ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY
A 'King Arthur' tale
By Allegra
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They are copyright of various original medieval authors as well as Touchstone & anyone else with financial claim on their swashbuckling selves. Please don't sue!
CHAPTER 1:THE MISSION
Dark clouds shrouded the sun as the first drops of rain dampened the barely dried mud at the horses' feet. Lancelot grimaced, turning narrowed eyes to the heavens. He and Gawain had been trudging through this quagmire for the better part of two days, on Arthur's orders. Saxons had been tracked to the expansive forests of the Sudergeona, Southern Britain, as named by the scourge themselves. The area had held little importance for Rome in comparison to the war being waged hundreds of miles north at Hadrian's Wall. A few estates littered the usually mild countryside but the only feature of note was the extensive Stane Street, stretching from Chichester to London and down to the coast. As the main trading route into the rainy island, when Saxons began moving towards the surrounding woodland areas, Rome turned its eye upon them.
Unfortunately for Artorius Castus, that entailed sending his own knights to defend the road. While they all perfected the vision of warrior thirst for blood, not one among the group felt comfortable about taking on such a mission. They had encountered plenty of Saxons in their time, but never before had these bloodthirsty brutes had such a reason to defend their ground. Intercepting food, clothes, gold and all manner of goods entering Britain from Europe would ensure a comfortable life as well as the upper hand in all bargaining.
Lancelot grimly recalled the day of their issue. Arthur had called all his knights to assembly and, accustomed to being pushed around the country, none had thought it anything exceptional until the scroll had been opened.
"Surely we are not expected to go alone. So few against so many. It is madness…suicide," Galahad declared, his voice betraying his shock. Gawain looked silently to his friend. He knew he was not the only man thinking the same.
Bors chided, "Afraid of a fight, Galahad? You are becoming feeble in your age."
Being the youngest of the knights, Galahad barely managed a smile at the jibe but Gawain jumped to his defence. "He is no coward, Bors, simply a man of sense."
Lancelot, who had drunk much wine before the assembly, was still digesting the news. He did not look up from the empty goblet in front of him. He was torn, as always, between his loyalty to Arthur and his hatred of everything Rome represented. To defy the order was to defy his leader, his friend, but to take it was, indeed, suicide.
Tristan kept his head, refusing to join in the heated discussion rising between his companions. Turning directly to Arthur, he asked, "Galahad has made a good point. Why has Rome not issued us with reinforcements? An army at our back?"
Arthur swallowed, dryly. So many times he had stood at this table, sending those closest to him into unenviable odds against a foe. If it were not the daily dealings of his life, he would think it some devilish nightmare, forcing him to make impossible choices where devastating loss was the inevitable outcome. "They are hoping our reputations will precede us, that the Saxons will retreat without a fight."
Finally, Lancelot spoke, letting out a disgusted expulsion of breath. "Huh, and in what world would people with so much to lose choose to turn their backs on us? We are but seven and they have overrun the countryside. They have raped and pillaged, spilt the blood of both warriors and innocents alike! It is a fool's mission. Surely Rome must see that."
Arthur was already weary. Lately his knights seemed to have found something to hate about every mission given to them. "They do see that, Lancelot. Yet still they believe that our names alone will have impact. We cannot spare men from the Wall and the Saxons should not be led to believe that their doings are of consequence to us. If we send an army, they will know the threat we perceive them to be. They'll know we are afraid. So far, none of the surrounding villages have been harmed and sightings of the Saxon leader have been unclear."
"As much as I would like to believe we are fearsome enough to drain the blood from a Saxon warrior's face, I doubt our presence will deter them from their course," Lancelot replied, resignation already tainting his voice. It barely mattered what the argument was or how sane it might be, Rome would have her way. What did she care for Sarmation blood spilt across the Channel?
