CHAPTER 1
The lush hills that surrounded Hadrian's Wall seemed to welcome them- albeit grimly-. Galahad closed his eyes: only two more years and they would be free from Rome's enslaving grasp. Oh, he had no doubt that the Romans would try to keep them fighting at the far off outpost that was Britain, but with the papers of safe-conduct throughout the Empire, they would be gone before the Pope could send a legion to keep them there.
He turned around and gazed at his brothers in arms. Gawain was smiling in the sunlight, letting the rays caress his rugged skin and messed golden hair. Bors was deep in thought, probably wondering where his children and lover were at this very moment. Dagonet also looked vacant, but as to his thoughts, Galahad had no clue. Lancelot and Arthur were quietly talking, but the smiles on their faces proved that the topic of conversation was not very serious. Percival had his eyes set on the landscape, his feminine lips turned up; he was probably poetically admiring the sky, grass and forests around them all. Lamorak, the second youngest of them all and by far the most childish, was galloping freely atop of Dame. And of Tristan he knew nothing.
The scout was a complete mystery to all the other knights: he seldom talked and when he did, his comments were so cynic, so void of sentiment that one hardly wanted to try to have a conversation with him. Not that Tristan would actually care about it. He was perfectly fine on his own, feeding and nursing his hawk, whose name they still did not know after so many years.
Galahad vividly remembered the day they all came together to start their training as knights. At that point in time, they were so many more than now. Each death had blown them all away. They could never forget their companions, their friends, their brothers. Arthur deemed them as failures on his side. Galahad and the rest deemed them proof of what they might never achieve. Death was not a valid option for any of them. Most of them wished to see their beloved Sarmatia again, even if they knew how difficult it was to find their nomadic families in the endless field that covered most of the territory.
Suddenly, the greyish horse that Tristan always rode cantered from the woods in their direction and snapped Galahad from his thoughts. He immediately brought his hand to the hilt of the sword; ready to unsheathe it and cut open whoever it was attacking them. However, the lack of hurry and the relaxed pose of the man sitting on the saddle implied no danger. Arthur nodded his head and Tristan made his horse join the rest, slowing it to the same pace as the others'.
"No Woads around?" Gawain asked.
"No" was the simple answer.
The intonation, or lack thereof, always made Galahad nervous. He couldn't understand what it was in this man that made him edgy, but being near Tristan was always disturbing for the youngest of the knights. They'd all gone through the same suffering, the same loss, and yet, they all remained as human as possible. Not this scout.
The doors of the Wall came into view. Though it was not home, the knights had nothing else to call so. It was both a hated and a loved place. Vanora and the others had helped made it welcoming. It was always good to hang around the eleven children Bors had with the tavern wench. Children were innocent, sweet. They reminded him of his family, of his siblings, of his friends. Of the childhood he would never recover. However, it was also the symbol of Rome's control over them. Oh, how he wished to burn it down, see the stones eaten by flames…
As they rode into the fort, Jols came out of the main house with a letter in his hand, waving it up in the air for Arthur to see. Gawain cursed out loud, and Galahad hissed. He understood that missions were to be expected until they were finally discharged, but they usually had to wait for about a month for new orders to arrive.
"In a few days' time, a Celt leader will arrive" Jols explained "The letter explains the details".
Arthur nodded towards Jols, his eyes serious, and took the piece of parchment from his servant's fingers, not even bothering to dismount before opening it and reading its contents. Eyebrows furrowed, he made no mention of what the letter read. Instead, he signalled his knights to follow him into the Round Table Hall. Bors was the last to enter the building, only taking his time to salute his lover and eleven children before he obeyed his commander. Galahad found it funny that he was the only one who had developed a family over the years. The rest of them had enjoyed the tavern wenches, sure, but they'd never felt compelled to father sons and daughters with one single woman.
The Round Table Hall always created contradicting sentiments within the knights. On the one side, its familiar seats, the beautiful carvings in the wood meant they were safe. On the other hand, the growing numbers of empty chairs left Galahad and the others with a sadness that would never quite go away. He noticed Tristan looking to his right. That was where Gaheris, his cousin, had once sat. He'd died over four years ago, but Tristan always paid him that little gesture of respect. Most of them had lost their closest friends. Galahad felt lucky Gawain was still around. They smiled at each other. To the young knight, Gawain was more of an older brother than a mere companion.
Arthur started naming the ones who'd left to never return. He always did so, and they always welcomed it. Despite him being half-Roman and their Commander in chief, Arthur had become one of them through his modest and honourable personality. The Sarmatians couldn't imagine their fifteen years of military slavery in any other way.
Their Commander lifted the note again and re-read it.
"We're to host the meeting between a Christian envoy from Rome and King Mark of Cornwall" he announced, his eyebrows coming together again in confusion "Apparently, this Celt leader wants his kingship to be recognized by the Pope"
"That'll only happen if he converts" Gawain cut in, his lips in a thin line.
"Celts don't relinquish their religion that easily" Galahad added.
"And Cornwall doesn't even fall under Rome's jurisdiction" Lancelot's protest was halted when Arthur lifted his palm.
"This Mark is clever. He knows Rome is beginning the withdrawal from Britain. When we leave, most of the leaders will want to claim the island for their tribes. If he strikes a deal with Rome, he might even get help" Dagonet patiently explained.
"Since when do you know so much about Roman and Celt joint politics?" Bors mocked.
Dagonet chose not to answer, preferring to roll his eyes in mock defeat. Arthur looked at each of his knights.
"He'll be coming with quite a large group of people"
"Carriages?" the somewhat always harsh voice found its way out of Tristan's mouth.
"None that I know of. He's bringing his wife and her two servants but they appear to be able to ride fairly well"
No more information was exchanged between the Commander and his knights, so after a few moments, everyone left to clean themselves up and change into more comfortable clothes. The non-spoken pact of meeting at twilight at the tavern was already agreed to. No matter how much time they spent with each other, they always wanted more. All the blood they'd shed, the pain they'd inflicted, both their enemies' and their own, created a far stronger bond than any meeting back in distant Sarmatia would've formed.
By the end of the night, Gawain, Galahad, Lamorak and Lancelot had disappared with one tavern wench for each; Arthur had retired to his quarters, probably with the intention of praying to his god; Bors was sharing loving words with Vanora; and Dagonet and Percival spoke while Tristan listened. Ale and wine had run abundantly over the last couple of hours, and the tavern was already closed. However, the knights were always welcomed to a table and some fresh food and drink. Everyone at the fort knew how dangerous and difficult their job was, so the Sarmatians were given a much wider berth at some activities than the usual Roman legionaries.
Dagonet was still musing over King Mark of Cornwall and his soon-to-be meeting with the Roman envoys.
"What do you think, Tristan?" he asked his quiet friend.
"I think nothing of it" was the cryptic answer.
"Come on, brother" exclaimed Percival "Tell us: what is your mind reeling about?"
The scout just gazed at him briefly before standing up and disappearing into the folds of the night. Out of all the knights, Percival was the only one Tristan had trouble tolerating. He even stood for Lancelot's smugness when it came to women. He even put up with Galahad's rants about freedom and Lamorak's silly jokes. But Percival, who was the complete opposite of Tristan, made him nervous. Not that he'd ever said so, but his brothers in arms had begun to understand what their scout acted like when he wasn't comfortable with the surrounding environment. Anyone who didn't know them might have found it hard to comprehend why it was Percival out of all people -with his sweet demeanour and kind words- that made Tristan go away.
The night ended like so many others, with Bors finally giving in to sleep on one of the tables as Vanora watched in defeat.