Dark North

Ten

With no room at the feast except for delegates and dignitaries, even men of rank among the common soldiery — captains and constables — were forced to find supper elsewhere. It was the same for the squires, though they were deemed at least worthy to be wined and dined in the palace kitchens, which in truth they often preferred. Here there was no emphasis on manners, and though the fare was rough and ready — mutton, bread and leeks in salted butter — there was no shortage of jugged ale and so many kitchen maids and serving wenches that every lad present felt sure he’d have tumbled a lass by morning.

Even Malvolio, normally a bonehead in these circumstances, made good ground with a certain Lotta, whose fiery locks, pouting lips and melon-size breasts promised paradise.

“You squires are too cocky by half,” she said after she’d caught him attempting to lift her skirt. “You shouldn’t use us so rudely. You’re no better than us.”

“Quite right, my dear,” Malvolio agreed. “Caste and breeding have no role here. We seek only your sympathy.”

“Sympathy?” She arched an eyebrow as she poured more ale.

“My dear,” he stuttered, to the hilarity of his fellows clustered around the table, many already with lasses on their laps, “we are soon to be knights. Then we will die as one, martyred in the name of King and Christendom. Does such heroism not become us?”

“A fool’s coxcomb would become you more,” Lotta retorted.

Benedict roared.

“Outrageous!” Malvolio declared. “I was born to do good work with a lance.”

She shook her head at such effrontery, but though her tray was laden with empty vessels she made no attempt to withdraw.

“Sweet nymph, salve my pain,” Malvolio persisted, hiccoughing, which brought another belly-laugh from Benedict. “Let me plant my mouth on those berry-red lips, rest my head on that sturdy bosom.”

“It’ll take more than flowery bullshit to win these virgin pillows, sir knight-in-waiting.” This time Lotta did withdraw.

Malvolio feigned hurt. “I still think she likes me.”

His companions fell about the table, but Lotta returned with another pot of ale for him.

“Are you really a virgin?” he asked, his words slurring.

“That may be for you to discover, my lord.” She walked away again, this time leaving the kitchens entirely.

“I’ll return anon,” Malvolio announced, standing so abruptly that he toppled backward and fell from his stool. It took three of them to lift him to his feet, insert the freshly filled pot into his hand and propel him in the right direction.

He was so inebriated that once away from the noise and light of the kitchens he found it difficult to navigate. Or possibly the teasing girl had not been teasing after all, but simply wanted to be done with him. Either way, she made herself scarce, and he blundered around the palace corridors, drawing constantly on his ale, which hardly helped because soon he was looking for a latrine as well.

It was by pure chance that he tottered out into the rose garden on the west terrace, unlacing the front of his breeches, and there witnessed something that struck him like a blow between the eyes. Fogged with ale, but not so fogged that he didn’t realise what he was seeing, Malvolio turned and tottered back into the palace still with his member on display. He hurried, gasping, along several passages before confronting someone — fortunately not a lady of court, but Alaric.

“You’re a dissolute lad, Mal, we all know,” Alaric commented. “But I’d put that away if I were you. It’s a little unsubtle.”

Malvolio tucked himself out of sight before jabbering what he’d just seen.

At first Alaric thought he’d misheard. He gazed at Malvolio aghast. “You’re… you’re wrong! You must be!”

Malvolio shook his head. His cheeks had flushed a ruddy hue.

By contrast, the colour drained from Alaric’s face. His friend was stone-drunk — he could easily be mistaken. But there was something in Malvolio’s demeanour. His eyes, previously clouded, were wide and alert. He panted like a dog. Whatever he’d seen — or thought he’d seen — it had frightened him.

“Where?” Alaric asked.

“I’m not sure…” Malvolio told the way as best he was able.

“Go back to the kitchens, and ask for more ale,” Alaric said firmly. “Keep drinking, Mal. Drink until you fall unconscious, do you hear me?”

Malvolio nodded dumbly.

“You say nothing about this, you understand?” Alaric said. “To anyone.”

“But Earl Lucan…”

“Especially not to Earl Lucan! Good God in Heaven, don’t say anything to him!”

Malvolio nodded. He touched a shaking hand to his clammy brow.

“Go on,” Alaric urged him. “You’re drunk as a mop. Trust me, you’ll be mistaken. But if it’s some lord sticking it into someone else’s lady, and they saw you, this could still be a problem. Let me go and find out.”

Malvolio lurched away, and Alaric proceeded along the passage, heart thumping. When he finally found the terrace garden, Countess Trelawna was seated alone on a bench. Apparently, she was taking the evening air.

“Why, Alaric…?” she said, looking surprised.

“My lady…” Alaric felt absurdly self-conscious, as if it was obvious why he’d arrived in this hidden nook of the palace and it would be clumsy to try and deny it. “Malvolio… erm, Malvolio was just here.”

“Yes, I saw.”

“He’s erm… he’s very drunk.”

“I saw that as well.”

Alaric shook his head and smiled. “Forgive me, ma’am. He mistook…”

“He mistook nothing, Alaric. He saw me with my lover, a Roman officer.”

Alaric was vaguely aware of hair prickling on his scalp.

Torturous seconds seemed to pass, during which they could do nothing but regard each other in mute astonishment.

“Does that surprise you?” she finally asked.

“It… surprises me you would admit it,” he stammered.

“Why? Must one go on suffering for love indefinitely and in silence? The way you do. Oh, yes, Alaric… I know about your infatuation.”

