Dark North (Malory's Knights of Albion)

by Paul Finch

  Lucan leaned forward and planted his lips on the boy’s brow. “Accept this kiss in confirmation of the order I am bestowing on you. As a sign of peace and love and loyalty, which you must always mete wherever you may rightly do so. Also, accept this.”

  The slap to Alaric’s left cheek was hard, delivered with a flat hand but stinging force.

  “This blow signifies that you must always – for the rest of your days – remember the order of knighthood, which you have now received. And that you must yourself strike blows in that cause, but only those which be valorous and just.” Lucan stepped backward. For the first time in several days, his creased brow smoothed and his mouth cracked into that fatherly half-smile of which his squire had once been so fond. “Welcome to our brotherhood,” he said. “Rise, Sir Alaric.”

  Alaric rose in a daze, and the next thing he knew hands were clapping his shoulders and the great knights of the household were congratulating him. When they led him outside, his horse had been saddled and brought to the edge of the defile, so he could ride back to the encampment. On arrival there, the rest of the earl’s retinue were eagerly awaiting him.

  There were cheers as he entered their midst. A fire was blazing and several water-fowl were turning on spits. The earl had also procured several kegs of ale, which the squires joyously broke open. Turold strummed on his lute, and over the next few hours there was much singing. The troops crowding tiredly along the nearby road gazed at them, faces stark and wondering in the firelight.

  “Now I suppose we should show deference to you,” Malvolio said, burping in Alaric’s face.

  “They say I’m a knight, but I don’t feel like one,” Alaric replied. “I haven’t got my own raiment. Or a seal.”

  “Lucan will provide those when the war’s over,” Wulfstan counselled. “You’ll also draw a wage – a proper one, not a few measly coppers to see you by. That should be a new experience. Until you’re ready to go off on the quest, of course.”

  The quest? Alaric eyes widened as he pondered these new possibilities.

  “What does it matter?” Malvolio laughed. “We’re off to war, so we’re all going to die anyway, whether we have commoner blood or knightly blood.”

  “It matters, you young oaf,” Wulfstan said, cuffing his ear, “because knights at least find honourable graves. At the end of the day, that’s all it comes down to – ensuring the hole in the ground where they put you is something to be venerated, not pissed on.”

  The water-fowl were consumed with gusto, and then fish were produced, gutted and prodded into the flames on spears. Ale sloshed freely as the household celebrated long into the evening.

  LUCAN OBSERVED THESE events with fondness but no little sense of melancholy. Idealism was the preserve of inexperience. At length, he slid away from the cheery throng, throwing the wolfskin around his shoulders and walking downhill until he stood by the estuary edge, from where he gazed across the sluggish waters.

  Trelawna was all he’d had.

  Quite literally, she had been the only pleasant thing to ever happen to him.

  He had vague, tender memories of his mother, but how terribly that all ended. He valued his closeness to his brother, but how could that compare? When he’d first been inducted into the Round Table it was a great moment, but he’d received that honour because in those grim, turbulent years after the death of Uther Pendragon, he’d happened to side with Arthur, the one destined to win, and the one whose favour he would earn through nothing more than his ferocity in battle. Would God regard that as a good thing? By contrast, Trelawna had brought genuine light into his world, not to mention other virtues – patience, warmth, gentleness, and of course that mystical fairy beauty of hers – all of which had mellowed him in a way the self-important grandeur of Camelot never could. Camelot was a worthy institution, dedicated to the cause of right, but it was built on conquest. Trelawna had embodied something else. She had come to Britain as a victim, as a prisoner, as a frightened rabbit whose innocence and charm had sweetened the dark wolf who’d been her captor.

