Malconi smiled. He’d known Pope Simplicius4 since he was a lowly deacon called Castinus, and even then he’d been an astute man. Imagining heresy was only one of many tactics he could use to divide and conquer, though his machinations often ran much deeper than that.
“Only this afternoon, a legate arrived from Rome,” Lucius added. “He brought something that I think will reassure even the most anxious among you.”
He clapped hands, and another attendant scurried into the room, carrying a pole from which a great pennon hung: a pair of crossed black keys on a white weave. It was the papal gonfalon, and the other guests could only regard it blank-faced. Malconi glanced knowingly at his nephew, who visibly suppressed a smile.
“Caesar, I’m confused,” Consul Rascalon said. “Why do we need a military standard if we are only going to Britain on a diplomatic mission?”
“Because, my lords…” the Emperor replied, moving towards the curtain, “I’m not a fool. I’m fully aware that any negotiation with this self-proclaimed King of the Britons will prove to be a waste of time. It’s important that we at least go through the motions — certainly as far as the Holy Father is concerned — but we know what Arthur’s response will be. Therefore, this…” — he pulled a cord, which drew back the curtain on its brass runner — “…will be my response.”
They had all seen the Roman army marching before.
But never in darkness; never in complete silence.
At first it was difficult to work out what the immense mass of bodies snaking north along the highway actually signified. There was no fanfare of trumpets, no banging of drums or cymbals. But at length they made out moonlight glinting on helmets, and the tips of spears, and the heavy overlapping plates of the legionaries’ body armour, as they trundled past the palace in rank after rank, cohort after cohort, legion after legion.
It was anyone’s guess how long they had been marching for — hours maybe, and still there was no end of them in sight. Little wonder that Emperor Lucius’s normal mask of rational affability briefly slipped, revealing an expression of fierce, almost deranged joy.
“As my official ambassadors, gentlemen, you will carry no banners to Britain; neither papal, nor Imperial. But in due course, these fellows will.”
One
“The Penharrow Worm, O God!” the vagrant priest cried by the roadside. “Spare us the Penharrow Worm! It terrorises our land. O Lord in Heaven… grant Earl Lucan the strength to bring us its head!”
“The ‘Penharrow Worm,’” Lucan said, frowning down from the gatehouse battlements. “They make it sound like a dragon, yet it’s only taken sheep and goats.”
“The villagers are frightened,” Turold replied. He was seated in one of the embrasures, strumming on his lute. “They fear for their children.”
“As lord of these lands, I suppose it’s my duty. But I wouldn’t have called this hunt today were it not for Alaric’s birthday.”
“I’m sure he’s grateful, but he’d be more grateful to be knighted.”
“Everything in the right time, Turold.” Lucan pulled on his leather gauntlets and strode to the top of the ladder.
Earl Lucan, marcher-baron of this region and Steward of the North, was an imposing figure, taller than most men, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, but also craggy-faced and scarred; a testimony to his many years in the King’s service. He had a shock of unruly black hair, which even though he’d seen nearly forty winters, was not yet shot with silver. His eyes were grey-blue, and capable of an icy, penetrating stare which could put the hardiest opponent on edge.
Below them, the hunting party trickled through the gatehouse onto the open ground in front of the castle. There was much noise and ribaldry. Like Lucan and Turold, the earl’s retainers were clad for holiday rather than war, in cloaks and tunics, all brightly coloured and richly embroidered. Lucan himself sported a pale green pelisson and a darker green shoulder-cape, complete with hood and square-cut scallops. Turold, his banneret,5 and a much slighter figure with long golden locks and almost girlish good looks, affected a more fashionable thigh-length gypon and hose, quartered in Harlequin style, pearl-blue alternating with peach-yellow.6
They were greeted at the foot of the gatehouse stair by Wulfstan, a hardened oldster with a bald head and thick white beard. Lucan’s chief scout and tracker, Wulfstan was clad more practically in cross-strapped breeches and a heavy sheepskin doublet. He had three grooms with him, and a trio of destriers in readiness, each noble brute loaded with spears, hunting-bows, and quivers of fresh-fletched arrows.
Lucan had sixty other household knights aside from Wulfstan and Turold, and each one held at least one squire in training. Those who weren’t already mounted up were hastening to do so, all the while boasting and mocking each other. In addition to these, many of the earl’s tenant knights, with their own manor houses and retainers on his estates, had arrived; rather than wait outside, a number of them had ridden straight into the castle to greet old friends, swelling the disorder. Hounds yapped frenziedly; pages and servants scampered back and forth with sacks of food and skins of wine.
Wulfstan eyed the scene with weary resignation. “I thought we were only celebrating Alaric’s birthday tonight? Most of these fools are at the feast already.”
“Let them enjoy their sport while they can,” Lucan said. “It won’t be as much fun when they’re out in the woods.”
Bows were flexed and hunting-horns put to the test. Turold slung his lute over his back, swept off his feathered hat, leaned from the saddle and grabbed a buxom serving lass, giving her a kiss. “The sight of you is more bewitching than any basilisk’s gaze, my love,” he laughed.
She hurried away, scarlet-cheeked.
It seemed that little order could be brought from the chaos. But when Lucan mounted up and galloped beneath the portcullis, there was a race by the merry company to follow.
Their laughter echoed around the great bastion that was Penharrow Castle.
Penharrow — a name to stir relief in some, fear in others, awe in all.
It stood on a ridge at the head of a valley filled with wild, rugged forest, which, this being only the first day of spring, was still shrouded in spectral mist. On all sides, the valley was cradled by mountains, their snow-capped peaks scraping a sky as blue as cut steel. It made a majestic setting, yet Penharrow Castle was a cruel edifice: a bleak, oppressive stronghold, towering tier upon tier. Though many handsome, heraldic pennons fluttered from its towers and parapets — Lucan’s own black wolf, King Arthur’s red dragon, and the many hawks, bears and leopards of the household men — its outer walls were built from crude, cemented stone, sheer and unbroken, save for the occasional cruciform arrow-slit.
The track that wound down from the castle was lined with village folk, who cheered to see their overlord riding to do battle with the enemy that had tormented them. The vagrant priest — one of many of his kind who wandered the roads of Arthur’s realm, commanding penitence and calling doom on evil-doers — was standing on an upturned pail. He wore a sackcloth robe tied at the waist with a knotted rope. His bare feet were cut and dirty, his beard unkempt; his matted hair straggled down either side of a thin weasel-face. He held aloft a crucifix.
“Praise God for Earl Lucan,” he called, “whose wrath the foul serpent shall taste!”