“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.
Seven
The following morning, the sun rode high in a cloudless sky, but it was still early spring and Camelot’s regal banners streamed on an ice-edged breeze.
The conference with the Roman ambassadors was to be the main event of the day, though of course this would not involve the majority of those gathered in the palace, only the King and his senior advisors. Minor nobility would be allowed into the audience gallery, where they were expected to be seen and not heard. Lesser-titled men were not even permitted to wait outside in the lobbies. Not that many would complain about this; most had spent long hours in the saddle to reach this place, and now the delights of Camelot would prove a welcome diversion.
All that morning, rivers of household men and their lackeys poured down the Eagle Road, eager to lose themselves in a day’s holiday. Most walked together in chattering bands, while some — suspecting they’d be too drunk by the day’s end to think twice about paying an exorbitant fee to have themselves carried back to the palace in a litter — descended on horseback. The mood was merry. Though the stakes would be high in the conference hall, most common men knew these great affairs were beyond their understanding, and did not trouble their heads with it.
Alaric, Malvolio and Benedict walked with the other squires from Penharrow. There was much ribaldry, much ribbing and lampooning of each other, all born from sheer excitement. Camelot was the largest town that most of the lads had ever seen, and thronging with traffic: townsfolk and tradesmen jostled each other as they hurried back and forth, while wagons and carts made even slower progress, and on the narrower roads threw up gouts of liquid mud. There was a riot of noise: steel-shod wheels clashing on paving stones, clog-irons thumping, hammers falling, bells clanging, hucksters and hawkers calling their wares, geese clacking and sheep bleating as they were driven to market. Every status of person was on show, from lords and ladies in curtained carriages, to lepers and cripples begging on corners. Mailed soldiers mingled with vagabonds. Monks and other pilgrims strode in single file, cowled heads bowed. Madmen capered to the jigs of street-musicians.