Lancelot greeted the dawn with a low growl of pain. A string of curses made its way to his lips, none got out. Opening his eyes he found himself drowning into twin pools of darkness. The first though which came to his mind was that Guinevere had come by his side at the sickbed. However, upon a closer inspection, he wound the woman before him did not quite match the person in his mind. Nay, indeed not. Before him stood a woman of diminutive stature, clearly shorter than Guinevere. They shared but the colouring. "You're awake," she observed, her voice barely a whisper. Lancelot made to speak but she shook her head. "Nay, say naught."
Quite suddenly he wound himself being lifted gently. "I need you to push back." He strained to follow her instructions until he was sitting against the headboard. A cup was put to his lips and cool liquid sloshed over the rim. To his disappointment it was not wine. The woman allowed him a few sips, then placed the goblet on a low stool. She leaned over him, her hands working to take away the bandages that wrapped his chest. Lancelot looked down. What looked to still be a raw wound stood over his heart. Arrow, he decided not a moment later, hissing when the healer applied a kind of salve on the stop. Whatever she'd put there it stung.
"More water," he commanded, not caring if he should offend her. She looked up at him and nodded, but did not leave her task to do his bidding. His throat felt sore, he thirsted. "Woman, bring me water." His demand was met with another nod and silence. Sighing, Lancelot allowed his head to fall back against the wall.
He heard the clink of the goblet and lowered his head without opening his eyes. Once more his mouth was filled with the sweetness of fresh water. It was better than nothing. "Patience is lacking in you, Sir."
Ignoring her assessment, Lancelot waved her hand away. "Who are you?" She wasn't a wench that frequented Vanora's tavern, of that he was sure. Nay, she seemed not the right kind of woman for that. Perhaps she was one of the respectable inhabitants of the Fort. Lancelot smirked. "I don't recall having seen you."
"I am called Ragnelle," she answered simply. No smile graced her lips. Her eyes did not sparkle. She was one of those girls, kept and pampered, too good for scarred soldiers. "Daughter of Merlin," she continued undisturbed.
"Fuck the gods!" Lancelot exclaimed loudly. "Merlin's daughter!" He laughed only to wince and grimace after. The old bastard had actually sired a wee thing such as her? Not bad for a Woad. "How long have I been here?"
"As long as your friend over there." Ragnelle moved away, allowing him sight of the second bed in the room. Lancelot had been filled with dread at her words. Thoughts a muddle it took him by surprise to see Tristan upon the other bed. "It is the fourth day. It shall come as relief to your fellow knights to know you awake."
"What of Tristan?" The scout was a good fighter, Lancelot would even go as far as to name his best along with him and Arthur. "Does he wake?"
"He's lost blood. But he recovers. Slowly." Her face adopted a gentle but thoughtful mien. "There is a hawk. It keeps landing on the windowsill. I thought it might hunger, but when I try approaching it, it flees. Know you something of that, knight?"
Nodding, Lancelot allowed a small smile to cross his face. "Tristan's pet. And the only woman the poor bugger's ever had, I reckon." Remembering he was in the presence of a woman, Lancelot gazed to her with an apology. Waving away his concern, Ragnelle made a small sound that could have meant anything. "But she feeds herself, his lady. She is strong and independent, that one. She'll come in when her master awakes."
"Would you like some food?" Her question half-startled the knight. Prior to her outburst a silence had fallen over them. He nodded thinking she might get him some salty meats and a good cup of wine. Instead she returned with a chuck of bread and a bowl of broth. "What is that, woman?"
"Food," she replied, sliding on the stool next to him. Ragnelle lifted the spoon to his mouth, but Lancelot shook his head irritably. Her expectant gaze did nothing to soften him.
"I shan't eat that. Bring me some real food!" How dare she feed him that rot? Was he expected to survive on water? "Be on your way, wench."
"You will eat what I have brought you," she clarified, breaking pieces of bread and stirring them in the soup. "The past few days I've fed you and cared for you and you yet live. Trust me to continue doing my duty."
"It was my stubbornness that saved me, Woad," he retorted. His anger rose at her insolence. These wild women, they were all the same. "And I wouldn't trust you not to poison my water."
"And yet you drank water from my hands," she reminded the man. Satisfaction made its way to her features. "Eat, regain your strength and quit this room. You and your friend, both."
"What have you been feeding me?" Lancelot asked, curiosity creeping up on him. "I hope it wasn't this piss-poor excuse of nutrition."
Ragnelle gave him a slight glare. "Ungrateful man you are, Sir. You've been fed, aye. Honey water and brew of herbs." Her arms were crossed in front of her. "But if you shan't take the food, I will throw it away."
