Look, what is this!? Another chapter after only 9 days? Yeah, but don't get used to it!
The next morning was like all the others this week. Tristan didn't know what he expected when he trotted towards Vanora's breakfast table. Maybe that the woman had vanished in fear of repercussions for her trespassing in the royal stables. Well, she hadn't. When he approached his spot at the head of the table she emerged from the kitchen and passed by him, setting jars with honey and mashed fruits onto the table. She spared him only a short glance and a clearly audible 'Good morrow' but didn't even take the time to wait for a reply.
After some archery practice he sauntered over to the smithy. There was still the talk he had to give to Dagonet. The solitude at the archery range had helped a bit to order his thoughts and search for words. Hopefully his old friend would listen. He might not have noticed, goodhearted as he is, but the town gossip had reached a whole new level.
At the beginning it had been whispers about an affair. People had seen a foreign woman in the smithy and thought the knight sought comfort in other arms while his heavily pregnant wife sat at home alone. Some called her a hussy, musing that Dag, Galahad and he had brought her over for entertainment on their last trip and to freshen up the town's offering of wenches. The fact that Tristan himself had carried her into town on his horse against the resistance of the guards added to that. It also didn't help that she was dragging around other whores' children. It hadn't escaped him that even Vanora had looked at her suspiciously after Dag had covered for her meals. He was pretty sure she had told Lyria, Dagonet's wife and a good friend of hers, about it. He also didn't doubt that Dag himself had told his wife. What Lyria's stand of this was he wasn't sure. He hadn't visited their little home in quite some time.
Last night a new rumor had been added to the list of allegedly evidences for the foreigner's scandalous life. While lying on the roof across the tavern he had overheard the potter's wife, one of the court's seamstresses and the new kitchen maid. The latter had claimed to know Ivy since last winter, when she had shown up in her village out of nowhere and bewitched the widowed miller. She had not spoken one understandable word, had worn the strangest clothes and was behaving in the most peculiar way. The miller had taken her to his home were he had done who knows what with her. The outrage of the potter's wife almost had Tristan chuckling above them. She was one to speak! The miller had kept the woman there during the winter and on the one or two occasions he brought her from the mill into the village she had spoken in broken Latin. However, the highlight of the kitchen maid's story was the Saxon party which had raided their village just last month and burned most of it to ashes. Obviously the witch had rested during the cold season, getting fed and warmed by the miller, only to betray them all to slave traders in spring. Arthur's men had shown up in the nick of time to prevent it but not all could be saved. The miller was no more to confirm the tale. She, the maid, had warned Arthur's soldiers of taking the foreign woman to the fort but they had laughed at her and called her silly. Her, who only wanted to help! No, they had taken the spy to Fort Badon and now she was weaving her web here, enchanting the former knight and now even drawing the dark scout in. Tristan's ears had perked up at that. Yeah, he had sat at the smithy for several days to watch her but it was out of precaution. Silly women. To his disbelief the gossiping women below decided 'to keep an eye on her' because the men were to ignorant. Tristan had to keep himself from dropping down next to them to scare them out of their wits and tell them 'the ignorant men' were keeping the fort safe just fine. He could refrain from doing so, because he had other plans for the night and as it turned out later, they were fruitful. He had discovered Ivy's lair and now that he thought back at it he had also heard her speak foreign words to the watch dog who had been unusually friendly to her and unusually aggressive towards him. Witch or not, he would keep an eye on her and this was much easier if he knew where to find her.
When he arrived at the smithy it was Dagonet who stood at the anvil. A quick look further into the workshop revealed Ivy, who knelt at the wetstone with an arrow head in her hand and Seven sitting beside her, sorting the finished arrow heads.
"So? How many?" Ivy inquired from her.
"Ten and ten and ten and ... I forgot." the girl mumbled.
"Then again. I count with you, yes?"
And then the combined voices started to count "One, two, three ..." Each number accompanied by the light clatter from the arrow heads being put on the pile by Seven's little hands.
Tristan noticed the smirk on Dag's face at the scene. When his old friend looked at him, Tristan signaled him to follow outside with a nod. They sauntered a little down the street. Ivy wouldn't need to hear what was spoken.
"She is teaching the little one how to count since the morrow. With all the siblings you would think she would know it from the cradle on." he smirked, thinking about the unusual naming scheme for Bors' children.
"Heard back from Gwellyn?" Tristan inquired after Dag's apprentice.
"Not yet. He should be back any time now." Dagonet answered. "Lord knows I need the help."
"An' Lucan?"
"His shoulder is improving, alas not fast enough for him. Stupid boy. It will heal in time but he keeps scuffling now that he is not allowed to train." Dagonet sent Tristan a sideways glance. "Why are you asking?"
"What about your new help?"
Dagonet nodded slightly, seeing where Tristan's inquiries were leading.
"She is diligent. More so than Gwellyn ever was. An she learns fast."
Tristan stopped his steps. "You are not thinking about keeping her."
Dagonet stopped a step later, facing away from Tristan. "A smithy is no place for a woman. I know that, old friend. But she has nowhere to go and its an honest way to earn a coin."
"You are not improving her situation, Dag. And your are certainly not improving yours."
At that Dagonet turned towards him, waiting for further elaboration.
"Loose mouths are talking, Dag."
"Since when do you listen to gossip?"
"I always listen."
"And what is gossip sayin'?" He braced himself for the allegations he knew would come.
