Dark North

Thirteen

The roads that converged on the twin ports of Sandwich and Stonar in Kent were rivers of heraldry as the knights of Albion poured along them. The May sun beat from a depthless sky, reflecting from the sweet grasses of the surrounding meadows, but more so from the multiple colours and devices resplendent on the shields, tabards, banners and surcoats of the many households headed in noisy procession for the kingdom’s southeast corner.

Lancelot and his mesnie wore their customary white leopards on fields of blue, Gawaine and his people were in their gold pentangles on scarlet, and Bedivere’s in their black ravens on orange. Arthur’s private forces, his Familiaris Regis, were most noticeable of all in snow-white livery decked with the King’s shimmering red dragon. Less handsome were the numerous other knights and squires, errant groups and privateers, most with dented arms and ragged, patched-together livery, who were also making the journey. However, though their purses might be empty, their hearts would be stout — for each of these men knew that his performance in the coming war was a possible route to fame and fortune.

No less important were the fyrd, the peasant soldiers, who marched or rode depending on their personal wealth. Though clad in improvised harness of studded leather or quilted felt, with the occasional helm and mail-coat among them, and arms amounting to little more than scythes, mallets and hunting-knives, they also drove ox-carts laden with pole-arms, longbows and bundles of freshly-fletched arrows. The enemies of King Arthur were fast learning how dreadful the impact could be of a great cloud of cloth-yard shafts driven by the thews of common men who, by royal order, now practised at the archery butts for three days in every five.

Even the Saxons had provided Arthur with levies. Most — being as mule-headed as it was possible for any men to be — would insist on boarding their ships from the port of Stonar, which they themselves had built and thus regarded as their own, but other Saxons flocking to the coast from the south or the west shared the same roads as Arthur’s troops and made a fearsome sight. They were career warriors; battle-hardened thegns and their war-bands, their blond heads and scarred, surly faces hidden beneath elaborately carved helms, their barrel bodies slotted into heavy coats of rings, with circular linden-wood shields slung on their backs. They carried broadswords tucked into their belts and long-handled battle-axes at their shoulders; the axes, capped with a steel blade often weighing as much as twenty pounds,²⁰ were hard to wield in combat, but every man-jack of the Saxons looked as if he was an expert.

“The sight of our yellow-haired friends will enrage the Romans even more,” Bedivere said to Arthur, as the King halted at a wayside inn and bade his senior lieutenants share a noon repast.

“Let them rage,” Arthur said, selecting a table some distance from the road. “They are making hay over in Brittany. Hoel’s official request for help arrived this morning. He’ll probably be surprised by the speed of our response, but I fear it won’t come soon enough to save the lives of a good many of his subjects.”

More of Arthur’s knights detached from the main host, trotted up and dismounted. Among them was Sir Gareth, whose insignia was a golden eagle on green, Sir Griflet, who wore white chevrons on purple, and Kay, who sported the same colours as the King. Lucan arrived with them, now in his all-black mantle, and despite the fine spring weather, with a huge wolfskin cloak — again black, still with paws attached and fangs glinting in its eyeless skull — thrown over his mailed shoulders. He remained on horseback, but removed his great cylindrical helmet and shook out his dark, sweat-damp locks.

Bedivere glanced up at him with disapproval, but said nothing.

The landlord of the inn served a haunch of venison with stewed figs, and two hot pies stuffed with cabbage, rabbit and chicken. There were also fresh-baked loaves, and a bowl of salad made from greens.

“Our main problem is numbers,” Arthur said. “At the most we have forty thousand men, not all of them prime fighting-stock, though everyone will do his job — I’m aware of that. The latest reports from Gaul hold that Lucius has mustered some three hundred thousand.”

There was an astonished silence. Many of them had trouble even imagining such a gathering of men.

“What of their experience, sire?” Griflet asked.

“There’ll be a limit to it. So many can’t all have been in the front line during Lucius’s recent conquests. But we mustn’t assume they are novices. They’ve won several battles.”

“Are the bulk of them volunteers, my lord?” Lucan wondered. “Or conscripts?”

The King glanced up at him, for the first time noticing that one of his guests had not yet dismounted, and frowned. “I suspect the former. All over the Western Empire, men young and old are clamouring for the rights of citizenship. In the tradition of old Rome, service in the armed forces is the most direct method. How now, Sir Lucan, you aren’t joining my table?”

“Forgive me, sire,” Lucan said. “But I can’t for shame participate in a feast when my men are on oatmeal and water.”

“There’ll be better supplies when we’re over the sea,” Bedivere replied. “Most of our stores are already loaded onto transports.”

Lucan gave a wintry smile as if he had heard such promises before, wheeled Nightshade around and cantered back to the road.

“Your brother’s become a testy fellow,” Arthur commented.

Bedivere’s cheeks reddened. “Apologies, my liege. He’s not taking his wife’s defection well.”