Alaric almost choked. “You… you try to cast me in the same light as…? But my lady, I’ve never said a word, I’ve never done anything inappropriate… ”

“Of course you haven’t. Don’t worry, Alaric. I’m not attempting to blackmail you. I’m trying to appeal to you as a friend.”

“Your husband is also my friend.”

“Just so. But I’m not asking you to lie to him. Merely to keep quiet about what you know until tomorrow, when I will break the news to him.”

Alaric was still too stunned for rational words. A creeping numbness afflicted his skin.

“Where is your master now?” Trelawna asked.

“In the banquet hall?”

“It won’t be too long before they are all drunk and incapable.”

“My lady, Earl Lucan doesn’t…”

“Oh I know, Alaric. I know my own husband. He doesn’t drink to the point where he falls face-first onto his own gravy-stained platter, but nevertheless he will be drunk. And when he finally returns to our bed, he will sleep like the dead. Is any of this untrue?”

Alaric shook his head dumbly.

“This is why it’s best to save the bad news until the morrow. If it reaches him later tonight he will not comprehend it — and it’s surely best that he comprehends it absolutely. If it reaches him now, he will half-comprehend it — sufficiently to go in search of a sword, and then all Arthur’s careful negotiations will be for naught. The choice is yours.”

Alaric tried to swallow, but found his mouth was dry. “You will break this terrible news to him yourself, you say?”

Trelawna produced a sealed envelope. “I have written Lucan a letter, which I would be grateful if you would hand to him on the morrow. It will explain everything.”

Still barely knowing what he was doing, Alaric took it. “You will not be here?”

“Alas, no. What purpose would that serve?”

“My lady… how could you… how could you do this to us?”

“Alaric, is it true that you love me?”

“More than you could ever imagine.”

“Foolish child. What can I have done to enchant you so?”

“Just being who you are.”

“In that case, something good will have come from this. You regard me somewhat less idealistically now?”

Alaric shook his head. “My lady, I’m past the stage where I could ever judge you.”

“Then you know how I feel? All wisdom and inhibition has left me. I know only that I must be with my love. If you truly feel the same, you will help me.”

“I’ll give him the letter, ma’am, though I can hardly approve.”

She sighed. “Understand that I have misgivings too. But if I’m to live my life I must follow my heart.”

“You will break his,” Alaric said, his voice thickening. “And mine.”

“For you, it was always an impossible dream. I’m sure you understood that?”

Alaric said nothing as hot tears dripped down his cheeks.

Trelawna stood. “I’m for bed. If you feel the urge to betray me, you must obey your conscience. But I beg you to consider the consequences.” She turned to leave, but had an afterthought. “Malvolio…?”

“He won’t remember a thing. Until the morning, when, of course, it won’t matter.”

“In the morning, none of this will matter. Goodbye, Alaric.”

Alaric made no response, merely stood frozen as she drifted away. It was several minutes before he could take himself into the palace, stopping to dry his tears. He wandered the labyrinthine passages with slow, stumbling footsteps, nauseated by shock. It wasn’t just the news that his mistress had imparted to him, though that was possibly the most devastating thing he had heard in his life, it was her manner. It had been cold, almost heartless — but it made it worse that he’d recognised it as a facade. Her lips had trembled; her blue eyes had glazed with moisture. She was clearly torn with sorrow, and yet the promise of her new life must have made this bearable.

Her new life…

It stuck in his craw, banged inside his head like an angry wasp.

Countess Trelawna — his Countess Trelawna — was headed for a new life in which neither her husband nor Alaric had any role to play.

He glanced at the letter. Lucan’s name had been inscribed on it with Trelawna’s usual elegant flourish. When he put it to his nose, he could smell her perfume — juniper and daffodil. Over the years he’d handled so many of these apparently innocent missives. It cut him to the core to wonder how many had been part of this grand deception.

He made his way to the banquet hall by the most meandering path imaginable. Even had he not known where it was, he couldn’t have failed to find it thanks to the hubbub of discordant singing. Queen Guinevere and her ladies had withdrawn, as had the Romans. But Arthur’s knights and barons were still present, grouped around their King, beating a raucous tattoo with their feet and fists, singing lustily — not the mystical verses of Taliesin, but bawdy fighting songs, tales of battles won and enemies destroyed. Brows were florid, beards soaked with sweat. Flagons slopped ale, wine sprayed from bawling mouths. This might be Camelot, a centre of culture by the standards of the north, but it was still a martial court, and like martial courts all over Europe, except for those now reclaimed by the Roman world — Alaric felt a bubbling resentment — most baronial gatherings ended in this fashion. Roistering — a loutish exhibition of drunkenness and bravado, which Countess Trelawna clearly reviled and yet had been forced to tolerate for so many years. Until now.

Alaric had to fight down more tears. He focused on Earl Lucan in the midst of the throng, Gawaine’s arm on his shoulder. He was roaring along with the rest, draining one mug after another; wine, ale or cider — it made no difference to him. It made no difference to any of them. But these weren’t just tavern brawlers, they were seasoned warriors; men who’d grown stout of limb and strong of heart through years of turmoil. When this night ended, they’d fall into their bed like sacks of meal, but would be up with the dawn, cool-headed and ready for further debate.

Of course, it was anyone’s guess now what tone that debate would take. Or whether those heads would remain cool. One thing was certain, if Alaric handed over the letter now, there would be an eruption. Rivers of blood would run in this palace, rather than rivers of ale. Despite this, an odd perversity almost steered him into the heart of the mayhem, shouting and waving his envelope. But good sense at last forbade it.