by Paul Finch
Alaric knelt, helpless before this vision of celestial splendour.
Many in Albion had come late in life to the Christian God. Pictish and Saxon incursion after the legions left had sent many Britons back to their hill-forts and their woodland temples, where the faces of pagan spirits were still cut in the bark. Only Arthur’s victories had helped reverse this tide. But Alaric was not a recent convert. He had no memory of his real parents, who had been murdered and his home destroyed while he was still a babe in arms. But those who’d abducted him, in one of those strange contradictions that bedeviled Christianity, had seen to it that he was baptised before making him their slave. As such, he had never known any other faith, and had never held with those cynical men who reckoned the weakness of God’s servants to be a weakness of God Himself. Prelates might abuse their positions — gluttonous friars might roister with thanes and knaves, priests might steal church-offerings to line their vestment pockets, bishops might seek and wield power like ordinary, avaricious men — but they committed these deeds in defiance of Christ, not on His instruction. As such, the Holy Cloth did not protect them. They were as surely bound for Hell as any of those lay-sinners they so roundly condemned in the quest to empower themselves even more.
God was good.
God was kind.
God would forgive.
Though first one had to be contrite. One must seek forgiveness, and seek it honestly — not because one feared punishment, but because one regretted one’s offences.
Alaric walked doggedly from the cathedral, leaving by one of its rear doors. He could never seek shrift as things were. Though it was wicked and perverse of him, he loved his overlord’s wife. Expressing regret for that would not help — for it would be a lie, and God recognised all lies. Perhaps it was God’s little jest, therefore, that the first person he saw on leaving the building was Countess Trelawna. She sat with her ladies in the cathedral garden, in the midst of a manicured lawn with pollarded plum trees to either side.
“Alaric?” she said, noting his peculiar expression.
“My… lady,” he stuttered. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“How so, Alaric?”
“I thought… the attractions of the royal palace.”
“Ah… the season. To walk on the terraces up yonder would freeze our blood. Down here, the sun’s kisses are warmer. I’m equally surprised to see you. I thought the city would provide diversions.”
“Only brief ones, ma’am.” He was surprised she couldn’t tell that that his limbs were quaking, his brow flustered. He even resented her for that, so his voice hardened. “I came to the cathedral to find peace.”
“Peace, Alaric?”
“And I didn’t. In case you were wondering.”
“Why do you seek peace? You’re a young man. You know no troubles.”
Alaric gazed at her long and hard, willing her to understand his torment. She regarded him with all innocence, though several of her ladies were now eyeing him curiously.
“You’re right, my lady,” he finally said, struggling to fight back tears. “I can’t tell you my troubles — they’re trifling things. As you say, I’m only a boy.”
He turned and left the garden with plodding steps.
Trelawna gazed after him, puzzled. “I meant no insult.”
“I don’t think he was insulted, mistress,” Annette said, averting her eyes.
“I doubt it would be possible for you to insult that one,” Gerta muttered. She sat several yards away on a stool, working at her embroidery, adding under her breath: “Foolish brat. He’ll bring destruction on more than just himself.”
Eight
The conference chamber in St. Stephen’s Deanery was a lengthy hall. There was no central table, but several tiers of benches ranged its facing walls, with ten yards of parquet floor betwixt them. The ceiling was cross-beamed with oak, while high, arched windows sheathed in horn cast shafts of pinkish sunlight across the floor. The Archbishop’s Chair, a raised gilded throne, occupied the farthest end. Ordinarily, Archbishop Stigand would hold sway from this lofty position, but today he had surrendered it to King Arthur, as host of the conference.
The two parties faced each other across the chamber, Arthur’s knights and barons on his right, and the Roman ambassadors and their aides and advisors on the left. As arms were never to be worn in this place, no weapons were sported, not even ceremonial swords or daggers, and there was certainly no place for plate or mail. As such, the chamber, often the preserve of simple monastic robes — grey, black or brown, with the occasional dash of Episcopal purple — was now a riot of gorgeous colour. Arthur’s nobles displayed their heraldic livery: blues, greens, reds, golds, oranges; emblems of every sort from leopards to unicorns, crosses to crowns and chevrons. By contrast, the Romans were in heavier formal garb — gowns trimmed with fur, high velvet collars, sleeveless ermine doublets. Each ambassador displayed an extravagant chain of office.
Archbishop Stigand, clad in a lilac cassock and shoulder-cape, made a curt inspection of the chamber before matters commenced, passing blessings on all those gathered, the priests and deacons with him casting incense from jeweled censers.
By prior arrangement, it fell to Bishop Malconi to eventually open proceedings.
