by Paul Finch
“You were present when my lord was bitten?” Trelawna asked, clasping his shoulders.
Alaric nodded awkwardly. He didn’t like to meet her gaze these days, for fear it would reveal too much. She’d always behaved with him the way a mother would, fond and fussing, but Alaric didn’t regard her so in return. He was on the cusp of manhood, and his adolescent adoration of Trelawna was increasingly replaced by a confused but fierce yearning. “It’s true what Sir Wulfstan says, my lady. The serpent only caught him a glancing blow.”
From further up the track came gruff shouting, as Lucan insisted that people take their hands off him. He pushed his men away, growling like a bear. This was not the way Lucan routinely treated his vassals, and those who witnessed it knew for certain that he was more badly hurt than he was admitting.
“This monster?” she said. “He stood against it alone?”
“He killed it, my lady,” Alaric replied. “It was the greatest act of bravery I ever saw.”
“My lady, forgive me,” came another voice. It was Benedict, now struggling with several horses whose masters had hurried off on foot to assist their lord. “Alaric does himself an injustice. It was his arrow that pierced the monster’s eye, his hunting spear that pinioned it to a tree. As Earl Lucan saved Malvolio’s life, so Alaric saved Earl Lucan’s.”
Trelawna gazed wonderingly from one lad to the other.
“I know this to be true,” Benedict added, “because your husband proclaimed it so.”
“You saved my husband, Alaric?” she asked.
Alaric shrugged. “I was only doing my duty, ma’am.”
Her sad smile betrayed a mother’s pride, which tore at his insides. “There are many who have used that phrase to disguise evil deeds, Alaric. You, however, grace it. As your deeds grace your birthday. Today is your coming of age in many ways.”
She planted a kiss on his brow, before turning to an attendant who had brought up her palfrey. She climbed onto the saddle, and trotted away.
Alaric hung his head, cheeks burning.
“Beware, my friend,” Benedict said. “Unrequited love is always the worst.”
Alaric glanced round at him. “So speaks the voice of experience?”
“Of course. I love all women, but only a few reciprocate. Hence I know what I’m talking about.”
“You’re being presumptuous, Ben.”
“I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? And so have others around here. You need to be careful.”
Alaric assisted him with the horses. “You think I would do anything improper?”
“The heart is a treacherous master.”
Alaric gripped his wrist. “My master is Earl Lucan, Steward of the North! I would never do anything to dishonour him!”
Gingerly, Benedict disentangled himself from the bloodstained paw. “Let’s hope he lives long enough for you to keep that promise.”
Three
DESPITE LUCAN’S ORDERS that Alaric’s birthday feast should go ahead, it was not to be.
For the rest of that day, a severe sickness struck the injured nobleman. On his return to Penharrow, Trelawna herself attended to his wounds. During her many years on this wild border, she’d lost count of the number of times she’d stitched him. Thanks to the tutelage of Morgan Tud, a famed physic of the Royal Court, who had studied at Salerno, she knew how to draw poison from a freshly infected wound, but in Lucan’s case the point where the serpent had bitten him was already so putrid that she dared not touch it, neither with needle, nor knife, nor hot iron.
She washed the wound as gently as she could, an experience her husband bore through with gritted teeth, and patched it with clean linen and a poultice. She advised that Lucan rest, but he had other ideas, insisting on striding around the castle, ordering fresh rushes to be laid on the floor of the main hall, having the fires built up and advising his kitchen-staff and his minstrels that tonight would be an opportunity for them to impress him with their talents. He alternately sweated and shivered, and if it was possible – and some, appalled, said it was not – he grew even whiter of hue. When he attempted either to eat or drink, he suffered bouts of dizziness.
“I swear to you, Alaric,” he said, “tonight your heroism will be proclaimed.”
Alaric nodded and smiled, secretly horror-struck by his master’s pale face and unfocused eyes. Trelawna watched from behind her husband’s back, the fingers of both hands laced tightly.
