered forward and set its fists upon its hips. As the man moved to block the sun, his features fell into relief. He was tall and strong, his hair shaven at the back in the Norman manner. Playful eyes surveyed the churchman, a grin falling easily upon the lips. ‘My name is Drogo Vavasour, monk.’

Alric frowned. ‘You are not the one who spoke.’

Another figure wriggled forward, and the churchman all but recoiled at the sight of the ravaged features of Ragener the Hawk. ‘You live,’ he gasped.

‘God chose to raise me up from the jaws of death, monk, and he watches over me now. You cannot harm Ragener.’

Before he could begin to understand how the sea wolf had survived those turbulent seas, Drogo wagged a finger at him. ‘I had heard that Hereward, the last of the English, travelled with a monk.’

Alric showed a defiant face. ‘You know of us.’

‘Aye. Tales of the rebels and their dark deeds in the English fenlands have spread far and wide. Your names are known by many. Even yours, monk. Murderers and thieves to a man.’

The churchman glared. Drogo laughed silently.

‘See,’ Ragener gushed. ‘I told you Hereward was here.’

‘’Twas hard to believe, so far from his home,’ the Norman said with a slow nod. ‘But if the monk is here, the English dog cannot be far behind.’

‘What care you about Hereward?’ Alric said. ‘The rebellion is long over. England is lost. The king himself spared our lives and sent us out across the whale road.’

For an instant, Drogo’s eyes hardened, but he hid his thoughts before Alric could read them. ‘England is lost, that is true, and I would not give that dark, wet land another thought. What lies between Hereward and me is …’ he looked out across the wastes, choosing his words, ‘a matter of blood. One that can only be ended with your friend’s death.’

‘You waste your breath,’ Meghigda snarled. When she looked up at her captors, Alric was impressed to see there was no fear in her face, though she must have known what hardships lay ahead for her. ‘Even now he fights with my army, even now as more warriors arrive to swell our force.’ She cast a contemptuous look across the war-band. ‘This … You would challenge us with this few. You will be torn apart before you can even cry for mercy.’

Ragener’s eyes flickered towards the Norman commander, sensing the doubt. ‘Do not listen to her! You are Normans, the greatest warriors known to man. A few barbarians like her …’ He spat at the queen. ‘They will be no match for you.’

‘But if she is right …’ Drogo mused.

‘She is right.’ Alric set his jaw. ‘The army of the Imazighen is great indeed. You risk everything if you try to attack them.’

Ragener lashed out with his one hand, cuffing the monk across his cheek. Alric saw stars.

‘Hold,’ the Norman said in a light tone. ‘I have waited long to look in Hereward’s eyes. A little longer will make no difference. We have our prize.’ He eyed Meghigda. ‘If what you say is true, she will earn a fine reward.’ He looked down at Alric, smiling. ‘And if what I have heard of that English dog is true, he will not abandon even one of his men. It seems God has smiled on you too, monk, for your days will not end here. What say you, Ragener?’

The sea wolf seemed to read the intent in the other man’s words for his eyes sparked with glee. ‘Aye. Here is judgement indeed. His master took my hand. Now I will take a part of him, and another, and another, until there is nothing left, and I will leave a trail for Hereward to find. The rebel leader will come to us soon enough, Drogo, that I can tell you. And then you can have your revenge.’

THE FIGURE STAGGERED
across the blasted waste. The moaning wind whipped at his ochre robes and snagged in his white beard. Swirls of sand whirled around him, but he kept his head high, his eyes clear, as he focused on his destination.

‘Another enemy?’ Sighard asked, shielding his eyes against the gritty sand caught in the breeze. He was caked in blood, some of it even his own. His long hair was matted with the filth and the sweat, and his legs trembled with exhaustion. For too long after the battle they had laboured, helping the wounded back to the oasis where Salih ibn Ziyad oversaw their treatment. The bodies of the fallen were dragged to a pyre where they could at least be sent into the arms of God. All any of them wanted was to wash away the gore and rest.