“Let’s hope he reserves at least some of his frustration for the battlefield.”

“He’s donned the black fur again,” Lancelot noted.

“He promises me it’s for this campaign only,” Bedivere replied.

“For my part I’m glad to see it,” Gawaine said, cutting a slice of venison. “There’s an old saying in the wilds of Ireland — to kill a wolf it takes a wolf.”

“Which brings us to our main business,” Arthur said, shifting utensils and unfolding a map. “King Hoel and his best men are besieged at Nantes on the Armorican border. But there are still fresh levies to be drawn from other parts of Brittany, not least Brest. But they’ll need to be marshalled, and quickly. At present New Rome is having it too easy. I want Emperor Lucius to know that he is in a war. To that end, Lancelot, Gawaine… you will sail ahead of the rest. A special squadron of longships has been set aside for you and as many men as they can accommodate. You are to sail directly to Brest, and from there to go inland, rousing the populace. At the very least I want Roman forces harassed, though of course some victories would be appreciated.”

“It’s occurred to me,” Gawaine said, chewing. “We could make the land uninhabitable. Scorch the earth. So there is nothing for the Romans to live off.”

“That would be punishing the Breton people unnecessarily,” Arthur replied. “This war is not about Brittany, and never has been.”

“Let’s hope that King Hoel, wherever he is, doesn’t learn that,” Griflet said.

“On the contrary.” Arthur smiled grimly. “Anything that might take Hoel’s anger to a new level is to be welcomed.” He glanced at Bedivere. “That’s one reason I can’t share your concerns about your brother. If he’s come here to wage a war within a war, that suits me… as long as it’s a war to the same end. Equally, I’ve no qualms about any methods he may use; within reason of course.” Briefly Arthur looked glum. “It pains me to say this, gentlemen, but there’ll be precious little chivalry in the days ahead.”

It was early evening when Lucan and his household came in sight of the Stour estuary, which was crammed shore to shore with cogs, keels and galleys. All paths leading down to it jostled with soldiers, many now weary and soiled, aggravated to find themselves in long, meandering queues. Arguments broke out, and even fights; Arthur’s marshals rode back and forth along the lines, displaying the royal crest and blasting their horns to bring rowdy groups to order. Other bands of men had separated from the main host and built fires out of driftwood. Some were working the river’s edge with nets and rods. Tents were appearing, the ornate pavilions of barons interspersed with the simple canvas shelters of the fyrd.

Lucan turned in his saddle and regarded his men. All wore black mantles over their mail. In the heat of the day, most had removed their helmets and pulled back their coifs. They were tousled and fatigued, begrimed with the dust of the road.

Looking further afield for a suitable bivouac, he spotted a patch of empty, barren ground. It was dotted with tussock grass, but at least it was dry. He instructed Turold and Wulfstan, and then broke off from the group as they busied themselves. He veered away from the column and cantered to the top of a rise. Beyond this lay more barren, sandy ridges. The estuary glimmered to his left. The crew of the many craft moored there called to each other as they clambered like monkeys through the forest of rigging. They, too, it seemed, were impatient to be off, though many had giving up hope of sailing on the evening tide — they lolled at the gunwales, sipping from wine-cups.

Lucan walked his horse forward until he came to a low defile, through which a stream trickled to the water’s edge. The stream was overgrown with sedge and rushes, among which he sighted the tumbledown outer wall of an old chapel. He dismounted and followed a zigzag path through the foliage, splashing across the stream and approaching the chapel doorway, and glanced inside. The small sanctuary was roofless, with a narrow nave and only fragments of stained glass in its arched casements. Ferns and thistles had inundated it. The faint images of saints were still visible on the plaster walls, green with mould. A tall Celtic cross was all that remained of the altar, though it was covered with lichen, and its sacred inscriptions had eroded to a featureless pattern. It would suffice.

Lucan rode back to the encampment. His personal pavilion had now been pitched in the centre, his black banner unfurled on a tall pole. Turold had unfastened his sword-belt and was loosening the collar of his hauberk; he glanced up as his overlord approached.

“The thing I discussed with you earlier,” Lucan said quietly.

Turold nodded.

“Now is the time. I’ve found an appropriate place.”

Fifteen minutes later, Alaric and the other squires were grooming the horses. Wulfstan had built a corral with pegs and rope, and the animals were stalled inside, their saddles and harnesses removed, their noses buried in a trough of meal. Alaric sensed a presence and turned. The bearlike shape of Sir Gerwin was lurking beyond the rope.

“Alaric, your master wants you,” he said. Alaric laid aside his brush and approached. Benedict and Malvolio followed, but Gerwin stopped them with a warning hand. “You boys continue with your duties.”

They hung back, as Alaric was led away into the gathering dusk.

