Varangian
“Takes you back in time... Loved it”
“One of my favorite historical books that I’ve read in ages... A great story from an insightful author”
“Excellent historical thriller”
Varangian: book excerpt
1066 - Early September
The bodies lay in great heaps upon the sodden ground, distorted clumps of mangled flesh and bone, the stench of death everywhere. Over on the far side rooks had already settled upon the carcasses, beaks pulling at open wounds, gorging themselves on this unexpected bounty.
From his position at the top of the rise, hidden behind an outcrop of gorse and rock, Hereward was able to see across the entire area, a flat plain which stretched out in all directions. It was a large, uninspiring field, hyphenated by the silver streak of a river that wound its way along, untroubled by the catastrophe that had befallen the men of England that day. As if to emphasize the fact, Hereward saw grinning Vikings wandering about, the occasional flash of a blade cutting through the air as the wounded were dispatched. The cries of those others nearby who awaited the same fate filled his ears and he turned away, dragging his hand over his face.
“Dear Christ,” said Hereward.
Morcar, some distance away, growled. He lay propped up against another boulder, breath rasping in his chest. A long, vicious looking cut ran across his chest. In his hand, itself streaked with blood, he still held onto his battle-axe and Hereward eyed it, impressed. He had stood beside the Earl, in the boggy ground next to river, seen him cleave the skulls of many of the Norse. The outcome may well have been different if there had been more like him that day. Hereward closed his eyes, the sight too much. If only there had been more …
“I think perhaps we should go,” said one of the others, a gigantic housecarle, blood spattered, wounded, but still, by the look of him, fully prepared to fight if need be.
“I cannot,” said Morcar in a tired voice. “Here is where I stand, here is where I die.”
“No,” said Hereward, eyes open now, sitting forward. “It is best if you live. That we all live. There is no shame in this. We fought, we lost. Now we must lick our wounds and send word to Lord Harold. If we are to prevail, we must survive to fight another day.”
Morcar trembled, his face reddening. “God´s teeth, I´ll fight them now!”
“Aye, and die.” Hereward looked over to the other men, housecarles, thegns, fyrd, and mercenaries. “What good is that?”
“None,” answered the big man, and shook his head. “If we stand, we die. As you have said, best to live, get word to King Harold in the south. Then we can avenge this day.”
Morcar muttered something, gathered himself and sat up. His eyes screwed up and Hereward could see the pain etched into the lines of his old friend’s face. A Viking sword had cut into Morcar’s flesh, and the blood ran in thick, black rivulets down his arm. His mail had managed to prevent more serious damage; nevertheless, he had lost blood and that meant he was weak. Hereward knew as much, having lost blood himself many times in the past. Not this day, however. This day he had fought like one possessed and the Vikings had flinched, pulled back as those who came up against him already, had died. Few could live against Hereward, few except perhaps Lord Harold. And the devil himself, of course, the leader of the Viking army – Hardrada.
The big housecarle grunted as he helped Morcar to his feet.
“We must go.”
A few feet away, a swarthy foreigner, whose speech was sometimes unrecognizable, set his jaw and glared down to the field. “I believed I would kill him this day.” He looked at Hereward. “Hardrada. I want him dead.”
Hereward sneered. “So do we all,” he said, voice cold, distant.
“But for me it is … personal.” He looked again at the field, the dead, and the Vikings who strutted so arrogantly, awash with victory. “I have waited so long, so very long.”
“Your day will come,” said Morcar. “Unless others get to him first.”
“No,” snarled the foreigner, “he is mine. I will kill him, make no mistake.”
“Well, not this day,” said the big housecarle. “Today we need to lick our wounds.”
“Aye,” said Hereward, and took one more look across the shattered plain and the bodies of Saxons strewn across the grass. The men had died along the banks of the Ouse, fighting for their lives, their homesteads, their loved ones. The Vikings had been as plentiful as the grass itself, perhaps twice the number of the English set to stand before them. Many of the Vikings lay dead on the ground, for the Saxons had acquitted themselves well, but not well enough. Numbers had won the day, not the lack of bravery or skill in arms. The Army of the North, destroyed. The whole of England open to the Norsemen once again, just as it had been years before. Part of Hereward wanted to stay, do as Morcar and the foreigner had said. Fight and die. That was the way of the housecarles. He knew, however, that the sensible thing was to withdraw, prepare defences, rebuild. And, above all else, get word to Lord Harold, King of England. To do that, they had to live. He hefted his axe and motioned for the others to follow.
