Dark North (Malory's Knights of Albion)

by Paul Finch

  “I watched from the gantry as you spoke for me,” he said. “It made my hair stand on end. ‘This isn’t just a noblewoman,’ I said to myself. ‘This is a noblewoman of the North.’”

  “You need to rest,” she replied.

  “No, we’ve an early start. I must assemble the household.”

  “You may leave that to me...”

  “Trelawna...”

  “Am I not chatelaine at Penharrow? When I step into your spurs and couch your lance for the charge, you may assemble our house.”

  He laughed, while his wife bade servants assist him to their bed-chamber. Lucan assured them he could mount the stair himself, though he still took careful, prudent steps, and the servants, marshalled by Turold, hovered close behind.

  GERTA AMBLED FORTH carrying a warmer shawl for her mistress, and a goblet of mulled wine. “A pretty show, my lamb,” she said, as Trelawna donned the wrap and drank.

  Detecting a tone, Trelawna glanced round at her. “Gerta?”

  “The Romans are coming and now we are Camelot-bound.”

  “Pray, don’t misspeak yourself, Gerta. This is a serious matter.”

  “No doubt. In more ways than anyone can know.”

  Trelawna handed back the empty goblet, but seized Gerta by the wrist.

  “My mother’s maid also had the habit of speaking out of turn,” she said quietly. “One day, when my mother was a child, my grandfather was vexed by some trivial naughtiness... and whipped her little bottom until it bled. Her maid could hold back no longer and scolded him. By the end of that day, she would never scold anyone again because she had no tongue in her head.”

  “A harsh lesson,” Gerta acknowledged.

  “Which any servant may learn at any time,” Trelawna said, releasing her.

  “So please you... if it will make you feel better about what you are planning.”

  “I plan nothing except to support my husband in this most urgent matter.”

  “As you wish, my dove.”

  “I am not your dove!” the countess hissed. “I am your mistress. It’s time you remembered that.”

  “Of course, mistress,” Gerta said, curtseying as much as her cynical old bones would allow. “With the marks I still carry on my nipples from your days of greedy suckling, how could I have forgotten?”

  Four

  “THIS WOMAN, NEPHEW,” Bishop Malconi said, “the one you think you love...?”

  “I know I love her,” Rufio replied, though he had to shout to be heard over the tumultuous acclaim being heaped on the procession as it wound its way between the tall, timber-and-wattle houses of Camelot’s residential district. Some of the thoroughfares were so narrow that they had to move in single-file, though they also crossed open squares and esplanades, lined with fruit trees and hung with banners and bunting, all thronged with onlookers.

  “You know you love her?” Bishop Malconi raised an eyebrow. “After one night of passion?”

  Rufio smiled to himself. “Sometimes one night is all it takes.”

  It was a stately procession. Its mounted vanguard consisted of three clarion-blowing heralds wearing red and green striped hose, red berets with green plumes and red satin tabards slashed with green. Behind them rode three cavalry officers, unarmed but clad in polished breastplates and greaves over red jacks and open-faced sallet helms with sharp steel crests. The rest of the parade was slightly less formal: the churchmen, with the exception of Bishop Malconi, rode in gilded carriages, but without their vestments or mitres, preferring daytime robes of velvet and taffeta, with skullcaps and chains of office. Rufio, like the other non-clerics in the embassy, had joyfully surrendered to the new Italian fashions, choosing a tight-fitting burgundy doublet over a collarless linen shirt, canary yellow hose and leather ankle-boots with long, pointed toes, an ensemble which girt his trim, youthful figure well.9

  Lines of Arthur’s halberdiers, wearing white tabards embossed with the red dragon, held the excited crowds back. Overhead, folk leaned dangerously from balconies and windows, either to cheer or shower the visitors with spring blossoms. All ranks and classes were present, from ordinary townsfolk – merchants, craftsmen and the like – to scholars from the University, distinctive with their shaven heads and dark robes, novices from the colleges and deaneries attached to the cathedral, and then the lower orders: cottars and free-folk from the towns beyond the city walls, servants, vagrants, and mendicants. To a man and woman, they knew they were supposed to welcome these guests, though the task was made easier when the Romans arrived in the trappings of a nobility the British found familiar rather than behind the standard-bearers in leopardskins of yore, carrying Imperial eagles and purple banners. It also helped that, at the very rear of the procession, three monks in white habits tossed out handfuls of golden coins.

