by Paul Finch
There was a long, brooding silence, finally broken by Kay.
“Sire, there may be another way. Perhaps we can… give something to the Romans?”
Arthur turned to him. “What do you propose?”
Despite being Arthur’s sibling, Kay was an odd character. There were times when he appeared to resent being Arthur’s inferior, even though he knew he was neither as clever nor as much a warrior. Yet he was a blunt-spoken fellow who was useful to have around for his forthrightness.
“It seems to me that New Rome has engulfed the whole of continental Christendom apart from one parcel of land,” he said. “And that is Brittany. Why not offer it as a gift?”
Cador jumped to his feet. “Brittany is our ally.”
Kay eyed him warily. “Yes, but to what end? Would Brittany ever come to us in a time of crisis? What could King Hoel ever offer us if we were in need?”
“He helped in our battles before,” Cador asserted.
“But now?” Kay persisted. “What could he offer us now that we are strong?”
“We have a treaty with Brittany,” Bedivere reminded him.
Kay waved this away. “Treaties are written on paper. They can be torn up or burned.”
“There’s the not insignificant matter of honour,” Lancelot said.
“Is honour more significant than survival?” Kay wondered. “We may beat New Rome in battle. Or we may not. Numerically, their fighting men outnumber ours ten to one.”
“You think,” Arthur replied, “that if we offer them a free hand in Brittany, they will leave us alone?”
“It’s possible that Brittany is all they want, and the entire purpose of their mission here is to investigate our attitude on that matter. It would be geographically convenient for them to incorporate Brittany into their new empire. Britain, on the other hand — well, we are offshore. It would not be an easy fight to take us, regardless of what I’ve just said. Surely, on that basis, we can hammer out some kind of agreement?”
“To sacrifice an ally would not sit well with the name of the Round Table,” Lancelot objected.
“There’s no way out of this without paying some kind of price,” Kay replied.
The fire crackled as they considered their limited choices.
“Sir Lucan,” Arthur said. “You still feel war is inevitable?”
“I do, sire,” Lucan replied. “It would be a strange thing if a war between Britain and New Rome were to hinge on as small a state as Brittany. But that could be to our advantage. Would it not suit us if the focal point of the fighting was over there rather than over here?”
“To ensure that, we’d need to send soldiers to Brittany straight away,” Bors responded. “In effect, we’d be the cause of the conflict.”
Lucan shrugged.
Bors looked amazed. “You actually want to start a war with Rome?”
“If Rome is bent on war anyway,” Lucan said, “better we fight on our own terms.”
“But we’d be the aggressors. That would be in complete defiance of the code.”12
Lucan turned to the King. “Sire, our first duty is not to our reputation as chivalrous knights. It is to the preservation of our people — their homes and their livelihoods. This may be a war of annihilation, and if it were fought here, their land and livestock all go up in flames. We should think long and hard on that.”
The knights exchanged worried glances.
“Food for thought, Sir Lucan,” the King eventually said. “That northern eyrie you call home has set you to thinking in recent times.”
“Perhaps, my lord,” Lucan said. “Perhaps overmuch.”
Later that evening, while the rest of the brotherhood retired — either to their bed-chambers, or the drinking hall where Taliesin, Arthur’s Welsh bard, regaled them with romances of the elder days — Lucan wandered the higher vaults of the palace.
At last he emerged on one of its high turrets, where the stiff, strong breeze tugged at his tunic and ruffled his black hair. From here he could gaze down on the whole of Camelot, though all he saw in the darkness were sparkling lights: candles behind shutters, lanterns in stable-yards, the braziers of watchmen.
