(See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ah, a Beowulf fan in our midst. No, there'll be no Grendel or Beowulf! Yes, I know I used Unferth but I didn't want to hold up my Muse while I wrangled over an appropriate name for our heroes' nemesis. Suffice to say, I quite liked the idea of Unferth's cowardice & taunting from the Old English text and decided it would be perfect. My Unferth will prove a force to be reckoned with for Lancelot and co. so I thought the irony fitted. Plus, since 'Beowulf' was written considerably later than our stories are set, perhaps it is Unferth the Saxon whose name is taken for the text (only kidding!). That said, I didn't want the name to get in the way of people just reading it, so tell me if you think it's too distracting.
There's a bit of an introduction to magic in this chapter. I am not reinjecting the mythical aspects of King Arthur into the story, just making use of the forest's natural juices for a bit of fun!
Lastly, a huge thank you to Lisa, who has been bugging me every other week since the last chapter to make sure I don't leave this story floundering in the darkness of my 'unfinished fics' folder. You have been a huge inspiration to keep going & I appreciate your kind words.
PART 4 : DIVIDED THEY FALL
Lancelot did not protest when Saxons dragged him towards a post near the stinking pig pen and chained him to it, nor did he fight when they removed his armour. It was providing little warmth and impeded his ability to move his limbs. Besides, it would only rust if the Heavens decided to open. Looking miserably up at the gathering clouds glimpsed between the trees, Lancelot wondered whether it would be hours or mere minutes before his body was soaked to the skin. He wished he'd had Gawain's idea first, then it'd be him sitting in the warmth while Gawain toiled in the mud. Lancelot did not really wish such evils on his friend but it helped the knight to retain some good natured banter, even if it was only in his own head.
A small but menacing band of Saxons spoke in gruff, low tones nearby. They had clearly been set to the watch the knight and that reassured Lancelot a little. However disadvantaged he might be right now, they still feared him somewhat and it would hopefully save him from wild boar attacks - an irrational fear the knight had harboured silently since witnessing a villager being mauled by one in his own pig pen.
Bors spurred his bewildered horse on towards the western reaches of the forest. He resented Arthur's orders, better prepared for bloodying his sword than playing scout. The chances of crossing Galahad, Dagonet and Tristan's exact path given the huge circumference of the forest were slim at best. He would probably spend most of his time chasing in the wrong direction while the rest of his companions held forth with the Saxons.
Pausing to assess the next best course, Bors caught his breath and sat heaving in the saddle for a moment. His trusty steed seemed to have no greater sense of direction than the knight astride him and both panted heavily in the night, dark as obsidian. Thank gods that the man had stopped at that exact moment in time for strange rustlings could be heard faintly in the distance to his right. They were too far to make out clearly but whatever was moving through the undergrowth was definitely large. For a second, Bors regretted his desire for a fight and prayed, perhaps for the first time, that the gods had not answered his pleas. A Saxon battle was a welcome one, but he did not like his chances of victory against the odds of one to fifty.
Something close to panic quickened the beat of his heart in his chest. The horse whinnied in protest as Bors held him steady. The knight's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He knew he had the advantage here - awareness of his enemy's presence while they were oblivious to his. However, unfortunately perhaps for him, Bors knew not how to flee a fight. It was in his nature to seek assaults with the same zeal with which he sought drink at the end of the day.
A flutter above him alerted him to something or someone hiding amongst the branches of the forest. Bors swore under his breath, afraid that he had been wrong. These were no Saxons, they were Woads, concealed in the natural fabric of the trees as if they were part of them. In these conditions, on their territory, even a bullish knight like Bors knew he stood no chance. Nudging the complaining horse forwards, his sword flew from its scabbard as something flew at his face. Bors tried to defend himself but quickly felt the touch of feathers on his arm as Tristan's hawk landed on his shoulder. "Damned bird!" the knight exclaimed, relief evident beneath the hardened edge of his voice. "I'll pluck you to your last feather and roast you tonight," he muttered, good naturedly.
Dimly, he heard the familiar whistle of Tristan, calling his bird home. The hawk flapped her wings and ascended into the sky, ensuring she stayed close enough to Bors to guide him back to his friends.
As sure as night follows day, rain came with the rising wind. At first it was little more than relieving drops which Lancelot raised his head to receive. He opened his mouth, savouring every droplet that ran down his parched throat. He had ridden hard that day and emptied his skin long ago, expecting to find more water before the day was out. He had certainly not expected to receive it in such a pure form. The youthful knight leaned his head back against the pole to which he was tethered and closed his eyes. There was little to be grateful for at this particular moment in time so he might as well enjoy the small relief the heavens had finally offered.
