Disclaimer : nothing you recognize (except Viviana, Siobhan and some others) belongs to me.
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- 1 / For The Departed -
The small flame flickered in the cold draft, but ignited the wick of the candle. Siobhan blew happily on the stick to extinguish it, and smiled at Viviana. Setting the girl down on the stone floor, the young woman lit another small, white candle with the newly lit flame, and then two others. Picking up Siobhan again, she kissed tenderly the blonde curls, pulling loose strands of hair from the child's face. 'This is for your Mama', she whispered, 'And for my family.'
She closed her eyes, holding Siobhan tight against her, for both the girl's warmth and her own comfort. Two years ago exactly, she had been torn away from her time and her home, and had had no other choice than to start a new life at the fort. Unexpectedly, this had come as a relief to her ; she had been able at last to cast away the shadows of the past, her insecurities and her fears. As for Siobhan… The six-year old Woad child had lost her last relative, her mother, during an influenza epidemic a year ago. The girl had not uttered a word since her mother's last breath, but clung to Viviana desperately, following her around in silence. Maybe the young healer was the only face she remembered through the trauma… Viviana sometimes had the impression that Siobhan thought of her as her mother, and wondered if Siobhan knew they were not truly related. She did not wish to deceive the child, to take a place that was not rightfully hers ; she had tried to talk about it with Dagonet, but he had only shrugged. 'She needs you', he had stated simply, glancing at her gravely, trying to make her understand that her guilt and the child's well-being were entirely incompatible.
Turning her thoughts back to the altar, she shook her head to chase away the sombre memories. 'Please, dear God', she prayed, 'I have never had faith in you, and I still don't. But if you are listening… Please, watch over my family for me. Help my parents find peace, help my sister find her way. Please, let them all be happy…' she murmured, crossing herself, Siobhan imitating her gesture clumsily. Viviana looked up to the stained-glass representing the Virgin Mary. 'Please, take good care of Dervla's soul ; she was a good, loving mother for Siobhan ; she left too soon.'
She watched the few solitary candles burn in the dimly lit church. Siobhan sniffed quietly in her arms, and she pulled the woollen shawl tighter around the girl's shoulders. The great illness that had claimed so many victims the previous year had spared Siobhan, but barely, leaving her with a fragile health. Viviana suspected the child must have had a predisposition for asthma before ; now, she was still very sensitive, catching terrible colds in the middle of the summer, her breathing becoming laboured when she was under stress.
She jumped when the wooden doors slammed open, and spun around to see Galahad come running into the small church, his armour covered in mud, his eyes scanning the dimly lit nave for Viviana. Before he had time to speak, the priest of Camboglanna, young father Cornelius, burst out of the sacristy : 'How dare you besmirch the House of God with this… filth !' he quavered, wringing his hands nervously and keeping a safe distance between himself and the young knight. He knew what had happened to his predecessor, and fully-armed knights bursting uninvited into his church tended to make him jumpy. Galahad ignored him. 'Viviana', he called breathlessly, his face ashen. 'You should come. Now.'
An impassive Tristan was standing guard in front of the door. He nodded in greeting and stepped aside, motioning Viviana inside. She entered, and took in the scene before her. The dimly lit room was an unoccupied one, in the most remote part of the fort. Why the secrecy ? she wondered briefly, before noticing the body lying on the bed. Her heart froze, dreadful scenes flashing instantly before her eyes, scenarios of death and grief : Dagonet, dead… One of his brothers, dead… Arthur, dead, a crying Guinevere sprawled over his body, little Mordred's eyes staring in incomprehension at his father's lifeless face… A cry of anguish stuck in her throat, she ran towards the bed, catching the bedpost with cold hands in order to stop herself. She looked upon the corpse, and almost sighed in relief when she realized that the man lying on the bed was not one she knew.
He was obviously a farmer of about fifty, with callous hands from years of hard work in the fields, and sun-tanned skin, a skin that now looked so pale in his eternal slumber. 'We found him in a small village nearby.' Viviana turned around at the sound of Galahad's voice. In the uncertain light of the torches, the young knight looked almost as pale as the dead man. He glanced briefly at the body on the bed. 'The inhabitants are scared, and frankly, seeing this, I don't blame them.' She lifted an eyebrow, and took a closer look at the corpse, searching for something unusual enough to upset a knight hardened in battle and bloodshed.
Six long, deep gashes ran across the man's neck, having most probably caused his untimely death. The cuts had obviously severed the main artery, and dark, thick blood had flown freely from the wound, soaking the man's clothes in a sticky magma ; the atmosphere around the bed smelled of iron. The farmer wore deep scratches on his palms and forearms. Viviana extended her arm, caught in some morbid fascination, almost touching the gashes, but retracted her fingers at the last instant.
'Are these… claw marks ?' the young woman asked uncertainly, and Galahad grimaced. 'Tristan says they are', he answered, glancing disapprovingly over his shoulder towards the entrance, where the silent scout stood guard. 'But I have never seen such marks before.' He sighed wearily, and ran a hand through his curly locks. 'Bloody island…' he mumbled. 'When it's not the Saxons it's the Woads. When it's not the Woads it's some other goddamned thing…'
'Could a weapon have done this ?' Viviana inquired again, cutting off his monologue, and he shrugged, smiling bitterly. 'None that I know of.'
The knights were gathered in the Table Room ; grim faces stared at her, unhappy to be called back from their evening off duty. Gawain had managed to sneak in a mug of ale, and was sipping at it contentedly. He quivered under Arthur's stern stare, and gulped down the remains of the drink hurriedly, almost choking on it. When his coughs subsided, the King of Britain looked at his men. 'As some of you might already know, Galahad and Tristan have found a body in Badbury. Viviana ?' He motioned for her to come to the centre of the room, and she stepped further into the light of the fires, shifting uncomfortably on her feet ; she had always felt uneasy when speaking in front of an audience. 'The cause of death are deep gashes on his neck. Two of the cuts appear to have severed the artery, and the man also has what looks like defensive wounds on his forearms' the young woman reported, seeking comfort in her husband's eyes. Dagonet looked as impassive as ever ; only his large, scarred hands playing with the silver band on his left ring finger betrayed his impatience. He locked his eyes with hers, and she felt the comfort he wanted to give her, sensing her nervousness.
'What kind of animal could have inflicted them ?' asked Lancelot, and she glanced briefly at Tristan, their expert in tracks and wildlife, who stood in the darkest corner of the room, propped against a pillar. 'I am not sure if it is an animal at all', she said cautiously. In the silence that followed this declaration, she proceeded to explain : 'There are six parallel gashes, all inflicted from right to left, that is to say : by someone right-handed. And since I know no beast wearing six claws, I think that it is the work of a human. Someone who could have cut his neck five more times after delivering the lethal blow. Does the number six have a special significance for any of you ?'
Arthur looked around the room, but all the knights shook their heads. The Queen of Britain, Guinevere, met Viviana's eyes and shrugged almost imperceptibly, telling her that to her knowledge, the Woad tribes living nearby were not involved. 'Do you think this is some kind of message ?' Arthur asked gravely, his green eyes worried, and Viviana sighed wearily. 'I do not know. But in any case, we need to ask the villagers about what they may have seen or heard.' Galahad shook his head. 'We did. But they were too scared. Even Tristan's presence didn't loosen their tongues.' 'Maybe it's because they know what happened', the young woman murmured. 'We need to get them to talk, for we now have a problem : there is a sadistic killer on the loose. And if he left the village – which I am sure he did – he may be anywhere.'