Dark North

Nine

The Romans accepted Arthur’s invitation, and early that evening a succession of palanquins ferried them up the Eagle Road to the palace.

The feast was served in the main banquet hall. Normally, the tables in there would be arrayed in a great horseshoe around a blazing central hearth, with King Arthur and Queen Guinevere at its head, Archbishop Stigand to their right, Sir Kay to their left, and all other senior nobility and their consorts seated in descending order of importance down either leg. But now, with the Roman ambassadors and their chief flunkeys present, not to mention sundry other courtiers, barons, churchmen and city burgesses, the hearth had been cleared and additional tables set out.

The gathering was noisy but good-natured. Certain of Arthur’s knights, who for various reasons had missed that first day’s Council but had now arrived during the course of the evening — Sir Gawaine, for instance, and his brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris — had needed to be accommodated on smaller trestle tables, which owing to the numbers elsewhere, were located far from the presence of the King. But such was the etiquette at Camelot that no man took offence on a grand occasion like this, least of all Sir Gawaine, who, being loud, garrulous and a great songster when the drink was on him, was happy to be in any genial company.

The meal was exquisite. The first course consisted of shellfish simmered in garlic, wine and honey, and the main course of roast fowls glazed in sweet, sticky sauce, served with buttered, crusty bread and trenchers of steaming vegetables: cabbages, onions, turnips, carrots and leeks. The procession of servants who brought the repast had to weave their way in and around the jugglers and tumblers who held court in the very centre of the chamber. Rich, sweet wine was poured liberally, or, if the diners preferred, flagons of frothing ale or crisp cider were provided.

From the high gallery surrounding the chamber fluted the sweet voice of Taliesin, accompanied by the harmonious tones of gitterns, dulcimers and reed-pipes.¹³ The noise levels rose steadily, shouting and guffawing piercing the smoky air as any cantankerous feeling lingering from the day was smoothed over. Arthur had taken care with his seating arrangements, ensuring that Romans were always interspersed with Britons, who were under strict orders to make cordial conversation. Where possible, the senior Roman ambassadors were placed alongside the most beautiful ladies of court, while potentially recalcitrant elements — such as Cador — were dispatched to the far corners.

Lucan observed the ambassadors with interest.

Consul Rascalon was the most obviously ‘Roman’ of them, inasmuch as he was portly to the point of being corpulent. His garments were the richest on show, his chain of office the most ornate. He wore a fur-trimmed white satin gown, with sleeves puffed and full from elbow to shoulder, over a lilac jerkin covered with gold embroidery. A blue, flat-brimmed cap decorated with a peacock plume was pulled down over his fluffy white locks. His fat, moist hands were bedecked with gem-encrusted rings, and he made constant fluttering gestures with them as he spoke. All through the banquet he issued curt instructions to the servants, apparently anticipating disrespect and determined to dissuade it by his manner alone. By contrast, Bishop Proclates seemed remarkably young for a high-ranking clergyman, and though handsome and virile, there was also something vulpine about him — he had the aura of a hard man, a cold man. Not once had Lucan seen him smile. Though clad in the skullcap and ecclesiastical purple, Proclates’s velvet houppeland¹⁴ was high-collared, girdled at the waist and had long, trailing sleeves, which exposed powerful wrists. The cut of his garb accentuated a lean but strong physique.

“I understand you are a fighting man of some note?” came a voice from Lucan’s left.

He turned to view the Roman ambassador seated next to him. This fellow was clearly not a churchman. His garb was too simple: a tan leather doublet worn over a white shirt with puffed sleeves laced at the cuffs and collar. His iron-grey hair was cut very short, and he was clean-shaven. He had a refined but angular face which was marked by old scars. His eyes were hazel but of an intense lustre. There was something intelligent but solemn about him. Lucan remembered that they had crossed words during the debate.

“I’ve fought for Arthur, yes,” Lucan said. “I’m Lucan, of the House Corneus.”

“You are Steward of the North, I understand?”

“I am. Forgive me…?”

The Roman offered his hand. “Quintus Maximion, Senior Tribune of the Eighth Legion.”

“Ah yes,” Lucan said. “You’ve been active in Rome’s reconquest of the West.”

“I’ve had some success in the Emperor’s name.”

“If nothing else, we’re both modest men, Lord Maximion.”

Maximion half-smiled. “This is a most impressive hall.”