"Nay, wench, give me the food. And don't try feeding me like I'm a damn child." He took the bowl from her and was surprised to find its weight nearly too much for his hand. A small, warm palm found its way under his. Lancelot offered no protest when she took the bowl and grabbed the spoon. He would not be able to do it for himself, much as it pained him to admit it, and he was not willing to starve either.
"Give it time to settle, knight. A few days shall see your strength back." Seeing as he accepted her words, Ragnelle fed the man, patiently waiting for the blow on his pride to lose its sting. Men could at times deal very badly with bruised egos. She supposed that a man such as the one before her, in his vanity, would not see it with good eyes that a woman should care for him. Would he make such a fuss were she Guinevere?
A snarl caught Lancelot's attention. He looked yonder, expecting to see one of the scrawny mutts of the Fort, wondering how it might have gotten there. Instead his eyes met the sight of a small wolf-like mongrel. It gritted its teeth menacingly. No manners, and dirty too.
"Enough of you, Swyr." His mistress pushed the beast away with her foot. It was a gesture meant to bring distance between himself and the dog, if Lancelot was not wrong. The animal leaned towards him, eyes glinting. Ragnelle's foot came dangerously close to its paw. "Swyr out, boy! Go out!" She hadn't yelled, but all the same her pet followed the instructions, head hung. "Apologies. It's the walls that have him on edge."
"Then you should let him out," the knight grumbled. "Unnatural, that beast of yours. You need must take it out. What if it snaps at someone?"
"Think you that I have not tried?" Ragnelle laughed softly. "Swyr is mighty protective of me. Where I go, he is close behind. Rather like you and your Roman commander."
"Are you implying that Arthur is a dog?" Lancelot snorted. Soon enough he found himself laughing, a sharp pain emitting from his wound as warning. Her voice joined him, albeit quieter, more controlled.
"I was rather suggesting that you were the dog," she retaliated, knowing fully well that Lancelot had understood her meaning. "I must go now and let them know you've waken, least they crowd here come midday."
Getting up, Ragnelle bowed slightly to the man as she'd seen other women do and pulled the empty bowl to her chest. Swyr waited for her by the door, wagging his tail upon sight of her. "Have I not told you to sit?" It was not always that Swyr chose to listen to his mistress. Ragnelle petted his head. Perhaps pleased, her pet followed at her heel, not once trying to bite into the hem of her skirts. At the very least in these four days she'd learned the way to the rooms of their illustrious leader.
As expected at the doors she found soldiers in Roman grab. Bobbing a curtsy to them Ragnelle watched the men wearily. "I must speak to Artorius Castus." She kept her face a mask of indifference. Fortunately the men of Arthur seemed to heed his words for she was allowed entrance without much fuss, but Swyr had to wait outside. Arthur she found by the large windows, a parchment in hand. Guinevere sat by a low burning fire. Ragnelle bid them a good morning. "One of your knights has wakened."
Guinevere looked expectantly at her, but Ragnelle kept her mouth shut until the King would acknowledge her. "Which one?" Arthur asked, placing the paper on a table. "And what is his current state?" Concern touched his features briefly, but he seemed to read well enough into the healer's demeanour to gauge that news were not of bad ilk.
"Lancelot, I believe you call him thus. He fares well. Your god must be a merciful one to have listened to your prayer." Ragnelle looked to Guinevere. "The other yet slumbers. But his fever has broken. Short of any relapse I expect he too will open his eyes soon."
Rising from her current position Guinevere stepped closer to Ragnelle. "Arthur, I would see Lancelot first. I must thank him." She elaborated no further, but Arthur nodded his approval, and so young Guinevere left in the room but the new King and a healer with her mind full of doubt.
In truth Ragnelle had been held back by a sharp look from the eyes of the Roman, as she'd referred to him. "I wish to claim more of your time, my lady, should your duties so allow it." Ragnelle made no mistake of thinking his words an invitation, they were an order. "You are the daughter of Merlin. By right, you should come at my side as Queen. But, my lady, I find I cannot give you that."
Nay, he could not - better yet, he would not. Ragnelle found no surprise stealing over her. "Had you asked for my hand, I would not have had the right of refusing you, my King. But I knew full well that you would not take me to bride. Does my father demand otherwise?"
"Merlin would see you in the care of one who would be able to provide for you and protect you and yours should such need arise." While he hadn't said it explicitly, Arthur was letting her know that her father wanted to ensure strong ties between the knights and his people. Aye, Guinevere would be Arthur's Queen as a show of benevolence, as a sign that Merlin would not succumb to greed and place pride before the good of his people. "Thus the conclusion had been reached that you should take for your own one of my knights, my lady."
