The Golden Horn (27 page)

o0o

The calm of Saint Basil’s broke soon after sunrise.
The Latins’ rampage had not yet reached that quarter save for a distant
and terrifying tumult, but the wounded had begun to make their way there as
best they could. Crawling, some of them, or staggering and carrying others
worse hurt than they. The gates opened for them and shut again, with the strong
company of Master Dionysios’ guards at arms within.

“They’re beasts,” said a boy whose arm had
been all but severed by a sword-stroke. “Animals. Demons. My—my
mother—they—”

Alf laid a hand on his brow, stroking sleep into him. He was
not the worst wounded in body or in mind, and he was only one of the first.

So many already, so sorely hurt, and so few to tend them.
Still more of the healers had fled in the night, mastered at last by their
fear; those who remained were white and trembling, ready to bolt at a word.

The boy was as comfortable as he might be. Alf left him, crossing
over to the women’s quarter. There were more women than men, for the
pillagers were less eager to kill women this early in their madness. Only to
rape them.

Only,
Alf thought,
bending over the nearest woman. A child truly, little older than Irene, in the
tattered remnants of a gown. It was of silk, and rich.

She lay like a dead thing save for the sobbing of her
breath. One eye was swollen shut, the other squeezed tight against the world.
When he touched her she recoiled violently, gasping and retching.

“Hush,” he said to her in his gentlest voice. “Hush,
child. I bring you no hurt. Only healing.”

She drew into a knot as far from him as she could go. Her mind
knew nothing of` him. She was in her house as the barbarians battered down the
door, and one struck her father when he ran against them, no weapon in his
hands; and his head burst open like a melon in the market, and his face still
angry and his eyes surprised. One mailed monster came toward her, all steel,
stinking the way the gardener stank after his holiday, and laughter rumbling
out of him, and hands stretching out to her, bruising, tearing, hurling her
down; and that, oh that, the
pain
—

She shrieked and lay rigid on the bed, her good eye wide,
roving wildly. It caught on the white blur that was Alf’s face. All her
mind bent to the task of making clear those features, of drowning memory, of
forcing him into focus.

For a long while she simply stared. At last she spoke, soft and
childlike. “Are you an angel?”

He shook his head a little sadly.

“Ah.” It was a sigh. “I hoped I was dead.
I’m not, am I? I hurt. I hurt all over.”

Even through his healing; for it was her mind and not her body
that tormented her. He did not venture to touch her, but his voice caressed
her. “You hurt. But the hurt will go away and you will be well. No one
will harm you again.”

She did not quite believe him. But she believed enough that she
let him summon one of the women to undress and bathe her and cover her with a
clean gown, when before she had let no one near her. Nor would she allow him to
go until sleep took her; even at the very last she fought it, in terror of the
dreams it would bring.

o0o

Alf rose from her bedside, gazing down the length of the
room. It was not full, not yet, not with bodies. But it was filled to bursting
with pain.

An uproar brought him away from a woman who had taken a dagger
in the breast, to collide with Thomas in the passage.

“Latins!” the small man panted. “They’re
beating down the door, I can tell by the sound.”

Alf shook his head. “Not yet. It’s something
else. I think…” His eyes went strange; he leaped forward, nearly
toppling the other.

o0o

The guards had braced themselves against the gate. Heavy fists
hammered upon it; a deep voice roared, “Let us in, damn you! We’re
friends!”

“Let them in,” Alf said.

One of the men whipped about. “Have you
seen
them? They’re—”

“I know them.” With that strength of his which
seemed to come from no visible source, Alf set the men aside and shot the heavy
bolts.

Half an army tumbled in. Later, when Alf counted, there were
only nine, but they were massive, huge tawny men in scarlet, armed with axes.
But he had eyes only for the foremost.

The Varangian with Thea’s eyes was blessedly unhurt,
grinning as he stared, sweeping him into a vast embrace. “Little Brother!
It took you long enough to open up.”

Alf wanted to crush her close, even as she was. But there were
eyes upon them. Her companions stood in a circle about them, eyeing him with
interest and a touch of contempt.

It amused him, but it angered Thea. “This,” she
said in Saxon, “is Master Alfred. Any man who says an ill word of him
will have my axe to face.”

