WHEELED across the face of the sun. Brassy light glinted off the swell below as the line of men stood in the sweltering heat at the front of the Boukoleon palace, their heads bowed. Ahead of them, a salty breeze stirred the banner on the sea wall. It offered little respite. The dull yells of the men working on the quayside to the east fell away, the shriek of the birds ebbed. A stillness descended on the waterfront.
Hereward eyed his spear-brothers as he stumbled out of the palace gate after more long hours locked in his cell. He felt a dull anger that his men had been rounded up. Sullen, the warriors peered out from under heavy brows, the looks of men seething at yet another unjustified indignation heaped upon them.
‘You thought your freedom could be so easily bought?’ Wulfrun whispered in his ear with barely concealed satisfaction.
The Varangian Guard flanked the captives, hands upon axes. Though they outnumbered the English two to one, they did not underestimate their prisoners. Hereward nodded. That was good. To one side, Alric, Deda and Rowena watched his approach. They could not hide the worry etched in their faces.
‘You are no longer the lone beast running wild among the fields of Barholme,’ Wulfrun continued. ‘Now every action you take affects others. Every word you speak in anger. Every drop of blood you spill.’
‘These are good men. They do not deserve to be punished for my crimes.’
‘Yet they will be. And in this way, perhaps, there is a chance to hold you to account. Your life and theirs are now entwined. Remember this the next time you would draw your sword.’
Hereward’s gaze flickered to a small knot of nobles watching the scene, and to a short man with greying black hair standing a spear’s length in front of the group, who appeared to command their respect. He showed a smile that did not seem to fit the moment as he looked out across the English warriors.
‘You are dead men all, though your legs do not yet know it. It is for the emperor and the emperor alone to decide when you go to your graves,’ he said in a lilting voice.
‘Who is that?’ Hereward asked.
Wulfrun grunted. ‘His name is Falkon Cephalas. The strong right arm of Nikephoritzes. Look on him. He would not stand there if you had not murdered Sabas Apion. You may well live to regret raising this one to high station.’
In the group of nobles, Hereward glimpsed Anna Dalassene, her chin raised, with studied indifference. One other familiar face leapt out, Simonis Nepa, tall and slender and cold. She cast a gaze at Hereward that barely disguised its murderous intent. Her kin, the Nepotes, had offered a seeming hand of friendship when the English had first arrived in Constantinople, but all they had truly wanted was to use the spear-brothers in their plot to steal the throne. They had never forgiven Hereward for the part he had played in its failure.
‘Stay strong, brothers,’ Hereward said as Wulfrun steered him along the line towards the watching nobles. The Guard commander gave him a shove to silence him.
‘Your life already hangs by a thread,’ he hissed. ‘A wise man would take care not to give any more offence.’
When they came to a halt, Falkon stepped forward, still smiling. Hereward wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of flower-infused water that the women often used on their skin in the summer’s heat. ‘By rights, your blood should already be draining into the dust,’ the Roman said with the faintest sibilance. ‘Sabas Apion was a valuable servant. His counsel will be much missed by the emperor. And his kin are demanding justice. You have made many enemies.’
‘Enemies I am not short of.’ Hereward sensed Wulfrun flinch beside him.
‘You saved the emperor’s life. He will not forget it. But this crime is too great to be ignored.’ Falkon glanced past Hereward’s shoulder to the line of spear-brothers. ‘The third one,’ he said, counting heads with his index finger. ‘Kill