Dark North

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!”

Her husband’s squire was leading his limping horse by the bridle. He, too, was pale and daubed with blood. He described the event as best he could, playing down his own role.

“You were present when my lord was bitten?” Trelawna asked, clasping his shoulders.

Alaric nodded awkwardly. He didn’t like to meet her gaze these days, for fear it would reveal too much. She’d always behaved with him the way a mother would, fond and fussing, but Alaric didn’t regard her so in return. He was on the cusp of manhood, and his adolescent adoration of Trelawna was increasingly replaced by a confused but fierce yearning. “It’s true what Sir Wulfstan says, my lady. The serpent only caught him a glancing blow.”

From further up the track came gruff shouting, as Lucan insisted that people take their hands off him. He pushed his men away, growling like a bear. This was not the way Lucan routinely treated his vassals, and those who witnessed it knew for certain that he was more badly hurt than he was admitting.

“This monster?” she said. “He stood against it alone?”

“He killed it, my lady,” Alaric replied. “It was the greatest act of bravery I ever saw.”

“My lady, forgive me,” came another voice. It was Benedict, now struggling with several horses whose masters had hurried off on foot to assist their lord. “Alaric does himself an injustice. It was his arrow that pierced the monster’s eye, his hunting spear that pinioned it to a tree. As Earl Lucan saved Malvolio’s life, so Alaric saved Earl Lucan’s.”

Trelawna gazed wonderingly from one lad to the other.

“I know this to be true,” Benedict added, “because your husband proclaimed it so.”

“You saved my husband, Alaric?” she asked.

Alaric shrugged. “I was only doing my duty, ma’am.”

Her sad smile betrayed a mother’s pride, which tore at his insides. “There are many who have used that phrase to disguise evil deeds, Alaric. You, however, grace it. As your deeds grace your birthday. Today is your coming of age in many ways.”

She planted a kiss on his brow, before turning to an attendant who had brought up her palfrey. She climbed onto the saddle, and trotted away.

Alaric hung his head, cheeks burning.

“Beware, my friend,” Benedict said. “Unrequited love is always the worst.”

Alaric glanced round at him. “So speaks the voice of experience?”

“Of course. I love all women, but only a few reciprocate. Hence I know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re being presumptuous, Ben.”

“I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? And so have others around here. You need to be careful.”

Alaric assisted him with the horses. “You think I would do anything improper?”

“The heart is a treacherous master.”

Alaric gripped his wrist. “My master is Earl Lucan, Steward of the North! I would never do anything to dishonour him!”

Gingerly, Benedict disentangled himself from the bloodstained paw. “Let’s hope he lives long enough for you to keep that promise.”