Laughing could be heard from the tent where Gawain was housed. Lancelot winced at the sound, as if he were certain he were the object of ridicule. In spite of the loss of feeling in his severely bound hands and the threat of the same fate falling his feet, Lancelot found himself feeling the first twinge of gratitude that it was him out here. He was so tired and his heavy eyelids threatened to close with every blink he took. If it were his job to appease the Saxons without saying something amiss, Lancelot believed he would be dead by now. The knight's brain was barely functioning any longer, whether from cold or sheer fatigue he could not tell. Allowing the wooden stake to take the weight of his lolling head, Lancelot allowed himself a second's respite, closing his eyes for just a moment.
When he opened his eyes once more, Lancelot was surprised to find that he was soaking through but the dark sky was dry once more. He wondered how long he had been asleep and wished he could brush aside the curling tendrils of hair that had fallen forward onto his face, getting in his eyes. Peering around what he could see of the camp, Lancelot found his eye drawn to some small movement in the bushes just beyond the light of the fire. For a while, he wondered if some kind of fever was taking his brain because the shape seemed to be dimly outlined as man shaped. Lancelot pulled himself into as upright a position as his tired, wet, bound body would allow and peered more closely into the darkness. Just as he thought his eyes must have been deceiving him, the flash of a sword proved him right. Then, a second later, a pair of eyes appeared from amidst the foliage. It took Lancelot a moment to adjust his vision but it took him only seconds to recognise the owner of those eyes. He would recognise them anywhere. Thank God. Arthur. He would get him out of this mess.
He knew it would not look good and that he would be subjected to many a chastisement and tease from his fellow knights but, right now, Lancelot did not care. He wanted to be free to seek out the nearest inn with a good bed and some strong ale, perhaps even a wench to accompany him. On the second thought, he was even too tired to consider that for long. Never mind, the knight's strength would be regained by tomorrow.
The two knights' eyes met in the gloom but while Arthur's registered something bordering on relief, Lancelot showed no admittance that he had seen anything beyond the eternal trees and scrub. He could not afford to draw attention to the rescue mission. Instead, Lancelot turned his eyes to the earth and then glanced warily at the Saxon guards drinking and talking some distance from his post. They had failed to notice any exchange so Lancelot stole a quick glance back to his leader's hiding place. They bushes swayed a little unusually in the dying wind and he caught sight of Arthur's retreating figure. Lancelot settled back. He could do nothing but wait now.
Arthur had been waiting for this moment for some time. He breathed a sigh of relief once he was sure Lancelot had seen him. At first, he had been convinced that the young knight had looked directly through him but experience had taught him better. Lancelot might have been hot-headed to get himself into this mess but he was the best when it came to stealth. Moving round to where the Saxon guards had their backs to him, Arthur prepared to take the pair out. The task would not be difficult given how much ale had passed the two men's lips. The real issue would be releasing Lancelot without the men in the lit tent noticing. While they were clearly engrossed in their merriment and discussion inside, Arthur noticed that their eyes regularly wandered back to the captive outside. With Gawain at their mercy, the Roman could not risk endangering him without being sure that he stood a good chance of releasing Lancelot before anyone saw. Inching forward, his sword drawn, Arthur leaped like an unsprung coil.
He knocked the first Saxon into the mud with a sharp blow to the chin which left him floundering on the ground long enough to draw a knife across the other man's neck. Finishing the second, who had barely found his feet again, with a stab to the chest, Arthur propped the Saxons back up against their stools in a sorry imitation of drunkenness. His eyes quickly surveyed the small clearing for any other assailants but there were none. Lancelot made no acknowledgement of the murders carried out within yards of him. He knew only too well that he was in plain sight of the main tent and could not show any signs of a scuffle. Arthur took a step forward, his back bent nearly into a crouch. Then, he quickly ducked as a figure emerged from the central tent. It was Gawain.
END OF PART 4
HgandRHrforever & Stahlfan125 - Sorry it's taken so long for the update, but I hope there's enough Lancelot in this one to keep you appeased for a little while!
DrinkSparkyCola - I've explained my whole Unferth thing at the beginning of this chapter in case there are any other Beowulf readers out there. I'm really glad you're enjoying it & thank you very much for reviewing it!
Alone Dreaming - I'm sorry I haven't been there for you through all those calc classes! I'll try & be a little more present. I hope this goes some way to making the time pass a bit quicker. Lots of angst on its way...very soon.
Lancey - Thanks for the review. Lots of Lancelot, I promise. He's building up to some major angst in the next few chapters. Hope you're still enjoying it & sorry for the massive wait!
Misty Satin Dream, Enelya Wood, szhismine, Excalibur2 - Thank you for the encouraging reviews. I promise there'll be plenty of angst all round (certainly lots for my lovely Lancelot & Gawain as well as Arthur). Sorry for making you wait so long. I hope this bit is reasonably worthy, even if it's not that long.