by Leo Carew
As he shaved, inspecting his handiwork in a dull brass mirror, Bellamus thought. The first thing he needed to do was get a message to the queen. King Osbert would likely be in a fear-driven rage at having lost so many soldiers north of the Abus and Bellamus did not doubt that, without Queen Aramilla’s intervention, he was at serious risk of this shave being his last.
But contacting her would be difficult. In court, they affected barely to know one another. Any message he sent for her would look exceedingly suspicious, and news of it would no doubt be relayed to her jealous husband. He must rely on her to contact him, if she still felt enough affection to play this game. In the many years of their acquaintance, she had not yet let him down and she would certainly have heard of his arrival in the city. Bellamus could not slip unnoticed into Lundenceaster with four hundred soldiers in tow.
They had met when the queen was on a pilgrimage to Iberia. Bellamus had already garnered a considerable reputation as a man who could deal with the Anakim and had thus been summoned to assist the royal train as it passed near the blurred Anakim border. The queen had been on foot, as ever the least elaborately decorated of her handmaidens, who sweated and flapped at themselves with fans as they trotted along behind her. Bellamus ignored the royal men-at-arms who gestured to him as he approached, riding straight past them and to the queen, at that moment in stern conversation with a handmaiden. He dismounted and offered a bow, receiving an indifferent glance in response. “You are safe to cross, Majesty. The band that lives here is nomadic and our scouts report they are some days away.”
She narrowed her eyes, assessing him from dust-caked boots to unshaven face. “You are not Iberian, sir,” she said, as though he had tried to deceive her. “Your Saxon is excellent.” She waved off the guards in front who had turned towards Bellamus, furious at being ignored.
“My mother was Saxon, Majesty,” he said, hands finding his pockets and smiling breezily at her. “I am from Safinim but Saxon was the language we spoke in my house as I grew up.”
So unflustered was Bellamus, so cool in the face of such vaunted royalty, that the queen made a slight exclamation. It was an “Ah” of disbelief, accompanied by a look of astonishment. Then her eyes narrowed a little and she smiled. “Your mother was Saxon? Is she dead?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Majesty,” said Bellamus. “I have not seen her these past eighteen years.”
“Family feud?”
“I had a feud, and I left to preserve my family.”
The queen tilted her head back, exposing her neck a little, then glanced at her handmaiden. “I am going to quiz Master …?”
“Bellamus.”
“Bellamus, here.” The handmaiden curtseyed and shuffled back through the retinue, the queen gesturing that Bellamus should fall into step beside her. Dutifully, he took the bridle of his horse and led it down the road with her. “What was your feud?”
He glanced at her, assessing her reaction to his words. “I was accused of taking a white stag from some neighbouring forests, which regrettably belonged to a prince.”
She snorted. “And did you?”
“Certainly not,” said Bellamus. “I shot it and lost it.”
“So, not a glorious cause.”
“Venison is always a glorious cause,” said Bellamus. Then he shrugged. “I have no regrets. Had I not tried to take that stag, I would not be walking down this sunny road, talking to a queen.”
The compliment bounced off the queen. “And I hear that road has led you to know more about the Anakim than any man in the land.”
“I’m flattered you’ve heard my reputation.”
She looked ahead, wearing a slight frown. “Just recently.”
“The Anakim fascinate me. As a naïve runaway, I reached the Alps and took a job keeping an eye on the Anakim there for the local villages. My first day cost me two fingers, but I still went back. Have you ever seen one, Majesty?”
“Never. I am kept well away from such dangers.”
Bellamus gave her a sympathetic face. “What’s life without a little danger?”
She surveyed him from the corner of a narrowed eye. “Exactly, Master Bellamus.”
“I have a spare sword and a spare horse. I promise life won’t be boring.”
For the first time, she looked at him directly, rather than out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t ride.”
“Well, our standards aren’t high,” confessed Bellamus.
That drew her laugh like a magpie’s rattle. “Perhaps you would accompany us? I daresay we will need further protection and the road is long and dull … Much like my retinue,” she added under her breath.
Bellamus shrugged. “I am your servant, Majesty.”
The road was indeed long, and in between stops to pay homage to each church or shrine or sacred relic, the queen delighted to interrogate Bellamus, who was rather surprised to find that he enjoyed himself. Over the following weeks, he entertained her; at first on the road, then after dark in the sturdy tent that was pitched for her. In each other’s arms, they were both less guarded. “A man with no name must have a valuable trade. Mine is the Anakim,” Bellamus said.
“There is no place that trade is more valuable than Albion. My husband fears them with his every waking breath. A man like you could rise far in my country.” After the queen had said that, Bellamus knew he had given too much away. For the first time, something other than relaxed humour crossed his face and he could see that she had noticed it. Perhaps she had liked it. On her departure, Queen Aramilla left him a letter, suggesting he cross the channel and come seek his fortune in Albion. It was a greater opportunity than Bellamus would find in Iberia and he took the chance, bringing his loyal band north. From that day forth, the queen’s invisible hand had helped guide his rise.
