Dark North

Six

The West Library was a suite of barrel-vaulted chambers separated from each other by tall, marble archways. Their walls were inlaid with deep shelves crammed with ancient tomes. A central hearth provided warmth, while rush-lamps provided light. There was a comforting aroma of wood-smoke and old leather.

Again, Arthur opted for informality. He wore only a blue, loose-fitting tunic, black linen breeches, and soft leather shoes cross-banded to the knee. He strode up and down the central chamber, sipping from a cup of watered wine as he made his address.

“Here is what we know, gentlemen. Emperor Lucius is in the process of reconquering what he considers to be his rightful dominion. Like any astute monarch, where possible he will achieve this by words rather than battle. His negotiating skills, and those of his emissaries, are said to be subtle. Many Gallic dukes and princes succumbed to these machinations straight away. They are now nominal dukes and princes, but at least they are still alive; that is how most of them regard it. Because, despite this diplomatic offensive, Emperor Lucius is a Roman and — like all Romans before him — he knows that war will not only be necessary at some point, it will be desirable. The only thing that really impresses Roman citizens is success on the battlefield. That does not mean Lucius is looking to wage war on us. The last Roman army to invade Britain was vast, battle-hardened and led by a corps of experienced and able commanders. Even so, only by the skin of its teeth did it gain a toehold, and then it had to fight continual exhausting campaigns to expand. Lucius knows this would be an immensely difficult undertaking.”

Many of the Round Table brotherhood were now present: Lancelot, Bedivere, Kay, Lionel, Cador, Caradoc, Claudin, Griflet, Tristan and others.

It was Lancelot who spoke up. Son of King Ban and the only Frankish-born warrior present, he was a huge, brawny, thickset fellow, with a tawny mane like a lion’s and a thick beard and moustache. He was Arthur’s champion, but he interrupted the King’s discourse freely; all Arthur’s knights were encouraged to speak their minds.

“Nevertheless, sire, Emperor Lucius has consciously manoeuvred himself into a position where, if he were to back down from a fight with us now, it would cost him face. He has told his people that he will deliver the Western Empire. Not to do so because it would involve war with Britain would be a humiliation, from which, politically, he might never recover.”

Arthur nodded. “I agree. We have spies all over Gaul, and have seen his legions assembling. So we can be under no illusions. But at present I think a war between New Rome and Britain can only occur as an end-game. There may be ways to divert it. For example, one thing we do not know is where the Holy Father stands. If New Rome were to invade Britain tomorrow, it would be a blatant act of aggression by one Christian power against another. Pope Simplicius should condemn it outright.”

“He should declare it a crime!” Sir Cador said. He was a tall, raw-boned man, with a mop of red hair and a wild beard. Though he was Duke of Cornwall and a dependable soldier, he was also prone to excitableness. His voice rose as he ranted. “His Holiness should go further… he should excommunicate the main aggressor, and put the whole of New Rome under interdict!”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Bedivere replied. “Not with Lucius the new buttress of western Christianity.”

“That depends,” Arthur said. “Pope Simplicius keeps close counsel, but I hear rumours that he hasn’t welcomed the emergence of this Imperial rival. Moreover, he may find that he has friends in this matter in Constantinople — Emperor Leo,¹¹ not to mention the Patriarch. Until recently, the light of the Roman world shone from the East. Will they welcome the resurrection of the West?”

“You’re not saying the Pope will side with us,” Kay said. As often, his tone was sardonic and critical.

“We can’t rely on it,” Arthur replied. “Not if the Romans raise the issue of British religious observances, as I suspect they will. We have no cardinal in Rome to rebuff any outlandish charges. This also means that we don’t know the character of Simplicius as well as we might. Is he an honest churchman, or does he seek material gains? Is he even now putting price-tags on the dioceses of the British Isles?”

Bedivere spoke again. “Most likely, if Rome does attack us, the Pope will decry the act, but do no more than that. If he seeks to make a peace and in the process casts both Rome and Camelot as equal transgressors, that will suit New Rome nicely, so long as they have already made gains.”

They pondered this. The only sound was the hissing of the fire as it fed on the last of the winter logs. Lucan sat closest to the flames, his chin propped on his fist.

“You’re unusually quiet, Sir Lucan,” the King said.

Lucan glanced up. “Forgive me, sire.”

“You have more important things on your mind?”

