by Paul Finch
“You’ll have to proceed on foot,” Wulfstan said, in the tone of irritation he used with all the squires. “Either that or go back.”
Alaric stiffened. “I’m not going back.”
Wulfstan climbed into his saddle. “We won’t be racing ahead. It shouldn’t be too hard to stay in touch. But don’t slouch.”
Malvolio watched sympathetically while Alaric tethered his horse to a bough, took his bow and a hunting spear, and slung a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. They continued in single file. Only a slice of sky was visible between the parapets of rock overhead. It grew colder as the path meandered downward; soon they were pressing through mist so dense that the horsemen ahead of Alaric became dim silhouettes. When the passage suddenly broadened out and he found himself slogging through knee-deep water, his companions were rendered indistinguishable from the skeletal outlines of willows, which clustered around them, their bony fingers trailing in the pools and bogs.
“Everyone mind your footing,” Wulfstan muttered. “Particularly you, Malvolio. Malvolio? Malvolio... where are you?”
There was no response, though a heavy splashing could be heard to their left. Or was it behind them? It was difficult to tell.
“Damn!” Wulfstan snapped. “Where are you, boy? Blast it! The rest of you, hold up!”
They wheeled their animals around as they searched for the errant squire. Alaric couldn’t believe it. They’d only just entered this swampy area; it seemed impossible that in so short a time even a buffoon like Malvolio could have got himself lost.
IN FACT, MALVOLIO didn’t consider that he was lost – not as such.
He’d veered away from the others in order to take advantage of the broader passage, only to find himself deeper in the marsh. His horse, a wilful young mare with the unlikely name of Rosebud, had taken it on herself to find drier ground. She’d plunged another ten yards to their left, found firmer footing and proceeded uphill despite his best efforts to turn her round again. The next thing he knew, he was pushing through matted thickets, which clawed at his clothes and face. It seemed to take minutes to reach higher, flatter ground, where the mist abruptly melted away.
He had entered a woodland clearing, sheltered beneath a mighty oak but with a cliff face at its far end, in the centre of which a cave yawned. He managed to rein up, and glanced over his shoulder. Vapour ebbed through the meshed branches behind him. He wanted to call out, but something stopped him. He glanced back at the pitch-dark cave. Cautiously, he dismounted and approached on foot, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, and halted about ten yards away. He peered further into the depths, seeing a low, jagged ceiling mottled with lichen, an earthen floor strewn with dried branches. A stale smell seeped from the cave – the dankness of the underworld, no doubt. He pictured endless caverns, their slimy walls thick with fungus and spider-webs.
Then two things struck him.
Firstly – he was being watched. From somewhere in the bowels of that cave, a baleful gaze was fixed on him.
Secondly, what he’d thought were dry sticks were actually bones.
Malvolio sensed the thing coming down the cave before he saw it. And he heard it too: a sudden rushing of air; a whisper of leathery flesh; and a savage hisss like a jet of gas erupting from the earth. He turned and fled across the clearing – only to find that Rosebud, evidently more sensitive to these things than he was, was already capering off through the trees. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed an enormous shape emerge into the daylight. As he ran, Malvolio screamed.
LUCAN HAD SEPARATED from his own group to give his mount fresher water to drink. He was in the saddle alongside a burn running downhill through a steep gorge. Thirty yards below him, the others had made temporary camp among a stand of pines.
At first he thought he’d imagined the distant, echoing cry. Curious, he manoeuvred his animal around.
There was a second, louder cry. He glanced down to the pinewood. Turold and the others were moving on. He shouted, but the acoustics in the enclosed place were difficult; he couldn’t be sure whether they’d heard him or not. But there was no time to waste. He urged his horse up the boulder-strewn passage. At the top, he crossed the burn. When he reached the other side, he heard a third cry. This one was clear and high-pitched. Lucan cursed; it could only be Malvolio. He spurred his horse to a gallop, weaving through the thickets until he spied open ground.
