Alaric assisted him with the horses. “You think I would do anything improper?”
“The heart is a treacherous master.”
Alaric gripped his wrist. “My master is Earl Lucan, Steward of the North! I would never do anything to dishonour him!”
Gingerly, Benedict disentangled himself from the bloodstained paw. “Let’s hope he lives long enough for you to keep that promise.”
Three
Despite Lucan’s orders that Alaric’s birthday feast should go ahead, it was not to be.
For the rest of that day, a severe sickness struck the injured nobleman. On his return to Penharrow, Trelawna herself attended to his wounds. During her many years on this wild border, she’d lost count of the number of times she’d stitched him. Thanks to the tutelage of Morgan Tud, a famed physic of the Royal Court, who had studied at Salerno, she knew how to draw poison from a freshly infected wound, but in Lucan’s case the point where the serpent had bitten him was already so putrid that she dared not touch it, neither with needle, nor knife, nor hot iron.
She washed the wound as gently as she could, an experience her husband bore through with gritted teeth, and patched it with clean linen and a poultice. She advised that Lucan rest, but he had other ideas, insisting on striding around the castle, ordering fresh rushes to be laid on the floor of the main hall, having the fires built up and advising his kitchen-staff and his minstrels that tonight would be an opportunity for them to impress him with their talents. He alternately sweated and shivered, and if it was possible — and some, appalled, said it was not — he grew even whiter of hue. When he attempted either to eat or drink, he suffered bouts of dizziness.
“I swear to you, Alaric,” he said, “tonight your heroism will be proclaimed.”
Alaric nodded and smiled, secretly horror-struck by his master’s pale face and unfocused eyes. Trelawna watched from behind her husband’s back, the fingers of both hands laced tightly.
It seemed only fitting that the serpent’s head should take pride of place during the feast. After all, this was the first real trophy Alaric had participated in capturing. But it was a grisly object, still dribbling its vile fluids, its jaws locked open in a yawning gape that could swallow a man whole. Some of Countess Trelawna’s ladies felt faint on looking at it; a serving maid shrieked and a dropped a tray of crockery. Lucan thus decided that it could be shut in the ice-house until the following morning, at which point tanners would be summoned from one of the villages so the ghastly shape could be rendered and mounted. But the servants were loath to touch it, so the earl opted to carry it out himself, at which point his shoulder gave way. The pain that lanced through his upper body took the breath from his lungs, and it was all he could do to keep his feet. Again, sweat streamed from Lucan’s face; blood, freshly shed but brackish with impurity, burst through the poultice and drenched his loose-fitting tunic.
Trelawna took charge and ordered that he be conveyed to his bed.
For the rest of that day he lay stripped to his braies, insensible. Trelawna had no option but to defy his orders, and delay the evening celebrations. In response, he only mumbled, his eyelids fluttering. At length, she closed the door on the chamber and turned to the small group of officials assembled in the adjoining passage.
There stood Father Belisarius, Godric, the chief steward, Hubert, the earl’s chamberlain and treasurer, and Brother Oswy, his scribe and chronicler. Of the fighting household, Turold was present, along with Wulfstan and Gerwin, Lucan’s knight-commander, who had ridden in from his own estate, and Guthlac, captain of the Castle Guard. Also present were Cadelaine and Brione, the castellans of the earl’s subsidiary fortresses at Grimhall and Bullwood.
“There is no point in my lying to you,” she said, regarding them with the cool authority she’d seen her husband adopt in times of crisis. “You know Earl Lucan well enough to recognise that he is seriously ill. As we speak he is gripped by a frightful fever. It may break during the course of the night, but at present it is impossible to make predictions. All we can do is watch and wait. Father Belisarius, your prayers would not go amiss.”
The chaplain nodded soberly.
“My lady,” Turold said, “among the White Canons at Thornbrook Abbey there is a certain Brother Callisa, a skilled surgeon and physician who trained in the same schools as Morgan Tud. He is elderly now and a recluse, but he worked among the wounded on the River Humber, and achieved miracles.”
“Thornbrook Abbey is two days ride from here,” Trelawna said. “But in the absence of any other choice… Wulfstan, send a rider to Thornbrook.”
Wulfstan nodded and withdrew.
The countess fixed the rest of the group with a stern eye. “In the meantime, we sound no death-knells yet. Turold, I hear they are donning mail and weapons in the Knights’ Hall. They must desist at once. No vigils are to be held tonight. It was the Penharrow Worm who lost the fight today,” Trelawna reminded them, “no-one else. Earl Lucan is strong, and we have Father Belisarius and Brother Oswy to sing a Mass by his bedside.”
Once the remainder of the party had been dispatched to their quarters, she admitted the two clerics to the bedchamber, where they burned purification herbs in the grate — honeysuckle, rhubarb and dried rose-petals — and lit candles of healing. Even when the holy men began to chant, their overlord did not stir. He lay in deep sleep, glazed with icy sweat. Even by the dull red candle-glow, he remained shockingly pale. At last Trelawna withdrew to one of the guest-chambers, where Gerta prepared her for sleep, which did not come easily.
She dreamed that she was fleeing through the gnarled trees cramming the nooks and channels of Dungeon Ghyll, and that something dreadful was following her — something vaguely like a man though several feet taller than any man had ever been, and covered with a shaggy pelt of silver-grey fur. It roared and snarled, uprooting tree-trunks and snapping boughs, while Trelawna struggled to make any headway, her night-gown and hair catching on twigs. Her pursuer’s Herculean roars echoed through the twisting ravines as it drew closer. The thudding impacts of its feet sounded right behind her -
And then she realised the truth, and her eyes snapped open.
She rose from her pillow as Annette entered her chamber unbidden. “Forgive me, my lady. There’s a matter of some importance.”
“My husband?” Trelawna asked.
“Not your husband… he still sleeps. But a messenger has arrived.”
“What hour is it?”
“Shortly before three, ma’am.”
“A messenger, at this time?”
“He carries the Royal Seal.”
Trelawna drew on a shawl, and hurried to the courtyard gantry. Torches burned below, where a groom led away a lathered, steaming horse. Its rider was pacing distractedly. He’d removed his feathered cap, to let loose a hank of blond, sweat-soaked hair, and wore a green, travel-stained cloak over a doublet, hose and leather riding-boots. An empty scabbard hung over his back — his sword must have been surrendered to the gatekeepers on arrival. Members of the Night-Guard stood close by, spears brandished. Turold had also been roused. He wore breeches, slippers and a cloak, and had buckled on a sword-belt.
“Who are you?” Trelawna asked, descending.
The newcomer turned abruptly. He was a youngish man, ruddy-faced but unshaven, an indication of the time he had spent on the road. Briefly he seemed captivated by the sight of her. This may have been because he had been expecting the earl, though it was often the response of men who had never met Countess Trelawna before. In her night-time attire, wearing only a simple woollen gown cinched at her narrow waist, a shawl around her shoulders and with her long, honey-gold hair hanging in a single braid, her beauty seemed that much more homely.
He bowed. “My name is Crispin, my lady. Of the family Roncesvalles. If you are Countess Trelawna — and forgive me, you could only be she — I have urgent news for your husband.”