Dark North

Thirty-Two

Despite their fatigue, Trelawna and Gerta did not sleep well in their first night at Castello Malconi.

The guest-chambers they had been allocated were austere but not uncomfortable, comprising a small privy and a sleeping area, its walls hung with woven cloths, its floor covered by a carpet. It contained a double-sized bed and two armchairs, facing each other across a bearskin rug laid in front of a hearth that was already crackling. The narrow window, which looked down over the courtyard, sat at the end of a deep embrasure, behind a tapestry depicting naked nymphs at play in a spring, with satyrs peeking slyly from the surrounding foliage.

On first seeing this, Trelawna was briefly reminded of her imagined home in the sun-drenched south — troubadours, poetry and the Cult d’Amor. But then the night came, and their fire and candles winked out, and a deeper darkness than they’d ever known fell over Castello Malconi.

They had seen neither hide nor hair of Felix Rufio or Centurion Marius since first being led up here by another of the duchess’s hunchbacked servants, this one female and very ancient, with abhorrent, lopsided features. Though she had told them that a bathroom could be found at the end of the passage, they only dared venture that way once, and it was so dark that they soon scurried back. The entire fortress now droned to the mountain wind. From unseen regions, above and below, they fancied they heard voices — groans of pain alternating with malicious, tittering laughter. Once there came a whispering at their keyhole. Whatever it was, it spoke in an unknown tongue, though they felt certain the message it imparted was obscene. Trelawna attempted to re-light the candles, but unseen breaths blew their flames out. The two women, neither of whom had ever felt this vulnerable or alone, could do naught but huddle beneath the quilt and embrace each other, shivering with fear.

After what seemed an eternity, Trelawna slept, only for a knock at the door to suddenly rouse her. On the pillow next to her, Gerta remained deeply asleep.

A voice sounded. “Countess? It is I, Marius.”

When Trelawna opened the door, she could have cried for joy at the sight of the soldier waiting beyond, even though she barely knew him.

Centurion Marius was of the yeoman class, but he possessed a simple courage and honesty, which appealed to her greatly since her world had fallen into such turmoil. He was middle-aged, of squat build and heavily muscled; his complexion was beef-red from long hours spent outdoors, and his face disfigured by many old cuts. But by simply attending to her needs during the journey here, he had won her over. He was now stripped of his arms and armour, wearing only his maroon breeks and a coarse woollen under-tunic. But it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms.

“Forgive my absence last night,” he said. “I would have stood guard, but I was shown to a barrack-room and once darkness fell I didn’t know my way around.”

“That’s quite understandable,” she replied. “We couldn’t find our way around, either. We didn’t even get the chance to bathe.”

“There’s a bathing area not too far from here. Would you like me to escort you?”

“What time is it, Marius?”

“Almost eight of the clock, ma’am. The sun is up, though there’s heavy cloud cover and I can hear distant thunder.”

Trelawna was unconcerned about the weather. The fact that daylight was spilling along the passage was enough for her. She gathered the towels. “If you could show me to the bathroom, Marius, I’d appreciate it.”

Duchess Zalmyra had risen early that morning to observe her scrying-orbs.

Nothing she saw pleased her, so she ascended to Castello Malconi’s main reception hall. This was octagonal in shape, its black marble floor carved with astrological symbols, its pillars cut with the heads of esoteric figures. There she waited impatiently until the two guests she had summoned attended her. They were her son, Tribune Felix Rufio and her brother, Bishop Severin Malconi. Both were tousled by sleep and only partly dressed. She had ensured, before their arrival, that their apartments would contain none of the luxuries they were used to.

She regarded them from a raised, high-backed seat. Over her normal garments, she wore a trailing house-robe stitched together from the tawny hides of lions, their manes lying thick and lush across her shoulders.

“Zalmyra!” Bishop Malconi cried. “My quarters are infested with cockroaches!”

She arched an eyebrow. “I hoped it would remind you of your house on Capri.”

“And my room is the last word in asceticism!” Rufio complained. “It has nothing in it save a truckle-bed!”

“A reminder of the life you perhaps should have had.”

The bishop was still spluttering with indignation. “But why? What is…”

“Enough gabble!” she said sharply. “This Knight of the Round Table you have managed to offend is apparently quite dauntless. He comes on apace. I forecast he will be at our gates in the next few hours.”

Both men looked dumbfounded.

“Destroy him!” the bishop finally said.

“No qualms now about my summoning the things of darkness, brother?”

“This man seeks to do murder. He must pay whatever price is deemed fit.”

She pondered. “He and his band have already dispatched two powerful guardians. It now falls on me to call something far more terrible. But these are complex rituals and will require time and sacrifice. All your Praetorians are positioned in the gatehouse?”

Malconi nodded. “All of them.”

“Send a message. When Earl Lucan arrives, they are to fight him to the last man.”

“How many does he have with him?”

“One.”

“One!” Malconi looked even more startled, though not disagreeably so. He’d been expecting Lucan to have an army.

“But he and his companions have thus far displayed exceptional courage,” she added.

The bishop shrugged. “My men fear no-one. And rightly so. They are easily the most vicious…”

“Enough bragging, Severin! You are partly to blame for this disaster.”

“Me?”

She leaned forward. “This house cannot fall just because the Roman Empire has fallen. If you had not failed to curtail the lusts of that hot-blooded fool next to you, the war would now be centred on the capital. Our fastness would remain unmolested.”

“Zalmyra…” Malconi tried to laugh it off. “Entire barbarian hordes have perished attacking this fortress. Do you expect two men to…?”

“Do you not hear what I say?” she thundered, her face a livid scarlet.

He drew back, abashed.

“They have come this far, haven’t they?” she shouted. “And they have beaten every obstacle I’ve put in their path. Now stand your men in readiness, Severin… and advise them that any who run will die in my dungeons over decades! Go!”

The bishop headed glumly for the exit, closing the door behind him.

Zalmyra rounded next on her son. “And you!”

“Never fear,” he said. “I will fight too…”

“You will do no such thing. I observed your first pathetic attempt to stop this man.”

“I’ll do better next time,” he said, determinedly.

“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.”