by Paul Finch
Malconi looked puzzled. “My lord?”
Arthur’s enthusiasm grew. “Let us draw up a document by which Emperor Lucius renounces any claim to the isle of Britain, and more particularly to our kingdom of Albion, and gives his personal guarantee that no such claim will be raised in the future again – for any reason, ever. If your august persons could endorse it as signatories, that would be the basis for a lasting peace between us.”
Malconi sounded wary. “I would willingly take such a document back to Rome and ask for the Emperor’s approval.”
“That sounds like prevarication,” Lancelot said.
“Oh, what is this nonsense?” Bishop Proclates retorted in a waspish tone. “None of us could sign such a document. That would be tantamount to making foreign policy in the Emperor’s absence.”
“But your foreign policy is to have peace with Britain,” Bedivere replied. “Or so you say. This would certify it.”
Malconi was now all smiles again. “Surely, King Arthur, you can’t expect us to close the door forever on military action? Suppose a less amenable monarch than you were to assume power in this island?”
“It would be irrelevant to Roman affairs,” Lancelot said. “Britain does not belong to the Roman Empire any more, and never will again.”
“I can’t disagree with that sentiment,” Arthur added.
“Such a document would need the Emperor’s signature,” Proclates snapped.
“No Roman Emperor can be dictated to in this fashion,” Malconi said. “As you must know, sire. As I say, I will consult him on the matter. Perhaps, in the meantime, if we were to know your mind on Brittany, it may sweeten the pill...”
“I have something else that might,” Cador said. “How about if, while you are signing a document renouncing all claims to Britain, King Arthur were to sign a document renouncing all claims to New Rome?”
There was a strange, fragile silence.
The Roman ambassadors gazed at Cador with eerie fascination.
Cador’s own colleagues, King Arthur included, looked at him askance.
“King Arthur?” Malconi ventured. “You have claims on New Rome?”
“Don’t you know your own history?” Cador persisted, though he’d reddened a little in the cheek. “Constantine the Great was proclaimed Emperor of the Romans while here in Britain. In the first instance, this country became his heartland, his power-base, and he was acclaimed by all its inhabitants. In later years, he assumed full control of the Roman Empire. In that respect, a man who was first the ruler of Britain later became the ruler of Rome. Surely you don’t deny this?”
“I don’t deny it happened,” Malconi said. “But I think our interpretation of those events may differ a little.”
Cador sensed that he had gone too far, but was determined to stand his ground. “Our claim to the Roman Empire is as good as your claim to Britain.”
Malconi turned again to King Arthur. “Sire, we have made no claim to Britain. But your claim to our realm is something we never expected.”
“It’s possible the position has been misrepresented to you,” Arthur said, eyeing Cador coldly.
“Of course,” the bishop replied. “Well... today has been interesting, but tiring. We are all wilting a little.” It was certainly true that the chamber was becoming stuffy under its horn-shod casements, but it wasn’t yet noon. “Might we reconvene on the morrow?”
“The morrow?” Arthur said. “We have an afternoon’s session planned.”
“We already have much to discuss among ourselves. I would appreciate it if we met again in the morning.”
“Very well.” Arthur looked frustrated, but nodded. “Gentlemen... take your leisure.”
The conference broke up.
“WAS I WRONG?” Cador asked Bedivere quietly.
“You spoke unutterable nonsense,” Bedivere replied.
“Well... at least I’ve given them something to think about.”
Bedivere watched the Roman ambassadors as they filed out, deep in conversation. “That is undeniable.”
Arthur remained on the high seat, his brow furrowed. Once the Romans had gone, Bedivere approached the throne. “You’re troubled, my liege?”
Arthur frowned. “I expected them to raise the issue of religion today. That’s why I had Stigand waiting in the ante-hall.”
“Perhaps they feel it can wait? We have another three days of schedule.”
“No, Bedivere... the plan was to raise every major matter today, then spend the next two days debating them, and deliver judgments on the final day. Either they are content there is nothing heretical about our practices, which even if it were true would not suit them, because they desire to present us as heretics to the Pope. Or they no longer need it as a stick to beat us with.”