Arthur's sturdy voice had calmed the room and he reasoned with his men, as much as he hated having to go against his own mind. "We must attain some knowledge of the situation. If it is beyond our control, we will send for reinforcements from the Wall, but not until. For all we know the Saxons might simply be hiding out in the forests, planning a more elaborate scheme or just avoiding confrontation. We would look more foolish marching a small army down to the South, only to discover little more than peasant men and children." The silence which followed was affirmation enough. "So we leave tomorrow, at dawn."
"Dawn? You mean night? The sun never reaches the earth in this cursed place," Bors muttered, angrily.
"See how the tender flower pines for the light," Tristan laughed, receiving a flashing glare from his friend.
"I simply ask for some indication of night giving way to day!" With that, Bors drained his wine and stormed from the room. To anyone else, such a show could easily be construed as fierce anger at going to battle. However, to the group of knights still assembled, it was a good-natured grumble which would no doubt lead him directly to more merry alcohol.
So, the small band of men had set out from the snaking stone edifice of Hadrian's Wall, following the worn paths leading down to the south. It was over a week's hard ride and when they finally reached the Southern region, Arthur parted company, splitting the knights into pairs. "We will ride around the forest and meet on the other side. Do not enter into a skirmish unless you are given no choice. We are at the disadvantage. Who knows how many archers might be hidden in the branches."
Arthur glanced towards the darkening tree line. He had always hated woodland. It was no good for fighting, limiting one's sword reach which was constantly in danger of being caught on tree boughs. Worse still, the foliage made it harder to see your way forward, unless you had the keen eyes of Tristan's hawk. That was before one encountered the Woads who made their homes in such places and rigged every clear path with traps. No, this was not going to be a pleasant ride.
"Lancelot and Gawain, you take the Eastern side. Galahad, Dagonet and Tristan, you take the West."
Lancelot, ever ready to be in the thick of things, knew Arthur would take the most treacherous path and, since they were not paired, he felt hard done by. "And where will you be?"
"Bors and I will take the path through the woods." Arthur fixed his friend with a firm stare. He knew only too well what Lancelot was thinking, as did the others. "Those are my orders. Tonight we will make camp here, then set out in the morning."
Lancelot clenched his jaw. It angered him that Arthur tried to protect him. Entering the forest and carving a path through untamed undergrowth was treacherous at the best of times but worse when one needed an extra pair of eyes trained on an unseen enemy. Even if Woads or Saxons did not bar the path, desperate thieves could take advantage of a knight's ineptitude under such conditions.
Barely concealing his sulkiness, Lancelot ate his dinner in silence at the campfire before turning his back on his comrades in favour of sleep. When he awoke in the last shadows of the moon, Arthur and Bors were gone.
Gawain had given up trying to talk to his friend after the first day. If Lancelot was going to sulk like a child all the way around the forest perimeter, he certainly was not going to indulge it. Instead, he focused on watching the sway of the leaves in the wind, the small alterations in the direction of the slicing rain. It was hardly the most pleasurable of rides but it passed the time. How they were expected to find any Saxons by plodding round the edge of the forest, he didn't know. After all, Gawain could only see the first few lines of trees before darkness enfolded the wood and nothing was visible at all.
Now, two days on and without so much as a suspect rustle in the branches, Gawain was beginning to see Lancelot's point of view about it being boring. Their orders were ridiculous, like sending the best knights for a breath of fresh air while others fell on Saxon swords elsewhere in the realm. Boredom also gave Gawain more time, perhaps too much, to contemplate Galahad's route round the other side of the forest. While he knew his close friend was no novice on the battlefield, he couldn't help fearing that, while peace reigned on this side of the forest, all the action and danger might be occurring on the opposite side.
"Doesn't this damned forest ever end?" Lancelot muttered, the second time he had spoken all morning. He turned an irritated glance towards Gawain. His hair was soaked with rain and his freezing fingers were so cold, he could barely feel the reins beneath them. Gawain grunted in return, Lancelot's bad mood genuinely starting to rub off on him. Ignoring his friend's silence, Lancelot fumed, "To my reckoning, this is the worst mission we have ever been given."