He surveyed the chamber appreciatively. Its high roof was of oaken shingles, supported by four great stone arches painted lavish colours and carved with woodland scenes. The walls were hung with weapons and battle-standards, many captured from Arthur’s enemies. There were also tapestries, sumptuously woven. The floor was of sanded marble, the broad avenue leading into it laid with a crimson carpet.

“It has the rugged grandeur of the wild north,” Maximion commented. “Yet there is comfort here, and a sense of artisanship.”

“This is Camelot, after all,” Lucan said.

“Yes, but many in Rome would be surprised.”

“They’d expect a barbarian stronghold?”

“They would expect little more than a palisade, maybe with a few longhouses and cattle-sheds crammed in the middle of it.” Maximion glanced at his goblet — it was wrought from silver, ornamented with elves and dragons. “They would expect drinking-horns rather than handsome cups.” He assessed his knife and fork — they were of elaborate Italian design. “And a single knife instead of cutlery, maybe the same one used earlier that day to slit an enemy’s throat.”

“And will they be worried to learn otherwise?” Lucan asked.

“Probably not, is the sad truth.”

“The sad truth?”

Maximion sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I spoke out of turn, Earl Lucan. I’m only a soldier. I have no personal views regarding our mission here.”

“Then why were you sent?”

Maximion shrugged, as if he had already given too many of his feelings away.

“There’s no need to answer that question,” Lucan said. “I know the answer. And so does King Arthur. You are here to assess our defences, are you not?”

“If that were true, I would be awe-stricken by them. This fortress, I would guess, is impregnable. Should it ever be put under siege, I’d imagine it has stores that could last it many years. During our journey here from Dover, we passed similar castles: Sissinghurst, Scotney and Petersfield,¹⁵ I believe, were some of their names?”

The main meal was now complete, and baskets of fruit and honeyed barley cakes were being passed around by servants. Lucan took a cake and broke a small piece from it. “That would be correct.”

“Fine defensive structures, all,” Maximion added. “Most disconcerting… for an enemy, I mean. But I fear this is an uncomfortable subject for discussion.”

Lucan turned to face him, the elf-grey eyes gleaming in his pale face. “Lord Maximion, you clearly speak with candour. And I would be doing you an injustice if I did not respond in kind. Let me tell you truly… we have no fear of New Rome. An extensive war between us would be ruinous for this kingdom, but we have fought so many wars already. We’ve all of us in this room buried friends and family. We ourselves have behaved like brute animals when the necessity came. It isn’t something any of us particularly want to experience again, but it’s something we are used to. You understand?”

“Of course,” Maximion replied.

“Every one of Arthur’s lords who sits at table tonight can call thousands of men to his banner. And all of them warriors — real soldiers with long experience and good training. Not peasants pressed into service. Not slaves who would rather be anywhere else in the world. But…” Lucan shrugged. “No doubt you have heard this same thing from many others in recent years.”

“Perhaps not with the same conviction,” Maximion said.

“I apologise if I was impolite.”

“No… far from it. In fact, with the exception of the heated exchanges in the Council hall today, which were perfectly understandable, everyone we have met in this land has been most courteous. Your reputation for gallantry is well earned. But let us discuss neutral things. Are you a family man, Earl Lucan?”

“My wife, Trelawna, is here with me…”

Lucan glanced over his shoulder. Trelawna was several seats away, or she was supposed to be — for her place was now vacant. The Roman ambassador, Consul Publius, had been seated alongside her, Arthur’s intent being that the countess should charm him with her beauty and wit. Now Publius sat glumly, gnawing on left-over chicken-bones.

Lucan was puzzled. “No doubt she’ll return shortly. Are you a family man, tribune?”

Maximion nodded. “I have three sons. All serve in the army. My wife, alas, is now departed. The sweating sickness took her five winters ago.”

“My condolences.”

“Gratefully received.”

“I wonder,” Lucan said, “does this bereavement mean that you feel you have nothing to go home to?”

“Oh no, Earl Lucan.” Maximion gave a thin smile. “I’ve lived long enough to understand that I still have much to go home to. Would that I could impart this wisdom to others, but ears are sometimes closed at the most inopportune moments.”

Lucan frowned. “Some things must be striven for harder than others, my lord. If I were you, I should keep trying.”