Ah, choice. Ragnelle smiled under the harshness of the man's glare. "I know not your knights well enough, my King, to demand it of them that they take me to their. So I ask this of you, put the question to them and whichever should step forward I will accept."
What did it matter which of them she was to wed? Cyr with all his fondness of her hadn't been able to elicit more than a brief surge of pain with his passing, not had he warmed her when he'd asked for her hand. As she protested to none of Arthur's knight it ought not to matter which one found his way to her bed in the dark.
Women, no matter their blood, confused Arthur. Merlin's daughter had accepted her father's decision calmly. And he wondered if despite their uncivilised state, the Woads knew of politics, for that was the name of the game. "I shall expect to hear your decision, whenever it is that you summon me, my King." Ragnelle did not wait for him to give her leave, she simply bowed and left, going the way of Guinevere. Arthur stared in her wake. May the God help those of his knight who took to taming her, for her eyes had shown little but a wall before her feelings.
He wondered if it was true what they said of her. The daughter of Merlin, was she really a sorceress? From the looks of her he would say nay, and from what he'd seen of her father, nay again. But women were dangerous. Soft words and wide eyes, they had a way of entrapping a man, making him forget, manipulating him, pulling at his strings and making him dance to their tune. Women complicated things beyond belief. But he needed to make this sacrifice for the greater good, for he'd already sworn to Guinevere that he would make her his Queen.
But which one of his knights to wed to her? Bors would not leave Vanora, the man was tied to the fiery redhead. Tristan and Lancelot were injured still, to add such a task to their strain was not becoming. That left him with Gawain and Galahad. The latter was still a pup, wet behind the ears yet. Arthur rested his head in his hands.
The taste of dust in his mouth brought forward a grimace from Gawain. He took another swing of his ale. At least this burn his tongue could stand. The blond knight had accepted an invitation from Bors to drink with the man. But as it happened Gawain did all the drinking, Bors busy holding the latest addition to his ever-expanding family. It was not that Gawain resented the man his happiness. The gods knew they all deserved a measure of it. But deep down, in the most secret part of his soul, the small seed of envy had taken root. This was not about a willing woman; there were whores for that. And most certainly not about the children. Bors' gaggle almost made him afraid of having his own. Yet Bors seemed at peace surrounded by the small army he'd pulled out of his breeches, and despite Vanora's nagging he was quite happy if one should judge by his face.
A woman of his own, one to share his life with, the peace she brought and eventually the children. He would take no Sarmatian woman now, he knew. Nay, Arthur stayed, so would he. In the end, Gawain supposed he would take one of the women at the Fort. Or he would do as he'd always done and have his needs taken care of by a nameless woman, forgotten come morning. But that had stopped being satisfying for a long time, even having continued as a habit.
"Melancholy today, are you?" Vanora asked, moving over to refill his cup. There were times such as these when she seemed almost maternal in her care for them. Few as they were, they did not go unappreciated. "Well then, out with it! What bothers you?"
"Vanora," Gawain began, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Vanora, I'm just wondering when you'll finally grow tired of Bors and come to my bed instead." He smirked at her only to find her slapping his head the next second. "Ah, you wound me!"
"Batter I, my friend," she replied with a smile of her own. "Better I than Bors. Not even that pretty axe of yours will stop him. Now shush before he decides to shorten you by a head." Bors had just returned, having put his youngest to sleep.
"Woman, go mind the children," he said gruffly to Vanora, but eyed her tenderly. Such was their way, Gawain had come to learn. "Off with you."
"Bors, leave her be," Gawain cajoled the older man. "You think the poor woman will keep you if you hog her like that?"
"Mind you tongue!" Bors snapped at him, though without any bite. Vanora had cleverly departed, perhaps tired of males and their talk. "We'll see if you're any better when you have a woman of your own."
"Not all of us lose their heads in their women's skirts, Bors," the blond quipped, then laughed at the enraged look on his friends face. Bors would probably say something later. "I bet you wished Lancelot was here."
"Bastard, that one!" Borns spat. He softened a little, "He could have died, gotten himself killed. But nay, you don't escape the plague so easily. However, I would rather like to see how you deal with him when you lose your head in some woman's skirts."
One of Lancelot's many jokes rang into Gawain's head as he downed his ale. Hadn't the other Sarmatian said he would be thanking the gods that all his children looked like him? Gawain scoffed. Plague, indeed. "Have a care, Bors." Another pitcher was emptied. He was about to ask for another one, when a soldier entered. "What do want, boy?" Boy he was! No more than a child.
"The King would see you, Sir. He wishes to have words." The young soldier waited for the knight to rise. "Sir Bors, good day!"