  Lucan didn’t weep. He’d done with weeping that first morning on reading her letter of departure. Phrases like “the aching loneliness we both have shared,” and “you deserve a better, more loyal love than I,” had done nothing to placate him. To counter this, he’d striven to remind himself of the good times they’d had: riding in the sun-dappled forest, boating on mist-begirt lakes, drifting in each other’s arms. It was Trelawna who’d completed his education, filling in the gaps in his reading and writing, which the early death of his mother had left behind. He had enjoyed those sessions more than he could say, and so had his wife. True, laughter was often in short supply on the northern border. Yet she had laughed many times in those days, she had smiled, she had kissed him. There had been no falseness there. Oh, he had long known that she didn’t love him, but she had always been sweet on him, caring, affectionate, and concerned when he was wounded – as a good, doting wife should. And it was thanks to all these things – and her calm assurance during his long, feverish, hag-ridden nights – that the shadow of his father was nothing more than that: a shadow.

  It was impossible to believe that all this goodness was gone from his life, yet as he stood here in the deepening night, the black waters lapping at his feet, streaked with fire from the passing ships – it seemed naught but imagination, something yearned for which had never been. He huddled deeper into the wolf-fur as an unseasonal chill intruded into his bones.

  “My lord?” someone said.

  Lucan turned and found Alaric alongside him.

  “I’m no longer your lord, Alaric. Unless you wish to serve my house as a knight, though in due course the pressure will grow on you to find your own way in this world.”

  “My lord, I’ll gladly serve your house for the remainder of this war.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “On that subject, my lord... to have this honour bestowed on me in a time of strife is a great thing.”

  “Well, it would have been nice to put you through the normal rigmarole that accompanies these occasions – the cleansing bath, the lying in a bed made of white sheets, the hearing of Mass and so forth – but in the estimation of most men, a battlefield knighting is worth far more.”

  “It isn’t just that, my lord.” Alaric sounded awkward, and perhaps a little drunk. “I mean with your personal woe, to think of me at such a time... I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, Alaric. You’ve earned this accolade. Through long, patient years, not to mention the courage you showed in the face of that demon serpent. Had you not acted the way you did, you would not have been knighted today because I would not be here.”

  Alaric nodded, pensive. Finally he took a breath and said: “Now that we are knights together, may I speak bluntly?”

  Lucan glanced around at him. “I always appreciate candour.”

  “My lord... you are one of Arthur’s greatest battle-lords, yet it does you no credit if donning that mantle of fur means what I think it means – that we are here to prosecute this war with vengeance rather than justice.”

  Lucan looked amused. “In war, many innocents are killed or maimed. Women and children, old men, combatants who have surrendered. Tell me, is that justice?”

  “I understand that war is Hell, but...”

  “You don’t understand, Alaric, because you’ve never yet seen it. But you soon will.” Lucan glanced across the estuary. “And then you’ll know the truth of it.”

  ALARIC WANTED TO continue, but Lucan said they would speak more during the crossing. It was now late, and they were to rise on the cockcrow if they wished to secure a berth before noon. He strode away along the water’s edge, his cloak of black fur trailing.

  Earlier, Malvolio and Benedict had jokingly chided Alaric for not keeping a night’s vigil by the holy altar where he was knighted, as young noblemen had once done.

  Now their jest didn’t seem so funny.

  In fact,
when everyone else was snoring, he stumbled back to the ruined chapel. Its interior was smoky and spectral with moonlight; the defaced saints watched him from the shadows. He knelt by the ruined altar, proud to be the newest knight in the world, but nervous that, despite his confession, his soul was already dark with sin thanks to his adulterous love for a married woman.

  The lad felt inadequate to phrase the prayer he sought to offer. How did one ask the Almighty to forgive a lust that one was not prepared to suppress? More to the point, how did one ask God for the strength to defend until death a woman who was herself a sinner, especially in the knowledge that to do so might necessitate drawing sword against friend and mentor? The mere thought of siding against Earl Lucan made Alaric sick to the guts. The contradiction of loyalties set his head spinning. But he would not stand by and see violence done, not now that he was a knight. Remembering this, he felt bold enough to voice it: to swear it, to loudly dedicate his moonlit vigil to this purpose.

  “I will not allow harm, from any source, to come to the woman I love.”

  Alaric was a knight now.

  And he had his quest.

