The central table was a solid block of Greek gold, liberated by Arthur from the booty of the Saxon horde he had decimated in the desperate battle on the River Duhblas; it was so heavy that it had taken sixteen of his men to carry it. Its sides were engraved with images from the Bible, its top laid with crisp white linens. At either end stood a rose-coloured candle, each as tall and thick as a man’s arm. Ten paces behind it, a triptych depicting the life and death of St Stephen arched over the entrance to the choir, which rose in tier upon tier of elaborately carved and polished wooden benches. At the very rear, the basilica’s main altarpiece towered fifty feet into the air, a masterpiece of interlocking bas reliefs, each panel — silver inlaid with gold, or gold inlaid with silver — telling a tale from the lives of the martyrs.
Alaric knelt, helpless before this vision of celestial splendour.
Many in Albion had come late in life to the Christian God. Pictish and Saxon incursion after the legions left had sent many Britons back to their hill-forts and their woodland temples, where the faces of pagan spirits were still cut in the bark. Only Arthur’s victories had helped reverse this tide. But Alaric was not a recent convert. He had no memory of his real parents, who had been murdered and his home destroyed while he was still a babe in arms. But those who’d abducted him, in one of those strange contradictions that bedeviled Christianity, had seen to it that he was baptised before making him their slave. As such, he had never known any other faith, and had never held with those cynical men who reckoned the weakness of God’s servants to be a weakness of God Himself. Prelates might abuse their positions — gluttonous friars might roister with thanes and knaves, priests might steal church-offerings to line their vestment pockets, bishops might seek and wield power like ordinary, avaricious men — but they committed these deeds in defiance of Christ, not on His instruction. As such, the Holy Cloth did not protect them. They were as surely bound for Hell as any of those lay-sinners they so roundly condemned in the quest to empower themselves even more.
God was good.
God was kind.
God would forgive.
Though first one had to be contrite. One must seek forgiveness, and seek it honestly — not because one feared punishment, but because one regretted one’s offences.
Alaric walked doggedly from the cathedral, leaving by one of its rear doors. He could never seek shrift as things were. Though it was wicked and perverse of him, he loved his overlord’s wife. Expressing regret for that would not help — for it would be a lie, and God recognised all lies. Perhaps it was God’s little jest, therefore, that the first person he saw on leaving the building was Countess Trelawna. She sat with her ladies in the cathedral garden, in the midst of a manicured lawn with pollarded plum trees to either side.
“Alaric?” she said, noting his peculiar expression.
“My… lady,” he stuttered. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“How so, Alaric?”
“I thought… the attractions of the royal palace.”
“Ah… the season. To walk on the terraces up yonder would freeze our blood. Down here, the sun’s kisses are warmer. I’m equally surprised to see you. I thought the city would provide diversions.”
“Only brief ones, ma’am.” He was surprised she couldn’t tell that that his limbs were quaking, his brow flustered. He even resented her for that, so his voice hardened. “I came to the cathedral to find peace.”
“Peace, Alaric?”
“And I didn’t. In case you were wondering.”
“Why do you seek peace? You’re a young man. You know no troubles.”
Alaric gazed at her long and hard, willing her to understand his torment. She regarded him with all innocence, though several of her ladies were now eyeing him curiously.
“You’re right, my lady,” he finally said, struggling to fight back tears. “I can’t tell you my troubles — they’re trifling things. As you say, I’m only a boy.”
He turned and left the garden with plodding steps.
Trelawna gazed after him, puzzled. “I meant no insult.”
“I don’t think he was insulted, mistress,” Annette said, averting her eyes.
“I doubt it would be possible for you to insult that one,” Gerta muttered. She sat several yards away on a stool, working at her embroidery, adding under her breath: “Foolish brat. He’ll bring destruction on more than just himself.”
Eight
The conference chamber in St. Stephen’s Deanery was a lengthy hall. There was no central table, but several tiers of benches ranged its facing walls, with ten yards of parquet floor betwixt them. The ceiling was cross-beamed with oak, while high, arched windows sheathed in horn cast shafts of pinkish sunlight across the floor. The Archbishop’s Chair, a raised gilded throne, occupied the farthest end. Ordinarily, Archbishop Stigand would hold sway from this lofty position, but today he had surrendered it to King Arthur, as host of the conference.
The two parties faced each other across the chamber, Arthur’s knights and barons on his right, and the Roman ambassadors and their aides and advisors on the left. As arms were never to be worn in this place, no weapons were sported, not even ceremonial swords or daggers, and there was certainly no place for plate or mail. As such, the chamber, often the preserve of simple monastic robes — grey, black or brown, with the occasional dash of Episcopal purple — was now a riot of gorgeous colour. Arthur’s nobles displayed their heraldic livery: blues, greens, reds, golds, oranges; emblems of every sort from leopards to unicorns, crosses to crowns and chevrons. By contrast, the Romans were in heavier formal garb — gowns trimmed with fur, high velvet collars, sleeveless ermine doublets. Each ambassador displayed an extravagant chain of office.
Archbishop Stigand, clad in a lilac cassock and shoulder-cape, made a curt inspection of the chamber before matters commenced, passing blessings on all those gathered, the priests and deacons with him casting incense from jeweled censers.
By prior arrangement, it fell to Bishop Malconi to eventually open proceedings.
“Your Highness,” he said, rising to his feet and addressing the King. “Your beneficence in allowing this hearing cannot be underestimated. That you welcome foreign dignitaries into your great city to voice their concerns is the sign of a truly civilised monarch.”
Arthur nodded his gratitude.
“Let us to business,” the bishop added. “We have many hard matters to debate. First and foremost, my lord, is Emperor Lucius’s frustration with the continued activities of Saxon pirates. They sail across the German sea, through the Channel and along the Gallic coast, raiding our shipping and our coastal towns.”
“The Saxons are indeed a troublesome breed,” Arthur agreed.
Malconi smiled gently as if he’d expected to be misunderstood. “How shall I put this without causing offence? We have information, King Arthur, that… well, Saxon longships are sailing from British ports.”
Sir Cador leapt to his feet. “That is a damned lie!”
The Romans regarded him with bright eyes and blank expressions.
“Sir Cador,” Arthur said. “Pray, do not be rude to our honoured guests.”
Cador protested. “To suggest such a thing…”
“Do you deny there is a Saxon presence on your eastern shore?” Malconi enquired.
“There are Saxon settlements, yes,” Arthur agreed. “But they exist under our auspices. They have no military bases.”
“So everything they do, they do with your permission, my lord?”
“Since the battle on the River Duhblas, the Saxons who live in Britain are my subjects,” Arthur said, politely but firmly. “They pay taxes to me and obey my laws, which expressly forbid banditry and piracy.”
“So unless you are calling our sovereign a liar, and can produce evidence to support such a claim, I suggest you withdraw your comments,” Cador said.