Dark North (Malory's Knights of Albion)

by Paul Finch

  “Next time he will kill you. It was only my intervention that saved you before.”

  “Things will be different now we have nowhere else to run. Mother, Trelawna means more to me than I can say. Whatever happens, I won’t let him take her...”

  “There is more here at stake than your golden-haired strumpet!”

  Like his uncle, Rufio hung his head.

  “You are the House Malconi,” she added. “The last male heir. We can ill afford to throw your life away in a futile gesture. So when our enemies arrive, you will hide.”

  He glanced up at her, astonished.

  “Where is that fellow who came with you?” she asked.

  “Bartolo? Sleeping... in a proper bed at long last, which is less than he deserves. He’s the only one to remain loyal to me.”

  “Wake him and send him to the gatehouse.”

  “While I hang back from the fight? How will that look?”

  “I care not. This is my house and these are my rules. If he doesn’t like them he can take his chances outside. Now wake him, Felix, or I will send him such dreams as to make his journey through our mountains seem like a year in Elysium.”31

  Thirty-Three

  AFTER SHE HAD bathed and dressed in a fresh gown and kirtle, Trelawna ascended to the high battlements, Marius keeping her company. She combed out her tresses as she strolled to the parapet and was faced by a nightmarish vista of barren peaks, deep ravines and razor-topped crags.

  “The magnificence that was Rome,” she mused. “It doesn’t look like much of an Empire from here, does it?”

  “This isn’t the Empire, ma’am,” Marius answered. “Just an outpost of it. Though I doubt, when your King Arthur is finished, there’ll be much else left.”

  “My King Arthur? I think you’ll find, centurion, that in my homeland I’m now as much an enemy of the state as you are.”

  “I can’t believe that in a chivalrous land a damsel like you will be punished.”

  “Oh, in our chivalrous land, damsels like me – who plot against their husbands – are severely punished.”

  A moment passed before Marius asked: “Did you plot?”

  “It could be construed that way,” she said. “I consorted with the enemy.”

  “How will they punish you?”

  “We call it petty-treason, and the penalty is to be burned at the stake.”

  Marius looked genuinely shocked. “King Arthur imposes such a barbarous law?”

  “He hasn’t, thus far. But King Uther did many times. And the law still exists.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but you seem fearless in the face of this threat.”

  She continued to comb her damp locks. “I suspect my husband will not permit it.”

  “Even though he is the one who seeks to return you to face justice?”

  Trelawna’s mouth curled into a half-smile. “He doesn’t seek to return me, Marius. Neither to face justice, nor anything else.”

  “Is he truly so vengeful?”

  “At one time I’d have said ‘no.’” She looked thoughtful. “There was always a darkness inside him – his father was a devil in human guise. But things had changed. Lucan had mellowed. And then I did what I did, and now everything has changed back.”

  “Don’t concern yourself.” Marius straightened up. “I will protect you.”

  “You are a brave and honourable man,” she replied. Under her breath, she added, “But who, my gallant Roman, will protect you?”

  Louder, she said: “Where do you come from, Marius? Surely you have a wife and children?”

  “I do, my lady. They are at home now –” His words were cut off sharply, with a heavy thud.

  Trelawna spun around.

  Centurion Marius fell at her feet, blood streaming down his face; what looked like a hand-axe was buried in the top of his skull. Behind him stood Duchess Zalmyra’s giant servant, the one called Urgol, now wearing only a leather loincloth. “You must come with me, countess,” he growled.

  Horror-struck, Trelawna backed against the battlements.

  “No... no...” Marius stammered. Eyes rolling, delirious with pain, he tried to get back to his feet, snatching at Urgol, seizing handfuls of silver-grey fur. “I won’t let...”

  Urgol took Marius in both hands and tossed him over the parapet.

  Trelawna leaned through an embrasure, watching in horror as the body cart-wheeled down the cliff-face, somersaulting as it bounced from obstructions. A massive paw caught her shoulder; she attempted to pivot away, screaming, only for a second paw to clamp over her mouth. The monstrous figure regarded her.