  Fourteen

  WHEN RUFIO AND Trelawna came ashore, they were on the Armorican side of the Loire estuary. To the rear of them, the drifting waters were lost in purple gloom. But ahead of them, the rise of the land was pock-marked with campfires, spreading out in every direction for as far as the eye could see.

  Trelawna descended the gangplank with Gerta, the only servant she’d brought. Behind them, two grooms carefully led down the women’s horses. Rufio waited at the foot of the plank in company with two of his brother officers from the Fourteenth Legion. They were introduced to Trelawna as Antonius, Primus Pilus, and Frederiko, Hastatus Prior.21 They were tall, handsome fellows with olive complexions, dark, curly hair and fresh, innocent faces. Both were off-duty for, despite having ridden from their encampment to meet their commanding officer, they affected casual attire – close-fitting boots, hose and loose blouses decorated with frills around their v-neck collars.

  After greeting Trelawna courteously, they conferred with their superior, explaining the current dispositions of the Fourteenth, and where in the line it would be brought to bear.

  On the far side of the estuary, Trelawna saw the fire-lit outline of a towering, crenellated rampart – no doubt the southern bulwark of the city of Nantes, for though it was already scorched and fissured in many places, innumerable war-machines battered it. The crash and rumble of the impacts could be heard even from this distance. Many of the roofs behind the rampart were burning and several of its towers had collapsed; rubble strewed its footings, alongside piles of huddled corpses.

  “There’s to be no attempt to storm the city tonight,” Rufio said, rejoining her. “Apparently there’ve been several efforts so far, but all have been repulsed. The Bretons have put up quite a fight. One has to give them that. But they’re close to breaking. Our artillery has been degrading their defences for the last two weeks. Anyway, I’m to report to the Emperor straight away. It seems he wishes to congratulate me personally for the mission I’ve just accomplished.”

  Trelawna didn’t comment, but was fascinated to know the extent to which starting a war could be considered an accomplishment. She supposed that as this had been New Rome’s ploy all along, Rufio and the other ambassadors had performed their duty admirably – though it still didn’t seem like much to be proud of.

  “Would you accompany me, my love?” he asked, taking her hands in his. “Into the Imperial presence?”

  “Of course,” she replied, feeling strangely unexcited about it. In fact, now that she was here, within earshot of yet another battle, she felt curiously despondent.

  The voyage from Britain had not been uncomfortable. With calm seas and a fair wind, they had made good time. As she and Gerta had been allocated the ship’s master’s commodious quarters, they’d found themselves in proper bunks rather than hammocks, with a private dressing room and latrine, so there had been little to complain about. But for the most part, the other Roman dignitaries who’d shared the voyage had ignored her, the churchmen sniffing in her presence as if affronted by her ‘scarlet woman’ status, the patricians regarding her as a young man’s plaything, a winsome toy that was of no importance. Only two had exchanged pleasantries with her. One of these was Bishop Severin Malconi, Rufio’s uncle – a foxy-faced man, but a pleasant one nevertheless, who had expressed remorse that their two nations were at war. The other was Tribune Quintus Maximion – a tall, spare-limbed soldier, with short, iron-gray hair and a noble, if brutalised, face. He had been polite, if a little morose.

  Now they had docked, only Maximion and one other military official, Ardeus Vigilano, Duke of Spoleto – who had only spoken to Trelawna curtly during the voyage and showed no interest in speaking to her at all now – came ashore. The ship would soon weigh anchor to catch the ebb-tide, and then proceed south. The rest of the ambassadors intended to remain on board until safe and secure in Roman waters.

  “Once again, countess,” Maximion said, as a valet helped him mount his horse, “I trust you will find happiness in our new world. Don’t be too troubled. The affairs of men are tidal. There is a great storm raging at present. But in due course things will settle, and tranquillity will return.”

  “That’s to be hoped, my lord,” she replied.

  He saluted her in the Roman fashion, his right hand clasped across his left breast, before riding away into the darkness, his attendant at his heels.

