ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY
By Allegra
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I managed a new chapter in less than a week! How do you like that! I'm trying really hard to keep up the momentum so please, please review if you've been reading it. Thank you!
PART 9 : THE FELL CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Arthur was floundering in the darkness, his mind trapped inside a floppy, defenceless body, but desperately trying to claw it's way out. But why? 'I must be free, I must help them' his brain told him over and over but Arthur was weak, helpless, paralysed. All around him was darkness, smothering and total with no hope or means to light the world again. Slowly it dawned on him that he felt completely detached from his corporeal body. A chill dread seeped into his soul, infecting him with a horror no battlefield had ever borne. He could not cut through this with a sword or beat it down into submission. This state could not be fought and won over. Arthur felt something akin to panic welling up inside him and he could almost still sense the racing of a heart he could no longer reach out and touch in his own breast.
Lost and alone in the penetrating blackness, Arthur found himself praying. At first, the words came to his mind in faltering, broken chords. How could he be sure it was not God himself who had put him here? A punishment for his past sins? For decisions wrongly made and lives lost in their wake? Would God hear the prayers or would he pay no heed, damning one of his children as lost to him. Arthur sought out the words to save himself, words of appeal but laced with wretchedness. He could not say how long he appealed to God or even what words he spoke. All Arthur knew was that, at some point, even his prayers left him. They no longer abated the emptiness which lay all around him, barren and bleak. His mind was no more than an island of isolation and desolation consumed the once great Roman warrior.
"He has a fever," Berys stated bluntly. Her small, callused hand, browned from much work under the sun, brushed across the Roman's forehead. Sweat lingered there in heavy beads, dampening his skin and hair. "You would do well to relieve him of his clothes," she added, looking disapprovingly at Peter and Ben. Still naïve in the ways of women, Ben's face flushed bright with the mention of disrobing and Berys felt a smile curl at the corners of her mouth.
"You may attend to that, gentlemen," she said, addressing them with mock formality, "while I prepare some broth which might ease his suffering." The two men remained standing uselessly in front of the door as if preparing to run at any moment. "Or perhaps you are waiting for a waning moon and faery folk to leave their cobweb bowers, unpick his robes and melt away his armour with a wand's touch!" Her voice was brimming with mirth but the two men saw nothing of humour in it, being the subject of ridicule themselves. Attempting to distance himself from the implications of this, Peter shoved Ben hard into action. "Get moving man!" he exclaimed. For a second longer, he stood with his eyes lingering upon Berys and the brightness of those brown eyes which returned his gaze with intensity and something he could not place. He wrung his hands unconsciously and the moment was broken when Berys' eyes moved to them. "Time is of the essence," she chided, but there was a softness in her voice, one which Peter hoped was reserved only for him.
Berys wanted nothing more than to hitch up her skirts a little to make her work easier. Her hands moved instinctively to do so before etiquette halted her. The company of two unattached men was not the sort a young, becoming woman familiarised herself with. Her skirts were already damp and sodden from the mud and it seemed her foot caught in the hem with every step she took. Cursing silently, Berys moved gracelessly across the floor to Peter's store cupboard. He was known throughout the village for his collection of herbs and strange foods. He seemed to have a fondness for the unusual and was ever adventurous in his choices at market, often travelling far and wide for the newest, most alien plants or spices. She rummaged deep in the store, brushing aside dried herbs hanging in thick thatches from the sloped ceiling.
"Can I help you in your search, madam?" Peter's voice caught Berys unawares from behind. She was grateful that he had chosen to maintain the formality with which she had addressed him. It was one thing to enjoy playful banter on the street but, in the cloistered privacy of his home, she felt uncomfortable. From Peter's tone, he felt the same.
She wriggled backwards through the boxes and jars on her hands and knees, suddenly painfully aware of the ungainly position she was in. Her posterior was lifted high in the air, wiggling in a most unbecoming and somewhat lewd fashion. If Peter had been watching, he made no show of it. By the time Berys had found her feet once more, his eyes were appropriately averted.
Berys brushed loose strands of hair away from her face in an effort to regain some decorum but she could feel a crimson flush rising in her cheeks. "That would be a great service. Thank you. I am in need of some belladonna or the bark of the apple tree, perhaps some chamomile if you can spare it." She gave Peter a moment's glance and strode across the room to where a pot of hot water was beginning to bubble over the heat of the fire.