Lucan’s first thought on entering the clearing was that he should have called the retinue out for battle rather than a holiday hunt. He also wished that he was riding Nightshade, his great warhorse, rather than this easy-natured brute. Because what he now faced was a vastly more terrifying opponent than any of them had expected.
The rambling nonsense they’d heard from the few frightened farmers who’d seen the creature had referred to “an ungodly demon, with hunger both for man and beast” – a common enough exaggeration, in complete contrast to the physical evidence, which had suggested that the so-called Penharrow Worm had sought to prey on smaller animals. And yet this monster was perhaps fifty yards long – its coils almost filled the clearing, and it was as thick around the middle as a beer keg. It had a tough, scaly hide, tinged muddy brown, with a white diamond pattern running down its spine. It was now rearing up towards Malvolio, who, though he’d already climbed high into an oak, was clearly about to be dragged to his death.
Lucan’s mount went wild with fright, and it was all he could do to pull it to order. He didn’t bother nocking an arrow; from this range, he was unlikely to penetrate its armour-plated skin. Instead, he cast his bow aside, drew his hunting spear and shouted at the top of his voice as he galloped across the clearing, veering around and behind the monster to distract it away from the boy.
It spun to face him.
Its countenance was truly devilish – it was flat-headed and broad-mouthed, and its eyes were soulless baubles of emerald hate. With a deafening hisss, its jaws gaped, revealing a flickering forked tongue and cavernous mouth that were both jet-black, and a pair of fangs that were at least a foot long and curved like sabres. Yellow fluid bubbled from their tips.
Lucan closed on the serpent’s flank, and it turned to face him. Shrieking in terror, his horse vaulted over its body, before he pulled it deftly to the right, now galloping straight for the oak tree. As he did, he hurled his spear, but it caught the beast at a poor angle and glanced harmlessly from its thick scales. Of all the horrors he’d faced in Arthur’s service, there’d been nothing of this magnitude. Without his armour, Lucan felt no shame in admitting that it was time for flight rather than fight.
“Jump, lad!” he roared. Malvolio was perched directly overhead. “Behind me!”
Malvolio had watched bug-eyed as Lucan had navigated around the clearing. He’d seen the monster loop back on itself, but its vast, sinuous body had now shifted position, and it was coiling to strike.
“My lord!” he wailed as he descended.
Lucan leaned forward, pressing into the pommel of his saddle. Malvolio fell heavily into position behind him. The horse, shocked by the impact, squealed and bucked, giving the serpent all the delay it needed. Thrusting itself in a blur of motion, it snapped its jaws shut, a single fang puncturing the right sleeve of Lucan’s pelisson, sinking into his shoulder and lodging there. With his horse driving onward, Lucan was yanked sideways from its back. Malvolio was almost buffeted from the saddle as well, but managed to hang on. The next thing Lucan knew, the leafy ground had struck him, driving the wind from his body. In the process he became detached from the serpent’s tooth, and rolled away.
Again its massive jaws slammed shut, this time missing him by inches.
He leapt to his feet and doubled back, running alongside the monster’s trunk, leaping over it as it twisted in pursuit. He grasped at his hip, only to find an empty scabbard. He swore; he’d left his sword on his horse.
He glanced back to see the serpent bunching for another strike, its tongue flickering. Beyond it, the diminutive shape of Malvolio
struggled to stay on the terrified horse as it bounded off into the wood.
Lucan cast around for something else he could use. Nothing lay nearby, not even a stone or rotted branch. To his left was the yawning mouth of the cave; evidently the creature’s lair. Aside from that, it was a rugged rock-face coated with thorns and briars – not climbable in the time he had.
He swung back to face the monster.
It slid towards him, its head low. Its gaze was almost hypnotic.
Lucan locked eyes with it. It seemed to hesitate, and he couldn’t help wondering if it was relishing the moment. Did it understand that he was the ruler of these lands? Did it realise the extent of its victory, and was it pleased?
For Lucan’s own part, he felt only regret: that he hadn’t done better things in his life; that there weren’t kinder words he could have spoken to his friends, and above all to his wife. It was a familiar sensation. He’d known it from a hundred battlefields past, when he’d thought he was facing death. And he responded now in the way he always did – standing tall, shoulders back. He clawed his hands as though ready to grapple his way through his final minutes, although he knew it would be futile. As did the serpent.
