Caution! This story may take a loooong time to finish as I cannot spend time on writing regularly.
Next warning: This is one of the "woman from modern time goes back to ancient Britain" stories. But I promise: she will neither befriend all knights already in the second chapter, nor will she catch the eye of one knight because of her extraordinary beauty (which she does not possess), nor will she endure unthinkable things and be rescued (only on minor occasion), nor will she be wielding a sword in a professional way (and nobody will teach her that), nor will she kill people (also not woads!), nor will she have supernatural powers, nor ... well, lets put it that way: She will be as normal as possible (on modern terms of normal) and totally at a loss as any of us would be in that time. She will scandalize with her way of thinking and acting (damn modern education) but won't do it on purpose ... until the final straw breaks the camels back.
And of course the disclaimer (do we really have to write that?): The characters in my story have by coincidence the same names as in the "King Arthur" movie and as they are based on figures from ancient legends, belong to all of us. I do not make any money from this story.
„And never show up here again." The guard harshly yanked her out of the fortress walls by the arm and placed a kick on her backside to make sure she stumbled far enough away to close the gate properly. When she glanced over her shoulder she only saw the tip of a cloak be drawn back into the fortress walls before the wooden door rattled back into its frame and the lock clicked. The breath she had been holding escaped her lunge in a long sigh as relief swapped over her.
Boy, have I been lucky!
Well, kind of. Last night she had spent in a dark, damp hole of a dungeon, the official city prison, expected the guards to walk into the cell every minute and chop off one of her hands. Wasn't that what they did in the ancient times to thieves? Well, it was like that in the movies back home but maybe that was only artistic freedom of the writer. Movies and artistic freedom … tsk. Women around here were not walking in flowing dresses like in Lord of the Rings, nobody was wearing a Toga and the Roman soldiers did not carry shiny, polished armour. Everything was dirty, muddy, stinking, patched together from rugs. Not to speak of the houses. Small, damp, dark with no glass windows but holes in the wall that were barely covered with a rug to keep out the cold. No walls inside either. One room and that was it. No privacy.
But at the moment she was desiring nothing more than one of these small shabby huts and a pile of straw to rest. The sun would set in … she didn't know exactly when, but it was over its culmination point some time by now … not that time does matter around here. Hours are unknown. She rubbed her left wrist absentmindedly, where in old times a watch had been.
Time to get up from your knees and look for shelter.
The night was approaching and it would be cold as soon as the sun sets. Slowly she got up and dusted of her dress a little. Fastening the shabby cloak around her shoulders, she took a look around and started walking the only possible direction, away from the fort. Only three days she had been around here and got banned already. At least all her limbs were still attached. The fear that had kept her awake all night, had imprinted the 'never steal again' into the inside of her head, but how long will it last? She had hungered two days before finally deciding to steal one of those small, crippled apples. She had lingered around this merchant all day, considered it over and over again, almost asked for an apple for free but when he wielded a stick at her and started shouting she had just grabbed one and run. Not fast enough as one can guess. She did not even round the corner when the escape route was blocked. Soldiers grabbed her arms and dragged her away. She did not put up a fight. The respect for authority and the knowledge that she had done something wrong stopped her from it, but as soon as her butt hit the stony floor of the cell, she regretted it bitterly.
Damn modern education. Of what use is it here?
The small trail she was following now led her through a bushy thicket that tore now and then on her trailing cloak and on the tattered hem of her dress. Passing some trees and two big bramble bushes, that unfortunately did not carry fruits in this time of the year, she finally ended up on a river. The walls of the fort were out of sight and neither to the left nor to the right was a sign of civilisation. Only the polished stones to her feet hinted to a place for washing.
Washing. Cleaning.
The picture of a steaming bath tube full of white foam and sweet smelling water popped up in her mind but was shattered into pieces when her fingertips touched the water surface of the river. Although it was late spring season the water was ice cold. Looking at her filthy hands, feeling the grease in her matted hair and the dirt on her legs and arms, she gave it a bath a second thought. She hadn't washed since one week or was it two, not counting the short interlude on the horse trough. She had not counted the days as it was futile to know which day of the week it was when all were the same. How would she warm up after a bath and would her cloak be sufficient to dry her skin She settled on rinsing arms, legs, some private parts and face but not stepping into the water completely.