Lucan was conscious that all eyes were fixed on him, yet felt strangely unmoved. He did have other things on his mind, but he wasn’t going to air them here. When he finally addressed the matter at hand it was with simple pragmatism.

“As I see it, my liege, tomorrow we must decide whether we are hawks or doves.”

“Indeed?”

Lucan continued. “The Romans have arrived with smiling faces. But that is the way their murderers always arrived. Julius Caesar discovered that.”

“And?”

“To avoid a similar fate, we must know exactly what our own intentions are.” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “If we are doves, and conciliate with New Rome… it may be deemed a sign of weakness, and may encourage them to attack.”

“It may also confuse them,” Cador argued. “It may counter the intelligence their spies have no doubt gleaned that we are a strong island, not to be trifled with.”

“That too,” Lucan agreed. “It’s a thorny issue. Equally so if we are hawks, and threaten resistance. That may frighten them into retreating, or it may provoke them.”

“And your recommendation?” Arthur asked.

Lucan sighed. “I wonder if it’s even worthwhile playing their silly game. I anticipate that New Rome will make many offers to us tomorrow, none of which we will find acceptable. They will prod us and provoke us, to test our reaction.”

“I expect so too,” Arthur said.

“Then my recommendation, sire, is that we resist. In no-nonsense fashion. As Lancelot pointed out, Emperor Lucius has backed himself into a corner. He must ultimately be prepared to fight. This positioning and re-positioning on the European chessboard is merely a device by which he can gain maximum advantage… militarily, politically, probably both.”

“So you advise that we be hawks?” Arthur said.

“It’s not something I want, sire. But life in the North has taught me a lesson the Romans learned a long time ago; namely, that it isn’t the righteous who take everything, it’s the ruthless. We may have right on our side, but that won’t be enough. If we don’t show a willingness to fight, they will continue with this intimidation, growing ever more belligerent and, presumably, ever stronger.”

There was a long, brooding silence, finally broken by Kay.

“Sire, there may be another way. Perhaps we can… give something to the Romans?”

Arthur turned to him. “What do you propose?”

Despite being Arthur’s sibling, Kay was an odd character. There were times when he appeared to resent being Arthur’s inferior, even though he knew he was neither as clever nor as much a warrior. Yet he was a blunt-spoken fellow who was useful to have around for his forthrightness.

“It seems to me that New Rome has engulfed the whole of continental Christendom apart from one parcel of land,” he said. “And that is Brittany. Why not offer it as a gift?”

Cador jumped to his feet. “Brittany is our ally.”

Kay eyed him warily. “Yes, but to what end? Would Brittany ever come to us in a time of crisis? What could King Hoel ever offer us if we were in need?”

“He helped in our battles before,” Cador asserted.

“But now?” Kay persisted. “What could he offer us now that we are strong?”

“We have a treaty with Brittany,” Bedivere reminded him.

Kay waved this away. “Treaties are written on paper. They can be torn up or burned.”

“There’s the not insignificant matter of honour,” Lancelot said.

“Is honour more significant than survival?” Kay wondered. “We may beat New Rome in battle. Or we may not. Numerically, their fighting men outnumber ours ten to one.”

“You think,” Arthur replied, “that if we offer them a free hand in Brittany, they will leave us alone?”

“It’s possible that Brittany is all they want, and the entire purpose of their mission here is to investigate our attitude on that matter. It would be geographically convenient for them to incorporate Brittany into their new empire. Britain, on the other hand — well, we are offshore. It would not be an easy fight to take us, regardless of what I’ve just said. Surely, on that basis, we can hammer out some kind of agreement?”

“To sacrifice an ally would not sit well with the name of the Round Table,” Lancelot objected.

“There’s no way out of this without paying some kind of price,” Kay replied.

The fire crackled as they considered their limited choices.

“Sir Lucan,” Arthur said. “You still feel war is inevitable?”

“I do, sire,” Lucan replied. “It would be a strange thing if a war between Britain and New Rome were to hinge on as small a state as Brittany. But that could be to our advantage. Would it not suit us if the focal point of the fighting was over there rather than over here?”

“To ensure that, we’d need to send soldiers to Brittany straight away,” Bors responded. “In effect, we’d be the cause of the conflict.”

Lucan shrugged.

Bors looked amazed. “You actually want to start a war with Rome?”

“If Rome is bent on war anyway,” Lucan said, “better we fight on our own terms.”

