Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Vallon made a violent fanning gesture. ‘Wayland’s no part of it. He has a family to look after.’

‘But I don’t — not one of my own.’

Vallon raised bleary eyes. ‘You really want to come?’

‘I do, sir. Much as I love your family, I’m going nuts guarding a door. I may be a Christian; I love the chanting in church. But I’m still a Viking.’

Vallon sighed. ‘Oh, God. Why not?’

Wulfstan pumped Vallon’s hands. ‘Thank you, General. You won’t find me wanting.’

‘My lady will need another house minder.’

‘I’ve already found one. Pepin, the veteran who steered Lucas to your door.’

Vallon glanced towards the gatehouse. ‘I’d almost forgotten about Lucas. All right, arrange for Pepin to meet me.’

He walked rather unsteadily towards the house and found Peter waiting inside the door with a cowled lamp. ‘Everyone’s asleep,’ the servant whispered. ‘Your English guests are quite worn out.’

Vallon followed Peter’s light, stole into his bedchamber and in an agony of stealth slid under the covers. Caitlin’s nightdress caressed his skin. He closed his eyes and was almost asleep when he realised from her tiny convulsions that she was weeping. He sat up and leaned over.

‘Aiken told you.’

She swung round and threw her arms around him. Tears splashed on his cheek.

‘I’m pregnant and this time I know it’s a boy.’

‘But that’s marvellous, a cause for celebration.’

She swung her head, her hair swishing across Vallon’s cheeks. ‘I know you won’t live to see either him or me, and Aiken tells me he means to go with you. You’re robbing me of everything I hold dear.’

Hero removed the bandage from Lucas’s head and examined the wound. ‘Those stitches can come out. You’re a quick healer and you’ve got a thick skull. How are your ribs?’

‘Knitting well. I’ve seen Wayland. He looks exactly as I imagined him. Eyes like blue flames.’

‘Why are you grinning like that?’

Lucas reclined on his pillows. ‘I’ve been thinking. First you arrive in Constantinople and then a week later Wayland turns up.’

‘So?’

‘It’s obvious. You must be off on another adventure.’

Hero bridled. ‘For an uninvited guest, you display unwarranted familiarity. In any case, you’re wrong. Wayland’s returning to England with his family.’

Lucas watched Hero make for the door. ‘I know something’s going on. I’ve never seen Wulfstan so cheerful, singing hymns all day long. And yesterday I saw him sharpening his sword and polishing his armour. He’s preparing to go on campaign.’

Hero seemed about to speak, thought better of it, then exited, leaving Lucas grinning in his wake.

A few days later Lucas was staring, bored and fretful, through the window when Wulfstan stuck his head through the door. ‘Are you up to riding a horse?’

‘Of course I am. There isn’t a steed I can’t manage.’

‘Don’t be so cocky. The general doesn’t like it and it’s him you have to impress.’

‘You mean…’

‘No promises, but demonstrate you’re a good horseman and Vallon might find you a place in his squadron.’

For all Lucas’s swagger, he approached the stable with churning trepidation. Vallon’s casual glance struck like a blow. This was the first time the general had seen his face. Surely he’d spot some family resemblance.

Vallon barely registered his presence before nodding at a placid-looking bay mare.

‘Let’s see if your actions match your boasts.’

Lucas swung into the saddle with one move and waited for Vallon to mount with stiff decorum. They ambled out into the open country beyond Galata. Vallon drew rein.

‘Show me your paces. Don’t force it. Have consideration for your ribs.’

For the next half hour, Lucas trotted, cantered, wheeled, stopped and backed up, finally urging his horse into a circling gallop that brought him up short within three feet of the general.

‘I’m used to more fiery mounts,’ he gasped.

‘When did you learn to ride?’

‘Before I could walk.’

‘That would explain your good seat. I like the way you don’t rely too much on your stirrups.’

‘I didn’t ride with stirrups until I was eight.’

Vallon watched a buzzard rising on a thermal. ‘Are you fit enough to wield a sword in earnest? If not, say so. I won’t hold it against you.’

‘I think I am, sir.’

Without another word, Vallon turned his horse and headed back to the villa. Lucas kept darting glances at him, words rising unbidden before choking in his throat.

‘Is something bothering you?’ Vallon said without looking round.

‘No, sir.’ Lucas’s tongue felt thick. Now wasn’t the time. He’d know the right moment when it came.

Next morning Wulfstan arrived with a suit of padded lint, a helmet and a wooden practice sword.

‘Who am I fighting?’

‘Aiken.’

‘Aiken! He fights like a girl.’

Wulfstan’s eyes widened alarmingly. ‘Would you rather cross blades with me?’

‘It would be a more even contest.’

The Viking clipped Lucas around the head. ‘Cheeky bastard. Even with only one hand, I could spit you in six moves. That’s for another day. Come on. Vallon’s waiting.’

In the courtyard garden that served for an arena, Aiken mooched in nervous circles. Vallon and Hero stood at a distance.

‘Don your helmets,’ Wulfstan said.

‘I don’t need one,’ said Lucas. ‘It’s not as if we’re using real swords.’

Wulfstan bristled. ‘I’ve seen men die from pates cracked by practice swords. Put it on.’ He retreated a few paces. ‘Bow, touch swords and engage.’

For a while Aiken held his own, countering with some elegant moves and even threatening a flank attack. Once Lucas broke through his guard, though, the English youth’s defences collapsed. He fell apart, shrinking into a flat-footed cringe and wafting his sword in a feeble attempt to keep his opponent at bay. Lucas rained blows on him, each stroke precisely delivered, one to each quarter and then a one-two to the head that staggered Aiken. Lucas began to play with his opponent, walking in a tight circle around him, naming the part he would strike next.

‘That’s enough,’ said Wulfstan. He grabbed Lucas’s arm. ‘I said that’s enough.’

Lucas lowered his sword and skipped from foot to foot, panting and sweating. ‘I still haven’t recovered my full strength.’

Aiken, scarlet with humiliation, swung his sword listlessly then walked away.

Wulfstan and Vallon conversed. Lucas waited for their verdict, smug in the knowledge that he’d trounced an opponent who’d received professional training. His grin died when Vallon beckoned him over.

‘Your master taught you well, but you’ve got a lot to learn. For a start, you don’t toy with an opponent. If he presents an opening, you go for the kill. That’s your job. Showing off is unprofessional, vain and ugly. I won’t allow it in my command.’

Lucas reddened and looked down. ‘Does that mean you’ll let me serve under your standard?’

‘Tomorrow you join the Outlanders at Hebdomon. Aiken will be going with you. The two of you will be the youngest members of the squadron. I trust that you’ll look out for each other, like true spear-companions.’

Lucas’s chest fluttered with excitement. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘There are only twenty Franks in the squadron. The rest are drawn from all over the empire and beyond. That’s why we’re called the Outlanders. You’ll be serving alongside Thracians, Macedonians, Bulgarians, Serbs, Poles, Hungarians, Russians, Armenians, Pechenegs, Cumans, Seljuks… If God made him, he’s in my squadron. And the thing is, they’re a tight outfit, rough and ready but always loyal to each other. Fit in and they’ll defend you to the death. Show them the contemptuous attitude you presented to Aiken and they’ll smother you under your mattress on your first night.’