The back alleys were even more chaotic. Wattle-and-timber buildings leaned towards each other like rows of decrepit old men. Here, the fine townhouses of courtiers and flunkeys gave way to the homes and shops of the town’s merchant class, each with its own painted shield hanging over its linteclass="underline" cobblers, ironmongers, smiths, glass-painters, carpenters, coopers, saddlers, masons, grocers, haberdashers, poulterers, milliners and locksmiths.
In one square, the lads were mesmerised by a raised stage on which a miracle play was in progress. A pimply-faced youth with straggles of straw in place of blonde locks wore a woman’s dress sewn with oak leaves to indicate that he was ‘Eve.’ ‘Adam’ was a much older man, balding, with a pendulous strawberry nose and a hanging belly. He wore only a flagellant’s loincloth as they fled together from the Garden of Eden, a representation provided by items of flat scenery — illustrated first with vines and fruit, and later with rocks and tangled thorns — which a tireless procession of helpers in hose and sweat-soaked blouses transported across the rear of the stage. Alongside the melodrama, a plump, doughy-looking boy seated on a stool divided his attention between a large currant-bun and a trumpet, on which he blew irregular, discordant blasts — possibly to indicate the mayhem of the world beyond Paradise, or more likely because this was the most his skill with a trumpet amounted to. Despite this, the lesson of the Fall of Man was not lost on the awed crowd, though it was diluted somewhat by other events in the same square, which included juggling, acrobatics and a bear-baiting. The lads inevitably became bored, and soon found their way to the taverns.
There was every kind of tavern in Camelot town, and every kind of bawdy house, though the latter, by Arthur’s ordinance, were confined to a low quarter close to the docks, where the tanneries and workshops discharged their effluent direct into the River Itchen. It was no surprise to find that most of the Penharrow retinue, along with many others, had already found their way to this quarter, the knights and men-at-arms in particular having failed to be distracted by the shopping streets or miracle plays. Ale, wine and West Country cider was quaffed in abundance, and saucy girls were on hand to assist the gallant gentlemen in their quest to spend every penny they had.
There was little romance in the air, Alaric thought glumly as he and the others stood crammed in one dingy interior. It reeked of smoke and onions, and the floor was rotted hay, much of which he suspected had fallen from the bedding in the loft, to which a creaking, rickety stairway led an endless procession of lads and lasses. Most of these couples seemed to come down again with almost indecent speed, the lasses promptly discarding their companions and latching onto new customers.
“Why the face?” Malvolio wondered, grinning over his drinking-pot. He and Benedict were already flushed around the gills as the liquor took hold of them.
“I don’t have much appetite for this,” Alaric said.
Over the last few days, his yearning for Countess Trelawna had become overpowering. He knew better than anyone how ridiculous it was, but could any man control such a floodtide of emotion? He could neither eat nor sleep; he had no patience for raucous company or idle banter. He wondered if this was what was meant by ‘love-sickness.’ It was a worrying thought. When men were in love they did rash things. He’d held amorous feelings for his mistress for almost as long as he could remember, or so it seemed — at least since he’d begun to find her womanly shape fascinating rather than motherly — but now the flame burned with frightful ferocity. Maybe this ensued from the near-death of her husband. For a very brief time the unobtainable dream had seemed a fraction closer. Earl Lucan was now fit and well again, but the flame could not be quenched.
“We never got to toast your birthday,” Malvolio slurred.
“Now’s your chance,” Alaric replied, making to leave.
Malvolio stopped him. “What ails you, lad?”
“Forgive me.” Alaric shouldered his way through the throng. “I need some clean air.”
“Alaric!” Malvolio called after him.
“Let him go,” Benedict advised, beckoning to a foxy-faced miss with black bangs and witch-green eyes. “It’ll take more than clean air to cure his disease.”
At the tavern door, Alaric was spotted by Turold, who was sprawled on a bench beside the fire, a wench on one knee. On the other knee sat his lute, which he plucked at.
“Too much to drink already, Alaric?” he laughed.
“That’s what I’m seeking to avoid, my lord,” Alaric replied. “Men say foolish things in their cups.”
“And most of the rest of the time, in my experience,” Wulfstan observed sagely. He was on the opposite bench, gazing into the flames as he sipped at a pewter tankard.
Alaric departed, and Turold shook his head. “He’s turned strange, that one.”
“Cusp of manhood,” Wulfstan said. “Doesn’t know how he’s expected to behave yet.”
They were distracted by braying laughter, and turned to spot Malvolio struggling in the arms of Benedict and several other squires while a black-haired lass poured a goodly measure of ale behind his codpiece.
“For which there’s something to be said,” Wulfstan added dourly.
Alaric walked to the basilica, feeling small and inconsequential as he mounted its broad marble steps. It wasn’t the first great cathedral he’d visited — he’d darkened the doors at both Durham and York during his travels with Earl Lucan — but St. Stephen’s, which, though he’d been to Camelot twice before, he’d never entered, was the stuff of dreams.
As he strode through the vast nave, its white paving stones tinged pink and blue by the towering stained-glass windows, its air heavy with frankincense, he listened to the distant choral chanting of the cathedral chapter and was moved, not so much by the aura of sanctity as by the sense of his own unworthiness. Each stone pillar was painted in beautiful hues of red, green and gold, and carved with passages of scripture in Latin. At the foot of each pillar there was a tomb, and in repose atop each tomb the effigy of some knight who had died in the service of Christ. As Alaric walked up the central aisle, he dwelled on the terrible wars that Arthur and his knights had waged to wrest this land back from heathen powers. The losses had been uncountable, and yet here he was, torturing himself with desire for the wife of one who had stood by Arthur from the beginning, who had served in all five of his most difficult campaigns, receiving one terrible wound after another. It felt as if the weight of his guilt would crush him. And yet Alaric trudged on, trying not to meet the gazes of those supplicants who knelt in the side-chapels or before candle-lit alcoves where saints might grant boons to the pious, for surely he wore his failings the way a condemned man wore his shroud.
Far overhead, the vaulted ceiling was the most vivid depiction of Heaven he could imagine: painted blue, yet spangled with gold and silver stars. Images of angels in flight were etched across it, swan wings spread, battle-horns at their lips, banderoles billowing behind them, bearing more names of fallen heroes.
The main altar itself was the most potent reminder of all that he was a traitor.