"You are forgetting the time we were sent to starve out a den of thieves and murderers only to discover frightened children hiding in caves. That was a fairly embarrassing tale to tell when we returned." Gawain remembered only too well the laughter which had met his recount of that event. But, just like the others, he was little more than a pawn for whatever scheme Rome devised. It was not their fault nor was it their decision.
Lancelot ran a cold hand through his wet hair. "Ah yes. I had all but put that little expedition out of my mind completely. Thank you so much for returning the memory to me," he said, sarcastically.
"My pleasure. I thought it might add to your good mood today," Gawain jested.
Lancelot ignored the last remark, reining in his horse instead. Gawain pulled his mare alongside and followed his fellow knight's gaze towards the tree line. "What do you see?"
"Nothing, just like yesterday and the day before that." Yet, Lancelot's eyes remained fixed on a pathway opened up by fallen tree trunks.
Gawain had spent enough years in the man's company to see when Lancelot was hatching a plan and he sighed, wearily. "But why do I get the feeling this day will not end like yesterday or the day before that? Arthur gave us his orders. We are duty bound to follow them." As he was so wont to do, Lancelot chose to blank out his friend's comment and kicked his horse, steering him towards the gap in the trees. "Lancelot!" The knight's back remained to him as he spurred the horse closer to the forest. Cursing under his breath, Gawain followed suit. No matter what Arthur's orders might have been, he could not leave Lancelot alone. He would only court trouble.
Meanwhile, Arthur and Bors were deep in the undergrowth, their arms torn to shreds by brambles which caught in their clothes and clung there, jabbing sharp needles into their legs and bodies. It was an unpleasant trip to say the least and Arthur was already regretting bringing along his burliest knight. Bors was making more fuss than one of his mewling infants waiting for milk. Arthur had full knowledge of every bramble his comrade touched and it was starting to grate on the leader's nerves. Perhaps he had been wrong to send Lancelot away from him. He knew his closest friend did not understand his reasoning and he wished he had explained but it was too difficult with the other knights present. It was simply that Arthur knew Lancelot's mind better than any other's. If anything befell a party, he instinctively knew what Lancelot would do. It was comforting to know that they shared such a mutual telepathy.
Yet, still Arthur knew he lied even to himself. He wanted to keep Lancelot safe. He was well aware that he trod the more dangerous path and wished to spare those dearest to him from the perils should they arise. Bors was a strong brute, the oldest of his knights and hardly one to be left on the outside of the fray. Hopefully, the threat hidden in the dark foliage would be benign or well contained at best.
"Is there anything of merit in this Godforsaken country?!" Bors seethed. "This isle is indeed the Devil's arse."
"And you yet may make it your grave if you continue with this whining, my friend. If these woods have eyes then they surely have ears as well," Arthur chided. At this, Bors was quiet for a few more paces before the next thorn scratched his cheek.
A very different tone permeated the Western group. In spite of the grim weather and the long, dull ride, Dagonet, Galahad and Tristan were in fine spirit. They had taken great pleasure in regaling one another with tales of home and tender moments with loved ones left behind there. Tristan would send out his hawk and it would return, sometimes with a mouse in its beak or sometimes just to rest on his owner's shoulder. The few rays of sunlight which had managed to penetrate the interminable cloud layer were waning and, when even the horses stumbled in the failing light, the knights decided to make camp.
"At least there is no shortage of firewood," Dagonet noted.
"Is that wise? After all, we are supposed to be watching, keeping a low profile. Perhaps we should go without tonight." Galahad was ever the cautious one but this had put him in good stead so far. He thought first, acted second, a rare characteristic amongst his comrades, but one which was respected all the same. On more than one occasion, the young man's suggestions had kept the knights from fights they were happy to avoid.
"You do not think they have been watching us all this while?" Dagonet replied.