They kept low and moved away from that dreadful, fearful place known as Gate Fulford.
PART ONE - In the court of the Byzantine Emperors
ONE
Some Years Before, 1042, in Byzantium
Inside the dark, damp cell, Harald Sigurdsson, soon to be known to the whole world as Hardrada, sat slumped in the corner, staring at his fingers, wondering how he had managed to allow himself to fall so low. A matter of days ago, he and his men had been celebrated across Byzantium as great warriors, fearless, prestigious, without equal. Privileges abounded and, amongst them, the chance to acquire booty, a mere percentage of which had been declared. Hardrada had assembled a sizeable personal fortune, one which would help him to become a leader of repute. His ambition was simple. To become king of Norway. The riches he had accumulated would help in that endeavour, pay for the recruitment of mercenaries. Seize the throne of the Norse by force. That was the plan.
Until a few days ago.
Everything had collapsed, for him and the Varangian bodyguard in which he served, in spectacular fashion. Coming across them at night, the newly formed Scythian Guard overwhelmed the Varangians whilst they slept, slitting throats, splitting skulls. Those Varangian Norse who managed to rise and resist had been too slow; they were bundled onto the ground and pinned down. The Scythians castrated them, one by one, then left them to bleed to death, writhing in agony, their screams filling the night. Hardrada and his lieutenants, blades to their throats, were frog-marched to the cells. Now, some days later, incarcerated in that place, Hardrada could still hear those screams burning through his brain. His men. All dead. Not given to showing emotion, locking it all away deep within him, this time he struggled to maintain an even keel. He gritted his teeth and stood up.
“I cannot sit in this place and rot – we have to do something,” he said. It was an empty phrase, said because he felt he had to say something, and had no real idea what. Someone stirred in the corner. One of the others, his companions, Haldor or Ulf , taken with him to that cell, to wait. Hardrada himself now waited, for someone to speak, to lighten the oppressive atmosphere, give some hope to what was, when all was said and done, a hopeless situation.
“What would you suggest, My Lord? Dig a tunnel?” In the murkiness of the farthest corner, the man’s fist pounded against the wall. “This is Byzantine masonry. Thicker and stronger than anything in the known world. We’d never manage it, even if we had the tools.”
“I didn’t say anything about tunnelling.”
“What then?” The owner of the voice sniggered and stepped forward. Haldor Snorresson, one of Hardrada’s most faithful companions, and a man not afraid to voice his opinions. “We’re in a tower, high up above the street. Perhaps we could fly out of the window, jump from roof top to roof top ...” He laughed again, a harsh rasp, and went over to the solid door and hammered against it with his fists, shouting out, “Come on and finish us, you heathen swine!”
“Heathen?” The other man, Ulf Ospaksson, took his turn to scoff. “How long have you been a Christian, Hal?”
“All my life.”
“All your life? And all your life have you believed in any of it?”
“Pah, don’t patronise me, Ulf! We’re in a heap of shit right now, and anyone who can come to our aid, be it a Christian angel, or an old Norse god, I’ll not turn away either.” Haldor turned to Hardrada, “What of the Empress?” He spread out his hands. “She will come to our aid, for certain. We have never done anything that would make her doubt our loyalty.”
“Nothing you’ve ever done, at least,” added Ulf, his eyes never moving from Hardrada’s.
“For all we know,” said Hardrada, ignoring the barbed comment, “she has been thrown inside some rotting cell herself. If not, she would come to our aid, if she could.”
“The one thing that will come to our aid,” said Ulf, not bothering to get up, “is a Varangian blade.”
“They’re all dead.” Hardrada blew out his cheeks, “All of them, butchered by those bastards.”
“Not all,” said Ulf. “Only our own detachment. When news gets round, the others, those posted in the north, they will get us out of this, don’t fear.”
“And how will news get round, Ulf, with us stuck in this God-forsaken cesspit?”
“I’ll make a note,” said Ulf and he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small, sheepskin satchel which he opened. He took out some pieces of what looked like vellum, together with a stub of charcoal. “My schooling will come to our aid, as I always knew it would! I shall write a short message, attach it to a stone, and send it down to anyone who happens to be passing.”
“And if it’s a Scythian?”
Haldor piped up, “Or one of that eunuch Orphano’s guards? What then?”
“What are the chances of anyone being able to read it anyway?”
A cloud fell over the Norseman’s face and Ulf grunted, “Ah ... I didn’t think of any of that to be honest ...” He looked down at the vellum and slipped it back inside the satchel.