Queen Aramilla usually had months to act on his behalf: time during which she could ensure her favour for the upstart went unnoticed. If she were to intervene on his behalf now, it would have to be fast. They could not afford the subtlety with which she usually worked.
The queen sent word that night, carried by one of the few handmaidens that Bellamus recognised: one of the young, pretty women who rarely left Aramilla’s side at court. He was to meet the queen at a hall behind Ludgate Hill; one that he knew belonged to Earl Seaton, Aramilla’s father. Bellamus did not move for a moment when he heard this.
“Is everything all right, sir?”
“Of course,” he said lightly. “Thank you.” He beamed at her and bade her goodnight, his smile collapsing as the door shut behind her. It was a peculiarly conspicuous location for such a secret meeting. But Bellamus had learned two things above all about his patron. The first was to trust her. The second was not to bore her.
Hilda had soon returned with the cook and two servants, who set about thawing the house. More fires were lit, food was fetched from the stores and they began to prepare a meal for the soldiers who had started to dissolve into the ragged buildings on either side of the road. They were now Bellamus’s men, all with valuable experience of fighting against the Anakim. An experienced warrior was worth two or three callow recruits, and every man here would be returning north with him when the time came. Bellamus walked past them as he headed for the hall that night, exchanging a few words as they received hot food from his kitchen. They were cheerful, a calm night in a ruined house with a warm meal representing a significant upturn in their recent fortunes.
“Where are you off to, Captain?” asked Stepan, abandoning a game of dice with three companions and getting to his feet, evidently intending to accompany Bellamus.
“Going to meet a friend,” said Bellamus. “Alone this time, Stepan.”
The knight raised his eyebrows. “These are dangerous streets,” he insisted.
“A female friend,” said Bellamus. “She’s not far.”
Stepan’s smile shone through the darkness. “Say no more,” he said, sitting back down.
Bellamus walked to the hall alone, the streets near emp
ty. He supposed that even the roughest of Lundenceaster’s residents preferred to be huddled by a fire that night. Then he reflected that perhaps he and his band were the roughest of Lundenceaster’s residents, and it was from them that the others were hiding.
He found the hall, raising a fist to bang on the double-leaved doors. He was shocked when they were opened by two more handmaidens, both new to him. Was there to be nothing secret about this meeting?
Within, the hall was extravagantly lit by candles and a central hearth; to the extent that Bellamus had to shield his eyes for a moment. The first figure he was able to discern was the queen, who stood before him, dressed in black. Stars were embroidered into her neckline like a chain of silver, and there was a delicate crown resting on her golden hair. Beside her waited another two handmaidens. Though she was his anchor against the coming storm, he cursed himself at the sight of her.
This was a game to her. It had always been a game. He could see from the way she wore a crown to this most covert of meetings; how she had slowly begun to let her most intimate handmaidens in on the secret. Even the way she smiled as he approached. She was courting with peril. Each new partner to their secret fractionally increased the chance that the king discovered. She would grow bored and try a little more danger, liking the taste. But Bellamus had known that. And here he was, relying on her more than ever. She was affectionate enough but he could feel the fickle nature of her admiration. Every moment that he did not entertain her, she drifted away from him.
She wanted the excitement and the unknown in which Bellamus was so expert; he needed her influence at court. But his need was greater. The king doted on Aramilla who, whatever else, had a keen mind. Her hold over King Osbert was suffocating and he feared her loss almost as much as he feared the Anakim. The moment that Bellamus ceased to excite her, he would be cast aside. Or worse. A whisper would find its way into the king’s ear: allegations that Bellamus had touched her, or behaved inappropriately, and it would be over for the upstart.
This was a game to the queen, but not to Bellamus. But he had known that from the beginning, and panic would bore her. Calm, now.
The handmaidens curtseyed and left without a word, retreating discreetly into a room at the back of the hall. Bellamus walked close to her and looked down at her upturned face, overcoming his desire to ask about whether her companions could be trusted.
“I was sure you were dead,” she said softly.
He kissed her. “Without your help, my head will leave my shoulders tomorrow anyway. The king is angry?”
“Not angry, really. Horrified. He moans and he shakes and he quivers at the thought of what happened in the north,” she said, wearily. “But we’ll get to that. Tell me your stories.”
There was a couch at one side of the hall and the upstart and the queen sat together. Bellamus began to talk. He told her about his deception which had won the first battle and forced the Anakim from the field. About the tangled wilderness through which they had marched, torching and killing, looking to bleed the legions from the Hindrunn. About the wild animals that had made life so cheap and sleep so dangerous. How they had then been tricked by the new Black Lord and stripped so contemptuously of their supplies. How the army had begun to fall apart and spill men over the wilderness before they had at last faced the Anakim in a narrow pass by the sea. Here, he went into detail, knowing that the tale of how the Sacred Guard had finally seemed to lose patience with the rest of the army, and simply ripped the Suthern line apart before slaughtering Lord Northwic, would excite her. “They’re coming south, Aramilla,” he finished. “The Black Lord himself told me. They want to take this city in revenge for our invasion.”