  “Even to eyes like mine, you are well-made for bedding,” he growled. “But now you have a real purpose.”

  She bit hard into the thick leathery pad of Urgol’s palm, and he yanked it away.

  “Murdering brute!” she spat. “You are a disgrace to your nation.”

  Urgol showed ivory teeth. “What do you know of my nation, little white ewe?”

  “You are a woodwose.32 Your people were once the princes of Europe.”

  “And then the Romans came. And they drove us to near extinction.”

  “My people suffered the same fate.”

  He grabbed hold of her, and threw her over his shoulder. “You are all Romans to me...”

  Trelawna wailed and kicked, drumming her fists on his broad back, but he ignored her, descending from the battlements via a dark switchback stair. For minutes on end they forged downward, until, at the bottom, deep in the castle’s bowels, they came to a colossal oaken door studded with nail heads. Urgol drew a key from his belt and unlocked it. Sensing that only horror lay beyond this portal, Trelawna renewed her struggle, finally catching Urgol a blow in the middle of his nobbled spine. He grunted, and slapped her on the buttocks. She cried out with pain, and his Herculean shoulders shook, a guttural rumble sounding from his belly as he laughed at her. He slapped her again, and again, laughing louder and louder.

  Though there was no light down there, Urgol strode with confidence, making each turn readily. Trelawna clung to the apelike fur in terror as they descended another steep stair, this one made from iron and dropping through open space. It was dizzying; she felt that if she fell now, she would never stop falling. They entered another enclosed corridor, passing rooms filled with eerily coloured lights. Bare chambers glimmered blood-red; book-lined workshops shimmered in aqua-blue. Other passages meandered away, some indigo, others ochre-yellow. And always the darkness was present – clotted oily blackness filling every niche. She passed a wall of bars on her left, behind which the firelight illuminated three rotted corpses; little more than bones and gristle, suspended against the far wall by high wrist-shackles. To her disbelief, they looked up, their desiccated skulls turning to watch as she was carried past.

  “Countess Trelawna!” a sepulchral voice called after her, from one of the corpses. “Your treachery has found you out... just as ours did!”

  Too numbed to reply, Trelawna craned her neck around to see where she was being taken to. Through the colour-streaked darkness a chilling figure was coming towards them: vast of height and girth, with a visage that was a cross between a devil-mask and a demented ape. She spotted the pale oval of her own face peering over its shoulder, and realised it was a mirror; but when they reached it, her reflection in the mirror grinned and pointed at her.

  “She who is fairest of them all will not be so for much longer,” it cackled.

  The next door they came to was almost rusted into place – so stiff that even Urgol had to force it with his shoulder. And this was the moment Trelawna had been awaiting. Feeling him relax his grip, she threw herself sideways and was free. She alighted on the passage floor and ran blindly, ducking through the rainbow-hued labyrinth, sobs of terror caught in her throat, eyes streaming tears – and running hard into a tall figure blocking her path.

  She fell backward, gasping – and found herself gazing up into the coldly beautiful features of Duchess Zalmyra. Th
e tall noblewoman wore a sleeveless gown of semi-translucent black silk, held at the shoulder with a dragon clasp and cinched at the waist with a slender gold chain. Her hair still hung in a single glossy braid. But this time she was smiling gently.

  “Countess?” She put a hand on Trelawna’s shoulder. “Something distresses you?”

  “That creature...” Trelawna stammered. “The woodwose... he tried to abduct me.”

  Zalmyra frowned. “How dare he? You are my guest.”

  “And he killed Centurion Marius.”

  “Marius?”

  “My bodyguard. The one posted by your son. Urgol killed him with an axe, and threw his body from the battlements.”

  “So as well as giving up his life to protect your honour, that brave soldier of Rome also gave up any chance of a Christian burial?” But now there was something in the duchess’s tone which seemed a little mocking. “No matter on that score, countess. The carrion birds of this valley have become very used to our table-leavings.”