It seemed only fitting that the serpent’s head should take pride of place during the feast. After all, this was the first real trophy Alaric had participated in capturing. But it was a grisly object, still dribbling its vile fluids, its jaws locked open in a yawning gape that could swallow a man whole. Some of Countess Trelawna’s ladies felt faint on looking at it; a serving maid shrieked and a dropped a tray of crockery. Lucan thus decided that it could be shut in the ice-house until the following morning, at which point tanners would be summoned from one of the villages so the ghastly shape could be rendered and mounted. But the servants were loath to touch it, so the earl opted to carry it out himself, at which point his shoulder gave way. The pain that lanced through his upper body took the breath from his lungs, and it was all he could do to keep his feet. Again, sweat streamed from Lucan’s face; blood, freshly shed but brackish with impurity, burst through the poultice and drenched his loose-fitting tunic.
Trelawna took charge and ordered that he be conveyed to his bed.
For the rest of that day he lay stripped to his braies, insensible. Trelawna had no option but to defy his orders, and delay the evening celebrations. In response, he only mumbled, his eyelids fluttering. At length, she closed the door on the chamber and turned to the small group of officials assembled in the adjoining passage.
There stood Father Belisarius, Godric, the chief steward, Hubert, the earl’s chamberlain and treasurer, and Brother Oswy, his scribe and chronicler. Of the fighting household, Turold was present, along with Wulfstan and Gerwin, Lucan’s knight-commander, who had ridden in from his own estate, and Guthlac, captain of the Castle Guard. Also present were Cadelaine and Brione, the castellans of the earl’s subsidiary fortresses at Grimhall and Bullwood.
“There is no point in my lying to you,” she said, regarding them with the cool authority she’d seen her husband adopt in times of crisis. “You know Earl Lucan well enough to recognise that he is seriously ill. As we speak he is gripped by a frightful fever. It may break during the course of the night, but at present it is impossible to make predictions. All we can do is watch and wait. Father Belisarius, your prayers would not go amiss.”
The chaplain nodded soberly.
“My lady,” Turold said, “among the White Canons at Thornbrook Abbey there is a certain Brother Callisa, a skilled surgeon and physician who trained in the same schools as Morgan Tud. He is elderly now and a recluse, but he worked among the wounded on the River Humber, and achieved miracles.”
“Thornbrook Abbey is two days ride from here,” Trelawna said. “But in the absence of any other choice... Wulfstan, send a rider to Thornbrook.”
Wulfstan nodded and withdrew.
The countess fixed the rest of the group with a stern eye. “In the meantime, we sound no death-knells yet. Turold, I hear they are donning mail and weapons in the Knights’ Hall. They must desist at once. No vigils are to be held tonight. It was the Penharrow Worm who lost the fight today,” Trelawna reminded them, “no-one else. Earl Lucan is strong, and we have Father Belisarius and Brother Oswy to sing a Mass by his bedside.”
Once the remainder of the party had been dispatched to their quarters, she admitted the two clerics to the bedchamber, where they burned purification herbs in the grate – honeysuckle, rhubarb and dried rose-petals – and lit candles of healing. Even when the holy men began to chant, their overlord did not stir. He lay in deep sleep, glazed with icy sweat. Even by the dull red candle-glow, he remained shockingly pale. At last Trelawna withdrew to one of the guest-chambers, where Gerta prepared her for sleep, which did not
come easily.
She dreamed that she was fleeing through the gnarled trees cramming the nooks and channels of Dungeon Ghyll, and that something dreadful was following her – something vaguely like a man though several feet taller than any man had ever been, and covered with a shaggy pelt of silver-grey fur. It roared and snarled, uprooting tree-trunks and snapping boughs, while Trelawna struggled to make any headway, her night-gown and hair catching on twigs. Her pursuer’s Herculean roars echoed through the twisting ravines as it drew closer. The thudding impacts of its feet sounded right behind her –
And then she realised the truth, and her eyes snapped open.
She rose from her pillow as Annette entered her chamber unbidden. “Forgive me, my lady. There’s a matter of some importance.”
