by Paul Finch
“Succubus…”
“If only that were true. Your imminent infidelity could be excused. No, Earl Lucan, Knight of the Round Table, Black Wolf of the North… you are very much awake, very much the master of your own flesh, which even now belies your piety…”
“My lord!” Turold shouted, entering the tent with a sword and a fire-brand.
Lucan sat upright abruptly, bathed in sweat but also shivering. He moved quickly to adjust his loincloth, and surveyed the otherwise empty interior. Turold’s torch revealed nothing amiss, save perhaps a few traces of dissipating mist.
“You were crying out in your sleep,” Turold said. “Are you ill?” Lucan got shakily to his feet. Turold eyed him with alarm. “A dream, perhaps?” he suggested.
“No dream,” Lucan replied.
“Maybe your wound…?”
“Those weren’t cries of pain, Turold.”
Turold looked puzzled.
“I’ve just received a warning to turn around,” Lucan explained. “It seems that not only might our flesh and bones be in peril, but our souls as well.”
Alaric also entered, with sword drawn.
Lucan glanced at him. “Has anyone else been disturbed?”
“No-one, my lord,” Alaric said.
“Then return to your beds, both of you. Say nothing of this.”
Turold withdrew, but Alaric remained.
“Well?” Lucan asked.
“You look shaken, my lord.”
“And?”
“My lord… you no longer have a squire, but if you need assistance…”
“I have no squire, Alaric, because what I do now would teach nothing to a young man seeking his way in the world.”
Alaric knew that it was not his place to speak out. His cheeks burned as he tried to give a discreet voice to his feelings. “My lord, this mission… I honestly don’t think…”
“Do you know what faces us, lad? I’ll tell you. The Ligurian mountains. Towering peaks with only scant passes and wild valleys between them. In some parts thickly wooded, in others parched and desolate. This would offer concern enough, without even considering what kind of strength the Malconis might hold in reserve. I hope the men have enjoyed tonight. Things will get much harder from here.”
“That was your purpose in wining and dining them?”
“I wined and dined them because they deserved it. But you’re right to think me a tyrant, Alaric. It’s a very cruel fate I’m dragging them to.”
“You haven’t dragged anyone. We all volunteered.”
“Ultimately, that won’t count for much.”
Twenty-Five
The journey across France was an ordeal Trelawna would never forget.
When crossing Britain with Lucan, they would travel in stately procession without haste, regularly stopping at the castles and manors of friends, family and loyal retainers, easing the boredom of a long journey with comfort and conviviality. But this was a headlong flight, following twisting, torturous tracks into the Ligurian mountains with no rest-breaks save at night, and it was physically and emotionally draining.
The battle had been every inch the atrocity she had anticipated.
At home in Penharrow she had nursed many who had returned from war. She had seen first-hand the dreadful impact of weapons and hatred. Even so, the horrors at the Vale of Sessoine had been a thousand times worse. It had been much the same for the Roman women, who had wept, wailed and even vomited at the scene of carnage. One elegant lady was transfixed by the sight of her young husband dragging behind his horse, an arrow lodged in his throat. Her screams of despair drew even Trelawna to her side, at which point the woman whirled around, calling her a “heretic bitch,” demanding she keep away.
“Heretic?” Trelawna said to Gerta, stunned. “She called me a heretic… without knowing my beliefs.”
“Of course,” Gerta whispered. “To their mind, we are inferior. And when one is inferior, proof of sin is not required. My lady, you will never be accepted by these people. Return to your husband now, before it’s too late.”
“I’ve made my choice, Gerta. If you wish to return, do; you have my permission.”
Shortly afterwards Rufio joined her on the low rise. He was filthy and bloodied, his handsome orange livery in rags, his armour dented and spattered with gore.
“We must leave,” he panted.