Trelawna met Rufio, as their proxies had agreed, in a rose garden, on a balconied terrace accessible only by the West Gallery and a steep stairway.

It had been chosen by Gerta because it was the least likely place where any guests might stray to during the course of the feast, and because it had bowers and trellised screens between which a visitor might walk unseen. Despite this, it was well-lit by oil-lamps, and though only a few casements overlooked it, it could still be seen if a servant chanced past. Hence, the lovers had planned to meet innocently, and offer idle pleasantries as they strolled.

Of course, having seen each other for the first time in so many years whilst entering the feast-hall that evening, and then having to sit for the meal and feign concentration on their food, had been a torturous test, and now that they were alone together at last, their inhibitions broke. They came in sight of each other from either end of a rose-bordered walk, Rufio in his white hose and fitted, blue-and-gold satin cote-hardie,¹⁶ Trelawna in her figure-hugging, flame-red kirtle, her lustrous hair coiled in plaits. It was too much. They flew down the walk into each other’s arms. When they finally broke apart, they were breathless, their lips bright.

Rufio shook his head; his deep brown eyes had moistened with emotion. Trelawna felt shudders of girlish joy passing through her; she could barely speak.

“All these… years,” he finally stammered. “All these years I’ve been denied sight of you. I had to rely on memory and imagination — I perfected you in my mind’s eye until you were an angel on earth. And now I see that my assessment wasn’t even close.”

“And you!” she whispered. “You’re so much a man now.” She touched his cheek. “You even have care-lines.”

“We’ve been at war…”

“They add to you.” She luxuriated in the strength of the arms enclosing her. “The fighting has kept you fit.”

“There wasn’t a battle when the image of your face didn’t carry me through, where I didn’t picture you waiting for me somewhere… though I confess I didn’t know where.”

“Here, my love… here.”

They kissed again. It seemed incredible that the one night of passion they had shared had been six years ago, when they had first met during an identical conference to this one, here in Camelot. Both had been wandering, bored, while the baronage of both nations filled the palace with drunken revelry. True, they had not encountered each other in this very garden, but they might as well have done. Now, in each other’s arms, it was impossible to imagine that six years had passed, and not a couple of minutes.

“Good Lord, I’ve dreamed about this,” Rufio said. “Come away with me.”

Trelawna was startled. “What?”

“Come away with me, tonight.”

“Tonight?”

He nodded vigorously. “There can be no future for us if we separate again.”

“But tonight?” She felt a surge of alarm. “I… I cannot.”

He clutched her by the hands. “My love… I fear we have no other choice.”

“To leave now, on the spur of the moment…?”

“Would it pain you so much?”

Trelawna was torn with indecision, but also mounting excitement. “I think… I think it would pain me more to stay,” she breathed.

“So the matter is resolved.”

“No.” She pulled away from him. “I have…”

“You have nothing… not here. Few friends, no family.”

“I have a husband, Felix.”

“In name only.”

“That doesn’t matter. Wherever you took me… I’d be held a sinner, a fallen woman.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I will take you to Rome itself, my love. A word from His Holiness and your marriage is done. We would be free to marry, you and I.”

She gazed at him in disbelief. Was it possible? Could it be true?

Again she was beset by whirlwinds of doubt. Surely nothing so wonderful could happen to her? At most this evening she’d expected no more than to steal a few kisses from him, but deep inside her a wellspring of joy was rising. She knew there was nothing that could matter to her as much as a life of love and happiness with Felix Rufio.

“Don’t go back to that wilderness in the north, my lady,” he pleaded. “Ultimately you will wither there, and die before your time.”

“But this is hardly the time,” Trelawna said. “With negotiations between our rulers balanced on a knife-edge.”

“Bah!” Rufio replied. “We are but cogs in a greater machine. Whatever our private disputes, they have no bearing on these affairs. But even if they did, it would make no difference.” Suddenly he became serious; his face was almost grave. “There’s something you should know, my love. The Roman embassy is leaving in the early hours.”

Trelawna was shocked. “Leaving?”

“When Arthur and his counsellors are asleep, we will be on the road. Not to Dover but to Southampton, a much nearer port, where a ship even faster than the one that brought us rides at anchor.”

“But the negotiations…?”

“They are finished.” He kissed her hands. “Don’t you understand? My uncle, Bishop Malconi, is a master of this game, and he already has what he came for.”

Trelawna’s lips puckered. Her brow creased with worry.