Kay said: “Personally I draw comfort from the absence of a religious quarrel. Archbishop Stigand is a learned father, but Bishop Malconi sets eloquent traps.”
“There is no comfort to be drawn when your opponent dispenses with what is clearly his best weapon.” Arthur sat up. “Lancelot, send a herald... invite the Roman ambassadors to a feast tonight in the palace. I’d like to speak with them less formally.” Lancelot bowed and withdrew as Arthur descended from the chair. “Sir Lucan?”
Lucan glanced up distractedly from his bench. “My liege?”
“You seem preoccupied again.”
“Forgive me, sire. I’m still not quite myself.”
“You spoke as you said you would last night, sirrah. Those were harsh words for the Romans, but one must respect a fellow who doesn’t dissemble.”
“I said it before, sire, and I’ll say it again. They mean to have a war. The Saxons, the Bretons – invented grievances, designed to provoke us into giving them an excuse they can take to the Holy See. And now, thanks to Cador, they have one – self-defence.”
“The Pope would never accept such nonsense,” Kay replied.
Lucan shrugged. “He may... if it suits him to.”
Kay pulled a face as if it was all too ridiculous. “You’re a reassuring presence when there’s trouble brewing, Lucan, but sometimes you’re too quick to look for a fight. No-one dislikes the Romans more than me, but we need to proceed with caution. No more calling them ‘dogs’ or making accusations that can’t be proved, you understand?”
“Is that the King’s wish?” Lucan asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “Think on it. The rest of you come with me. We have much to discuss.”
Lucan watched as Arthur, Kay and Bedivere strode away. He was unconcerned not to have been invited. Arthur had never regarded him as part of the inner circle of the Round Table. Though Lucan had fought long and hard in Arthur’s cause, there were many who believed that in his wild, early days he had fought a little too hard. “Like father, like son,” they’d whispered. Perhaps that was why he’d been allocated the far north as his personal fief? The northern border was his home and the place he knew best, but Lucan suspected there was a more practical reason: attack dogs were always useful in the face of the enemy, but for the rest of the time it was better to keep them at arm’s length.
Again, he was unconcerned. The machinations of the Roman ambassadors, the chattering of courtiers at Camelot – none of those things mattered very much at present.
Nine
THE ROMANS ACCEPTED Arthur’s invitation, and early that evening a succession of palanquins ferried them up the Eagle Road to the palace.
The feast was served in the main banquet hall. Normally, the tables in there would be arrayed in a great horseshoe around a blazing central hearth, with King Arthur and Queen Guinevere at its head, Archbishop Stigand to their right, Sir Kay to their left, and all other senior nobility and their consorts seated in descending order of importance down either leg. But now, with the Roman ambassadors and their chief flunkeys present, not to mention sundry other courtiers, barons, churchmen and city burgesses, the hearth had been cleared and additional tables set out.
The gathering w
as noisy but good-natured. Certain of Arthur’s knights, who for various reasons had missed that first day’s Council but had now arrived during the course of the evening – Sir Gawaine, for instance, and his brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris – had needed to be accommodated on smaller trestle tables, which owing to the numbers elsewhere, were located far from the presence of the King. But such was the etiquette at Camelot that no man took offence on a grand occasion like this, least of all Sir Gawaine, who, being loud, garrulous and a great songster when the drink was on him, was happy to be in any genial company.
The meal was exquisite. The first course consisted of shellfish simmered in garlic, wine and honey, and the main course of roast fowls glazed in sweet, sticky sauce, served with buttered, crusty bread and trenchers of steaming vegetables: cabbages, onions, turnips, carrots and leeks. The procession of servants who brought the repast had to weave their way in and around the jugglers and tumblers who held court in the very centre of the chamber. Rich, sweet wine was poured liberally, or, if the diners preferred, flagons of frothing ale or crisp cider were provided.