"Belladonna!" Peter exclaimed. "Madam, I have no wish to interfere but…"
"Then don't!" Berys was startled at her own curt response. She was still feeling violated by the disgraceful position he had just found her in and it was necessary to regain some regulation to the proceedings once more. Her shoulders sagged as she exhaled long and hard, noticing a faint trembling in the breath. Perhaps she had been a fool to respond to Peter's pleas for help. What was she thinking, coming alone to a single man's house that lay several hundred yards from the rest of the village?
Berys was relieved when she heard the rustling of dried herbs being moved aside and knew that Peter's eyes were no longer fixed on her back. She quickly busied herself with stoking the waning flames beneath the pot until he returned clutching an armful of pots and plants.
Peter placed them on the table and brought the jar of belladonna over to Berys as if it were some sacred relic to be delivered without harm from table to pot. "This is all I have. I hope it will do."
"It will be ample," Berys replied, shortly, then forced a smile to her lips in grateful acknowledgement when she saw him flinch against her hard tone. She did not mean to be cruel, it was only fear which drove her to keep him at a distance.
He opened his mouth to offer another unwelcome piece of advice but was saved the bother by the entrance of Ben. His arms were full of the Roman's clothes which consisted of more layers than any of them could have imagined. He deposited the woollen undergarments on a stool which he drew towards the fire. His eyes immediately lightened on the belladonna jar. "'Tis the demon herb! The enchanter's nightshade! Poison!" he exclaimed. His eyes, wide and bulging as saucers turned to Peter in expectation that he would share his views. Peter's face was grave but expressionless.
Ben turned to where Berys was already opening the jar. "Madam, if he is not mad already, it will send him so! This is the assassin of witches. You will kill him!"
Berys whirled on Ben, feeling angry at herself for putting herself in the company of two such fools. "If you do not trust my judgement then, by all means, care for him yourselves. I have plenty of work of my own to occupy my hours, instead of brewing potions for two such ingrates!"
Ben fell silent in an instant, cowering like a child under her spiteful reproach. Despite his years, he looked to Peter once more as if expecting some reassurance, but he found none. Peter jerked his head in the direction of the door. 'Too many cooks spoil the broth' came unbidden into his mind. Berys' voice sang out behind Ben as he opened the door, "Some carrots or legumes of any variety would be much appreciated." Her voice was steady but tight. Ben nodded wordlessly and closed the door firmly, leaving Peter and the lady alone.
Peter was not a soft man but he had come to care for his friend deeply over time and even Berys was not spared some reprimand for her behaviour. "Forgive Ben, madam, but he means well."
"I know it," Berys replied, quietly. "I do not know why I spoke so strictly. It was not my place."
"I think I may venture an estimate, madam. There is a foreign stranger close to death nearby, dependent on your kindness and skill. Such a burden is enough to worry even the sturdiest of physicians, let alone a woman brave enough to carry out such a task on her own."
Berys found herself surprised at his sensitivity to the situation. She had never thought Peter to be so. It warmed her heart towards him once more. "You are very astute, sir." She tipped a tiny portion of the belladonna into the boiling water and turned to return the jar to the table and found herself handed a large onion. "Here, this will give some flavour."
"A simple vegetable broth is ample. A tiny amount of the belladonna should bring down the fever, along with the chamomile and bark. I saw you have some sorrel. We may have need of it later." Berys stood back and held out the ladle to Peter. "When Ben returns, cut the vegetables as thin and small as you can and add them to the broth. They must be as soft as possible to go down his throat. I will attend to his wounds now."
Thoughtful as ever, she had set aside some boiling water to cool enough for washing the soldier's wounds. She had brought a short knife, plenty of candle wax and cobwebs, items she had watched her mother use for packing wounds in the past. Berys lifted the thin sack cloth dividing the main living area from the injured man and settled herself down beside the invalid.
He looked half the size he had upon his arrival and Berys wondered why she was surprised to find nothing more than a man beneath the armour. His eyes were closed, dark lashes laying a veil over inflamed skin. There was not a flicker of movement and Berys knew that wherever he was, it was nowhere near waking life. The woollen blanket covering him from the tips of his toes to the top of his chest was coarse against her skin as she lifted it away to get a closer look at the Roman's wound. The arrow had been ripped unceremoniously from the skin at some point and there was a significant and unsightly tear around the lower edge of the entry gash.