No one argued with her, although her fierce glare challenged
them all to try. After a moment she named them for him: “Ulf, Grettir,
Sigurd, Wulfmaer; Eirik, Haakon, and Halldor, and the downy chick is Edmund
Thurlafing. I, of course, am your own dear brother Aelfric. Can your
guards” —Her glance at them was scornful— “use reinforcements?”

o0o

Dionysios contemplated the invasion with a total lack of surprise.
“Where you are,” he said to Alf acidly, “all manner of
prodigies follow. If they can feed themselves, you can keep them. They’ll
billet on the roof.”

They had brought all their gear, and food with it, enough for
several days. The roof suited them admirably, although young Edmund gnashed his
teeth as the enemy rioted below.

He would have plunged into the midst of them, even from that
height, had not burly Grettir wrestled him down and sat on him. “We
guard,” the big man rumbled. “Not fight.”

“Guard!” The boy spat. “That’s all
we’ve ever done. Guarding and no fighting. Look where it’s got us.”

“Edmund,” Thea explained, “still has a few
ideals intact.”

“That seems to be true of all of you,” said Alf.

Haakon shrugged. He was the eldest of them and the only one
with a wound, a deep slash in his arm that Alf had bound up over his protests. “Our
company has always been the odd one. Heming—that was our decurion—died
in the fighting on g the walls. We were called back to guard the Emperor. When
he bolted, most of the Guard surrendered or bolted after him. We didn’t.
We swore an oath: We’ll hold off the damned Normans, or die trying.”

“And I knew exactly the place to do it,” Thea
said.

“This one.” Alf touched her arm, the most he
could allow himself. “I have duties, and I can’t shirk them any
longer. You’ll be well?”

“Perfectly, little Brother. Go on, work your miracles.
When Edmund is ready to be human again, we’ll see about coming to terms
with the idiots at the gate.”

As Alf left her, he heard Grettir’s hoarse whisper. “So
that’s your famous brother.” He laughed like a rumbling in the earth.
“It’s easy to see who’s the beauty in your family.”

Thea’s reply was lower still, the words
indistinguishable. But her flare of temper was as bright as a beacon. Alf
smiled wryly and descended the stair into Saint Basil’s.

o0o

The Latins’ madness abated not at all with the sun’s
sinking; rather, it worsened as they drained the City’s vast store of liquors.
Wine ran in the streets, mingled with beer and ale and Greek blood.

Somewhat after midnight Alf withdrew for a moment to one of
the few quiet places in Saint Basil’s, a room just beyond Master
Dionysios’ study, no more than a closet. Books lined its every wall, save
where a slit of window looked down on the inner court; he leaned against the frame
and closed his eyes.

Strong slender arms circled his waist; Thea kissed the nape
of his neck and laid her cheek against his back, between his shoulders.

He turned in her embrace. She was in her own shape, clad in something
dark and loose, with her hair free. She smiled up at him.

He kissed her hungrily. “God, how I’ve missed
you!”

“It’s only been a few days.”

“Years.” He kissed her again. She dropped her
robe, but he withdrew a little, reaching for it. “Not here. Not like... like…a
soldier and his doxy.”

Her hand stopped his. “Certainly not. We’re a
soldier and her handsome lad.”

His answer was a gasp. And, much later: “We’re
utterly depraved.”

“Aren’t we?” She raised herself on her
elbow, looking down at him, her cat’s-eyes flashing green. He lay on his
back, knees drawn up in the small space, his robe spread beneath him like a pool
of silver. Even as she gazed at him, he drew down his undertunic.

She caught his hand and kissed it. With a sudden movement he
drew her to him, holding tightly. “Thea, beloved,” he whispered, “don’t
ever—don’t ever—”

She felt his tears hot and wet on her breast. “There
now,” she crooned, stroking his hair. “There.”

He pulled away sharply. His cheeks were wet, but his eyes
glittered diamond-hard. “Promise me, Thea. You won’t go out of
Saint Basil’s for anything.”

“Why,” she said startled, “you sound like
an anxious nursemaid. What’s got into you?”

“Promise me,” he repeated.

“What for? I won’t bind myself just to keep you
quiet.”

“You won’t—-” He broke off and rose,
pulling on his robe. His eyes were unwontedly angry. “Not even if I tell
you that your death is waiting for you?”