Galahad opened his mouth to deny it but was outspoken by Tristan. "Oh, they see us. I can feel their eyes upon us even now. A fire is of little consequence." The older man's dark eyes caught the final wintry glow of sunlight, giving him a strangely ethereal look. Tristan had always been somewhat distant from the other knights, not in body but in spirit. He had a connection with the earth which made even the most straightforward of men listen. There was a wisdom beyond his years, a strength of spirit which was both unerringly accurate as well as unnerving.
"Well, I for one am glad of it," Galahad said, chirpily. "It is too damn cold to lie on this damp grass without the warmth of a good fire."
"Do not speak too hastily, my friend. We have yet to find a twig dry enough to put a spark to," Dagonet sighed. He still harboured some good nature but his humour was wearing thin now that night was closing in. With only three of them, the nocturnal watches would be longer and fatigue was already claiming his limbs. Dropping down from his horse, he began searching for kindle.
"Damn you, Lancelot! It's getting too dark to play these heroics. We should stick to the route we have been given," Gawain reproached his companion, breathing another expletive when Lancelot let a branch swing back directly onto his face.
"What route?! If I recall correctly, Arthur's exact instructions were 'Lancelot and Gawain, you take the Eastern side'. He said nothing of whether that be outside the Eastern side of the woods or within the Eastern side." Lancelot spoke with determination in his voice but Gawain detected the newfound joy in the man's voice.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you? You can twist his words all you like but you know very well what Arthur intended us to do."
"Well, you didn't have to follow me. Go back by all means but I, for one, would like to achieve something on this mission. If there are people hiding in these woods, it's no good us hovering around outside them. That only makes us look afraid which, I believe, was exactly the reason we were sent – to show fearlessness." Lancelot sounded more like he was giving a speech to the masses than venting a lot of hot air at someone who knew him too well to be taken in.
"That's a rousing speech, Lancelot, but it doesn't call the sun into the sky. Whichever way you look at it, it is too dark to go hunting Saxons. We should go back and make camp." When Lancelot ploughed on ahead, through the tangle of tree roots and shrubbery, Gawain was not surprised. It was just another typical pig-headed act of bravado and too much inertia. Lancelot was spoiling for a fight but, more than that, he wanted to prove something, not to Gawain but to their leader. It was for Arthur that the knight plunged into the murky depths of the treacherous unknown. In any other circumstance, Gawain would try to reason with his friend for longer but, where the great Roman leader was concerned, arguing was futile. Biting his tongue against the torrent of words whirling in his brain, Gawain dutifully followed Lancelot.
They had not gone more than fifty yards or so before the sound of cracking twigs and shaking leaves could be heard ahead of them. Both men pulled their horses up hard and they peered into the gathering gloom. "Did you hear that?" Lancelot whispered.
"Of course I heard it," Gawain retorted. "It came from over there." He pointed with his sword into a patch of particularly dense thicket to the right of them.
"No, you're mistaken. It came from straight ahead of us," Lancelot challenged.
"Why must it be me who is mistaken? Perhaps it is you who are losing your hearing," Gawain snapped back.
"I'm not going deaf! It came from over there!" Lancelot nearly shouted, catching himself at the last and managing to reduce the final exclamation to a hoarse whisper. No sooner had their bickering got underway than a second rustle could be heard.
"What are the chances that we are both right?" Gawain whispered, uncertainly. The trees were alive now, the rustling fierce and purposeful. Whoever hid amongst them wanted to be known. Gawain moved his hand to rest on the pommel of his axe, ready to swing into action at the first sign of movement. He saw Lancelot's hand creep to the dagger he kept in his boot.
Ahead of Gawain, Lancelot's eyes were growing more accustomed to the blackness around him and, just as he prepared to call the cowards into the open, a bearded face emerged, eyes hollow and pupils large in the night. His yellowing teeth flashed in the weak moonlight as scores of men surrounded the two knights.
END OF CHAPTER 1
Now, pretty please hit that little button down there on the left! It would make my day but possibly put our knights in more danger. Continue at their peril!!