He was accompanied, for the most part, by comrades from the officer corps of the Fourteenth, though neither Antonius nor Frederiko were there, as both apparently had been slain. Trelawna did not consider this a desertion of duty, even though the conflict was still raging. She concluded that Rufio at last had shown good sense. Though such a commodity was in short supply over the next few hours, as they headed away from Sessoine with no apparent plan or direction, having gathered few supplies save those already packed in their saddle-bags. Many of the men were wounded and only crudely bandaged. A number of the horses limped.
They had now been travelling for a week, heading roughly southeast, and Trelawna was bone-weary and agonised from the saddle. She was also famished; the scraps they had brought for rations had served for only a couple of days. Rufio continued to give orders as if he were in charge, and to some extent he was, though Trelawna suspected this was because everyone else was too demoralised to argue with him. Those few occasions when he managed to speak to her privately — for they had no tent and at night slept beside a campfire among the others — he barely mentioned the battle, except to say: “We should have used artillery to bring them down from that high position,” or “blast Lucius and his ego… he sent men to certain death under those hails of arrows.”
Rufio never touched on his own role in the fray, if he’d had one. He was dirty and bloody enough when he’d returned, but Trelawna had not seen him during the actual fight and, on cleansing himself in a stream two days into the escape, she’d noted that his own wounds were few and light. The swaggering, handsome devil she had fallen in love with now looked a shadow of his former self. He shuddered and gnawed upon a knuckle to calm himself. He’d also become ill-tempered, castigating those around him in the foulest language, and when Frankish peasants, having identified their soiled standards as Roman, showered them with stones and dung, he rode among them with sword drawn, ordering their homes burned and livestock slaughtered.
But word had spread that New Rome was beaten, and much to Rufio’s chagrin, the inhospitality continued across the Sequana border in Burgundy, the northern quarter of which they had hoped to traverse en route to the Ligurian foothills.
Duke Draco of Burgundy had remained an independent power during New Rome’s reconquest. He had thirty thousand men at his command, and many well-maintained castles. He had never objected in principle to the return of Roman hegemony, and at one stage had sent ambassadors to Emperor Lucius’s court to name his price for full compliance, but so high had it been that even Emperor Lucius had found it ridiculous. At length terms had been reached to obtain Burgundy’s neutrality. Of course, once Arthur had been defeated, Lucius would have returned to Burgundy with his legions, having found a problem with these terms, at which point Duke Draco would have grandly consented to Roman wishes. It was all a game, in the spirit of which — when Rufio and his party found that they were also being stoned on the outskirts of Burgundian villages — Duke Draco had clearly, yet again, changed his allegiance.
“Gallic bastard!” Rufio spat, feeling this betrayal more than any of the others.
Certain of his lieutenants had mentioned the possibility of their seeking sanctuary in Draco’s ducal palace at Lyon. It was closer than Castello Malconi, but Rufio had judged that Arthur would probably pay Draco more for them than even his mother could afford, and had thus refused. Despite this, it was disconcerting to have any bolt-hole, even an unreliable one, so unceremoniously closed to them.
His anger and frustration finally boiled over after several days climbing into the ever-steepening foothills. They halted to rest on a broad slope where rock-sli
des had shattered the pine trees, but where dark regions of shadow-filled woodland still beckoned on either side. The sole centurion Rufio had in his company was the veteran, Marius, who, on his own initiative, had posted watchmen at the rear to detect any pursuit. One of these now caught up with the party, shouting that they were in grave danger.
The watchman, a junior officer of the Fourteenth Legion, leapt from his horse and sank to his haunches, gasping. His animal was lathered with sweat. The party circled him, unnerved. Rufio dismounted, handing his reins to a valet.
“Speak, fellow!” he said. “What danger?”
“My lord…” The watchman straightened up, rubbing his aching backside. “I dallied to the rear, in an effort to gather intelligence…”
“Yes, yes,” Rufio said impatiently. “What have you learned?”
“Does anyone have water?”