“As I said,” muttered Hardrada, “what are we to do?”
***
In her private apartment, the Empress Zoe sat just inside her balcony whilst her maid, Leoni, combed her long, blonde hair. She hadn’t spoken since rising, the news having reached her late the night before. Hardrada, arrested, thrown into prison, awaiting conviction. Treason, they had said. But what he had done, or had planned to do, no one had bothered to inform her. The huge, black guard Crethus, Captain of the new Scythian bodyguard, had looked askance after he had burst in to tell her the news and she had demanded details.
He had stood, without speaking. As cold and as immovable as a column of granite. A surly, brutish man, nothing like Hardrada in manner, but everything like him in physical form. Barrel chest, arms like slabs of marble, hands so big they could have crushed her like an insect. How many times had she fantasised over Hardrada pressing himself against her, ripping away her dress, plunging into her soft, yielding flesh. The thought of it now almost made her swoon.
Crethus was like that, assured of his manhood, relishing the fact that people’s eyes dropped to his crotch as he stood there, imperious, aloof. He was like that now, after delivering the news of Hardrada’s arrest. He seemed to relish what had happened, and did she detect a slight upturning of the mouth? It couldn’t be termed a smile, more a tiny fluttering of something brushing across his lips. His eyes crackled, the flecks of gold within those black orbs signalling something, arrogance mixed with … victory? Zoe gazed down the length of his body, drinking him in, and as she did so she felt her heart begin to palpitate. The man drew her in, the sheen from his bare arms, those muscles rippling just beneath the ebony flesh, his thighs, like great pillars, and that inescapable bulge beneath his breeches. Her eyes settled on the spot for a moment too long and she felt the heat rush to her cheeks.
She had coupled with Hardrada many times, his mouth clamped on hers to stifle her cries of passion. This man could be like that. Pulsating, strong, as good a lover as Hardrada ever was. However, that was where the similarities ended. Where Hardrada was learned, intelligent, found humour in the slightest aside, Crethus had the face of a hawk, intent on one thing – conquest. A man who expected subservience and, if it were not forthcoming, then his anger would boil and his great, gnarled fist would fold around the hilt of his blade and violence would soon follow. Serious, hard, unremitting: not her usual choice. Nevertheless, the man might still prove useful, if merely to satisfy her needs. Married to the former Emperor Michael IV, her bed had been kept warm by the Viking. As things had transpired her lover, Harald Hardrada, an officer of the Varangian guard, had been dismissed on the orders of the new emperor, another Michael. Michael the Fifth. Since ascending to the throne, Michael had gone through a number of metamorphoses. At first quiet, submissive almost, listening to her, doing as she bid, learning from her how to be a ruler, a true emperor of Rome. They spent the twilight hours studying the history of the great Empire, the ways of past rulers, their successes and mistakes. Michael was an enthusiastic student, both in and out of the royal palace. He learned much about diplomacy, tact and good grace.. Soon, however, the worms began to bore into him, and he changed, deciding to move against everyone he deemed a threat. Hadn’t Caligula done the same, a thousand years before?
So, those surly Scythians with their black eyes and black hearts, replaced Hardrada and his Varangian Guard. Zoe despised the new men, even Crethus, despite his allure. She hated their arrogance, and she didn’t trust them either. Why had Michael rushed to enlist them, almost as soon as he had surmounted the throne on his father’s death? What was it he feared from the Norsemen? A secret, perhaps, something that could topple him? Something that Hardrada knew, something that might cause an already disheartened people to rise up and rebel?
“You seem tense, my lady.”
Leoni’s voice came floating out of the air like an angel’s, so soft, so relaxing, returning Zoe from her dreams.
The empress forced a single laugh, “No. Not tense. Upset.”
“Ah.”
Zoe turned a little, considering the maid with a slight, sneering smile. “From that utterance, Leoni, I take it you have reached some hasty understanding of my feelings?” The empress felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She hated being judged, or presumed upon, at the best of times by whoever they might be and servants most of all. Leoni had been with her for just over two years, a good girl, kind, courteous, always there when needed. One of the few servants entrusted to enter the inner sanctum of the empress’s private apartments. A privilege which, of course, gave the girl access to some of the more extreme Royal practices. Gossip abounded, the most notable snippet being Zoe’s relationship with her bodyguard, Hardrada.