“My husband?” Trelawna asked.
“Not your husband... he still sleeps. But a messenger has arrived.”
“What hour is it?”
“Shortly before three, ma’am.”
“A messenger, at this time?”
“He carries the Royal Seal.”
Trelawna drew on a shawl, and hurried to the courtyard gantry. Torches burned below, where a groom led away a lathered, steaming horse. Its rider was pacing distractedly. He’d removed his feathered cap, to let loose a hank of blond, sweat-soaked hair, and wore a green, travel-stained cloak over a doublet, hose and leather riding-boots. An empty scabbard hung over his back – his sword must have been surrendered to the gatekeepers on arrival. Members of the Night-Guard stood close by, spears brandished. Turold had also been roused. He wore breeches, slippers and a cloak, and had buckled on a sword-belt.
“Who are you?” Trelawna asked, descending.
The newcomer turned abruptly. He was a youngish man, ruddy-faced but unshaven, an indication of the time he had spent on the road. Briefly he seemed captivated by the sight of her. This may have been because he had been expecting the earl, though it was often the response of men who had never met Countess Trelawna before. In her night-time attire, wearing only a simple woollen gown cinched at her narrow waist, a shawl around her shoulders and with her long, honey-gold hair hanging in a single braid, her beauty seemed that much more homely.
He bowed. “My name is Crispin, my lady. Of the family Roncesvalles. If you are Countess Trelawna – and forgive me, you could only be she – I have urgent news for your husband.”
“You have ridden all the way from Camelot?”
“Yes, my lady. I have barely stopped these last five days.”
“Five days?” Trelawna was astonished. “Have you eaten, slept?”
“I’ve ate the few supplies I carried whilst on the road, ma’am. As for sleep, I took naps in haystacks and cowsheds.”
“I think we can do better than that.” Trelawna turned. Godric, sleepy-eyed and looking even more corpulent than usual in a voluminous night-shirt, had now arrived. “Our steward will provide you with...”
“My lady, there is no time,” Crispin interrupted. “I must speak with your husband.”
Trelawna regarded him carefully. “This is a serious matter?”
The messenger seemed discomfited. He scanned the gantries, clearly seeking Earl Lucan, but finding no-one. Finally, he opened a pouch and produced a scroll, tightly bound with the royal emblem. “I have an Extraordinary Summons for your husband, ma’am. He is to attend a Royal Council straight away.”
“I’m afraid my husband is in no fit state to make such a journey.”
The messenger’s face fell. “He is ill?”
“A hunting accident yesterday.”
“Ma’am, the King has issued an Extraordinary Summons, which means that...”
“Which means that only in the most extreme circumstances may it be refused. I’m fully aware of this.”
“Forgive me. Is your husband very badly hurt?”
“We fear he may die.”
There was a brief silence during which the messenger’s face visibly fell. “These... these are grave tidings.”
“Your kindness is appreciated. But Crispin, you seem inordinately affected. Did you know my husband?”
“I know his quality, and the truth is the King has need of him.”
“How so?”
“Ma’am. I am only a messenger. It’s not my place to...”
“I am Earl Lucan’s official representative, so any message you had for my husband will be safe with me.” Crispin regarded her nervously, torn by indecision. “Crispin!” Her voice hardened. “If you will not give me the message, I would deem it a politeness if, at the very least, you would explain why you deem it such a disaster that my husband is ill.”
“That part is simple, ma’am. Your husband commands the North. That’s an easy phrase to utter, of course, but in Earl Lucan’s case it is actually true. His lands buttress all the central region of this northern border, which is perhaps the most difficult to govern in the whole of Britain...”
“In my husband’s absence, I command the North, Crispin. As he cannot attend this Royal Council, I shall do it for him.”
Crispin looked startled. “Ma’am?”
“As you doubtless know, we were not blessed with children. My husband has no son or heir. Therefore I will take his position.”
Crispin glanced at the earl’s steward and banneret, who both regarded him steadily.
