Lucan didn’t weep. He’d done with weeping that first morning on reading her letter of departure. Phrases like “the aching loneliness we both have shared,” and “you deserve a better, more loyal love than I,” had done nothing to placate him. To counter this, he’d striven to remind himself of the good times they’d had: riding in the sun-dappled forest, boating on mist-begirt lakes, drifting in each other’s arms. It was Trelawna who’d completed his education, filling in the gaps in his reading and writing, which the early death of his mother had left behind. He had enjoyed those sessions more than he could say, and so had his wife. True, laughter was often in short supply on the northern border. Yet she had laughed many times in those days, she had smiled, she had kissed him. There had been no falseness there. Oh, he had long known that she didn’t love him, but she had always been sweet on him, caring, affectionate, and concerned when he was wounded — as a good, doting wife should. And it was thanks to all these things — and her calm assurance during his long, feverish, hag-ridden nights — that the shadow of his father was nothing more than that: a shadow.
It was impossible to believe that all this goodness was gone from his life, yet as he stood here in the deepening night, the black waters lapping at his feet, streaked with fire from the passing ships — it seemed naught but imagination, something yearned for which had never been. He huddled deeper into the wolf-fur as an unseasonal chill intruded into his bones.
“My lord?” someone said.
Lucan turned and found Alaric alongside him.
“I’m no longer your lord, Alaric. Unless you wish to serve my house as a knight, though in due course the pressure will grow on you to find your own way in this world.”
“My lord, I’ll gladly serve your house for the remainder of this war.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“On that subject, my lord… to have this honour bestowed on me in a time of strife is a great thing.”
“Well, it would have been nice to put you through the normal rigmarole that accompanies these occasions — the cleansing bath, the lying in a bed made of white sheets, the hearing of Mass and so forth — but in the estimation of most men, a battlefield knighting is worth far more.”
“It isn’t just that, my lord.” Alaric sounded awkward, and perhaps a little drunk. “I mean with your personal woe, to think of me at such a time… I can’t thank you enough.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Alaric. You’ve earned this accolade. Through long, patient years, not to mention the courage you showed in the face of that demon serpent. Had you not acted the way you did, you would not have been knighted today because I would not be here.”
Alaric nodded, pensive. Finally he took a breath and said: “Now that we are knights together, may I speak bluntly?”
Lucan glanced around at him. “I always appreciate candour.”
“My lord… you are one of Arthur’s greatest battle-lords, yet it does you no credit if donning that mantle of fur means what I think it means — that we are here to prosecute this war with vengeance rather than justice.”
Lucan looked amused. “In war, many innocents are killed or maimed. Women and children, old men, combatants who have surrendered. Tell me, is that justice?”
“I understand that war is Hell, but…”
“You don’t understand, Alaric, because you’ve never yet seen it. But you soon will.” Lucan glanced across the estuary. “And then you’ll know the truth of it.”
Alaric wanted to continue, but Lucan said they would speak more during the crossing. It was now late, and they were to rise on the cockcrow if they wished to secure a berth before noon. He strode away along the water’s edge, his cloak of black fur trailing.
Earlier, Malvolio and Benedict had jokingly chided Alaric for not keeping a night’s vigil by the holy altar where he was knighted, as young noblemen had once done.
Now their jest didn’t seem so funny.
In fact, when everyone else was snoring, he stumbled back to the ruined chapel. Its interior was smoky and spectral with moonlight; the defaced saints watched him from the shadows. He knelt by the ruined altar, proud to be the newest knight in the world, but nervous that, despite his confession, his soul was already dark with sin thanks to his adulterous love for a married woman.
The lad felt inadequate to phrase the prayer he sought to offer. How did one ask the Almighty to forgive a lust that one was not prepared to suppress? More to the point, how did one ask God for the strength to defend until death a woman who was herself a sinner, especially in the knowledge that to do so might necessitate drawing sword against friend and mentor? The mere thought of siding against Earl Lucan made Alaric sick to the guts. The contradiction of loyalties set his head spinning. But he would not stand by and see violence done, not now that he was a knight. Remembering this, he felt bold enough to voice it: to swear it, to loudly dedicate his moonlit vigil to this purpose.
“I will not allow harm, from any source, to come to the woman I love.”
Alaric was a knight now.
And he had his quest.
Fourteen
When Rufio and Trelawna came ashore, they were on the Armorican side of the Loire estuary. To the rear of them, the drifting waters were lost in purple gloom. But ahead of them, the rise of the land was pock-marked with campfires, spreading out in every direction for as far as the eye could see.
Trelawna descended the gangplank with Gerta, the only servant she’d brought. Behind them, two grooms carefully led down the women’s horses. Rufio waited at the foot of the plank in company with two of his brother officers from the Fourteenth Legion. They were introduced to Trelawna as Antonius, Primus Pilus, and Frederiko, Hastatus Prior.21 They were tall, handsome fellows with olive complexions, dark, curly hair and fresh, innocent faces. Both were off-duty for, despite having ridden from their encampment to meet their commanding officer, they affected casual attire — close-fitting boots, hose and loose blouses decorated with frills around their v-neck collars.
After greeting Trelawna courteously, they conferred with their superior, explaining the current dispositions of the Fourteenth, and where in the line it would be brought to bear.
On the far side of the estuary, Trelawna saw the fire-lit outline of a towering, crenellated rampart — no doubt the southern bulwark of the city of Nantes, for though it was already scorched and fissured in many places, innumerable war-machines battered it. The crash and rumble of the impacts could be heard even from this distance. Many of the roofs behind the rampart were burning and several of its towers had collapsed; rubble strewed its footings, alongside piles of huddled corpses.
“There’s to be no attempt to storm the city tonight,” Rufio said, rejoining her. “Apparently there’ve been several efforts so far, but all have been repulsed. The Bretons have put up quite a fight. One has to give them that. But they’re close to breaking. Our artillery has been degrading their defences for the last two weeks. Anyway, I’m to report to the Emperor straight away. It seems he wishes to congratulate me personally for the mission I’ve just accomplished.”