A water skin was thrown to him. He took several deep draughts before continuing. “I lingered at an inn called the Red Gauntlet. You remember it, my lord?”
“I do. It was some way back, as I recall, but a pleasant enough distraction. Little wonder you chose that as your sentry-point.”
“My lord, I chose it because it’s a popular haunt. I fancied anyone on our tail would call there to refresh themselves. Well… someone did. A knight in black wolf-fur, and a pack of cutthroats. All veterans of the fight at Sessoine — I know this much because they paid for their food and drink in pillaged Roman gold.”
Rufio said nothing. The rest of his band listened intently.
“I managed to sidle close while they were in their cups. It was a risky policy. Had they noticed, it would have been the worse for me…”
“Enough with your heroics!” Rufio snapped. “Get on with it!”
“In short, my lord… they loathe and detest us. Their leader wishes to kill us all.”
“Did they tarry there?”another officer asked, hopefully. “Drinking, making merry?”
“They made merry for one night, sir, but were on the road again by dawn. I had to ride at full gallop to get ahead of them. They are making better time than us; they have brought fit horses, plus water and fodder.”
“We can feed and water our own nags when they get us to Castello Malconi,” Rufio said distractedly.
The watchman looked surprised. “Castello Malconi? But that’s days from here, along terrible roads… and your enemies are closing. Tribune, we’d be better cutting southwest from this point, seeking shelter with Draco of Burgundy.”
“We’ve already had this discussion,” Rufio retorted. “Draco would betray us.”
“Betray us…?”
“Too much jibber-jabber! Mount up. We can’t delay.”
But the watchman did not mount up. Possibly he had been expecting more than this — if not congratulations for his good work, at least some food and rest. When neither of these was forthcoming, and he was presented instead with the reality of ever-harder mountain trails, something inside him snapped.
“Why should Duke Draco betray us?” he asked loudly. “It’s you they want. You’re the one who dishonoured one of their greatest lords.” He turned to the others. “Why should the rest of us suffer for what he did?”
“Hold your tongue!” Centurion Marius hissed.
“And what kind of refuge will we find at Castello Malconi?” the watchman cried. “It’s a pile of rock in a forsaken waste! His mother worships dark gods. She’ll more likely kill us than give us succour…”
“You plebian bastard!” Rufio shrieked, striking hard and unexpectedly with his sabre. The first blow clove the watchman to the teeth. The second struck the joint between his neck and collar-bone, plunging to such depth that it could not be retrieved.
The corpse toppled stiffly over, Rufio’s blade still wedged in place.
“Vermin-ridden scum!” Rufio screamed at the rest of them. “Are you so quick to forget that you are Roman soldiers? This war is not over because we lost one battle. Arthur knows that too. That’s why he hunts us. You wish to go to the Duke of Burgundy, who will do away with you, one way or the other, if for no other reason than to avoid housing and feeding you… then be my guest! Craven-hearted knaves! You would abandon your commander just because times are hard?”
“No-one agreed with him, my lord,” Centurion Marius ventured.
Sputum slathered Rufio’s chin. He pointed at them with shaking finger. “From this moment, if one jackanapes among you utters a single word in defiance of my orders, he dies.” He clambered into his saddle. “We ride on… do you hear me? We ride on until I say we stop! There are two more hours before nightfall, valuable time which we cannot afford to waste.”
The party moved wearily on, Rufio riding at the front. Alongside him was Trelawna. Her honey hair hung in unwashed strands. Her fine clothes were torn and travel-stained. But she was still beautiful. She sat upright in the saddle, staring directly ahead.
“I suppose you think I acted too harshly?” he said tightly.
“At least you improved on your master’s example,” she replied. “You only killed one, instead of one in every ten.”
“You should say a prayer that those who are following us will restrict themselves to killing one in every ten. Somehow I suspect they won’t.”
“There is one solution, Felix. That you continue to your family refuge, and I return to my husband.”
