“You have ridden all the way from Camelot?”
“Yes, my lady. I have barely stopped these last five days.”
“Five days?” Trelawna was astonished. “Have you eaten, slept?”
“I’ve ate the few supplies I carried whilst on the road, ma’am. As for sleep, I took naps in haystacks and cowsheds.”
“I think we can do better than that.” Trelawna turned. Godric, sleepy-eyed and looking even more corpulent than usual in a voluminous night-shirt, had now arrived. “Our steward will provide you with…”
“My lady, there is no time,” Crispin interrupted. “I must speak with your husband.”
Trelawna regarded him carefully. “This is a serious matter?”
The messenger seemed discomfited. He scanned the gantries, clearly seeking Earl Lucan, but finding no-one. Finally, he opened a pouch and produced a scroll, tightly bound with the royal emblem. “I have an Extraordinary Summons for your husband, ma’am. He is to attend a Royal Council straight away.”
“I’m afraid my husband is in no fit state to make such a journey.”
The messenger’s face fell. “He is ill?”
“A hunting accident yesterday.”
“Ma’am, the King has issued an Extraordinary Summons, which means that…”
“Which means that only in the most extreme circumstances may it be refused. I’m fully aware of this.”
“Forgive me. Is your husband very badly hurt?”
“We fear he may die.”
There was a brief silence during which the messenger’s face visibly fell. “These… these are grave tidings.”
“Your kindness is appreciated. But Crispin, you seem inordinately affected. Did you know my husband?”
“I know his quality, and the truth is the King has need of him.”
“How so?”
“Ma’am. I am only a messenger. It’s not my place to…”
“I am Earl Lucan’s official representative, so any message you had for my husband will be safe with me.” Crispin regarded her nervously, torn by indecision. “Crispin!” Her voice hardened. “If you will not give me the message, I would deem it a politeness if, at the very least, you would explain why you deem it such a disaster that my husband is ill.”
“That part is simple, ma’am. Your husband commands the North. That’s an easy phrase to utter, of course, but in Earl Lucan’s case it is actually true. His lands buttress all the central region of this northern border, which is perhaps the most difficult to govern in the whole of Britain…”
“In my husband’s absence, I command the North, Crispin. As he cannot attend this Royal Council, I shall do it for him.”
Crispin looked startled. “Ma’am?”
“As you doubtless know, we were not blessed with children. My husband has no son or heir. Therefore I will take his position.”
Crispin glanced at the earl’s steward and banneret, who both regarded him steadily.
“If this is a War Council,” Trelawna said, “I will not and never would presume to take my husband’s seat at the Round Table. But I see no additional document to call a muster, so I must assume we are not at war. If you are merely seeking the advice of the North, I am the only person qualified to give it.”
“What’s this?” came a voice from the top of the stair.
They glanced up and saw Lucan. He still wore only his braies, though a blanket was swathed around his shoulders. He gripped the balustrade with one hand, but seemed otherwise steady as he descended. His hair and body were damp, but he was breathing easily and, when he alighted in the courtyard, his eyes — so fogged with delirium earlier — had cleared.
“What’s this?” he said again, apparently vexed. But then his face cracked into a broad grin. He even laughed, though it made him cough. “Did any man have so brave a wife?” He approached Trelawna and put his arm around her. “You would go among these lions on my behalf?”
“My lord,” she replied, “you seem to have regained your strength.”
“I slept well. At least until those priests you stationed in our chamber awoke me with their snoring.”
“You’ve not regained your colour…”
“One can’t have everything.” Lucan turned to the messenger. “Your name is Crispin?”
“It is, Earl Lucan. I understood you were injured…”
“Don’t concern yourself. I’m fit enough to travel. My wife was doing exactly as she ought to in these circumstances. Mind, she should have realised by now that no serpent venom is a match for the blood Corneus.”
Trelawna shook her head as if this was boyish nonsense. Crispin nodded curtly, and handed over the scroll. Lucan tore it open and read through it.
When he closed it again, he was smiling. “So the Romans are coming.”
“The Romans…?” Trelawna whispered.
“Special envoys will shortly arrive from New Rome,” Crispin explained.
“New Rome is it now?” Lucan said. “The men from the Tiber think they can disguise their intentions simply by putting on new clothes.”
Crispin shrugged. “They say they want peace.”
“We already have peace. Do we need their permission for it to continue?”
“The King has been asking the same question. This is why he seeks the advice of his magnates.”
“We’ll be facing these dogs across the Council chamber, will we?” Lucan said.
“The King hopes the matter can be resolved without acrimony.”
Lucan smiled again. “It may be, or it may not. The Romans have recovered much lost territory, but they’ve met no real opposition as yet. The question is, do they realise that? You perform your office well, sirrah. Godric… make sure this fellow has food, drink and a comfortable bed.”
“Your lordship is too kind,” Crispin replied. “But I’ll be leaving at the first cockcrow. What might I tell the King?”
“Tell him we’ll be leaving at the second.”
Crispin nodded, satisfied, and allowed himself to be led away. Trelawna put a hand on her husband’s chest, and then on his brow.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Truth is, I’m burned out inside. I don’t know what that means exactly. I’m light-headed. Feel like I’m stuffed with hay…”
“It’s perhaps to be expected.”
“It’s an improvement on earlier. Anyway, I’ll be fine by morning. If not, what does it matter? I won’t be walking to Camelot.”
“I’ll be coming with you,” she said.
Lucan looked surprised. “You fear I may drop dead on the road?”
“I’m your wife, and I’ll be with you.”
“I’d have no other chaperone,” he said, leaning down and kissing her lips. She reciprocated — a little. No doubt his unkempt state was putting her off.
By God, but she was such a beauty. He gazed down on her, awed yet again that he had ever found so handsome a bride, and at the same time stricken to his heart that she could never feel quite the same way about him that he felt about her.
He’d been a much younger man when, in a single-combat between champions, fighting on behalf of Arthur, he had killed Alain d’Abato, the famous Frankish warrior. Trelawna, d’Abato’s daughter, was already without a mother, and had been left facing, at best a wardship, at worst destitution. Lucan had done the honourable thing and taken her hand in marriage. Naturally, she’d hated him at first, but time was a healer in many ways. Gradually, as he’d cared for her and given her a new place in the world, she’d come to have affection for him, and certainly to respect him, but love — well, love was not some gift you could bestow upon a person. Either you held it for them, or you didn’t.
“I watched from the gantry as you spoke for me,” he said. “It made my hair stand on end. ‘This isn’t just a noblewoman,’ I said to myself. ‘This is a noblewoman of the North.’”
“You need to rest,” she replied.
“No, we’ve an early start. I must assemble the household.”
“You may leave that to me…”
“Trelawna…”
“Am I not chatelaine at Penharrow? When I step into your spurs and couch your lance for the charge, you may assemble our house.”