“You still have fears?” he asked.

She had few. But some hidden sense told her that, besotted though she was with this man, and though her world would seem empty indeed if he left her now, the course he proposed was wrong.

“My love, there will be no second chances,” he urged her.

“You exact a high price, Felix. I’m not British by origin, but this land has become my home. Will I never see it again?”

Rufio smiled sadly. “Britain will shortly be annihilated.”

She backed away from him, horrified.

“It is not my doing,” he added hastily.

“You must explain, Felix.”

He nodded. “Understand that in telling you all this, I am breaching an immense confidence — an Imperial confidence.”

“I do.”

“King Arthur will not surrender to Emperor Lucius. That has been made plain to us, though in truth we already knew it. Therefore he and his minions must be removed. I’m sorry if that seems harsh, but it’s the way of New Rome, and you, I promise, will live long enough to see the better world that will result. Of course, both you and I know that Arthur and his nobility will not go quietly. There must be a war — a great and terrible war.”

“You think Arthur hasn’t fought wars before?”

“He’s never fought a war like this one. The arms assembling in Gaul stretch from one horizon to the next. Such a host has never been mustered. Trelawna — you need to know what is coming for this land. Blood and fire, on a colossal scale. My love, if there is anything at all you cherish about Arthur’s kingdom, say your farewells to it now, because it will likely be smashed. I’m not seducing you, Trelawna, I’m saving you.”

Trelawna was so appalled that she could hardly speak. It was too staggering to be true, and yet there was no reason for Rufio to lie — and he was party to all the Romans’ secrets. Of course, there was no difference that she could now make. Even if she were to betray Rufio and go straight to Arthur, it would not prevent the inevitable. If the Romans were genuinely to leave on the morrow, that was when Arthur would learn the truth. By alerting him now, all she would do was entrap herself in this doomed land.

“When do you plan to leave?” she asked.

“The feast lasts until midnight. For us to make the morning tide, our staff is under orders to make ready for departure by three o’clock at the latest.”

“Maybe I can slip from my boudoir,” she said, thinking aloud. “Lucan may have drunk so much by then that he won’t notice.”

Rufio nodded, musing. “I saw him at the Council today,” he said. “He seems typical of the equestrian order — confident, arrogant, aggressive.”

“How badly you misread him,” she replied. “He is none of those things — save aggressive, but only when he has cause to be.”

Rufio seemed surprised by that, but shrugged. “He’ll have cause soon enough. I beseech you, Trelawna, come with me this night.”

“I will try,” she said. “I haven’t much to give up, but it would help if I knew what I was gaining.”

“Allow me to enlighten you.” He drew her close, warming his cheek against hers. “I have a many-storied townhouse on the Palatine, overlooking Rome’s central forum. The city is not quite the capital it once was, thanks to the Vandal hordes, but, district by district, Emperor Lucius is restoring it — reconstructing its civic buildings, refurbishing its great monuments. There are libraries, public baths, theatres and markets. We have fountains, hot and cold running water. New parks have been opened, and trees planted along the banks of the Tiber to provide shady walks for lovers.”

Despite her reservations, Trelawna trembled with joy.

“It is a city of light and sophistication. And in addition, I have a house in the Tuscan hills, where it pleases me to spend the summer months. This is a heavenly place, a rambling country manse built of red stone, filled with Greek and Etruscan artworks, and surrounded by gardens, vineyards and poplar groves. Its peace and tranquillity is never disturbed. This will be your home, my love, and when we are married it will be the home of our children. When they finally assume ownership in their own right, the dark north as you knew it will have ceased to exist. Our offspring will never have known it.”

If there was anything Rufio could have said that would sway Trelawna to his plan, this was it. She had seen the effects of the northern waste on those forced to endure it — the weathered faces, the foul tempers. Lucan was the ultimate product of that land — an upright man, a sturdy man, but, deep in his heart, a wolf.

“Say yes, please,” Rufio begged. “Say you’ll come with me.”

“Yes, Felix, I’ll come.”

He caressed her mouth with his, sucking her wine-sweet tongue between his lips, his hands roving her slender contours, clutching her buttocks through her kirtle, reaching down her firm thighs. Her arms enfolded him to a point where he could scarcely breathe. Delight rumbled in his chest as they kissed long and deep.

And this was the state of affairs when Malvolio came upon them.