  Trelawna sensed the gigantic figure approach from behind. He clamped her arms with his hairy paws, and she closed her eyes in revulsion as Zalmyra ran cold fingers across her cheek.

  “I’m so glad you came to this place of your own volition, my dear. A willing sacrifice is much more acceptable to the dark powers.”

  Trelawna tried to struggle again, but Urgol held her firmly.

  “Your infernal husband,” Zalmyra added, “and I used that description advisedly, has destroyed everything I’ve sent against him. It has cost him dear – both in friends and in the ultimate salvation of his soul. But that doesn’t seem to have troubled him. Hence, I must provide an opponent that will really stretch his abilities. Take her!”

  Urgol carried Trelawna through to a place more hideous than anything she had yet seen: a brick well lit by greenish fire, from the depths of which a cloying, sulfurous fog slowly rose.

  “Welcome to my Pit of Souls,” Zalmyra said as Urgol tore off Trelawna’s clothing.

  When she was completely naked, he spread her against one of two wooden saltires, which faced each other across a steel grille overhanging the well, and shackled her. Trelawna’s feet slid in a slimy detritus, which she felt certain was blood. She tilted her chin proudly as Zalmyra came close.

  “My dear Countess Trelawna... I trust you are a God-fearing woman?”

  “Certainly I am! And you will never take that from me, you witch!”

  Zalmyra smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it. A martyr is a rare commodity these days.”

  Trelawna bit on her lip, trying not to show the terror the word ‘martyr’ instilled in her.

  “Mind, I don’t mean to put you on that high pedestal,” Zalmyra said. “What would Jesus Christ think... a common adulteress? But deep down, I believe you are essentially a good, kind person. Virtues which are saintly enough. And you were born of noble blood.” Zalmyra’s smile curved like a sickle. She produced a long, crooked blade. “The pumping hearts of peasant girls and harlots are useful to a degree, but the heart of a Christian noblewoman? Well, you can imagine the price I’ll command.”

  Trelawna was determined to remain bold. No matter what torment they inflicted on her, she would beg nothing from these degenerate vermin, and yet she knew they were entirely serious. This was not just some pantomime to frighten her.

  “Pegfal vus ga ravalax!” Zalmyra cried, raising her knife on high.

  “Be warned, witch!” Trelawna stated defiantly. “Your son loves me.”

  “So I’ve heard...”

  “Kill me and he’ll despise you.”

  “He already does. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. Stevros thralanto paiador! More-ud uvusona anaxus... ”

  “Can you live with the knowledge that you’ll have killed your grandchild?”

  Zalmyra ceased her chanting. She lowered the blade. Urgol stepped forward from the shadows. The vile twosome exchanged curious glances.

  “It’s true, Duchess,” Trelawna said quickly, almost breathless. “I carry the Malconi heir in my womb.”

  “Felix never mentioned this.”

  “Felix doesn’t know.”

  “Why doesn’t he know?”

  “No-one knows. I didn’t mention it for fear the story would endanger my annulment.”

  Zalmyra smiled cruelly. “You are lying, countess. I can see it in your face.”

  “What you see in my face is the fear of a mother who may never see her child. Just as I see the fear in your face that you may never see your grandchild.”

  There was a long, intense silence, before Zalmyra sheathed her blade. “It may be that you are more useful to us alive after all. Urgol, release her.”

  The woodwose unshackled Trelawna from the saltire and thrust the ragged bundle, which was all that remained of her clothes, into her arms, before hustling her along the nearby passage. When he returned to the Pit of Souls a short time later, his mistress was as he’d left her, gazing pensively down the fume-filled shaft.

  “We promised the dark gods a grand gift,” she said, “and we must give them one. But if a Christian noblewoman is unavailable, maybe a Christian nobleman will do instead. Where are my brother’s soldiers?”

  “In the gatehouse, ma’am.”

  “And where is my brother?”

  “In his room. Bemoaning his fate.”

  “As well he may. Bring him to me.”

  “Your brother, ma’am?” Urgol sounded incredulous.

  “Bring him! For the first time in his life, Severin has value to me.”