  In the midst of this jubilation, it was difficult for Rufio to detect any familiar face in the crowd, though he tried his best, always focusing on the prettier women, of whom there were a great many.

  “I understand this special lady is married to one of Arthur’s northern barons?” Bishop Malconi said.

  “That’s correct,” Rufio replied.

  “In which case she’s unlikely to be here in Camelot, wouldn’t you say?”

  “One can but dream.”

  “Her husband may be here. Perhaps that’s something for you to think about.”

  “Apparently he’s a brutal oppressor of his tenants, not to mention the local plebs.”

  “She told you that?”

  Rufio smiled. “No. That’s just the way I imagine him. Actually, she speaks highly of him. Says that he’s always been kind to her, but that his manners are those of the military camp. His main flaw, it seems, is that he’s unsophisticated.”

  “And you haven’t seen her for...?”

  “Six years, eight months, two weeks, four days.”

  “Great God in Heaven!” The bishop’s brow furrowed. “You keep an exact account... hardly encouraging. How can you be sure that after so long in the company of this man, she hasn’t become a beldame, a bitter harridan of the north?”

  “No-one who wrote such letters could be anything less than a fairy princess.”

  “Ah yes, the famous letters. Your mother complained to me that for several years after first bedding this... this married woman, you wrote to each other once a month?”

  “Mother was always very observant.”

  “You still maintain this degree of correspondence?”

  “Not quite. Trelawna feared we’d become reckless and be discovered. Also, her bower-maid, Gerta, who did most of the to-ing and fro-ing for her, came to disapprove.”

  “At last, someone in this kingdom with a head on their shoulders.”

  “No. Gerta likes us. Her main fear was that we’d never meet again, and that her mistress’s heart would be broken.”

  “Hearts break so easily. Especially in times of love and war.”

  “We aren’t at war yet, uncle.”

  “Aren’t we? Felix, you must brace yourself for the possibility you may never meet your fairy princess again. Even if she’s here, we have more important matters at hand.”

  “I don’t understand this concern.” Rufio caught a daffodil and blew a kiss to the young girl who’d thrown it. “Did any Roman embassy ever receive such a welcome?”

  “Don’t be fooled. In the old days it was quite common for us to be flattered by those we planned to conquer. It’s a mindset born of fear – they hope to buy us off with friendship. But King Arthur is no fool. He will pay lip-service to our greatness, and he may even discuss terms with us, but in the end, if necessary, he will show his steel. Our role here is purely investigative, but we must keep our wits about us. The less mooning over a woman who can never be yours the better.”

  Rufio laughed. “It took New Rome two decades to recapture the old Western Empire’s lost provinces, but only one night for Countess Trelawna to capture my heart. Which of those powers is more deserving of fealty?”


  The parade entered the Royal Plaza, a wide, smooth-paved boulevard running like an artery through the very heart of the city, and lined with shops of a more esoteric ilk: booksellers, silversmiths, perfumeries. It terminated in front of the magnificent marble basilica of St. Stephen’s cathedral, behind which loomed the battlemented edifice of Camelot’s palace.

  The cathedral was built in the Byzantine style, with turrets, pediments, spires and arches, and a plethora of stained-glass windows; it must have stood two hundred feet at its apex. But the fortress, in whose shadow it huddled, was awe-inspiring, perched on a precipitous man-made mound, from which it overlooked the whole of the city, and doubtless the plains and woods far beyond. Its colossal ramparts and towers billowed with thousands of knightly banners.

  The thought that one day New Rome might have to besiege Arthur in this citadel was enough to chill even the blood of an optimist like Felix Rufio.