He imagined he was peering from the casement of his chamber window at Craghorn Keep, as a child. An upper valley of the Hen Ogledd lay below him, much of it blotted out by pinewoods, other parts filled with scree. A single track carved its way through the middle; it was hard-trodden earth in summer, and in autumn a river of glutinous mud churned by hooves and cartwheels; later in the season it would freeze into ruts and razor-edged ridges. The crooked scarecrow figure lumbering painfully along the track was his mother, as she had been in those final years, embarking each dawn on her barefoot penitential march to the moss-covered Celtic cross in the village of Hexley, some four miles distant. Always veiled and head bowed, prayer beads entwining her fingers; always in the same sackcloth robe, its tattered hem trailing around her blistered, bloodstained feet. Every morning — whatever the month, whatever the weather. And always that same distance. Four miles there, and four miles back. Because no ploughboy or village carter would dare return her in his horse and trap.
Lucan’s heart rent itself in his bosom as he recalled that familiar scene.
The tall woman with the flowing crimson locks, statuesque build and noble beauty — reduced over pitiless years to a withered, hobbling shadow; a crone before her time, drenched by rain, bitten by frost, seared by the sun. Every day it took her a little longer to complete the penance. At first she would be back by breakfast. But then, in later years it was mid-morning, and then midday. Eventually, not long after Bedivere had been sent to commence his squiredom, she did not return at all. This time, one of Duke Corneus’s vassals did bring her home. A woodsman found her lying in a ditch — what remained of her. It was mid-winter and the snow was shin-deep. Possibly she had collapsed before the starving wolves had launched themselves upon her, because enough remained of her legs and feet to show that her blue chilblains had finally turned to purple rot — they could not have supported her for much longer.
And yet still they insisted she’d brought it on herself.
As Lucan wept in the arms of Chaplain Gildas — a genuinely kind man, but one who lived in as much fear of his overlord as everyone else — the old priest advised the boy that Duke Corneus had been just in his ruling. It was no-one’s intent that Countess Gundolen should die such a death. But she’d died in the act of penance, which meant that she would now be with the angels — surely a wondrous thing, given that the sin of infidelity was one of the worst a man or woman could commit.
The worst sin a man or woman could commit.
Lucan hadn’t believed it then and he didn’t believe it now.
Cruelty, anger, bitter and irrational hatred — these were worse offences. Especially when one was drawn to such things through despair at one’s own misfortune. To punish the innocent when one should be punishing oneself — that was the worst of all.
There was no proof, he reminded himself, as he moved away from the teetering battlement. To cement the idea, he incanted it aloud, almost like a prayer.
“There was no proof. Damn you, father, there was no proof! If you’d lived long enough, I’d have killed you. And so would Bedivere. We both swore it. I’ve damned you for so many things — for the black banner and devil’s sword I inherited from you, for your eluding my wrath when so many others didn’t, and most of all for having ever sired me. But tonight… tonight I praise you. For the memory of your actions has taught me a humbling lesson. There was no proof!”
When he entered his bed-chamber, Trelawna was asleep. There was a dull glow in the hearth, and the room was dim but warm. He stepped from his clothes and slid under the quilt beside her. She didn’t awake, but flung an arm across his chest. Her body was supple and snug. Worries, doubts, evil imaginings — it was easy to put them aside at that moment.
Seven
The following morning, the sun rode high in a cloudless sky, but it was still
early spring and Camelot’s regal banners streamed on an ice-edged breeze.
The conference with the Roman ambassadors was to be the main event of the day, though of course this would not involve the majority of those gathered in the palace, only the King and his senior advisors. Minor nobility would be allowed into the audience gallery, where they were expected to be seen and not heard. Lesser-titled men were not even permitted to wait outside in the lobbies. Not that many would complain about this; most had spent long hours in the saddle to reach this place, and now the delights of Camelot would prove a welcome diversion.
All that morning, rivers of household men and their lackeys poured down the Eagle Road, eager to lose themselves in a day’s holiday. Most walked together in chattering bands, while some — suspecting they’d be too drunk by the day’s end to think twice about paying an exorbitant fee to have themselves carried back to the palace in a litter — descended on horseback. The mood was merry. Though the stakes would be high in the conference hall, most common men knew these great affairs were beyond their understanding, and did not trouble their heads with it.