“If this is a War Council,” Trelawna said, “I will not and never would presume to take my husband’s seat at the Round Table. But I see no additional document to call a muster, so I must assume we are not at war. If you are merely seeking the advice of the North, I am the only person qualified to give it.”
“What’s this?” came a voice from the top of the stair.
They glanced up and saw Lucan. He still wore only his braies, though a blanket was swathed around his shoulders. He gripped the balustrade with one hand, but seemed otherwise steady as he descended. His hair and body were damp, but he was breathing easily and, when he alighted in the courtyard, his eyes – so fogged with delirium earlier – had cleared.
“WHAT’S THIS?” HE said again, apparently vexed. But then his face cracked into a broad grin. He even laughed, though it made him cough. “Did any man have so brave a wife?” He approached Trelawna and put his arm around her. “You would go among these lions on my behalf?”
“My lord,” she replied, “you seem to have regained your strength.”
“I slept well. At least until those priests you stationed in our chamber awoke me with their snoring.”
“You’ve not regained your colour...”
“One can’t have everything.” Lucan turned to the messenger. “Your name is Crispin?”
“It is, Earl Lucan. I understood you were injured...”
“Don’t concern yourself. I’m fit enough to travel. My wife was doing exactly as she ought to in these circumstances. Mind, she should have realised by now that no serpent venom is a match for the blood Corneus.”
Trelawna shook her head as if this was boyish nonsense. Crispin nodded curtly, and handed over the scroll. Lucan tore it open and read through it.
When he closed it again, he was smiling. “So the Romans are coming.”
“The Romans...?” Trelawna whispered.
“Special envoys will shortly arrive from New Rome,” Crispin explained.
“New Rome is it now?” Lucan said. “The men from the Tiber think they can disguise their intentions simply by putting on new clothes.”
Crispin shrugged. “They say they want peace.”
“We already have peace. Do we need their permission for it to continue?”
“The King has been asking the same question. This is why he seeks the advice of his magnates.”
“We’ll be facing these dogs across the Council chamber, will we?” Lucan said.
“The King hopes the matter can be resolved without acrimony.”
Lucan smiled again. “It may be, or it may not. The Romans have recovered much lost territory, but they’ve met no real opposition as y
et. The question is, do they realise that? You perform your office well, sirrah. Godric... make sure this fellow has food, drink and a comfortable bed.”
“Your lordship is too kind,” Crispin replied. “But I’ll be leaving at the first cockcrow. What might I tell the King?”
“Tell him we’ll be leaving at the second.”
Crispin nodded, satisfied, and allowed himself to be led away. Trelawna put a hand on her husband’s chest, and then on his brow.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Truth is, I’m burned out inside. I don’t know what that means exactly. I’m light-headed. Feel like I’m stuffed with hay...”
“It’s perhaps to be expected.”
“It’s an improvement on earlier. Anyway, I’ll be fine by morning. If not, what does it matter? I won’t be walking to Camelot.”
“I’ll be coming with you,” she said.
Lucan looked surprised. “You fear I may drop dead on the road?”
“I’m your wife, and I’ll be with you.”
“I’d have no other chaperone,” he said, leaning down and kissing her lips. She reciprocated – a little. No doubt his unkempt state was putting her off.
By God, but she was such a beauty. He gazed down on her, awed yet again that he had ever found so handsome a bride, and at the same time stricken to his heart that she could never feel quite the same way about him that he felt about her.
He’d been a much younger man when, in a single-combat between champions, fighting on behalf of Arthur, he had killed Alain d’Abato, the famous Frankish warrior. Trelawna, d’Abato’s daughter, was already without a mother, and had been left facing, at best a wardship, at worst destitution. Lucan had done the honourable thing and taken her hand in marriage. Naturally, she’d hated him at first, but time was a healer in many ways. Gradually, as he’d cared for her and given her a new place in the world, she’d come to have affection for him, and certainly to respect him, but love – well, love was not some gift you could bestow upon a person. Either you held it for them, or you didn’t.
