“So must we,” Arthur rejoined. “But unfortunately it’s not possible to form any kind of firm answer on the basis of these vagaries.”
“I have a question for their Roman lordships,” Cador shouted. Bedivere gave him a warning glance, but Cador was already in full flow. “Does your Emperor still consider Britain to be a Roman province?”
Malconi pursed his lips before replying. “Britain’s relationship with the Roman Empire was never formally dissolved.”
“Even though the Roman Empire in the West was dissolved in every way possible?”
Again, Arthur interrupted. “Cador, I’m sure our sovereignty over our own realm is not in question.” He directed his gaze at Bishop Malconi, who shook his head meekly. “That said, my lord bishop…” Arthur pondered. “That said, while we have the Emperor of New Rome present, in spirit if not body, perhaps we can ratify this state of affairs?”
Malconi looked puzzled. “My lord?”
Arthur’s enthusiasm grew. “Let us draw up a document by which Emperor Lucius renounces any claim to the isle of Britain, and more particularly to our kingdom of Albion, and gives his personal guarantee that no such claim will be raised in the future again — for any reason, ever. If your august persons could endorse it as signatories, that would be the basis for a lasting peace between us.”
Malconi sounded wary. “I would willingly take such a document back to Rome and ask for the Emperor’s approval.”
“That sounds like prevarication,” Lancelot said.
“Oh, what is this nonsense?” Bishop Proclates retorted in a waspish tone. “None of us could sign such a document. That would be tantamount to making foreign policy in the Emperor’s absence.”
“But your foreign policy is to have peace with Britain,” Bedivere replied. “Or so you say. This would certify it.”
Malconi was now all smiles again. “Surely, King Arthur, you can’t expect us to close the door forever on military action? Suppose a less amenable monarch than you were to assume power in this island?”
“It would be irrelevant to Roman affairs,” Lancelot said. “Britain does not belong to the Roman Empire any more, and never will again.”
“I can’t disagree with that sentiment,” Arthur added.
“Such a document would need the Emperor’s signature,” Proclates snapped.
“No Roman Emperor can be dictated to in this fashion,” Malconi said. “As you must know, sire. As I say, I will consult him on the matter. Perhaps, in the meantime, if we were to know your mind on Brittany, it may sweeten the pill…”
“I have something else that might,” Cador said. “How about if, while you are signing a document renouncing all claims to Britain, King Arthur were to sign a document renouncing all claims to New Rome?”
There was a strange, fragile silence.
The Roman ambassadors gazed at Cador with eerie fascination.
Cador’s own colleagues, King Arthur included, looked at him askance.
“King Arthur?” Malconi ventured. “You have claims on New Rome?”
“Don’t you know your own history?” Cador persisted, though he’d reddened a little in the cheek. “Constantine the Great was proclaimed Emperor of the Romans while here in Britain. In the first instance, this country became his heartland, his power-base, and he was acclaimed by all its inhabitants. In later years, he assumed full control of the Roman Empire. In that respect, a man who was first the ruler of Britain later became the ruler of Rome. Surely you don’t deny this?”
“I don’t deny it happened,” Malconi said. “But I think our interpretation of those events may differ a little.”
Cador sensed that he had gone too far, but was determined to stand his ground. “Our claim to the Roman Empire is as good as your claim to Britain.”
Malconi turned again to King Arthur. “Sire, we have made no claim to Britain. But your claim to our realm is something we never expected.”
“It’s possible the position has been misrepresented to you,” Arthur said, eyeing Cador coldly.
“Of course,” the bishop replied. “Well… today has been interesting, but tiring. We are all wilting a little.” It was certainly true that the chamber was becoming stuffy under its horn-shod casements, but it wasn’t yet noon. “Might we reconvene on the morrow?”
“The morrow?” Arthur said. “We have an afternoon’s session planned.”
“We already have much to discuss among ourselves. I would appreciate it if we met again in the morning.”
“Very well.” Arthur looked frustrated, but nodded. “Gentlemen… take your leisure.”
The conference broke up.
“Was I wrong?” Cador asked Bedivere quietly.
“You spoke unutterable nonsense,” Bedivere replied.
“Well… at least I’ve given them something to think about.”
Bedivere watched the Roman ambassadors as they filed out, deep in conversation. “That is undeniable.”
Arthur remained on the high seat, his brow furrowed. Once the Romans had gone, Bedivere approached the throne. “You’re troubled, my liege?”
Arthur frowned. “I expected them to raise the issue of religion today. That’s why I had Stigand waiting in the ante-hall.”
“Perhaps they feel it can wait? We have another three days of schedule.”
“No, Bedivere… the plan was to raise every major matter today, then spend the next two days debating them, and deliver judgments on the final day. Either they are content there is nothing heretical about our practices, which even if it were true would not suit them, because they desire to present us as heretics to the Pope. Or they no longer need it as a stick to beat us with.”
Kay said: “Personally I draw comfort from the absence of a religious quarrel. Archbishop Stigand is a learned father, but Bishop Malconi sets eloquent traps.”
“There is no comfort to be drawn when your opponent dispenses with what is clearly his best weapon.” Arthur sat up. “Lancelot, send a herald… invite the Roman ambassadors to a feast tonight in the palace. I’d like to speak with them less formally.” Lancelot bowed and withdrew as Arthur descended from the chair. “Sir Lucan?”
Lucan glanced up distractedly from his bench. “My liege?”
“You seem preoccupied again.”
“Forgive me, sire. I’m still not quite myself.”
“You spoke as you said you would last night, sirrah. Those were harsh words for the Romans, but one must respect a fellow who doesn’t dissemble.”
“I said it before, sire, and I’ll say it again. They mean to have a war. The Saxons, the Bretons — invented grievances, designed to provoke us into giving them an excuse they can take to the Holy See. And now, thanks to Cador, they have one — self-defence.”
“The Pope would never accept such nonsense,” Kay replied.
Lucan shrugged. “He may… if it suits him to.”
Kay pulled a face as if it was all too ridiculous. “You’re a reassuring presence when there’s trouble brewing, Lucan, but sometimes you’re too quick to look for a fight. No-one dislikes the Romans more than me, but we need to proceed with caution. No more calling them ‘dogs’ or making accusations that can’t be proved, you understand?”
“Is that the King’s wish?” Lucan asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “Think on it. The rest of you come with me. We have much to discuss.”
Lucan watched as Arthur, Kay and Bedivere strode away. He was unconcerned not to have been invited. Arthur had never regarded him as part of the inner circle of the Round Table. Though Lucan had fought long and hard in Arthur’s cause, there were many who believed that in his wild, early days he had fought a little too hard. “Like father, like son,” they’d whispered. Perhaps that was why he’d been allocated the far north as his personal fief? The northern border was his home and the place he knew best, but Lucan suspected there was a more practical reason: attack dogs were always useful in the face of the enemy, but for the rest of the time it was better to keep them at arm’s length.
Again, he was unconcerned. The machinations of the Roman ambassadors, the chattering of courtiers at Camelot — none of those things mattered very much at present.