Alaric, Malvolio and Benedict walked with the other squires from Penharrow. There was much ribaldry, much ribbing and lampooning of each other, all born from sheer excitement. Camelot was the largest town that most of the lads had ever seen, and thronging with traffic: townsfolk and tradesmen jostled each other as they hurried back and forth, while wagons and carts made even slower progress, and on the narrower roads threw up gouts of liquid mud. There was a riot of noise: steel-shod wheels clashing on paving stones, clog-irons thumping, hammers falling, bells clanging, hucksters and hawkers calling their wares, geese clacking and sheep bleating as they were driven to market. Every status of person was on show, from lords and ladies in curtained carriages, to lepers and cripples begging on corners. Mailed soldiers mingled with vagabonds. Monks and other pilgrims strode in single file, cowled heads bowed. Madmen capered to the jigs of street-musicians.
The back alleys were even more chaotic. Wattle-and-timber buildings leaned towards each other like rows of decrepit old men. Here, the fine townhouses of courtiers and flunkeys gave way to the homes and shops of the town’s merchant class, each with its own painted shield hanging over its lintel: cobblers, ironmongers, smiths, glass-painters, carpenters, coopers, saddlers, masons, grocers, haberdashers, poulterers, milliners and locksmiths.
In one square, the lads were mesmerised by a raised stage on which a miracle play was in progress. A pimply-faced youth with straggles of straw in place of blonde locks wore a woman’s dress sewn with oak leaves to indicate that he was ‘Eve.’ ‘Adam’ was a much older man, balding, with a pendulous strawberry nose and a hanging belly. He wore only a flagellant’s loincloth as they fled together from the Garden of Eden, a representation provided by items of flat scenery — illustrated first with vines and fruit, and later with rocks and tangled thorns — which a tireless procession of helpers in hose and sweat-soaked blouses transported across the rear of the stage. Alongside the melodrama, a plump, doughy-looking boy seated on a stool divided his attention between a large currant-bun and a trumpet, on which he blew irregular, discordant blasts — possibly to indicate the mayhem of the world beyond Paradise, or more likely because this was the most his skill with a trumpet amounted to. Despite this, the lesson of the Fall of Man was not lost on the awed crowd, though it was diluted somewhat by other events in the same square, which included juggling, acrobatics and a bear-baiting. The lads inevitably became bored, and soon found their way to the taverns.
There was every kind of tavern in Camelot town, and every kind of bawdy house, though the latter, by Arthur’s ordinance, were confined to a low quarter close to the docks, where the tanneries and workshops discharged their effluent direct into the River Itchen. It was no surprise to find that most of the Penharrow retinue, along with many others, had already found their way to this quarter, the knights and men-at-arms in particular having failed to be distracted by the shopping streets or miracle plays. Ale, wine and West Country cider was quaffed in abundance, and saucy girls were on hand to assist the gallant gentlemen in their quest to spend every penny they had.
There was little romance in the air, Alaric thought glumly as he and the others stood crammed in one dingy interior. It reeked of smoke and onions, and the floor was rotted hay, much of which he suspected had fallen from the bedding in the loft, to which a creaking, rickety stairway led an endless procession of lads and lasses. Most of these couples seemed to come down again with almost indecent speed, the lasses promptly discarding their companions and latching onto new customers.
“Why the face?” Malvolio wondered, grinning over his drinking-pot. He and Benedict were already flushed around the gills as the liquor took hold of them.
“I don’t have much appetite for this,” Alaric said.
Over the last few days, his yearning for Countess Trelawna had become overpowering. He knew better than anyone how ridiculous it was, but could any man control such a floodtide of emotion? He could neither eat nor sleep; he had no patience for raucous company or idle banter. He wondered if this was what was meant by ‘love-sickness.’ It was a worrying thought. When men were in love they did rash things. He’d held amorous feelings for his mistress for almost as long as he could remember, or so it seemed — at least since he’d begun to find her womanly shape fascinating rather than motherly — but now the flame burned with frightful ferocity. Maybe this ensued from the near-death of her husband. For a very brief time the unobtainable dream had seemed a fraction closer. Earl Lucan was now fit and well again, but the flame could not be quenched.