“And what would they do?” Her pupils were very wide. He knew she was not scared, but thrilled. This woman had known nothing but oppressive safety her entire life. She was barely on the side of the Sutherners: she just wanted to roll the dice and, if the island burned as a result, that would do for her. He must shock her.
“I cannot say. Wholesale slaughter? Simply kill the nobility and force the people into serfdom? Maybe just raze the city and sow the earth with salt. We cannot have them here: Suthdal would not survive. We must fight them in the north. If we take the war back to them as soon as the roads reopen, they will not be prepared and we can subdue them. Then you can come north and tour their conquered kingdom.” He took her hand, interlinking their fingers. “I cannot rest from that place. It is haunting me. Since I came back, I have felt like I am in a dream. It is as though I am living in a faint reflection of the world beyond the Abus. Everything is so soft, so easy. So flat. Up there, I felt awake for the first time in my life. Every tree; every hill and stream and word and footstep seemed more significant. I have to go back.” Bellamus stopped abruptly and glanced at Aramilla, taking a moment to compose himself. “And you must see. It’s worth subduing them simply to explore that land unopposed.”
“So not only do you propose to keep your head tomorrow, you want him to give you another army?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Why not? You have him on your leash. He must believe I am the only man who can stop them.”
“And are you?”
For a heartbeat, his smile slipped, and she was confronted with the upstart’s face at rest. “You tell me.” She feasted on him for a moment and then looked down at his hand, beginning to play with his fingers.
“I will struggle to convince him. He doesn’t trust you because you’re lowborn. He doesn’t believe you should command an army of nobles.”
“Look what happened when I was only an advisor.” He beamed at her and she exhaled with a slight hum, leaning into him.
“There will be concessions, my upstart.”
“If I survive and I have the army, that’s more than I need.”
“Perhaps more than a man with no name has ever had before,” she said. She gave his cheek a light smack. “Do your ambitions have no limits?”
Bellamus let out a slow breath. “I am always hungry.”
“Even if you vanquish the Anakim? If you become protector of the north?”
“Why just the north?” asked Bellamus. “You are a queen, are you not? You have no children with the king. You can rule if your husband dies.” She had gone quite still in his arms. “We could have Albion.” He had never before revealed that monstrous objective, and waited to see whether he would regret it.
She was silent a long time. “Some day.” Her tone made Bellamus think it was not the first time that thought had occurred to her. “I’ll do my best for you, but I don’t know what he’ll say and we must not arouse his suspicion. You will have to play your part well.”
“I trust you.”
The next morning, Bellamus rode for the court of King Osbert. The king’s hall was by the river, which had solidified into a vast white highway, stretching hundreds of miles inland. Dark figures walked upon the river and a few souls were fishing through the ice. Bellamus wondered if they were having any success; there were precious few sources of food in a winter like this.
If the river was a giant’s roadway, King Osbert’s hall could have been the giant’s house. The king had constructed it himself after burning down his father’s hall when he took the throne. A plinth of stone raised it above the flooding, with broad stone steps leading up to the door. Its thatched roof, as mangy and ragged as any of the others in Lundenceaster, was meadow-like in its scale. Enormous wooden pillars of hornbeam, so broad that three men linking hands would have struggled to encircle them, supported the overhang of the roof. The dark, weather-battered wood of the front was carved and patterned: sunken patches and engravings coloured in reds, blues and golds, and a great yellow sun engraved above the doors.
Bellamus paused briefly at the bottom of the steps that led to the hall’s doors, but, seeing no one to take his horse and only four weary retainers standing by the door above, clicked his tongue to encourage the horse to climb to the hall. The retainers, armed with halberds and their faces exposed by open helme
ts, stared stunned as Bellamus rode right up to the door before dismounting. “Would you take care of that for me?” he asked one, proffering the reins. Bellamus was shaved and had trimmed his long hair. He had no more gold but wore fresh, well-made clothes and his easy, confident manner was that of a man born to high status, rather than an upstart. Most remarkable of all, however, was the immense war-blade strapped to his back, the handle of which protruded above his shoulder. So one of the retainers took the reins of his horse with a little bow and a muttered, “Lord.”
“What are you doing here, lord?” asked another.
“No need to call me lord,” said Bellamus. “I am here to see the king. Please tell His Majesty that Bellamus of Safinim has arrived.”
The guard complied, turning to the door behind him, lifting the latch and sliding through. It did not take long for him to return.
“His Majesty will see you at once, lord.”
“You’re most kind,” said Bellamus. The door was held open for him and he advanced into the hall.
The interior was dark and cavernous. Shadows flickered on the walls, cast from a large central hearth in which a fire squirmed and wriggled; the smoke it gave off escaping through a hole in the roof above. The floor was some kind of mortar embedded with crushed tiles, and a dozen more retainers lined the walls, scrutinising Bellamus as he walked by. At the far end of the hall was a platform surrounded by a small cluster of nobles and bishops who also stared at him as he approached, each face wearing a look of disdain and, Bellamus noted, months of uncontrolled beard-growth. He knew why they had all gathered: they had heard of his return and wanted to see how the king punished him. They were hoping to witness his downfall that day. One earl in particular stepped forward as Bellamus approached, a smile of withering insincerity on his face.