They walked some distance, crossing several ridges, before Gerwin halted and faced the lad. Alaric observed for the first time that Gerwin was carrying a leather sack. He also saw that a page was waiting close by, looking nervous.

“My lord,” Alaric began, “what is…”

“Take off your mail.”

“My mail?”

Gerwin regarded him with a saturnine countenance that brooked no argument. Alaric glanced around. Aside from the page, nobody else was close. Full darkness was falling, but lights were visible on the water. He could hear the shouts of the sailors. The ungainly shapes of three dromonds hove downstream; by the looks of their dim outlines, they rode low in the water, loaded with men and horses.

“Do as I say,” Gerwin said brusquely. “Give your sword to me and your clothing to this lad.”

Alaric unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it over. He then removed his tabard, unlaced the collar of his mail jerkin and lifted it over his head. He shrugged the straps from his shoulders and stepped out of his mail leggings. Beneath, he wore light felt under-garb, damp with sweat. The page took charge of all these items, folding them neatly before heading in the direction of the camp.

“May I ask why I’m doing this? Alaric said.

“You may not. Follow me.”

Gerwin continued along the same path. They crossed more rugged rises, where only clumps of spiky grass grew. Alaric saw that someone else was now waiting for them — a mendicant. Like so many of those vagrant clerics tagging along with the army, hoping to offer salvation in return for succour, his gray sackcloth habit was bound with rope, his face gaunt, his skin yellowed. His hair and beard were unkempt.

“Despite appearances, this man is a true priest,” Gerwin said. “He will hear your confession.”

“My confession?”

Gerwin viewed him through lidded eyes. “It’s for the best, I assure you.”

Alaric couldn’t reply. For the last minute he’d toyed with a frightening thought that his overlord had discovered his yearning for Countess Trelawna. Could the earl in his cold rage have decided to punish Alaric first, before seeking out the real offender?

“Make your shrift, Alaric,” Gerwin said.

Alaric contemplated bounding down the slope and trying to swim the estuary.

Impatiently, Gerwin planted a mailed hand on the squire’s head and forced him to his knees, before moving away a respectful distance. Alaric gave his confession, though he hadn’t had time to plumb his conscience. Afterwards, Gerwin paid the priest a couple of coins. The priest shuffled away into the darkness. Gerwin now opened his sack. Alaric watched, transfixed, wondering what he would do if a dagger was produced. Instead it was an item of clothing: a scarlet cape.

He gazed at it, baffled — and felt a sudden surge of excitement.

“Up,” Gerwin said. Alaric stood with shaking legs. Gerwin placed the cape over his shoulders and fastened it with a hook. “Follow me,” he said again.

Alaric followed quickly.

“Ideally you’d be wearing black hose,” Gerwin said. “To show you came from dust and that that’s where you’ll be returning. But we haven’t got any. Besides, I reckon your underwear is just about grubby enough.”

They splashed through a trickling stream, and approached a gutted ruin, firelight flickering from its arched windows. When they entered, Alaric saw that it was a derelict chapel, but that torches had been set in its sconces and that the narrow nave had been cleared of vegetation. Several of Earl Lucan’s most senior knights were ranged down either wall — Turold, Wulfstan, Hubert, Cadelaine and Brione — they all wore their clean cloaks and surcoats. They were helmeted and stood with heads inclined. Each man clasped his longsword in front of him, its point to the earth. There was no movement; it was as if they stood in prayer. From over their shoulders, firelight played on the decayed faces of ancient saints.

Earl Lucan stood beneath a weathered stone cross. He was garbed in black, though he’d removed the wolf-cloak and drawn back his coif. His expression was stern. Alongside him on a slab were several accoutrements; he placed a hand on them as Alaric approached.

“Kneel,” Lucan said, when the lad was directly in front of him.

Alaric did as he was bidden, his entire body shivering.

“This scarlet cloak is a memorial to the robe worn by Christ on the road to Golgotha,” Lucan said. “As such, it is a symbol of the humility you must always exercise.”

Alaric didn’t reply. His head was bowed, his hands joined.

“Take these.”

Alaric glanced up. Lucan was offering him a pair of leather shoes with a gilded spur attached to each heel. The lad’s mouth was dry as wood as he took them.

“Just as gold is the most coveted metal, so gold must be worn on your foot to take away all covetousness from your heart,” Lucan said.

Alaric nodded and shod himself.

Gerwin stepped up and handed Alaric’s sword to Lucan. It was still in its scabbard, its belt wrapped around it. In turn, Lucan presented it to Alaric.

“This is your sword.” He indicated with a nod that Alaric should strap it to his waist. “Just as it has two cutting-edges, so you must keep and maintain right, reason and justice on all sides. Never use it to betray the Christian faith or the right of the Holy Church.”

Shudders passed through Alaric’s body. The hopes and dreams he’d harboured for so many years still seemed distant, even though he was in the midst of their realisation. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

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.