There were those in Court who whispered that they were having an affair of such passion that the very icons in all the city’s churches blushed. Their love, so it was said, knew no bounds. The high-born Empress of Byzantium, beloved of her people, renowned as one of the most desired women in all the world. A stunning beauty still, despite the years advancing relentlessly, as they do, taking their toll for over 50 years. When she entered a room, mouths hung open in shock, hearts missed a beat, men’s stomachs turned to water. A woman to dream about, to worship. And Hardrada had indeed shared many moments of intimacy with her, moments that most dreamed about. Envy and jealousy seeped out of every glance, every muttered comment.
“I am sorry for any offence I may have given you, my lady.”
“No offence, Leoni. But do not assume to know, or even understand, the depths of my heart.”
“I would never do that, my lady.”
“Then why the utterance?”
Leoni allowed her hand to close around the head of the brush. Gold surround, encrusted with rubies, the brush was worth more than Leoni could hope to accumulate in a lifetime. She pulled in a breath, “Because I feel some of your pain, my lady. With the Lord Harald taken away ...”
Zoe measured her servant with an unblinking stare. “What of it?”
“It must be as cutting as any blade.”
“And just as painful.” Leoni’s eyes sprang wide, and the empress dropped her voice, “Can I trust you?”
Leoni made a face, mouth hardening, “My lady, I have been with you for more than two years, and never have I given you so much as the slightest cause to doubt me—”
Zoe held up her hand, settled back in her chair, and signalled for the girl to restart her efforts with the brush. “I know that, Leoni.” She pursed her lips, breath slipping out, quiet and controlled. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I am not myself. Harald’s arrest has unsettled me. I am at a loss as to why it has happened.” She closed her eyes as the brush ran through her hair, feeling the tension leaving her shoulders. Leoni was a good girl, trustworthy, a real companion in a cold and empty world. It was churlish to round on her so. None of it was her fault. “Please, tell me what is on your mind.”
“The rumour is that he has kept gold, my lady, gold that he had collected from taxes and secreted away to aid him in his desire to be a king, in the far north.”
“Is that what they are saying?”
“So I have heard.”
A short laugh again. “Well, the truth is a little different.”
As the strokes of the brush soothed her, Empress Zoe revealed the true story of Harald Hardrada’s amassed fortune. “The riches he has are mine, Leoni. True, some of it came from his official duties, when he would extract debts and the like from outlying regions, but most of it is gifts. I have never asked him what his intentions are … or were. He is free to come and go as he pleases, and if that means he wishes to leave, then so be it. I would never stand in his way.”
“And this treasure, he still has it?”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled, motioned her closer, and whispered in her ear.
Leoni stepped back, a puzzled frown on her lovely features. “So, forgive me my lady, you allow him to keep all of this, even though he is … I have to ask, do you not love him?”
“Love?” Zoe gave a small laugh. “I am not sure if I know what love is.”
“Majesty.” Leoni stopped the brush and he voice became soft, thick with emotion. “Love is that stirring in the stomach, that thrill in the heart. Waking up in the morning with the picture of your lover in your mind, the same picture that you went to sleep with. Smiling and laughing without knowing why, surprising people with your outbursts, always singing and—” She stopped. “I am sorry, my lady.”
“So, you are in love then Leoni?”
“I … I’m not sure, but I am happy. Perhaps that is the same thing.”
“Well, if I have learned anything in my life it is that you must seize the moment, for the years flitter by and, before you know it, life draws to its end and regrets have the most meaning.”
“Lady, that is so sad.”
“Is it?” Zoe shrugged, moved her hand to touch Leoni’s own. “Perhaps that is what my life has become, Leoni. A long stream of regret.” The empress squeezed the girl’s hand. “Seize the chance for happiness, my sweet child, before it too becomes nothing more than a distant memory. Now,” her voice became sharp and focused again and her hand fell to her side. “Help me get dressed. I must look my very best and become an empress once more, and address myself to his Royal Highness, Michael!”
***
The general Maniakes caught her by the arm and pulled her behind one of the massive marble pillars that lined the approach corridor to the empress’s private rooms.
“You have it?” he rasped, eyes darting this way and that, anxious that no one was close.
Leoni smiled, pulled herself free from his grip, and encircled his waist with her other arm. “I have it all, My Lord General.” She pressed herself against him and purred as she felt his manhood stiffen. “All and more.”
His voice sounded thick with desire, “By Christ, we will rule the world you and I.”
She tipped her face back, ready to receive his lips, “But first, I wish you to rule my bed.”
“Of that,” he said as he brought his lips to her, “you can have no doubt.”
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