“We never got to toast your birthday,” Malvolio slurred.
“Now’s your chance,” Alaric replied, making to leave.
Malvolio stopped him. “What ails you, lad?”
“Forgive me.” Alaric shouldered his way through the throng. “I need some clean air.”
“Alaric!” Malvolio called after him.
“Let him go,” Benedict advised, beckoning to a foxy-faced miss with black bangs and witch-green eyes. “It’ll take more than clean air to cure his disease.”
At the tavern door, Alaric was spotted by Turold, who was sprawled on a bench beside the fire, a wench on one knee. On the other knee sat his lute, which he plucked at.
“Too much to drink already, Alaric?” he laughed.
“That’s what I’m seeking to avoid, my lord,” Alaric replied. “Men say foolish things in their cups.”
“And most of the rest of the time, in my experience,” Wulfstan observed sagely. He was on the opposite bench, gazing into the flames as he sipped at a pewter tankard.
Alaric departed, and Turold shook his head. “He’s turned strange, that one.”
“Cusp of manhood,” Wulfstan said. “Doesn’t know how he’s expected to behave yet.”
They were distracted by braying laughter, and turned to spot Malvolio struggling in the arms of Benedict and several other squires while a black-haired lass poured a goodly measure of ale behind his codpiece.
“For which there’s something to be said,” Wulfstan added dourly.
Alaric walked to the basilica, feeling small and inconsequential as he mounted its broad marble steps. It wasn’t the first great cathedral he’d visited — he’d darkened the doors at both Durham and York during his travels with Earl Lucan — but St. Stephen’s, which, though he’d been to Camelot twice before, he’d never entered, was the stuff of dreams.
As he strode through the vast nave, its white paving stones tinged pink and blue by the towering stained-glass windows, its air heavy with frankincense, he listened to the distant choral chanting of the cathedral chapter and was moved, not so much by the aura of sanctity as by the sense of his own unworthiness. Each stone pillar was painted in beautiful hues of red, green and gold, and carved with passages of scripture in Latin. At the foot of each pillar there was a tomb, and in repose atop each tomb the effigy of some knight who had died in the service of Chri
st. As Alaric walked up the central aisle, he dwelled on the terrible wars that Arthur and his knights had waged to wrest this land back from heathen powers. The losses had been uncountable, and yet here he was, torturing himself with desire for the wife of one who had stood by Arthur from the beginning, who had served in all five of his most difficult campaigns, receiving one terrible wound after another. It felt as if the weight of his guilt would crush him. And yet Alaric trudged on, trying not to meet the gazes of those supplicants who knelt in the side-chapels or before candle-lit alcoves where saints might grant boons to the pious, for surely he wore his failings the way a condemned man wore his shroud.
Far overhead, the vaulted ceiling was the most vivid depiction of Heaven he could imagine: painted blue, yet spangled with gold and silver stars. Images of angels in flight were etched across it, swan wings spread, battle-horns at their lips, banderoles billowing behind them, bearing more names of fallen heroes.
The main altar itself was the most potent reminder of all that he was a traitor.
The central table was a solid block of Greek gold, liberated by Arthur from the booty of the Saxon horde he had decimated in the desperate battle on the River Duhblas; it was so heavy that it had taken sixteen of his men to carry it. Its sides were engraved with images from the Bible, its top laid with crisp white linens. At either end stood a rose-coloured candle, each as tall and thick as a man’s arm. Ten paces behind it, a triptych depicting the life and death of St Stephen arched over the entrance to the choir, which rose in tier upon tier of elaborately carved and polished wooden benches. At the very rear, the basilica’s main altarpiece towered fifty feet into the air, a masterpiece of interlocking bas reliefs, each panel — silver inlaid with gold, or gold inlaid with silver — telling a tale from the lives of the martyrs.
