“You think Arthur hasn’t fought wars before?”
“He’s never fought a war like this one. The arms assembling in Gaul stretch from one horizon to the next. Such a host has never been mustered. Trelawna — you need to know what is coming for this land. Blood and fire, on a colossal scale. My love, if there is anything at all you cherish about Arthur’s kingdom, say your farewells to it now, because it will likely be smashed. I’m not seducing you, Trelawna, I’m saving you.”
Trelawna was so appalled that she could hardly speak. It was too staggering to be true, and yet there was no reason for Rufio to lie — and he was party to all the Romans’ secrets. Of course, there was no difference that she could now make. Even if she were to betray Rufio and go straight to Arthur, it would not prevent the inevitable. If the Romans were genuinely to leave on the morrow, that was when Arthur would learn the truth. By alerting him now, all she would do was entrap herself in this doomed land.
“When do you plan to leave?” she asked.
“The feast lasts until midnight. For us to make the morning tide, our staff is under orders to make ready for departure by three o’clock at the latest.”
“Maybe I can slip from my boudoir,” she said, thinking aloud. “Lucan may have drunk so much by then that he won’t notice.”
Rufio nodded, musing. “I saw him at the Council today,” he said. “He seems typical of the equestrian order — confident, arrogant, aggressive.”
“How badly you misread him,” she replied. “He is none of those things — save aggressive, but only when he has cause to be.”
Rufio seemed surprised by that, but shrugged. “He’ll have cause soon enough. I beseech you, Trelawna, come with me this night.”
“I will try,” she said. “I haven’t much to give up, but it would help if I knew what I was gaining.”
“Allow me to enlighten you.” He drew her close, warming his cheek against hers. “I have a many-storied townhouse on the Palatine, overlooking Rome’s central forum. The city is not quite the capital it once was, thanks to the Vandal hordes, but, district by district, Emperor Lucius is restoring it — reconstructing its civic buildings, refurbishing its great monuments. There are libraries, public baths, theatres and markets. We have fountains, hot and cold running water. New parks have been opened, and trees planted along the banks of the Tiber to provide shady walks for lovers.”
Despite her reservations, Trelawna trembled with joy.
“It is a city of light and sophistication. And in addition, I have a house in the Tuscan hills, where it pleases me to spend the summer months. This is a heavenly place, a rambling country manse built of red stone, filled with Greek and Etruscan artworks, and surrounded by gardens, vineyards and poplar groves. Its peace and tranquillity is never disturbed. This will be your home, my love, and when we are married it will be the home of our children. When they finally assume ownership in their own right, the dark north as you knew it will have ceased to exist. Our offspring will never have known it.”
If there was anything Rufio could have said that would sway Trelawna to his plan, this was it. She had seen the effects of the northern waste on those forced to endure it — the weathered faces, the foul tempers. Lucan was the ultimate product of that land — an upright man, a sturdy man, but, deep in his heart, a wolf.
“Say yes, please,” Rufio begged. “Say you’ll come with me.”
“Yes, Felix, I’ll come.”
He caressed her mouth with his, sucking her wine-sweet tongue between his lips, his hands roving her slender contours, clutching her buttocks through her kirtle, reaching down her firm thighs. Her arms enfolded him to a point where he could scarcely breathe. Delight rumbled in his chest as they kissed long and deep.
And this was the state of affairs when Malvolio came upon them.
Ten
With no room at the feast except for delegates and dignitaries, even men of rank among the common soldiery — captains and constables — were forced to find supper elsewhere. It was the same for the squires, though they were deemed at least worthy to be wined and dined in the palace kitchens, which in truth they often preferred. Here there was no emphasis on manners, and though the fare was rough and ready — mutton, bread and leeks in salted butter — there was no shortage of jugged ale and so many kitchen maids and serving wenches that every lad present felt sure he’d have tumbled a lass by morning.
Even Malvolio, normally a bonehead in these circumstances, made good ground with a certain Lotta, whose fiery locks, pouting lips and melon-size breasts promised paradise.
“You squires are too cocky by half,” she said after she’d caught him attempting to lift her skirt. “You shouldn’t use us so rudely. You’re no better than us.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Malvolio agreed. “Caste and breeding have no role here. We seek only your sympathy.”
“Sympathy?” She arched an eyebrow as she poured more ale.
“My dear,” he stuttered, to the hilarity of his fellows clustered around the table, many already with lasses on their laps, “we are soon to be knights. Then we will die as one, martyred in the name of King and Christendom. Does such heroism not become us?”
“A fool’s coxcomb would become you more,” Lotta retorted.
Benedict roared.
“Outrageous!” Malvolio declared. “I was born to do good work with a lance.”
She shook her head at such effrontery, but though her tray was laden with empty vessels she made no attempt to withdraw.
“Sweet nymph, salve my pain,” Malvolio persisted, hiccoughing, which brought another belly-laugh from Benedict. “Let me plant my mouth on those berry-red lips, rest my head on that sturdy bosom.”
“It’ll take more than flowery bullshit to win these virgin pillows, sir knight-in-waiting.” This time Lotta did withdraw.
Malvolio feigned hurt. “I still think she likes me.”
His companions fell about the table, but Lotta returned with another pot of ale for him.
“Are you really a virgin?” he asked, his words slurring.
“That may be for you to discover, my lord.” She walked away again, this time leaving the kitchens entirely.
“I’ll return anon,” Malvolio announced, standing so abruptly that he toppled backward and fell from his stool. It took three of them to lift him to his feet, insert the freshly filled pot into his hand and propel him in the right direction.
He was so inebriated that once away from the noise and light of the kitchens he found it difficult to navigate. Or possibly the teasing girl had not been teasing after all, but simply wanted to be done with him. Either way, she made herself scarce, and he blundered around the palace corridors, drawing constantly on his ale, which hardly helped because soon he was looking for a latrine as well.
It was by pure chance that he tottered out into the rose garden on the west terrace, unlacing the front of his breeches, and there witnessed something that struck him like a blow between the eyes. Fogged with ale, but not so fogged that he didn’t realise what he was seeing, Malvolio turned and tottered back into the palace still with his member on display. He hurried, gasping, along several passages before confronting someone — fortunately not a lady of court, but Alaric.
“You’re a dissolute lad, Mal, we all know,” Alaric commented. “But I’d put that away if I were you. It’s a little unsubtle.”
Malvolio tucked himself out of sight before jabbering what he’d just seen.
At first Alaric thought he’d misheard. He gazed at Malvolio aghast. “You’re… you’re wrong! You must be!”