There was an astonished silence. Many of them had trouble even imagining such a gathering of men.
“What of their experience, sire?” Griflet asked.
“There’ll be a limit to it. So many can’t all have been in the front line during Lucius’s recent conquests. But we mustn’t assume they are novices. They’ve won several battles.”
“Are the bulk of them volunteers, my lord?” Lucan wondered. “Or conscripts?”
The King glanced up at him, for the first time noticing that one of his guests had not yet dismounted, and frowned. “I suspect the former. All over the Western Empire, men young and old are clamouring for the rights of citizenship. In the tradition of old Rome, service in the armed forces is the most direct method. How now, Sir Lucan, you aren’t joining my table?”
“Forgive me, sire,” Lucan said. “But I can’t for shame participate in a feast when my men are on oatmeal and water.”
“There’ll be better supplies when we’re over the sea,” Bedivere replied. “Most of our stores are already loaded onto transports.”
Lucan gave a wintry smile as if he had heard such promises before, wheeled Nightshade around and cantered back to the road.
“Your brother’s become a testy fellow,” Arthur commented.
Bedivere’s cheeks reddened. “Apologies, my liege. He’s not taking his wife’s defection well.”
“Let’s hope he reserves at least some of his frustration for the battlefield.”
“He’s donned the black fur again,” Lancelot noted.
“He promises me it’s for this campaign only,” Bedivere replied.
“For my part I’m glad to see it,” Gawaine said, cutting a slice of venison. “There’s an old saying in the wilds of Ireland — to kill a wolf it takes a wolf.”
“Which brings us to our main business,” Arthur said, shifting utensils and unfolding a map. “King Hoel and his best men are besieged at Nantes on the Armorican border. But there are still fresh levies to be drawn from other parts of Brittany, not least Brest. But they’ll need to be marshalled, and quickly. At present New Rome is having it too easy. I want Emperor Lucius to know that he is in a war. To that end, Lancelot, Gawaine… you will sail ahead of the rest. A special squadron of longships has been set aside for you and as many men as they can accommodate. You are to sail directly to Brest, and from there to go inland, rousing the populace. At the very least I want Roman forces harassed, though of course some victories would be appreciated.”
“It’s occurred to me,” Gawaine said, chewing. “We could make the land uninhabitable. Scorch the earth. So there is nothing for the Romans to live off.”
“That would be punishing the Breton people unnecessarily,” Arthur replied. “This war is not about Brittany, and never has been.”
“Let’s hope that King Hoel, wherever he is, doesn’t learn that,” Griflet said.
“On the contrary.” Arthur smiled grimly. “Anything that might take Hoel’s anger to a new level is to be welcomed.” He glanced at Bedivere. “That’s one reason I can’t share your concerns about your brother. If he’s come here to wage a war within a war, that suits me… as long as it’s a war to the same end. Equally, I’ve no qualms about any methods he may use; within reason of course.” Briefly Arthur looked glum. “It pains me to say this, gentlemen, but there’ll be precious little chivalry in the days ahead.”
It was early evening when Lucan and his household came in sight of the Stour estuary, which was crammed shore to shore with cogs, keels and galleys. All paths leading down to it jostled with soldiers, many now weary and soiled, aggravated to find themselves in long, meandering queues. Arguments broke out, and even fights; Arthur’s marshals rode back and forth along the lines, displaying the royal crest and blasting their horns to bring rowdy groups to order. Other bands of men had separated from the main host and built fires out of driftwood. Some were working the river’s edge with nets and rods. Tents were appearing, the ornate pavilions of barons interspersed with the simple canvas shelters of the fyrd.
Lucan turned in his saddle and regarded his men. All wore black mantles over their mail. In the heat of the day, most had removed their helmets and pulled back their coifs. They were tousled and fatigued, begrimed with the dust of the road.
Looking further afield for a suitable bivouac, he spotted a patch of empty, barren ground. It was dotted with tussock grass, but at least it was dry. He instructed Turold and Wulfstan, and then broke off from the group as they busied themselves. He veered away from the column and cantered to the top of a rise. Beyond this lay more barren, sandy ridges. The estuary glimmered to his left. The crew of the many craft moored there called to each other as they clambered like monkeys through the forest of rigging. They, too, it seemed, were impatient to be off, though many had giving up hope of sailing on the evening tide — they lolled at the gunwales, sipping from wine-cups.
Lucan walked his horse forward until he came to a low defile, through which a stream trickled to the water’s edge. The stream was overgrown with sedge and rushes, among which he sighted the tumbledown outer wall of an old chapel. He dismounted and followed a zigzag path through the foliage, splashing across the stream and approaching the chapel doorway, and glanced inside. The small sanctuary was roofless, with a narrow nave and only fragments of stained glass in its arched casements. Ferns and thistles had inundated it. The faint images of saints were still visible on the plaster walls, green with mould. A tall Celtic cross was all that remained of the altar, though it was covered with lichen, and its sacred inscriptions had eroded to a featureless pattern. It would suffice.
Lucan rode back to the encampment. His personal pavilion had now been pitched in the centre, his black banner unfurled on a tall pole. Turold had unfastened his sword-belt and was loosening the collar of his hauberk; he glanced up as his overlord approached.
“The thing I discussed with you earlier,” Lucan said quietly.
Turold nodded.
“Now is the time. I’ve found an appropriate place.”
Fifteen minutes later, Alaric and the other squires were grooming the horses. Wulfstan had built a corral with pegs and rope, and the animals were stalled inside, their saddles and harnesses removed, their noses buried in a trough of meal. Alaric sensed a presence and turned. The bearlike shape of Sir Gerwin was lurking beyond the rope.
“Alaric, your master wants you,” he said. Alaric laid aside his brush and approached. Benedict and Malvolio followed, but Gerwin stopped them with a warning hand. “You boys continue with your duties.”
They hung back, as Alaric was led away into the gathering dusk.
They walked some distance, crossing several ridges, before Gerwin halted and faced the lad. Alaric observed for the first time that Gerwin was carrying a leather sack. He also saw that a page was waiting close by, looking nervous.
“My lord,” Alaric began, “what is…”
“Take off your mail.”
“My mail?”
Gerwin regarded him with a saturnine countenance that brooked no argument. Alaric glanced around. Aside from the page, nobody else was close. Full darkness was falling, but lights were visible on the water. He could hear the shouts of the sailors. The ungainly shapes of three dromonds hove downstream; by the looks of their dim outlines, they rode low in the water, loaded with men and horses.
“Do as I say,” Gerwin said brusquely. “Give your sword to me and your clothing to this lad.”
Alaric unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it over. He then removed his tabard, unlaced the collar of his mail jerkin and lifted it over his head. He shrugged the straps from his shoulders and stepped out of his mail leggings. Beneath, he wore light felt under-garb, damp with sweat. The page took charge of all these items, folding them neatly before heading in the direction of the camp.