“You?” he finally asked.
Malvolio nodded warily.
Lucan turned to Maximion, a querying look on his face.
“My horse died on me,” the Roman explained. “I managed to climb off before its carcass fell down the south face of the ridge.”
Lucan’s brow furrowed, as if he was debating some complex issue with himself. Finally he said: “Climb aboard the coach. You too, Malvolio. But… first, help me place these bodies on top.” He led them around to where the handcart awaited. “I’m sorry to say this, Malvolio, but one of them is Alaric.”
The squire merely nodded again, and wiped his runny nose. His eyes remained dry; as he would later tell folk, he had no more tears to shed. One by one they moved the fur-wrapped bundles, and bound them in place on top of the coach. The other two were Gerta and Felix Rufio. Lucan said that all three deserved better than slow corruption in the now derelict Castello Malconi.
“Vae victus,” Maximion replied with a shrug.
Lucan glanced at him. “None of them perished the way you suspect.”
“Does it matter?” Maximion wondered.
“Perhaps… if you count chivalry a virtue.”
Maximion smiled to himself. “Your way of life is so much simpler than ours, Earl Lucan. And there are doubtless benefits in that. But don’t make the mistake of thinking it will last forever.”
“What way of life is this?”
“Honesty and straight-talking, instead of intrigue and treachery. Powerful lords who exactly match the image they present to the world, with no attempt at pretence. All the powers under Heaven compressed into the hands of a few, and all the rest complying like sheep… or dying. It’s an efficient way, if not a kind one, but ultimately it will fail. You may have an enlightened king now, and great knights to enforce his rule with impossible feats of courage. But that won’t always be the case, and in due course, as your world crumbles, you will look to the Roman way.”
Lucan’s lip curled. “You think, in destroying Emperor Lucius, we missed a chance to improve our world?”
“You missed a chance to learn from the mistakes of others, my lord. And I fear that you, and more like you, will miss that opportunity again and again… until the end of your days.” Maximion sighed. “Though I concede that time will not come along soon.” Fresh thunder rumbled overhead; once again rain began to fall. “Bah! More wretched precipitation! I take it you wish me to ride on top with the dead men?”
“No,” Lucan said. “I will ride on top.”
Maximion looked surprised, and even a little grateful.
“Don’t get me wrong, tribune… it’s merely that I doubt your foppish Roman constitution can endure much more, and you’re the only item of value I’m taking home.”
If Trelawna heard this, she didn’t glance up. She didn’t even flinch as the icy droplets struck her uncovered head.
While Maximion climbed inside the coach, Lucan took hold of her bridle.
Her empty eyes raked over him. “If I’m no longer your prize, why not leave me here?”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “There’s a place for you inside the coach.”
The rain hardened, sweeping over them. The wind strengthened.
“Erm… my lord?” Malvolio wondered. “Am I to ride inside the coach too?”
“Don’t be absurd, boy.”
“No, no. Of course not.” Malvolio smiled at his own foolishness as he climbed up to the bench, ensuring to leave a place from which his master could take the reins. He pulled up his coif, though it did nothing to stop the rain. “How, erm, how far are we going?”
“Home to Penharrow,” Lucan replied. He glanced back at Trelawna, who had now climbed from her horse. “Though in your case,” he told her, “home to Camelot.”
She didn’t react, so he took her by the hand, and led her to the open coach door.
“You can live in the comfort of the palace,” he muttered. “It’s the best I can do for you. Though many would die for such an honour.”
“Oh, my love,” she said as she climbed aboard, “so many have.”