A look around convinced her that she was alone. So she shed her cloak and the coarse overdress under a tree, took of her leather shoes and stripped free of these scratchy wool stockings. Another safety look and she decided to keep on the thin linen shift and her … well … you wouldn't call it panties but something close. These and kind of an undershirt she had made herself with needle and thread only a month ago. Although the clothes that Sollin, may he rest in peace, had given her let her blend in with the others, she never felt comfortable in them. All dresses of course for she was a woman. They were scratchy, not fitting properly and impractical. And she had felt the need for one thing: proper underwear. The women around here wore layer over layer and covered almost every inch of their bodies but when it came to underwear, the air under their skirts could reach every private part. Did they not feel naked? So she had asked for a piece of soft cloth and started to make panties for herself. Not stretchy ones of course but a small waistband held them in place. When Sollin had asked what she had sewn, she had said underwear and he had not inquired further, excusing himself and blushing slightly.
And now she stood here in her self-made panties and undershirt, the last layer before nakedness. That she did not dare. Crouching down at the riverside on one of the polished stones she splattered water over her arms and started to scrub them up to her shoulders, ignoring the rising goosebumps.
As suddenly a scream erupted the air her heart leaped to her throat. Jumping up, almost slipping on the wet stones in the process, she bolted back under the tree, where she had shed her clothes. Peeking around the tree nobody was to bee seen. Another scream shattered the silence and then ongoing noise. Listening intently it sounded like a high pitched voice that screamed, wailed, cried … but by the love of god, one could not identify one word of it all. A child's voice? It was coming closer and closer and then she saw it. In the middle of the river, still a good hundred meters upstream, two arms were struggling to keep a body over water but failed miserably. The voice came from a small girl running along the river, keeping up with her drowning companion and brandishing with her arms wildly. Automatically she took a step into the water but icy needles stopped her short. A glance to the left and the running girl had disappeared and so did the struggling arms in the water from time to time. It was now or never. She took a last breath, squared her shoulders and dove head first into the liquid ice.
As it turned out she had misjudged the current. It was stronger than she thought and she had to strain to reach whoever was drowning in time before he or she passed by her position. The water kept leaping over her head and sprayed into her eyes and the cold was taking its toll. Also the thin shift that clung to her body was not helping. When she reached the middle she took a look around, drifting with the current further downstream. Where were the arms?
Wails sounded again from the riverbank, where she had entered the water, now quite a distance upstream, and she saw the girl gripping her dress and shouting something at a large figure, who now ran along the river but never entered the water. Suddenly, something her leg, grabbed her shift and pulled her underwater. Without orientation she whirled around, trying to get rid of whatever got caught on her and weighted her down. In the dark water she got hold of a small arm, got the second in her grip and finally managed to resurface. As taught in swimming class back home she rolled onto her back and looked at the small blonde mop of curls pressed to her chest. It turned out to be a little boy, maybe 7 or 8 years, who sputtered and struggled to get air into his lunges again. It made her attempts to get them to the riverbanks even more difficult with only her legs to carry them there.
It felt like an eternity but finally her toes grazed stony ground and she took a look over her shoulder only to see a now rather uninviting shore, steep and littered with rocks. Willing up the power for two last kicks, she tightened the grip on the boy with her right arm and grabbed for one of the rocks with the other one. It slipped through her fingers and the current carried the pair another 5m downstream. Also a second attempt failed but suddenly strong fingers closed around her wrist and yanked at her arm. They did not pull her from the water but close enough that she could finally get a hold on one of the rocks. She looked up at the owner and a huge frame towered over her position, broad shoulders and a face marred with a huge scar running across one eye made him the most intimidating man she had ever seen. And to that brute she should give the boy?
The struggling in her arms grew weaker and as a deep voice overhead rumbled "Give me the boy!" she did as he asked. With her last strength she lifted him as much as she could, pushing herself under water in the process. As the weight was taken from her arms, she tried to reinforce her grip on the stone but failed miserably. Her fingers where numb from the cold and just would not listen. She lost the little hold she had.