It struck with numbing speed, lashing its entire body forward – and at the same time it was hit in the left eye by an arrow, slanting down from the top of the rock-face.
The eye burst in a welter of green putrescence.
The monster reared to a colossal height, its black tongue rigid in its gaping maw and its prolonged hisss taking on a painfully shrill note. It whipped back, folding over itself, and crossed the clearing, its body writhing and twisting in agony, loops passing from its snout to its tail.
Lucan turned, and saw Alaric scrambling down a steep crevice in the rocks, tripping and sliding through the briars and mulch. As he reached the ground he threw aside his bow, hefted his spear and launched it. It struck the serpent squarely in the open mouth, piercing its head clean through, driving the flat head backward and pinning it to the bole of the oak.
“My... my lord!” Alaric cried, seemingly stunned by his success.
“Sword!” Lucan roared. “Sword!”
Alaric, flushed and gleaming with sweat, took a moment to realise what his master had asked; he drew his sword and threw it. Lucan caught it and dashed across the clearing. Alaric pulled a hunting-knife from his boot and stumbled after him.
The transfixed monster thrashed its body, throwing such immense coils of muscle and scale at them that a clean blow would have crushed the marrow from their bones. But Lucan was elusive, darting to and fro as he ran, and – once he was upon it – chopping and hacking, his gleaming blade rending through scaly flesh and pink sinew, ignoring the blood that spurted over him, ignoring the yellow venom that gurgled from either side of the monstrosity’s open mouth – until at last, with a sickening crunch, its spine came apart. Abruptly, it dropped in a heap, the tip of its tail quivering for a moment before lying still. Lucan didn’t halt, sawing and slicing until, with a little help from Alaric, he’d entirely separated the head from the torso.
Seconds passed before they turned and regarded each other, breathing hoarsely. Steam enveloped them both, rising from their own sweat rather than the blood that spattered them, which had never been warm in the first place.
Alaric crouched and tentatively peered into the rents in the serpent’s body.
“If you’re looking for your friend, he’s quite safe.” Lucan rested his hands on the pommel of the sword. “He made sure of that himself.”
Alaric stood up and mopped the sweat from his brow.
“We had to spread out to find him,” he explained. “It’s a good thing I was on foot. Sir Wulfstan sent me to look up there along the ridge. Otherwise, I’d never...”
“It’s also a good thing you were brave. Not to mention quick-thinking.”
“To be honest, my lord, I acted without thinking.”
“That’s the way it should be with a warrior.”
Alaric now saw the hole ripped in the upper sleeve of Lucan’s pelisson, and fresh blood coursing over his hand.
“My lord, you’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing. A nick.”
“If that creature bit you...”
“It’s a nick.” Lucan smiled – or attempted to. He was ash-pale. “So how does it feel to be eighteen and a hero? Until now only Arthur has been able to answer that.”
“My lord, I think the venom...”
“It’s not important. You realise you’ve just saved your lord’s life, Alaric?”
“Erm, yes... I suppose.” Only now was it striking the squire what he’d done. He’d prevented the death, not just of his lifelong friend and mentor, but of a full-fledged Knight of the Round Table.
“So now I have to reward you,” Lucan said. “I wonder what might be a suitable accolade.” His complexion had worsened. Faint shudders passed through him as he spoke. “Why don’t we put it to a vote at tonight’s birthday banquet?”
“Of course, my lord, but I...”
“Very well.” Lucan wiped the sword on a clump of grass, and handed it back. He held out his hand for Alaric’s hunting-horn, and blew a long blast on it, though it lacked his normal gusto.
“My lord, I think you need to rest.”
“Nonsense.” Lucan indicated the serpent’s head, still speared to the tree. “And be sure to bring your trophy. Without the evidence, they’ll have us down as story-tellers.”
“They’d never believe that of you, my lord.”