  KING ARTHUR AWAITED his guests enthroned at the top of the basilica’s stone steps, a handful of knights and prelates gathered behind him. In honour of the day, none of his warriors were mailed. Instead, they wore hose and slippers and comfortable courtly robes; but in mark of their status they also carried swords at their hips.

  “Behold,” Sir Cador said, as the embassy embarked from the far end of the Plaza, “the masters of the world.”

  “At one time that was no idle boast,” Archbishop Stigand10 replied, leaning on his crosier. He was the most visibly delicate among them; a gangling beanpole of a man, who walked with a curious halting gait, rather like a heron. His face was lean, his nose an axe-blade. Aside from his tonsure, his hair was long, white and wispy. He alone was decked in full ceremonial regalia: his white satin tabard and cloak, his silver mitre.

  “People should learn not to live on past glories,” Cador replied.

  “They are without doubt the masters of Christendom,” Archbishop Stigand retorted. “Thanks to Emperor Lucius, the light of Christ now shines back into such morally desolated lands as central Gaul and lower Germany, Spain, North Africa...”

  “At what price, I wonder?” Sir Bedivere said.

  The archbishop affected shock. “Surely no price is too high?”

  Cador snorted. “Easy to say when you’ve not been subjected to the Imperial taxation structure.”

  “I hear that Emperor Lucius has proved himself a fair and equitable master,” the archbishop said. “That he taxes his new provinces heavily, but in return his legions rebuild their roads and bridges, their civic administrations...”

  “It’s true that even civilisation has its price,” Bedivere replied. “There are several Episcopal princes in the party approaching us. I’d imagine each one will have at least half an eye on the many tithes and titles to be had in a kingdom as grateful as ours will be.”

  Archbishop Stigand pondered this. He was a man who professed great piety, but in reality often searched for new ways by which to cement his position as senior churchman in the British Isles. He lived in constant fear that his rivals at Canterbury and York might someday steal a march on him, and as such had spies at every level in the Royal Court which he thought nobody else knew about. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

  “My lords, just because we in the Camelot See approve New Rome’s reinvigorated Christian mission does not mean we endorse it heartily. This will be, I imagine, a mere fact-finding trip... perhaps an examination of the health and spirit of our nation. I shall be glad to inform our Roman brethren that spiritually we want for nothing, and that our lord, the King, has maintained the Pax Britannica as well as any Roman governor who ever held sway in this land.”

  “Who knows,” Bedivere said, “there may be some among them who aren’t already aware of this, though I doubt it will make much difference.”

  The ambassadors were now in close proximity, and at last King Arthur spoke.

  “Enough debate, gentlemen.” He rose to his feet. “We can save that for the Council chamber. At this moment we welcome our guests with open arms.”

  Arthur, too, was clad informally. He wore his golden crown, but aside from that his only other royal garment was his sleeveless gold and purple cape, which was draped over a black doublet, tight black trousers, and black leather riding boots. He was trim at the waist but possessed of a broad, strong frame, typical of a man who had spent many long years wielding the broadsword and the battle-axe. He wore his sunny-brown beard and moustache neatly trimmed, but his mane long and cut square at the shoulder. There were nicks and scars on his face, as with all those who had borne hardships in war, but he was as handsome a devil now as he’d ever been; lean-faced and square-jawed, his deep hazel eyes shining with wit and wisdom.

  The first ambassador to approach was Bishop Proclates of Palermo, who descended from his carriage with the aid of two pages, doffed his chaperon and bowed.

  “Hail Arthur,” he said loudly, “son of Uther and Igrane, King of all the Britons, Protector of the Holy Mother Church, Guardian of Chivalry, slayer of demons, devils and heathens... I bring greetings from the court of New Rome, and the seat of his Imperial Majesty, Lucius Julio Bizerta.

  “Hail, Bishop Proclates of Palermo,” Arthur replied. “Statesman, writer, Librarian of the Fathers, founder of the new Christian universities in Alexandria and Nisibis, scourge of all Vandals and Aryan heretics.”

  Several of the ambassadors glanced at each other, surprised that the King of the Britons even recognised Bishop Proclates, let alone knew his personal history.