  Though she barely knew him, Trelawna couldn’t help but feel sorry to see him leave.

  A short while later, Rufio, Antonius and Frederiko mounted up, and with Trelawna, Gerta and three packhorses loaded at their rear, embarked from the dock, proceeding along a shoreline path – only to encounter a grisly torch-lit spectacle around the next headland. Forty wooden frames had been erected along the water’s edge, and on each one was attached a naked, spread-eagled man. Several companies of Roman infantry, perhaps four hundred in total, stood at rigid attention while torturers beat the prisoners with rods and canes. Their sweat flew as they worked, dealing vicious blows to every part of the hanging, bloodied forms, none of which so much as twitched. There was no sound save the repeated impacts – thwack – thwack – thwack –

  “Centurion!” Rufio called, sensing Trelawna’s silent horror and halting his steed. “What happens here?”

  “Tribune Rufio?” The centurion seemed surprised to see him, though not particularly concerned. “Today’s attack failed abysmally. His Highness was most displeased. He ordered that the cohorts who failed to take the city wall should draw lots, and the losing cohort be decimated.”

  “Decimated?” Rufio looked stunned; to Trelawna’s eyes, more stunned than she had yet seen from him. He quickly cleared his throat in an effort to regain his commander’s dignity. “Decimated, I see. But by flogging?”

  “They are to be flogged to death, tribune. Caesar’s precise orders.”

  Trelawna chanced a glance at the prisoners. In most cases their flesh dangled in torn, gory ribbons. Their heads hung low. None moved, because they were almost certainly dead, yet the beating went on as it clearly had done for several hours.

  Rufio nodded grimly, feigning approval. But as they rode away, he drew alongside Trelawna and said quietly: “War is a cruel thing. It demands harsh necessities of us all.”

  “I’d hoped to have left such necessities behind by now,” was all she said in response. She neglected to mention that of all the harshness she had witnessed on Britain’s northern border, she had never seen Lucan direct any at his own men.

  From the scene of the execution, their route took them uphill through the encampments proper. While studying her histories as a girl, and particularly her Latin and Greek, Trelawna had studied the order of the Roman military machine. She had learned how their camps had been arrayed with exact symmetry – their tents all of a similar shape and size, laid out in rows equidistant to each other with roadway
s in between, almost like towns. But if that had been so in antiquity, it was not the case now. Now, the Roman tents, of many sizes, designs and qualities, were scattered across the hillside haphazardly, with only muddy paths snaking among them. Campfires burned wherever it had taken the legionaries’ fancy to light them. The soldiers clustered together in the flickering light, laughing, drinking, and dicing. They seemed vastly different from the Roman legionaries of old. The sentries wore armour of mail coats and leggings, but with heavy, overlapping plates on top, and open-face helmets with steel fins or plumes. They sported modern weapons, from maces and mattocks to pikes, halberds and swords. There were immense numbers of them. With each new rise there was another camp, the glow of whose fires spangled the night.

  Emperor Lucius’s command tent was located on a central hillock, a huge golden pavilion, its exterior covered with the black images of eagles. It was so large and divided into so many chambers that timbers had been used to support it, and they now swayed in the breeze, the canopied walls flapping and creaking.

  Rufio and Trelawna found the Emperor in the central chamber, an airy space laid with a rich carpet and lit brilliantly by rush-lights suspended from bronze chandeliers. Lucius stood at a central desk, surrounded by his prefects and generals, poring over maps. Trelawna wasn’t sure what she expected of a man who decimated his own soldiers – a roaring, bestial giant maybe, or a cold figure of cadaverous evil. She was utterly surprised to be confronted by a handsome, genial young fellow with a bright smile and red-gold beard and moustache. He was of average height and stocky build, and clad in a black iron breastplate elaborately cut with Latin characters, black leg-plate of greaves, cops and cuisses,22 and a cloak and under-pelisse of black and purple silk. His underlings wore similar heavy and flamboyant garb.

  “Tribune Rufio,” the Emperor said in a delighted tone. “You join us at last.”