“But we’d be the aggressors. That would be in complete defiance of the code.”¹²

Lucan turned to the King. “Sire, our first duty is not to our reputation as chivalrous knights. It is to the preservation of our people — their homes and their livelihoods. This may be a war of annihilation, and if it were fought here, their land and livestock all go up in flames. We should think long and hard on that.”

The knights exchanged worried glances.

“Food for thought, Sir Lucan,” the King eventually said. “That northern eyrie you call home has set you to thinking in recent times.”

“Perhaps, my lord,” Lucan said. “Perhaps overmuch.”

Later that evening, while the rest of the brotherhood retired — either to their bed-chambers, or the drinking hall where Taliesin, Arthur’s Welsh bard, regaled them with romances of the elder days — Lucan wandered the higher vaults of the palace.

At last he emerged on one of its high turrets, where the stiff, strong breeze tugged at his tunic and ruffled his black hair. From here he could gaze down on the whole of Camelot, though all he saw in the darkness were sparkling lights: candles behind shutters, lanterns in stable-yards, the braziers of watchmen.

He imagined he was peering from the casement of his chamber window at Craghorn Keep, as a child. An upper valley of the Hen Ogledd lay below him, much of it blotted out by pinewoods, other parts filled with scree. A single track carved its way through the middle; it was hard-trodden earth in summer, and in autumn a river of glutinous mud churned by hooves and cartwheels; later in the season it would freeze into ruts and razor-edged ridges. The crooked scarecrow figure lumbering painfully along the track was his mother, as she had been in those final years, embarking each dawn on her barefoot penitential march to the moss-covered Celtic cross in the village of Hexley, some four miles distant. Always veiled and head bowed, prayer beads entwining her fingers; always in the same sackcloth robe, its tattered hem trailing around her blistered, bloodstained feet. Every morning — whatever the month, whatever the weather. And always that same distance. Four miles there, and four miles back. Because no ploughboy or village carter would dare return her in his horse and trap.

Lucan’s heart rent itself in his bosom as he recalled that familiar scene.

The tall woman with the flowing crimson locks, statuesque build and noble beauty — reduced over pitiless years to a withered, hobbling shadow; a crone before her time, drenched by rain, bitten by frost, seared by the sun. Every day it took her a little longer to complete the penance. At first she would be back by breakfast. But then, in later years it was mid-morning, and then midday. Eventually, not long after Bedivere had been sent to commence his squiredom, she did not return at all. This time, one of Duke Corneus’s vassals did bring her home. A woodsman found her lying in a ditch — what remained of her. It was mid-winter and the snow was shin-deep. Possibly she had collapsed before the starving wolves had launched themselves upon her, because enough remained of her legs and feet to show that her blue chilblains had finally turned to purple rot — they could not have supported her for much longer.

And yet still they insisted she’d brought it on herself.

As Lucan wept in the arms of Chaplain Gildas — a genuinely kind man, but one who lived in as much fear of his overlord as everyone else — the old priest advised the boy that Duke Corneus had been just in his ruling. It was no-one’s intent that Countess Gundolen should die such a death. But she’d died in the act of penance, which meant that she would now be with the angels — surely a wondrous thing, given that the sin of infidelity was one of the worst a man or woman could commit.

The worst sin a man or woman could commit.

Lucan hadn’t believed it then and he didn’t believe it now.

Cruelty, anger, bitter and irrational hatred — these were worse offences. Especially when one was drawn to such things through despair at one’s own misfortune. To punish the innocent when one should be punishing oneself — that was the worst of all.

There was no proof, he reminded himself, as he moved away from the teetering battlement. To cement the idea, he incanted it aloud, almost like a prayer.

“There was no proof. Damn you, father, there was no proof! If you’d lived long enough, I’d have killed you. And so would Bedivere. We both swore it. I’ve damned you for so many things — for the black banner and devil’s sword I inherited from you, for your eluding my wrath when so many others didn’t, and most of all for having ever sired me. But tonight… tonight I praise you. For the memory of your actions has taught me a humbling lesson. There was no proof!”

When he entered his bed-chamber, Trelawna was asleep. There was a dull glow in the hearth, and the room was dim but warm. He stepped from his clothes and slid under the quilt beside her. She didn’t awake, but flung an arm across his chest. Her body was supple and snug. Worries, doubts, evil imaginings — it was easy to put them aside at that moment.