The young officer spluttered with anger.
Spoleto merely smiled. “The festivities may commence whenever your king is ready.”
“How gracious of you. But first we have a debt to repay.”
Kay turned in the saddle and signalled. A gap appeared in the front rank of Arthur’s army, as men shuffled aside to permit the exit of a four-wheeled cart drawn by a single horse and driven by a single driver, who, rather dramatically, stood with legs astride as he lashed the reins. Those who recognised him would have been surprised to see the luxury-loving King Hoel of Brittany. He now wore full plate armour, but had removed his helmet and drawn back his coif so there would be no mistaking him.
Hoel brought the vehicle to a halt thirty yards to the west of Kay’s party, drew a great, two-handed sword from the scabbard on his back and leapt down. In the back of the cart, two men-at-arms wrestled with a burly prisoner — a massive, misshapen brute, a savage animal more than a man, but less terrifying given the manacles that bound his limbs, and the single, bloodstained shift that had replaced his mail and leather.
Hoel stood patiently as the men-at-arms dragged the brute from the cart, and forced him into a kneeling posture.
“Let it be known to all here present that this fellow, Gorlon the Ogre, has been sentenced to death for crimes against the people of Brittany,” Kay shouted. “Let it also be known that in order to obtain a swifter demise than was planned, he has spoken in full about the events that brought these outrages to be, and has named the names of those parties who manufactured them. Those parties must rest assured that, once today’s matter is resolved, they too will share in Gorlon’s punishment.”
Far back in the ranks of New Rome’s army, Tribune Maximion, who stood among the sturdy legionaries of his Javelin Cohort, glanced to his left, in which direction Emperor Lucius was visible on his snow-white charger. Maximion felt a pang of scorn to see the Emperor’s brow glint with sweat. A loud thunk drew his attention back to the front, where King Hoel was now using a cloth to wipe blood from the blade of his two-handed sword. Gorlon lay at his feet, his severed head about half a yard from his lifeless trunk. Once he’d re-sheathed his steel, Hoel clambered onto the cart and drove it back towards Arthur’s ranks. Sir Kay’s party also headed back, but the Duke of Spoleto’s group remained where they were, frozen, apparently astounded by the indignity they had just been subjected to. With a strangled cry, one of them galloped forth, lance levelled; the young officer who’d sat alongside the Duke.
On a thinly wooded bluff to the east of the battlefield, Trelawna had watched the entire piece of theatre as though riveted. She had heard about the atrocities in Brittany. On learning about the free-companies’ demise, she had known there would only be one outcome for their leader. It was still a shocking thing to witness, but now it seemed there would be worse — for a knight, the very one carrying the lance with the white flag attached, answered the young soldier’s challenge, breaking away from Sir Kay’s party, wheeling his horse around and charging full-tilt.
A finger of ice touched Trelawna’s neck.
Even without that swirling mantle of black fur, that black livery, that black lance, the dark cylindrical helm with the black ribbon crest, she’d have known who this knight was. The taut, strong body hunched low in the saddle, his black kite shield covering almost the whole of his left-hand side, was unmistakable. The mighty black warhorse, Nightshade, looked even more monstrous than usual in its all-encompassing black trapper. The low trajectory of Lucan’s lance — all the better to catapult his opponent from the saddle — bespoke years of combat experience.
By contrast, the New Roman officer sat tall, as if he were on parade. His shield was small and round, and only just guarded his left forearm. He wore a thick iron breastplate over a mail jerkin, and an elaborate burgonet sprouting a plume of blue feathers, which matched the colour of his regimental cloak and the breeches under his knee-length battle-skirt. His visor was down, but beneath that he wore only a leather hood, which fastened under the chin with a strap — so his entire throat was exposed. Even if he managed to raise his shield in time, it was so small and its metal face polished to such a shine that Lucan’s steel lance-point would likely careen off and still strike its target.
Trelawna watched breathless as they careered towards each other. When the collision came she wanted to close her eyes, but something bade her keep them open. This young Roman was a stranger; he meant nothing to her, and yet somehow, for a very fleeting second, he had come to represent all the hopes and dreams she’d entertained since absconding with Rufio.
There was a splintering crash as both lances struck their targets.
The Roman made good contact, and Lucan swayed. But there was never any real danger of the knight failing to hold the charge, and besides, his own lance made far better contact — in the lower belly, packing more than enough force to hurl his opponent headfirst into the dust.
The Roman staggered groggily to his feet, his helmet askew so that what little vision his visor allowed was now restricted even more. Lucan steered around him in a circle, wielding a second weapon — a morning star; a snowflake of edged steel on the end of a chain. He spun it in a blur as he bore down. The clatter of steel on helmet was shocking. They heard it on the wooded bluff, where the Roman ladies gasped with horror, many shielding their eyes.
Trelawna did not. She felt she owed it to the young Roman to continue to watch as Lucan swept down blow after blow, each delivered with terrible force. This was the boy’s final moment on earth, and he had sought it with courage. His helmet was already battered out of shape, so that even had he not died under the sixth impact, dropping in a heap, blood surging through his buckled visor, they would not have been able to remove it from his head.
Lucan wheeled his horse around again, this time to face the ranks of the Roman army. He removed his own helm, his pale features startling against the blackness of his garb. He held aloft his lance, its fluttering white pennant streaked with crimson.
“Men of Rome!” He stood in his stirrups as his voice echoed across the vale. “Look how your disrespect has sullied a flag of truce? By this action you have set the rules for the day. And you will die by them. This I swear!”
As Lucan cantered back to his own lines, to the cheers of his fellow troops, Arthur glanced at Bedivere. “I suppose that’s first blood to us.”
Bedivere nodded, tight-lipped. “There’ll be no quarter offered now.”
Eighteen
Magadalena and Alonzo’s cottage was located in a low, fertile valley on the Apennine road, just after the point where it turned inland from the Bay of Levante.
The cottage was built from local limestone, its outer wall rendered with stucco, which Alonzo had painted white. Its roof was of dry thatch, there was a small herb garden to the front, a chicken hatch to the side and at the rear a somewhat larger enclosure wherein they grew cabbages, broad beans and asparagus. Beyond that lay their main source of income: an olive grove covering some six hectares, though at present they could only sell their produce in local villages. They would be allowed to sell in larger markets if they had a license of trade, which was the main reason Alonzo was now in pursuit of full Roman citizenship. It carried all kinds of privileges: the right to vote, the right to hold public office and make legal contracts, and of course to operate a trading license.
Alonzo and his wife were already self-sufficient on their tenant farm. But as citizens, they would find full financial security and independence. Maybe then they could buy this land, and perhaps extend it and add more livestock — goats, pigs, even a cow or two. Any future Alonzos or Magdalenas would have a true legacy to call their own.