A small vial had been left beside the bed and Berys opened it, sniffing the clear, watery contents. Her nose wrinkled in unexpected dismay at the strong odour drawn up her nostrils. It was some sort of hops infusion and the smell alone almost sent the girl reeling. Still, it would make an excellent cleanser for the wound and Berys set about dabbing a little with the cloth around the inflamed flesh. Then, as she had seen her mother do after Saxon skirmishes, she poured a generous amount into the wound itself. She blotted any new trickles of blood issuing from the shoulder then pulled the cloth away for inspection. Amid the last traces of earth was a dark sludge which caught Berys' eye and made her frown. She prodded it with her finger. She had seen this before. Poison.
The Roman did not stir, completely oblivious to the gentle ministrations around him. Berys was relieved. She could still vividly recall the day her mother had sent her from the room when a man was brought, unconscious, his left arm severed and hanging by little more than a thread. The wound had need of cauterising and Berys was firmly instructed to leave the cottage and fetch cabbage leaves from the fields beyond. Stubborn even at the age of ten, Berys had nodded meekly but peered in through a small crack in the wattle walls. The man, bearded and sweating, had awoken at the first press of the poker against his arm socket and the screams had given Berys nightmares for many years to come.
Now, she peered into the wound, pressing lightly at the sides to gain a better view. Some of the inner flesh was torn but there was no sign of infection, dirt or poison now that it had been cleaned and there was little more to do now than sew him up. Berys threaded her needle and bent close to the Roman's face, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Had the task not been so consuming, she might have thought more of being so close to a Roman officer, or any man for that fact. Arthur's shallow breaths caught wisps of her hair and lifted them lightly as if in a summer breeze. Still, he did not stir and she did not move from her task until it was complete, each stitch as regular and small as befitted a man of office. Berys' work was over but Arthur's struggle through the darkness had only just begun.
Stars pricked the sky like diamonds, luring men to pluck them from the firmaments. Even between the shadowy trees above, they found a way to tease and bait the mortal men below. Two such mortal men, however, had no time or thought for stars and fanciful verses. They lay in wait as they had done for many hours, the time of action finally drawn near.
Galahad could set up a shop with all the whittling he had done over the hours but his patience was waning and it was not helped by Tristan's typical stillness. The man knew no bounds of suffering it seemed. He had sat on the same spot, in the same position for so long that Galahad could feel the pain in his joints just by looking at him.
Finally, the words so longed for, the young knight barely believed them to be true, Tristan murmured, "It is time." Moving round to his left, he led Galahad towards the rear of Gawain's lodging and the pair listened for voices.
Convinced the coast was clear, Tristan lifted a corner of the tent canvas and peered underneath. Gawain sat in the far corner of the room, his head bent with one palm resting against his forehead. He appeared clean and well kempt, his long blonde hair looking as fresh as it had done in months. The simple tunic and belt were not his own and, were it not for the bruise around one eye, Gawain would have looked like a wealthy lord enjoying a moment's peace. To friends such as Tristan and Galahad, the opposite was true.
"Gawain!" Galahad hissed from his hiding place. Gawain's head jerked upwards, narrow blue eyes widened in alarm, tension showing in every muscle and the cords of his neck. A quick smile came and faded from his lips, tightened in a thin line. "Are we safe?" Galahad asked. He had not expected a hugely warm welcome given the peril they were putting themselves in, but a little more pleasure at seeing his friends once more would not have gone amiss.
"Yes, but guards are posted at my door. You must be quiet." Gawain stood and moved as close to the rear of the tent as possible, to limit the noise level reaching the entrance. "Thank the gods you have come."
Tristan somehow managed to pull himself through the canvas opening with infinitely more grace than Galahad could ever muster, giving the latter cause for a prickle of annoyance. Instinctively, Galahad grasped Gawain's shoulders and pulled him into a manly embrace but Tristan only offered a strong smile. It was a simple gesture but it spoke volumes and gave Gawain a strange sense of security.
Wasting as few words as possible, Gawain tried to explain the situation – how Lancelot had dragged him into a fight and the bargain Unferth had struck. He paused at the next issue, trying to find the words to explain what still brought shame to his face.
"Where is Lancelot now?" Galahad asked.
Gawain's blue eyes surveyed the youthful face before him, reminded of the cruel joke Fate played upon all of them, snatching the years from Earth's children so callously. "Lancelot did not fare so well."