  “I TOLD YOU,” Malconi murmured to his nephew. “This Arthur is nobody’s fool.”

  “Any fool can send a scribe to research a biography,” Rufio replied.

  Arthur continued his address: “Hail, Bishop Pelagius of Tuscany, healer of schisms, reliever of famines, and restorer of vanquished monasteries. Hail Consul Publius, senatorial voice of the plebeians, advocate of land reform, master of the judiciary. Hail Lord Ardeus Vigilano, Duke of Spoleto, soldier, sailor, scholar, founder of the Alchemical Order...”

  One by one, Arthur addressed them, drawing nods and smiles from each individual, who, even if they didn’t demonstrate it, were mildly disconcerted that he had not only known they were coming, but that he knew their pedigree to the finest detail.

  “Nobody’s fool,” Malconi said again. “Remember that, Felix. And it applies equally to his Knights of the Round Table.”

  “I only see a handful,” Rufio remarked. “Where are the rest?”

  “They’ll be here. And sooner rather than later.”

  Five

  THE ROADS LEADING down from the north, what few there were, were quagmires. If this wasn’t difficult enough for Lucan and his retinue, winter returned briefly. As they traversed the wilderness of Elmet, with its rugged moors, rocky outcrops and deep, dark forests, they were assailed by wind, heavy rain and flurries of sleet.

  Lucan remained weak for the first few days, and was forced to travel in the ornate, flag-draped carriage normally reserved for Countess Trelawna and those handpicked ladies who accompanied her on baronial visits. Flax hangings over the doors and windows, cushions, blankets and pans filled with hot coals kept the interior of the carriage snug, and this enabled Lucan to rest and regain sufficient strength to eventually resume his position on Nightshade at the head of the cavalcade, which otherwise consisted of twenty knights, plus their squires, sixteen mounted men-at-arms and various pages, grooms, cooks and domestic staff.

  It wasn’t entirely a tale of wearisome travel. Occasional feasts and feather beds made pleasing wayside distractions in inns, monasteries or the castles and manor houses of friends, and within two weeks of setting out, the sun had at last broken through. When they reached southern Albion, the broad meadows had turned a dusty green, the hedgerows were blue and gold with buttercups and tulips, and the woods were misted with new leaves and echoed to the calls of birds.

  Lucan had lost some weight, his skin was still pale as ice and his blue eyes were now grey and glimmered eerily; “elf eyes,” w
hispered Annette and the other ladies when their mistress was out of earshot. His hair seemed to have darkened – it was jet-black, and had grown long and unruly. But aside from these matters he was more his normal self, and on the last day of the journey he and the rest of his household replaced their scuffed leathers and dingy, mud-spattered travel-mail with snug black hauberks and crimson surcoats adorned with the black wolf. The official household standard, the ‘Black Wolf of Corneus,’ was wielded by Turold, who rode at the head of the company, the foot of its pole fitted into a sturdy leather pocket alongside his stirrup.

  They entered Camelot that evening, the Captain of the Guard recognising Earl Lucan’s livery and allowing him immediate access. From the Royal Gardens behind St. Stephen’s, they ascended to the castle by the ‘Eagle Road,’ a narrow but firmly metalled shelf, which spiralled up around the great mound to the palace. Several more guarded gates had to be passed, and each time the checks imposed by the officers on watch became more stringent. At the final point, where the road turned inward towards the Barbican, a small castle in its own right which controlled the main entrance, Lucan had to display not just his equestrian seal but also his Extraordinary Summons.

  Behind the Barbican’s portcullis, a fire-lit tunnel passed beneath several murder-holes through which storms of arrows, bolts and boiling pitch could be discharged. Guards in mail and the royal insignia were ranked along the tunnel, wielding spears and halberds, but Lucan’s party was only halted by Sir Kay, King Arthur’s brother and official seneschal.

  Kay was a hulking fellow, with a shock of gold hair and a trim gold beard and moustache. Like his underlings, he was mailed and wore the official white tabard with its red dragon symbol.