Chained to the Barbarian. Carol Townend
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and mail tunics, with swords and spears …
William tried not to look too obviously at their arms. They were not Varangians, they had no battleaxes.
Again, his luck was in. Grave-faced, the guards had their heads together and were deep in discussion. William strolled languidly towards them. Concerned that the bruising on his naked chest and the bandage on his arm might cause comment, he drew the cloth firmly about him and prayed they were too preoccupied to notice that his cloak was a drying cloth from the Palace bathhouse. His pulse rate speeded up.
‘Surely General Alexios won’t fight it out in the streets?’ one was saying. ‘It’s tantamount to treason.’
Another guard shook his head and made a sucking sound with his teeth. ‘You don’t think so? The General has been acclaimed Emperor by the army and he has the backing of half the Court. Emperor Nikephoros is too weak to object.’ Absently, he waved William through.
‘Yes,’ a third man chimed in as William forced himself to walk casually past, ‘Emperor Nikephoros has alienated far too many. Wouldn’t be surprised if …’
William stepped into a paved street and the voices faded. God be praised, he was free! Likely the guards would have been more disciplined and demanding if he had been trying to enter the Palace, but, thank God, he was out.
Free!
Heaving a sigh, William released his grip on his makeshift cloak. He knew the drill—he must walk naturally, he must walk as though he knew where he was going.
Head up, he turned briskly into a broad avenue. The rain had stopped. He had only gone a few paces when he noticed a fifth sentry outside the Palace. The man was facing the wall a few yards from the gate, a puddle at his feet. Adjusting the tunic beneath his mail coat, he gave William a sheepish grin. His gaze sharpened when he noticed William’s discoloured chest. ‘Sir?’
‘Guard?’ Dear God, it would take but one shout for this man to alert his comrades at the gate.
‘Would you mind telling me your business, sir?’ The sentry’s hand hovered over his sword hilt.
William glanced quickly about him, the street, like the Palace, was largely empty. Let the games begin. Snatching off his makeshift cloak, William dived. He had the cloth round the man’s head before the sword was unsheathed.
The guard struggled and pain shot up William’s arm. Gritting his teeth, William held on grimly, cracking the helmeted head against the Palace wall. The man grunted and went limp.
William snatched the sword and was haring down a side street before a bemused passer-by raised the alarm.
‘Guards!’ Behind him came a shout. ‘Guards!’
Chapter Four
Heart pounding like a drum, William gripped the sword hilt and ran on, twisting and turning down a narrow series of passages that cut in between some wooden buildings. He turned left, he turned right, he turned left again—the City was like a maze. At last the shouts faded. When he stopped to draw breath, he found himself at the edge of a large ceremonial square. His chest heaved. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision.
On one side there was an imposing building faced with purple marble in the classic style the Romans had favoured. Myrtle bushes lined the avenue between the building and a pillared monument. There was movement behind the monument, a tantalising metallic gleam in the strengthening sunlight—the flash of light on a fan of spears, on a line of battleaxes.
Lord, Varangians, and he had all but run into them. The Emperor’s personal guard were out in force, in battle formation by the look of it. Still breathless, William backed behind a myrtle bush as snatches of the sentries’ words came back to him. ‘General Alexios … battle it out in the streets … the backing of half the Court.’
God have mercy, what was going on? Whatever it was, it was serious enough to have cleared the Palace grounds of courtiers, it had sent the Varangians to stand their ground in this square not a stone’s throw from the Palace.
An ear-splitting scream pierced the air—a woman’s. It had come from the tangle of streets behind him. Whipping round, William’s gaze fell on a scrap of blue cloth caught in one of the myrtles. He tugged it free. Diaphanous blue silk, with silver threads cunningly caught in the weave.
Jesu! Lady Anna!
His stomach formed a tight knot as his consciousness narrowed down to the scrap of silk. The blue was an exact match—he remembered the glint of silver threads in her veil as she had left the apartment.
As another scream came from the mouth of the alley, William’s instincts told him that Lady Anna was close.
A triumphant cry echoed off the walls of the building. William felt sick. Several male voices … laughing, jeering, urging each other on. Lady Anna had just run into the worst kind of trouble, he was sure of it.
He was cold, cold as ice, yet perspiration was springing to his brow, he could almost feel his freedom sliding away from him. So much for returning to Apulia for justice, so much for winning lands for himself …
He could see her in his mind, grey eyes softening as she offered him the Venetian glass, mouth curving in a shy smile.
‘Merde!’ William braced himself and stepped back into the avenue.
He took a deep breath and before he had drawn the next, Lady Anna flew out of the head of the alley. Her breast was heaving, her fingers were clenched white on her blue skirts, holding them clear of the ground. Her veil had gone and her hair was streaming out behind her like a dark pennon. One foot was shoeless, William had time to register the disturbing vulnerability of bare toes before the men who were after her appeared.
Mercenaries. Three of them, howling like wolves. Predators. The uniform was unknown to him, but their eyes told William all he needed to know. These men were not fixed on any coming battle, they were focused on taking their prey. There was no doubt that rape was large in their minds.
Another scream came from the alley behind the building. Likely some other poor woman was being accosted by more of these devils. He prayed it was not the Princess.
William renewed his grip on the sword, the mercenaries halted and exchanged grins. They might as well have spoken aloud—they outnumbered him, they thought him easy meat.
‘That would be a mistake,’ William said softly.
There was movement behind him. Not Lady Anna. She had stopped mid-flight in front of the monument, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. Cold anger burned in William’s guts.
He was woefully out of condition—his chest ached, his sword arm throbbed and it was one man against three. There was a chance he might prevail, but it was small.
The soldiers hesitated and William caught a whiff of soured wine.
They have been drinking. Good. That evens the odds a little …
As he summoned the strength to make the first move, William felt the walls of Constantinople close in on him. Picking out the lead mercenary, he raised his sword.
Oddly, the mercenary wasn’t concentrating on William, he was looking past him. When his leer faded, William realised that something other than Lady Anna had distracted him.
Behind him, a harsh voice bellowed, ‘Lady Anna! This way!’
Briefly, wary of losing sight of the mercenaries, William looked over his shoulder. A Varangian had appeared, it was the man who had emerged from Princess Theodora’s bedchamber, the man he had seen in her company at the slave market. Commander Ashfirth.
The Commander unhooked his battleaxe and gestured Lady Anna towards him. The battleaxe glinted.
Lady