"What do you mean?" Tristan interjected when Gawain was not forthcoming.
"He refused to submit to Unferth's requests. I tried to plead with him but he would have none of it. In the end, the Saxon chose a different fate for him. Lancelot has been imprisoned as security for my loyalty. Should I try to escape or sabotage Unferth's plans, Lancelot will pay the price for it." Gawain shook his head, unable to look his friends' in the eyes when he thought of the damage his actions had already caused. "We are endangering his life this very moment with our talk."
Tristan spoke up, his voice no more than a whisper yet it reached Gawain's ears with ease, as if the words themselves were carried on the air in obedience. "They can be wily, these monsters from across the ice. You must not blame yourself. You did everything you could." Gawain nodded, feeling as uncomfortable about needing comforting words from a fellow knight as he did about Lancelot's predicament.
"What of Arthur? Bors said he stayed here at the camp. Did you see him?" Tristan tried to sound as casual as possible. Gawain was living dangerously and the needed his wits about him. It would not do for his mind to wander to the perils facing their leader when he was helpless to do anything about it.
"You have not found him?" Gawain asked, an edge of fear and panic entering his voice. "He was seen and pierced through with an arrow. I did not see what happened but I think he managed to break free into the forest. I had hope that he would have returned to you."
Galahad caught his fearful expression and asked, "How badly was he hurt?"
"It was a shoulder wound. Gods! If he did not return to you, mayhap the wound was greater than I thought." Gawain's stomach furled and unfurled with horror at this new possibility. He already felt responsible for Lancelot's injuries but now he had accepted Unferth's hospitality – food, clothes and lodging – when the man he most respected was possibly dead.
"We must find him!" Galahad exclaimed, urgently, and Tristan shot him a steely glance at the rise in his voice. There was too much yet to be said for them to be discovered. The young knight appeared suitably chastised but his fear for Arthur's life was greater.
None of this was going according to the plan he had formed in his head. Galahad had envisaged the gallant rescue of his two friends and some heart-pumping bloodletting amidst the Saxons before returning to the nearest tavern for a night of blissful, mead-induced oblivion. Instead, Arthur was unaccounted for, Lancelot locked up, Gawain blackmailed into Saxon service and his own long hours of waiting rendered pointless. The company was scattered, broken, and their strength diminished by it.
Tristan and Gawain remained silent but their eyes met in mutual recognition of Galahad's fear as well as their own. Did their minds utter the same dread? That this could be the first stumble in the fall of Arthur's knights?
"We will find him," Tristan promised, his steadfast belief giving the other two some degree of hope. "We will return for you and Lancelot in greater numbers. Bors and Dag wait at the forest edge for instruction. They will go for reinforcements. These Saxons are too strong for us alone and you need time to complete your induction into this man's schemes. Galahad and I will find Arthur, do not fear." Tristan's words were like a soothing balm to Gawain's pains. The scout was no more a god than any of them but there was some benevolent magic in him, settling the mind and giving a glimpse of safety ahead. He was like a sanctuary for all the knights in times of trouble.
Gawain could see that Tristan was preparing to leave and he could contain himself no longer. "Wait, there is more. You must release Lancelot as soon as possible." Both scout and knight waited for an explanation and Gawain found himself struggling to verbalise the vision of his cocky friend, reduced to a bloody, bruised and naked man, shivering in dank confinement. "They beat him." The words rasped from his mouth and he cleared his throat, repeating more loudly, "They beat him…for my disobedience." Reading the expressions on his companions' faces, he continued, "He will live, but if that is their punishment for my first misdemeanour, I dread to think what the second will bring."
Tristan nodded, mutely but with the steady determination that made Gawain trust him implicitly.
Tristan looked to Galahad, nodding his head in the direction of the tent opening. They had lingered long enough. Action was needed. Galahad seemed reluctant to follow and his mouth moved but no further words formed there. Gawain knew well enough the turmoil beneath those grey eyes. He reached out and put a firm hand on his best friend's shoulder. "It is all right, Galahad. Go. I will be fine."
Galahad searched Gawain's eyes for some deeper reservations but the grey depths were clouded and impenetrable, yielding no assurance and the young knight was forced to follow Tristan's path from the Saxon camp. His step was heavy for he was leaving the man he cared for most in the world in the arms of the enemy.
END OF PART 9