She blanched. But she laughed. “You worry too much.
Don’t you know how hard it is to kill one of us?”

“It’s as easy as a dagger in the heart.”
He tossed his hair out of his face. “As God is my witness, woman, if you
get yourself killed, I’ll slaughter every Latin thereafter who comes
within reach of my hands, and myself at the end of it.”

Thea was silent. She knew his gentleness, which was clear to
see, and his strength, which was not. She had thought she knew his temper,
which could be terrible. But now he frightened her.

He knew it; he softened not at all.

Nor, fear or no fear, would she. “I can’t
promise,” she said. “I can only try my best to do as you ask. Can
you accept that?”

For a long moment he said nothing. He looked proud and cold
and hard. His cheek, when Thea laid her palm against it, was rigid.

Little by little it softened into flesh. “Why,”
he asked softly and reasonably, “can you not be like any other woman?”

“If I were, would you want me?”

He regarded her long and steadily, weighing her words.

“No,” he said at last. “Unfortunately for
my sanity, I would not.”

“Love me, then,” she commanded him, “and
leave the rest to God.”

o0o

The hammering began in the early morning; hammering and shouting,
with sword hilts and spearshafts and drunken Flemish voices.

Alf, lying flat on the roof beside Thea in her Varangian guise,
peered cautiously down. A large company of men-at-arms massed in the narrow
street, growing slowly as more of them staggered out of broken doorways. They
were strange fantastic figures, burly and whiskered, wrapped in costly silks over
their mail, with rings on their thick fingers and gold about their necks and
wrists, and jewelled brooches fastened to caps and cloaks and boot-tops,
swilling ale from glittering cups and singing in raucous voices.

The first rank endeavored to batter down the gate of Saint Basil’s.
It was of oak strengthened with iron, triply barred within; it yielded not at
all to their blows.

On the other side of Thea, Edmund hissed. His mind was full
of strategies, stones and arrows, boiling oil, even brimming chamberpots.

Thea dragged him back. Well before it was safe, he leaped to
his feet. “Quick,” he said, “while they’re too fuddled
to look up. If we can pick off a few—”

“We’ll bring them swarming onto the roof,”
Thea finished for him. “The longer it takes them to think of that, the
better we’ll be. Go down now and lend a hand at the gate.”

Edmund balked and glowered. “I came here to fight!”

“You’ll have your chance,” Alf said. “And
soon.”

Thea nodded. “You can believe him, too; he’s
Sighted.” She took Edmund’s arm. “Meanwhile you can exercise
that outsize carcass of yours and help us build a barricade.”

Come now
, Alf said as
she dragged Edmund away,
he’s but a lad.

Oh aye
, she agreed with
a touch of malice.
He looks almost as young as you
.

Alf laughed, undismayed.

o0o

Having failed to break down the door with brute force, most of
the Latins wandered away in search of easier prey. But a tenacious few
remained, one of whom wielded an axe. The heavy oak splintered under his blows
but held.

Within, Master Dionysios had built a second gate all of
iron, with narrow bars. Beyond this, several of the guards and Varangians
heaped up a barricade of` timber, breaking up whatever furnishings the Master
would spare. Others meanwhile kept watch on the roof and prowled vigilantly along
the garden wall.

The walls of Saint Basil’s were thick, the rooms of
the sick turned inward, so that the uproar was muted even to Alf’s ears. With
the gate beset, no more of the wounded ventured in; those who had come before
tossed uneasily in dread of the enemy without. The air was thick with fear.

As the hours advanced, one of the healers broke. He left his
binding up of a man’s wounds and fled, weeping in terror.

Alf saw him go. Leaving his own labors, he followed swiftly.

The man made straight for the gate. The outer door was broken
through, but the inner barrier of iron defeated the enemy’s axes; the
wooden barricade caught the arrows that pierced the bars. Alf’s quarry
tore at the heap of timber, beating off the guards with a makeshift club.

Panic lent him strength; even as Alf halted, a blow hurled
one of the guards to the ground. It was young Edmund, bolder than the rest but reluctant
to draw weapon on one of his own. He crouched on the stones, shaking his head
groggily, while the madman attacked the barricade.