Rufio looked amazed. “You’re suggesting I give you up?”
“It’s the best chance your family has of extracting itself from this tragedy.”
“You think my family needs such a chance? Do you know who we are, my lovely baroness? We are the Dukes Malconi, the embodiment of Roman nobility, in the cleft of whose noble arse your husband and his vagabond retinue are little more than an itch.” Suspecting this latest idea had come from Gerta, he glowered over his shoulder. The elderly servant rode several yards behind them. She returned his gaze severely. “Perhaps we should send your prattling wet-nurse back,” he said. “So she can leave them in no uncertainty about the danger they face?”
“Threats will not dissuade them,” Trelawna said. “They are sworn to the quest.”
“The quest! Always I hear about this! What is this quest of which your country bumpkin knights are so fond?”
“With each knight it is different. They pursue the chivalrous ideal.”
“What is that supposed to mean? They dedicate themselves to good deeds?”
“To the knightly virtues — courage, honour and so forth.”
“And how do they square that with slaughter and pillage?”
“Arthur has rules against such indiscretions.”
“Nevertheless, your knights indulge.”
“There are rotten apples in every barrel. The ideal remains untainted.”
They rode in silence, before Rufio asked: “What of Sir Lucan? Is he a rotten apple?”
“No… but he is tainted, in his way. As a youth he suffered much.”
Rufio recollected the dark spectre he’d almost been confronted with in the midst of the battle. There’d been no mistaking the black mantle, the cloak of black wolf-fur — the longsword swirling as the demonic shape hacked his way though Roman horsemen, their sundered corpses crashing to earth, gore pulsing through broken helms and pierced breastplates.
It hadn’t been difficult to turn tail and flee.
That was something Rufio didn’t like to admit, not even to himself, but there was no doubt, when he’d seen his opponent delivering death on all sides like the Reaper, working his way ever closer… it had been a barely conscious decision to quit the field.
“I wonder why Arthur would use such a man,” Rufio said, thinking aloud.
“Lucan only ever slays Arthur’s foes.”
“In grotesque numbers.”
“Men like Lucan made the kingdom safe.”
“And freed it of political rivals.”
She glanced around at him. “What do you mean?”
“One man’s rebel is another man’s fre
edom fighter. Your great King Arthur is just another tyrant. You know he now marches on Rome itself?”
“Rome attacked Arthur’s allies first.”
“Tit-for-tat massacres. How chivalrous.”
“You can hardly talk, Felix. Your Emperor despoiled an innocent land with mercenaries.”
“In whose company Earl Lucan would feel very cozy.”
“Does he terrify you so much, soldier of Rome?”
Rufio spun around in the saddle, the back of his gauntleted fist catching her a stinging blow in the middle of the face.
Behind them, Gerta squawked with outrage. Trelawna hunched forward, one hand clamped to her nose, which streamed blood. Rufio reined up, wild-eyed and red-cheeked, looking as if he was about to strike her again. The rest of the company laboured past, uninterested. Most probably thought the heretic bitch had got exactly what she deserved.
Only slowly did Rufio’s anger seem to abate. “Forgive me,” he said at last, when all the others had gone, though he didn’t sound particularly contrite.
Gerta glared fiercely at him as she wrapped her arms around her mistress.
“It seems my full anger is being horse-drawn from me today,” he added.
“Aye,” Gerta retorted. “Onto the helpless.”
“What did you say, servant?”
“Gerta, ride on,” Trelawna instructed.
Very reluctantly, Gerta spurred her horse forward.
“That crone needs to learn some respect,” Rufio snapped.
Trelawna put a crumpled wad of linen to her nose. “In all my years in that brute land you despise so much, no man laid a finger on me.”
“Well, what do you expect?” he shouted. “You accused me of being frightened, but why wouldn’t I be? All our dreams are laid waste. New Rome, which took twenty years of political and military craftsmanship to reconstruct, is gone in an instant.”