‘Too old,’ Hereward replied as he studied the lurching figure. ‘And the Banu Hilal will be licking their wounds. They would not dare attack so soon after we sent them fleeing.’

Cracking his knuckles, Maximos Nepos strode up. Somehow he had found the time to wash himself in the lake, and he looked as fresh as if he had woken from a long sleep. ‘That is one of the Imazighen elders,’ he said, frowning. ‘He rode with Meghigda.’

‘He is wounded,’ the Mercian exclaimed. Before the others could respond, he was racing out from the shade of the palm trees towards the approaching figure. By the time he reached the old man, Maximos had caught up with him. Hereward could see that his first impression had been right. Blood from numerous wounds blackened the elder’s robes, though none seemed life-threatening. However, he was weak from his trek under the midday sun and he all but collapsed into the arms of the two men.

‘Ask him what has happened,’ Hereward commanded after they had lowered him to the ground, but before Maximos could speak Salih darted up and knelt beside the old man. Anxious, he reached out pleading hands and whispered in the tongue of the desert people.

The elder moistened his cracked lips and croaked his response. Salih listened, his face growing grimmer by the moment. When he looked up at the other two men, his voice was almost lost beneath the whine of the wind. ‘The caravan was attacked by warriors with skin as pale as yours. They took al-Kahina …’

‘The bounty upon her head,’ Maximos said, nodding. ‘The self-same sea wolves who stole her before. We should have guessed they would return. That much gold …’ He swallowed his words when he saw Salih bow his head and cover his eyes in despair. Turning to Hereward, the Roman added in a whisper, ‘They must have waited until the Banu Hilal attacked, knowing that our eyes would be averted.’

Hereward could barely hear the other man’s words. Only one thought burned in his mind. ‘The others,’ he demanded. ‘What of the others?’

‘Slaughtered, all of them. May God go with their souls,’ Salih murmured. He looked up, adding, ‘Except your friend. They took him too.’

Hereward felt a rush of relief, but it passed quickly. Why would the sea wolves kill all but Alric? That he could not understand.

The old man croaked more strange words to Salih, then held out his right hand and unfurled his fingers. In his palm nestled a small pouch made of hide. As the elder continued to speak, Salih’s eyes widened and he could not seem to tear his gaze away from that pouch.

‘What is amiss?’ the Mercian asked.

‘The man who took your friend, and al-Kahina, is known to you. He has a ruined face.’

The blood thundered in Hereward’s ears. Ragener?

Plucking up the pouch between thumb and forefinger, Salih held it out. ‘Mundir says this ruined man bade him seek you out in return for his life. He sent you this, as a message. It belonged to your friend.’

In his head, Hereward felt the blood hammer harder still, drowning out the sound of the wind. Taking the pouch, he weighed it for a moment. Too light to contain much of import. He tipped it up and emptied the contents on to the sand.

A finger lay there, Alric’s finger, the end ragged and bloody where the knife had sawn through the flesh and bone.

The blood surged through him in a torrent, pushing out the desert and the other men, closing in upon his vision. In that red world he could hear his devil whispering to him, demanding vengeance.

For the next few moments, he had no idea what he did. When his vision cleared and the pulsing subsided, he found Maximos and Sighard gripping his arms and wrestling to hold him back. Brainbiter lay on the ground beside the severed finger. The old man was sprawled on his back, his face contorted in terror.

Salih pressed his fingertips against the Mercian’s chest. ‘Calm yourself, my friend,’ he was urging. ‘There will be time enough for vengeance. Your enemy taunts you, but think, think … he could have sent your friend’s head.’

As Hereward calmed, his wits sharpened. ‘Ragener lures us on, but where? North, south, east or west? There must be more. Ask Mundir. Press him. That dog will want us on his trail.’

With a nod, Salih squatted beside the old man and once again questioned him. As the elder dredged up what fragments he could find in his aged memory, the wise man’s face fell.

‘The ruined man was aided by Normans,’ Salih said when he was done. ‘A seasoned war-band, so Mundir says, and well armed too.’

‘Normans? Here?’