From the high gallery surrounding the chamber fluted the sweet voice of Taliesin, accompanied by the harmonious tones of gitterns, dulcimers and reed-pipes.13 The noise levels rose steadily, shouting and guffawing piercing the smoky air as any cantankerous feeling lingering from the day was smoothed over. Arthur had taken care with his seating arrangements, ensuring that Romans were always interspersed with Britons, who were under strict orders to make cordial conversation. Where possible, the senior Roman ambassadors were placed alongside the most beautiful ladies of court, while potentially recalcitrant elements – such as Cador – were dispatched to the far corners.
Lucan observed the ambassadors with interest.
Consul Rascalon was the most obviously ‘Roman’ of them, inasmuch as he was portly to the point of being corpulent. His garments were the richest on show, his chain of office the most ornate. He wore a fur-trimmed white satin gown, with sleeves puffed and full from elbow to shoulder, over a lilac jerkin covered with gold embroidery. A blue, flat-brimmed cap decorated with a peacock plume was pulled down over his fluffy white locks. His fat, moist hands were bedecked with gem-encrusted rings, and he made constant fluttering gestures with them as he spoke. All through the banquet he issued curt instructions to the servants, apparently anticipating disrespect and determined to dissuade it by his manner alone. By contrast, Bishop Proclates seemed remarkably young for a high-ranking clergyman, and though handsome and virile, there was also something vulpine about him – he had the aura of a hard man, a cold man. Not once had Lucan seen him smile. Though clad in the skullcap and ecclesiastical purple, Proclates’s velvet houppeland14 was high-collared, girdled at the waist and had long, trailing sleeves, which exposed powerful wrists. The cut of his garb accentuated a lean but strong physique.
“I understand you are a fighting man of some note?” came a voice from Lucan’s left.
He turned to view the Roman ambassador seated next to him. This fellow was clearly not a churchman. His garb was too simple: a tan leather doublet worn over a white shirt with puffed sleeves laced at the cuffs and collar. His iron-grey hair was cut very short, and he was clean-shaven. He had a refined but angular face which was marked by old scars. His eyes were hazel but of an intense lustre. There was something intelligent but solemn about him. Lucan remembered that they had crossed words during the debate.
“I’ve fought for Arthur, yes,” Lucan said. “I’m Lucan, of the House Corneus.”
“You are Steward of the North, I understand?”
“I am. Forgive me...?”
The Roman offered his hand. “Quintus Maximion, Senior Tribune of the Eighth Legion.”
“Ah yes,” Lucan said. “You’ve been active in Rome’s reconquest of the West.”
“I’ve had some success in the Emperor’s name.”
“If nothing else, we’re both modest men, Lord Maximion.”
Maximion half-smiled. “This is a most impressive hall.”
He surveyed the chamber appreciatively. Its high roof was of oaken shingles, supported by four great stone arches painted lavish colours and carved with woodland scenes. The walls were hung with weapons and battle-standards, many captured from Arthur’s enemies. There were also tapestries, sumptuously woven. The floor was of sanded marble, the broad avenue leading into it laid with a crimson carpet.
“It has the rugged grandeur of the wild north,” Maximion commented. “Yet there is comfort here, and a sense of artisanship.”
“This is Camelot, after all,” Lucan said.
“Yes, but many in Rome would be surprised.”
“They’d expect a barbarian stronghold?”
“They would expect little more than a palisade, maybe with a few longhouses and cattle-sheds crammed in the middle of it.” Maximion glanced at his goblet – it was wrought from silver, ornamented with elves and dragons. “They would expect drinking-horns rather than handsome cups.” He assessed his knife and fork – they were of elaborate Italian design. “And a single knife instead of cutlery, maybe the same one used earlier that day to slit an enemy’s throat.”
“And will they be worried to learn otherwise?” Lucan asked.
“Probably not, is the sad truth.”
“The sad truth?”
Maximion sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I spoke out of turn, Earl Lucan. I’m only a soldier. I have no personal views regarding our mission here.”
“Then why were you sent?”
Maximion shrugged, as if he had already given too many of his feelings away.