“Your Highness,” he said, rising to his feet and addressing the King. “Your beneficence in allowing this hearing cannot be underestimated. That you welcome foreign dignitaries into your great city to voice their concerns is the sign of a truly civilised monarch.”
Arthur nodded his gratitude.
“Let us to business,” the bishop added. “We have many hard matters to debate. First and foremost, my lord, is Emperor Lucius’s frustration with the continued activities of Saxon pirates. They sail across the German sea, through the Channel and along the Gallic coast, raiding our shipping and our coastal towns.”
“The Saxons are indeed a troublesome breed,” Arthur agreed.
Malconi smiled gently as if he’d expected to be misunderstood. “How shall I put this without causing offence? We have information, King Arthur, that… well, Saxon longships are sailing from British ports.”
Sir Cador leapt to his feet. “That is a damned lie!”
The Romans regarded him with bright eyes and blank expressions.
“Sir Cador,” Arthur said. “Pray, do not be rude to our honoured guests.”
Cador protested. “To suggest such a thing…”
“Do you deny there is a Saxon presence on your eastern shore?” Malconi enquired.
“There are Saxon settlements, yes,” Arthur agreed. “But they exist under our auspices. They have no military bases.”
“So everything they do, they do with your permission, my lord?”
“Since the battle on the River Duhblas, the Saxons who live in Britain are my subjects,” Arthur said, politely but firmly. “They pay taxes to me and obey my laws, which expressly forbid banditry and piracy.”
“So unless you are calling our sovereign a liar, and can produce evidence to support such a claim, I suggest you withdraw your comments,” Cador said.
“Sir Cador!” Arthur said admonishingly. “This is an open Council. Every man here must feel that he can speak his mind. Only that way may we clear up any misunderstandings.”
“It may be a misunderstanding, King Arthur,” Malconi said. “I, for one, hope it is. But may I propose another possibility?”
“Please do.”
“It is well known that Saxon migration continues into Britain despite your great victories. Is it possible that Saxon forces have set up covert bases along your shore? Perhaps in hidden coves, on isolated islets?”
Arthur pondered this, as did his knights. It was entirely possible that Saxon pirates were operating illicitly from the British coast. The Saxons were an unruly and difficult people, and more and more of them were arriving in Britain.
“This is something we will look into,” Arthur said.
“Might I volunteer some assistance?” Ma
lconi replied.
“‘Assistance,’ your grace?” Bedivere asked.
“Britain is a large and trackless country,” Malconi explained. “It must be difficult deploying your forces in times of crisis.”
“We already have forces on our east coast,” Bedivere replied. “A number of lords, some seated in this hall, hold authority there. Each of our five major ports has its own reeve.”
“No doubt. But what of your naval forces in that region? It seems to me that pirates can only really be countered at sea.”
“And let me guess,” Lancelot said. “The Romans would loan us ships?”
“We would loan you an entire fleet,” Malconi said magnanimously. “Not only that… expert crews and captains, with vast knowledge and experience.”
“And these captains and crews would need ports, presumably?” Lancelot said. “Roman ports… on British soil.”
“That would seem reasonable,” Malconi replied.
“Not to us,” Arthur said.
“King Arthur, the Saxon incursions into our dominion are becoming intolerable.”
“Then fight the Saxons!” Cador said. “If your captains are so experienced, have them navigate along the Rhine, plunder the Saxon towns, burn their woodland groves. Have your Emperor send his legions across the Odenwald again… if they dare.”
Arthur held up hands for peace. “Gentlemen…”
“King Arthur, we do send patrols north into the German Sea,” Malconi replied. “But beyond a certain point, our military vessels are blind. We have few accurate charts of that region. We have no real friends. If our ships suffered damage, which ports could they put into?”
“Why not British ports?” Bishop Proclates said, as if the idea had just occurred to him.
Malconi looked interested by this. “How speak you, your grace?”
Proclates took the floor. “King Arthur, how if we were to make a bargain whereby Roman craft may be moored and repaired in British ports?”
Malconi nodded. “Emperor Lucius would pay a commensurate sum…”
“A nice plan,” Kay interjected. “Except that it would arouse the ire of our Saxon subjects.”
Malconi frowned. “But King Arthur said the Saxons in Britain are subservient?”
Arthur smiled. “Bishop Malconi, our northern frontier is the most difficult to manage. Beyond it to the northwest lies the warlike kingdom of Rheged, while to the northeast lie even more antagonistic foes — the Picts. The thought of Roman triremes falling into those hands is intolerable. However, the request in itself is not unreasonable.” He turned to his own benches. “How speaks the North?”
It was several seconds before Lucan realised that every eye was upon him. “My liege?”
“Earl Lucan, should we avail our northeast ports to Roman military shipping?”