As it turned out, Galahad had been summoned too. The younger knight had a serious look upon his face. But Arthur was by far the one worried most out of the three men. "So, what is it that you've called us for, my King?" Gawain asked, his voice holding the slightest bit of mockery to it.
"I've a request of you," Arthur told them. "Merlin asks that one my knight take his daughter to wife." His bluntness must have shocked them, for neither Gawain, nor Galahad said anything. But their eyes had come to rest upon Arthur, and the stares burned. "It is politically advantageous. It shall please the masses and it shall bring balance. Especially now. What say you?"
Merlin's daughter? Gawain tried to put a face to the person. He searched his memory, thinking of the Woad women that had returned to the fort after the battle. "What name goes she by?" he finally asked after a few moments of silence.
Sighing, the leader closed his eyes. "Ragnelle. I do believe she has cared for the wounded these past few days. You must have seen her."
That name brought a thought of warm eyes and a petite figure. "Of course." He'd seen her, aye. The wee lass, Gawain remembered well enough. "Any you wish one of us to pledge our troth to her?" Galahad hadn't said a word, but Gawain could see the boy was not exactly taken with the idea. For all he'd teased him, the boy did not wish to be forced into this match. "And should we refuse?"
"A man may rule so long as he has other men to offer him support. I cannot force you to accept. That is up to you," Arthur responded. "Do as you will."
Wife, house, children. Gawain spoke the words in his head. Would it be so bad? Surely not. She looked well enough, if a bit small. She'd done a diligent job of caring for the injured and she'd kept blessedly quiet. Not many women could do that. Aye, she would do as well as any other.
"Let me be of service in this, Arthur," Gawain finally spoke. Galahad shot him a look that spoke of his thankfulness. Gawain had to suppress a smirk. The boy did not know what he was letting go of. The quiet ones were all the more fun to be had. There was a certain sweetness about stripping them of their caution, and their affections were surprisingly strong.
"You may take your leave, Galahad." And the young knight did not need to be told twice. No doubt he would go and share the news with the fellow knights. "Shall I call for her? Or do you prefer if it is from my mouth that she hears."
"Call the girl. If Galahad can keep his mouth shut for more than a blink of an eye she won't have already found out by now."
Said and done. Arthur had not wasted time in bringing Merlin's daughter about, or rather the woman had not long to appear before them. The door opened and in she came. Gawain allowed himself to take in the image of her bathed in the light coming from the windows. She stopped before them, her eyes slowly travelled from one to the other, and then she returned her attention solely to the King. "A decision has been reached?" She asked it as if it were a little thing, too little to worry over. Gawain smiled at that. A mistake on her part, to care so little for the rest of her natural life.
"Aye, lady," the blond Sarmatian answered her. Finally she looked at him. Shrewd eyes seemed to take in every little detail. "Have I your word upon your father's then, my lady, that you should become tied to me-" he cut off abruptly. Arthur had not told him when he was supposed to marry the girl.
"After I am wed to Guinevere. Only after Tristan is awake too. Speaking of which, how fare my knights that I've left in your care?"
"Much as they did in the morn, my King." She nodded to let him know all was fine. "Should there be any change I shall not hesitate in making it known." Dark eyes searched Gawain's face. "I wish a word, Sir."
Nodding to her request, Arthur bade them leave. And leave they did. Ragnelle walked slightly behind the man she'd been promised to, her steps measured, her caution present. Gawain, not having the patience to play such games with her stopped quite suddenly. "Well, what do you wish to speak of?"
"I am curious, why have you agreed to wed me?" She thought for sure that her people would have said one thing or another about her by now. But it seemed that the knight had heard nothing. Oh, four days were not quite long enough. Ragnelle walked beside him calmly, aware that his stare followed her every step.
"For the simple reason that I may do so," Gawain spoke not a moment after she'd finished her question. "Does it please you?"
"Please me?" There had been no moment in which a woman had looked lovelier to him. Fiercer women than her he'd seen aplenty, more beautiful, fuller and more sensual. But lovelier, Gawain thought nay. It was not that she smiled a little secret smile, or that her eyes sparkled on him, or even that her hand touched him briefly, shyly. Nor did her words bring the feeling forth. "It please me well enough, knight, to do my duty." And yet hidden beneath those words Gawain saw something, a sliver of potential.
"Then, by the gods, lady, I shan't stand in your way." He would allow her the peace for now. "I shall escort you where it is that you wish to go."
"I yet have allies of yours in my care." How succinct of her. Gawain nodded. Indeed, she still had to mend the wounds of Lancelot and Tristan.
"Pray heal them soon, my lady." A wife, a family, a home. Gawain did at times wish he'd had Bors' luck and loved the wife, but he thought liking her was well enough too. She would do fine, he dared think, as fine as any Sarmatian woman.