“There’s no need to answer that question,” Lucan said. “I know the answer. And so does King Arthur. You are here to assess our defences, are you not?”
“If that were true, I would be awe-stricken by them. This fortress, I would guess, is impregnable. Should it ever be put under siege, I’d imagine it has stores that could last it many years. During our journey here from Dover, we passed similar castles: Sissinghurst, Scotney and Petersfield,15 I believe, were some of their names?”
The main meal was now complete, and baskets of fruit and honeyed barley cakes were being passed around by servants. Lucan took a cake and broke a small piece from it. “That would be correct.”
“Fine defensive structures, all,” Maximion added. “Most disconcerting... for an enemy, I mean. But I fear this is an uncomfortable subject for discussion.”
Lucan turned to face him, the elf-grey eyes gleaming in his pale face. “Lord Maximion, you clearly speak with candour. And I would be doing you an injustice if I did not respond in kind. Let me tell you truly... we have no fear of New Rome. An extensive war between us would be ruinous for this kingdom, but we have fought so many wars already. We’ve all of us in this room buried friends and family. We ourselves have behaved like brute animals when the necessity came. It isn’t something any of us particularly want to experience again, but it’s something we are used to. You understand?”
“Of course,” Maximion replied.
“Every one of Arthur’s lords who sits at table tonight can call thousands of men to his banner. And all of them warriors – real soldiers with long experience and good training. Not peasants pressed into service. Not slaves who would rather be anywhere else in the world. But...” Lucan shrugged. “No doubt you have heard this same thing from many others in recent years.”
“Perhaps not with the same conviction,” Maximion said.
“I apologise if I was impolite.”
“No... far from it. In fact, with the exception of the heated exchanges in the Council hall today, which were perfectly understandable, everyone we have met in this land has been most courteous. Your reputation for gallantry is well earned. But let us discuss neutral things. Are you a family man, Earl Lucan?”
“My wife, Trelawna, is here with me...”
Lucan glanced over his shoulder. Trelawna was several seats away, or she was supposed to be – for her place was now vacant. The Roman am
bassador, Consul Publius, had been seated alongside her, Arthur’s intent being that the countess should charm him with her beauty and wit. Now Publius sat glumly, gnawing on left-over chicken-bones.
Lucan was puzzled. “No doubt she’ll return shortly. Are you a family man, tribune?”
Maximion nodded. “I have three sons. All serve in the army. My wife, alas, is now departed. The sweating sickness took her five winters ago.”
“My condolences.”
“Gratefully received.”
“I wonder,” Lucan said, “does this bereavement mean that you feel you have nothing to go home to?”
“Oh no, Earl Lucan.” Maximion gave a thin smile. “I’ve lived long enough to understand that I still have much to go home to. Would that I could impart this wisdom to others, but ears are sometimes closed at the most inopportune moments.”
Lucan frowned. “Some things must be striven for harder than others, my lord. If I were you, I should keep trying.”
TRELAWNA MET RUFIO, as their proxies had agreed, in a rose garden, on a balconied terrace accessible only by the West Gallery and a steep stairway.
It had been chosen by Gerta because it was the least likely place where any guests might stray to during the course of the feast, and because it had bowers and trellised screens between which a visitor might walk unseen. Despite this, it was well-lit by oil-lamps, and though only a few casements overlooked it, it could still be seen if a servant chanced past. Hence, the lovers had planned to meet innocently, and offer idle pleasantries as they strolled.
Of course, having seen each other for the first time in so many years whilst entering the feast-hall that evening, and then having to sit for the meal and feign concentration on their food, had been a torturous test, and now that they were alone together at last, their inhibitions broke. They came in sight of each other from either end of a rose-bordered walk, Rufio in his white hose and fitted, blue-and-gold satin cote-hardie,16 Trelawna in her figure-hugging, flame-red kirtle, her lustrous hair coiled in plaits. It was too much. They flew down the walk into each other’s arms. When they finally broke apart, they were breathless, their lips bright.