  “MOTHER DID THAT to you?” Rufio said.

  Trelawna had found him in an upper gallery in the central keep. He was fully armoured and pacing, stopping every so often to peep agitatedly through one of the four arrow-loops that looked down towards the gatehouse. He was so preoccupied that at first he’d barely noticed the state she was in: bruised, tousled, streaked with tears and naked, apart from the dirtied rags with which she’d wrapped herself.

  He remained distracted. “Well... I warned you to stay out of her way.”

  “What?” Trelawna thought she’d misheard. She’d tried to keep her voice level as she’d explained to him what had just happened, but almost inevitably her eyes had overflowed, and her tone had risen until she was almost hysterical. And this was how he responded! “Felix... she was going to kill me!”

  He began pacing again. “If she was going to kill you, you’d be dead. She was probably just trying to frighten you.”

  Trelawna was lost for words – but she could not afford to blurt out that she’d only saved her own life by lying about being pregnant. She’d lain with Rufio once only – all those years ago during the first Council at Camelot. Since then, she’d been determined not to make love with him again until they were lawfully married. Besides, though it was unknown to both the men in her life, she had once subjected herself to examination by a village midwife, and had been told that it was never her destiny to be a mother.

  “And this is all you’ve got to say about it?”

  “What would you have me do, Trelawna? She’s our last refuge.”

  “Oh, well... I suppose... nothing.” Trelawna flopped onto a stool, trying not to show how devastated she felt. In fact there genuinely was nothing she wanted him to do. She certainly did not want him to confront the witch – he was so weak that the truth would doubtless come out about their relations.

  “I thought you’d be happy that someone so strong is protecting us,” he said.

  “With a protector like your mother, who needs a foe like Lucan?”

  Rufio looked disappointed – as if she was being ungrateful. She could have shrieked at him, but if that was the way Rufio was, perhaps she ought to be getting used to it? It was understandable that he was nervous, though it wasn’t endearing. She’d often told herself that men did not enamour her purely for their courage and daring, but increasingly she was having trouble with this. As she watched Rufio glance through another arrow-loop, she was reminded that he�
�d already stood up to Lucan once, and had survived without a blemish. Suddenly that seemed typical of him – when so many others had failed to survive at all. And yet, this unsatisfactory fellow, who wrote passionate letters seemingly at the expense of any other useful talent, was the only thing she had left in the world. And she did have feelings for him; she willed herself to believe that, as she crossed the gallery towards him.

  “Felix... let’s just leave this place.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s just sneak away. Lucan won’t follow us forever. If we leave no trail, if we travel in disguise, he can’t possibly know where we are.”

  “Give up everything, you mean? Our titles, our wealth?”

  “None of that really matters...”

  “Of course it matters. There’s no point having a life if it’s not worth living. Besides, it’s too late. He’s virtually at our door.”

  “And let me guess,” she said, “this place is a cul-de-sac. There’s no other way out.”

  “Rather like our affair,” he grunted, which floored her, given everything she’d surrendered for him.

  Before she could muster a reply, there were voices in the adjoining passage. Bishop Malconi appeared in company with Urgol, both apparently en route to the lower levels. Trelawna shrank back at the sight of the woodwose, who waited in the doorway as Malconi addressed his nephew.

  “It seems your mother is finally in need of my advice,” he sneered. “How the world turns. This time, at the very least, I shall exact the price of a better bedroom.” His gaze shifted to Trelawna, but now there was no warmth or pleasantness there. “Well, well... if it isn’t the little whore who has caused all our woes. My, what a beauty. Daughter, you are the very reincarnation of Eve. And thanks to your predatory cunning, good men who otherwise would not have strayed will once again face the fury of God.”

  And he was gone in a flurry of Episcopal purple, Urgol lumbering behind him.

  Rufio stood to one side, lost in thought. When Trelawna finally spoke, it was with trembling voice. After everything that had happened in this hellish place, it was only now that she almost crumbled. “Could you... could you not have said something on my behalf? Not even then?”