“But they might of you.” Lucan smiled again, but it was strained. When Alaric lugged the spear free, and Lucan tried to catch the serpent’s head, he winced in agony, clutching his wound. “No matter.” He laughed, though his face was a sweat-soaked grimace. “You’re a man now, Alaric. You can be my strong right arm.”
Alaric knew that his master spoke in jest, but there was something disturbing in that notion. More than he could possibly say.
Two
COUNTESS TRELAWNA AND her ladies were resting by Wintering Beck, enjoying their noon picnic. Servants had brought a wickerwork hamper from the castle, and the ladies were enjoying sweetmeats and fresh crusty rolls, and sipping from goblets of watered wine. The sky was clear, the sun high, and at last there was a modicum of warmth. The Countess reclined on a blanket amid the roots of an ancient willow. Next to the stream, two of her ladies tittered as they played jeu de paume.7
Gerta, Countess Trelawna’s long-serving handmaid, was seated on a lichen-covered stone, her wizened features narrowed in concentration as she worked at her embroidery. The rest of the ladies were seated on the grass. They passed a book between themselves, reciting tales from the Chansons.8 Countess Trelawna, a devotee of the Cult d’Amor, closed her eyes and dreamed of foreign courts in sun-drenched climes: of magnificent, tile-roofed chateaux, their grand halls and galleries done in white and gold plaster, their balconied apartments overlooking vineyards and orange groves, or green lawns decked with the pavilions of adventuring troubadours, who had travelled from far and wide to win the hearts of blushing damsels.
Currently, Annette was reading: “‘And when the joust was complete, Sir Yvo stood before the royal banner, quartered with its blue dragon, golden hind, crimson lion and milk-white unicorn, and made each of his vanquished foes – great knights and barons all – bow once to the north, once to the south, once to the east and once to the west in honour of his lady, who was far away, but closer to his heart than she had been in many a long year...’”
Trelawna was easily lulled from the reality of her world; the harsh, snow-capped mountains and dark, pine-filled valleys, and the rugged stronghold that was her home. A home where the only ornaments were hanging weapons and antlered skulls, where animal hides were needed to maintain warmth in the winter, and a smothering, kiln-like atmosphere pervaded in summer. In truth, it would not have taken the gilded words of a jongleur to lure her away from all that.
“My lady, I think something is wrong,” Annette
said, closing the book.
Trelawna glanced towards the forest, and saw the first of the hunting party emerge. She rose to her feet. “So early?”
Even from a distance, little celebration could be seen. Men rode slowly or led their horses on foot. Hounds walked with their masters. There was no singing, no triumphal shouting. A chill touched the countess that had nothing to do with the melt-water flooding down Wintering Beck.
THOUGH HE WAS loath at any time to be seen an invalid, Lucan struggled not to fall from his destrier. The serpent’s severed head, now bound in a leather sack and drawn behind him on a cart, was all but forgotten. The men’s voices became muted as their overlord swayed in his saddle. Only when he was a few yards from them did Trelawna and her entourage recognise him; one or two of the ladies stifled squeals. He was spattered with gore, both his own and the serpent’s, but he’d paled to a ghostly hue and his hair was matted with sweat.
“Ladies,” he said, reining up with a courtly gesture. “My lovely wife...” And he tumbled from the saddle, only the diligence of his men preventing him striking the ground. Trelawna grabbed her skirts and dashed forward, but already her husband was fighting his way back to his feet. He tried to smile as she took his hands, but was in too much pain. When others assisted, he became irritable, shrugging them off.
“The Penharrow Worm, my lady,” Turold explained. He stepped aside as his overlord pushed past him, determined to walk to the castle unaided. “It caught him with its fang.”
Trelawna gasped.
“I doubt there’s anything to fear, ma’am,” Wulfstan said, dismounting. “It’s only a small wound. He’s suffered much worse in the past.”
Trelawna gazed at the object on the cart. The neck of the sack had fallen open, and the serpent regarded her with its one remaining eye, which even glazed with death was hypnotic in its lustre.
“How... how did this happen?” she stammered. “Someone tell me... Alaric!”