Felix Rufio had paid scant attention up to now, wondering if, as Trelawna had assured him in the note she’d secretly delivered to his quarters the night before, she would be somewhere in the vicinity. She might even be outside this room. It set his heart pounding. After so many years abstaining — not from sexual congress, obviously, but from meaningful sexual congress — she was still the only woman he thought about.
Now, however, his interest in the debate was ignited.
Directly across the chamber, Earl Lucan rose to his feet. Finally Rufio was face to face with his arch-rival, and at first glance was surprised to see, not a barbarian as he’d expected, but a handsomely groomed man. Lucan was tall and well-shaped for battle, and perhaps a little pale of complexion, but he was square-jawed and clean-shaved, with a mop of thick, black hair brushed neatly. He wore a crimson surcoat with a black wolf design on the front. If memory served, Trelawna had once said that her husband was referred to as ‘the Black Wolf of the North.’ Rufio regarded Lucan with instant dislike. He already felt slighted by the fellow’s presence, and at the same time not a little amused. That a man should owe his fearsome nickname to the emblem he wore was unimpressive.
“Sire, are you mad?” Lucan said, having risen slowly to his feet. He turned to his fellow Knights of the Round Table. “Are the rest of you mad? What if these Roman dogs plan to arm the Picts? Maybe supply them with skilled troops?”
Immediately one of the Roman ambassadors, a young officer who had been introduced earlier as Tribune Rufio, leapt from his bench. “That is a despicable slur!” he cried. “Our mission is entirely peaceful!”
“Perhaps,” Lucan replied coolly. “But for how long?”
Others of the Roman party expressed similar outrage. One who did not, Arthur noticed, was Tribune Maximion, another military man attached to the embassy and — according to Arthur’s spies — an older, wiser head than Rufio.
Now, however, Maximion stood as well. “Earl Lucan,” he said. “Your words are very disrespectful. Is there some reason why you mistrust New Rome?”
Lucan shrugged. “No more than you would mistrust us were we to contrive an excuse to send our warships along the African coast, where certain Moorish emirs are resisting your rule.”
The Roman ambassadors exchanged glances; there was no easy riposte to such a fair point. Maximion took his seat again — which Arthur found interesting. Had the elderly tribune posed his question to offer his hosts a small moral victory?
“Gentlemen,” the King said. “As you see, the issue of our northern ports is not a simple one. However, I am not averse to offering assistance should a Roman vessel be found in distress. I shall discuss this matter further, but privately with my advisors.”
Malconi nodded obsequiously. Tribune Rufio sat down again, but with poor grace.
“The next matter for today?” Arthur asked.
“The rather grave matter of Brittany,” Bishop Proclates replied. “Your friend on the Continent, King Arthur.”
“I’m perfectly aware who my friends are, your grace.”
“King Hoel regards himself as your military ally?” Consul Rascalon said.
“And?”
“Like the Saxons, he is proving a difficult neighbour.”
“Perhaps if your armies weren’t gathering beyond his border, he’d be more affable?” Lancelot suggested.
“Let’s cut to the chase, my lords,” Bedivere said. “New Rome intends to invade Brittany, does it not?”
“Criminal acts must be punished,” Bishop Proclates replied.
“What criminal acts would these be?” Cador wondered.
Again, Bishop Malconi rose to his feet. “King Arthur, it gives me no pleasure to report that Brittany’s spies stir revolt in our lands.”
“Have you evidence of this?” Bedivere asked.
“I’m sure it can be provided,” Malconi said.
“I’m sure as well,” Arthur said. “But what you really want to know, your grace, is what action Camelot will take if you do invade Brittany. Am I correct?”
Malconi wove his fingers together. “As things are, my lord, Brittany is an anachronistic presence on the Gallic mainland. But we have no aggressive intentions towards her. On the contrary, we seek to help… to modernise.”
“By breaking her borders?” Bedivere asked.
“We must consider all options.”
“So must we,” Arthur rejoined. “But unfortunately it’s not possible to form any kind of firm answer on the basis of these vagaries.”
“I have a question for their Roman lordships,” Cador shouted. Bedivere gave him a warning glance, but Cador was already in full flow. “Does your Emperor still consider Britain to be a Roman province?”
Malconi pursed his lips before replying. “Britain’s relationship with the Roman Empire was never formally dissolved.”
“Even though the Roman Empire in the West was dissolved in every way possible?”
Again, Arthur interrupted. “Cador, I’m sure our sovereignty over our own realm is not in question.” He directed his gaze at Bishop Malconi, who shook his head meekly. “That said, my lord bishop…” Arthur pondered. “That said, while we have t
he Emperor of New Rome present, in spirit if not body, perhaps we can ratify this state of affairs?”
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.