‘In time, all who seek riches and power pass through the land of the Imazighen,’ the wise man replied with a cold smile.

Hereward cursed under his breath. Would he never be done with the bastard king’s bastard men?

‘They have taken the queen and your friend with them, to Sabta. Do you know this place?’

‘Aye,’ the Mercian replied, his brow wrinkling as he remembered, ‘I have heard tell of it, in Flanders, when I sold my right arm and axe for coin. But … what …’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me why it troubles you so.’

‘Sabta is a city of thieves and murderers. When the caliph fell in the year of my birth, God, too, abandoned that place, so it is said. There are no laws there except the law of the sword. No honour, only greed. No beauty, only decay. The traitorous dogs have gone to Sabta because they know they cannot be touched there. Walk through the city gates and you will never walk out.’

THE CANDLES ON
the altar guttered. Shadows flew across the body slumped on the marble steps leading to God’s table. In the dark pool around the corpse, stars glimmered. Though Constantinople slumbered under the blanket of a hot night, in that vast, dark church the sound of running feet rang out. Fearful whispers echoed and the wailing of the monks soared up to the vaulted roof.

Wulfrun strode along the nave to the edge of the wavering circle of candlelight. Surveying the twisted remains, he muttered, ‘A wild beast attacked him?’

‘You would think,’ Ricbert murmured at his side. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, as much to hide his uneasiness as to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. ‘Look closer. You will see he has been stabbed. Not once, but a hundred times. A thousand times. A frenzy …’ He choked back on the word. ‘Yes. A wild beast.’

Wrinkling his nose at the reek of the blood in the heat, Wulfrun prowled around the body. From the tunic, he could see it was a man, though it lay face down. But so much blood had matted the hair and stained the clothes, and the skin was so ragged from the fury of the attack, he could not guess at the age. He glanced around the dark belly of the church to ensure they could not be overheard. Gold gleamed everywhere, crosses and chalices and leaf. In the shadows of the far wall, the cowering monks knelt in supplication, their hands thrown up to the heavens. Turning slowly, Wulfrun surveyed the stone columns, the worn mosaics, the dark alcoves. As far as he could tell, no one observed them. But in that city he knew one was never far from spying eyes.

The monastery of St George of Mangana kept its secrets close among its whispered prayers. It was no accident that this gleaming seat of worship stood so near to the imperial palace. Power lay here. Those who claimed to speak for God could move the minds of men, great and small, Wulfrun knew.

‘He is the one you were supposed to meet?’ the commander asked.

Ricbert nodded. ‘John. He was my eyes and ears here among the godly. And the not so godly. He sent word that he wished to meet this even, as a matter of great urgency.’

‘He had heard some news of a plot? Against the emperor?’

Ricbert shrugged.

Crouching beside the body, Wulfrun watched the blood seep along the joints of the steps. ‘This was a desperate act, so soon before you were to meet. The murderer risked discovery.’

‘Aye, desperate. If his name was to be spoken here, he had no choice.’

‘One stab would have done the task. Silence. Stealth. The body could have been hidden, and none the wiser. Why this … this butchery?’ Pushing himself up, Wulfrun felt the weight of his office upon his shoulders. These days there was no rest. Plots were everywhere, always. Sometimes he yearned for the heat of battle, the blood pumping through his head, the juice of the toadstools singing in his veins.

His gaze fell upon spatters of blood leading away from the altar to a large door of dark wood. In the gloom, it was almost invisible.

‘Come,’ he said.

The two guardsmen followed the trail. Through the door, a corridor led past a maze of silent rooms to the cloister and a fragrant garden, where two spectral figures walked among the trees. Wulfrun felt a prickle of suspicion when he recognized them. Nathaniel was one of the senior monks, a tall, ascetic man with thin lips, sallow skin and a frame like a newly exhumed corpse. He was also Victor Verinus’ younger brother, and he commanded as much influence within the church as his sibling did in the profane world. But where Victor spoke loudly, Nathaniel whispered of sins and salvation and bent men to his will in this life with the seduction and threats of the next.