"A young woman in a man's business she has no skills in day after day. What do you think?"
Dag nodded. "Listen. There is ..." he felt the need to defend himself but Tristan only raised his hand.
"I know, Dag. But they don't an this is how gossip starts." and after a little pause "Does Lyria know?"
Dagonet nodded slowly. "I told her."
"And?"
Dagonet shrugged his shoulders. "She accepted my decision. Reminds her of herself I guess." It didn't sound very convincing. Tristan could not imagine Lyria to be happy about it. If not for the fact Ivy was working in the smithy then for sure about the gossip. She had had too much of this upon her own arrival at the fort and it had taken much time and the utter commitment of a knight to gain the acceptance of the town folks.
"What would you do?" Dag asked.
Tristan wouldn't have gotten himself in that situation to begin with. "A smithy is no place for a woman, as you said."
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When Dagonet returned to the smithy Seven was dancing around Ivy and the stoneblock, counting from 1 to 30 in a sing-song voice.
"Ivy?" he caught her attention.
"Yes?" She omitted the 'sir' but was also not calling him by his name. He noticed she was still not sure how to call out to him although he had told her several times by now that simply 'Dagonet' was fine.
"I need you to pick something up at the market. I need to pay a visit to the fletcher an can't do it myself."
Ivy stood and dusted herself off, walking over to him and awaiting further instructions. She was a little nervous about going to the market, her encounter with the fruit vendor that had landed her in the dungeon still fresh in her memory.
Meanwhile Dagonet had fished some coins from his pouch. "Allen the butcher will have everything packed. Tell him 'for Dagonet'."
Ivy nodded and held her hand open for the coins.
"Do you know where I live?"
She looked up into his face and nodded, more hesitant this time. Lucan had shown her from the distance when they had fetched wood on their first day.
"Good. Bring it to my home. Lyria is waiting for it and tell her I will be home for dinner."
Phew. All clear on this front. Lyria was his wife, Ivy knew. Two had mentioned her once. Apparently she was heavily pregnant with her and Dagonet's first child.
Ivy headed out towards the market, a suddenly aware Seven galloping along at her side and still counting from 1 to 30.
"Can you do that backwards?" Ivy challenged.
Seven looked up at her dumbstruck.
Ivy smiled down at her. "Together, yes? And thirty, twenty-nine, ..."
Dagonet congratulated himself on his plan to introduce Ivy to Lyria without being actually present. Hopefully it would give the women the opportunity to measure each other up and break some of the tension at home.
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At the market Ivy felt eyes following her from every corner, every stand and every workshop. She was glad Seven distracted her a bit. Allen the butcher was friendly albeit a little simple. He had packed a huge mutton haunch and some ribs into a bundle. Realising she had no basket to carry it he even volunteered one of his own, taking the oath from her that she would return it immediately. He was much more friendly than Ivy had expected from anyone on this market, considering the sharp eyes and whispering mouths everywhere. After handing him the coins she took off towards Dagonet's home, fleeing the exposure on the town square. Seven got lost on the way, claiming she had to tell her Ma she could count to such big numbers and probably annoying the hell out of her by proving it for the rest of the day.
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The hut looked well kept, the door and the window shutters new and a nice little garden at the side. Ivy took two steps up to the door and knocked. It took only a moment until it opened and revealed a woman, supposedly Dagonet's wife. She was smaller than Ivy had expected, mousy brown hair pulled back into a bun and sharp brown eyes. One of her hands bracing her back, the other held unconsciously against her round belly.
"Yes?"
"Ma'am, Sir Dagonet sent me to bring you this." Ivy addressed her in the most formal way she could. She hoisted the heavy basket onto the doorstep between them.
Lyria tried to bend down to have a look under the linen cover but had trouble doing so.
"It is meat. Shall I bring it in for you?" Ivy offered.
Lyria gave up the effort to bend down and fixed her stare back on Ivy, a stare that could easily compete with the scout's inquiring gaze.
"And you are?"
"Ivy, Ma'am."
"Ivy. Mhmm." That sounded not all too friendly.
"I work at the smithy." she tried to clarify.
"So I've heard." Lyria's sharp eyes were measuring her up again. "And where is my husband?" The last word stressed more than the others.
Ivy felt where this conversation was heading, not unwarranted given the social standards in this society. "He said he would meet the fletcher but I shall assure you he would be home for dinner."
Lyria's eyes swept over Ivy's shoulder to a woman passing by on the small path towards the town, who looked into their direction curiously. Then Lyria stepped aside. "Come in." It wasn't a friendly invitation but rather an order.
Ivy hoisted up the heavy basket and took the last step upwards, which made her easily one hand taller than Dagonet's wife. It was only physically though, not from the feeling of it. Once the basket was set down on the table Lyria motioned for a stool. "Sit."
Ivy did as she was told. She didn't feel well in her own skin but she owed it to Dagonet somehow to do what his wife told her and answer what she asked her.
"So you work in the smithy? Are you a smith?" It sounded mocking.
"No. But no one else would give me work. And I do my best to learn it." Ivy defended herself.
Lyria's tough facade crumbled a bit. She huffed and then leaned onto the table across from where Ivy sat. "Listen. I do not know you. All I know is my husband hired a woman to work in his smithy while I sit here at home waiting for this little one to be born. A woman he and his brothers brought to town from who knows where. What shall I think?!"
Ivy looked at her. She might be in exceptional emotional circumstances but this was unfair. "No, you don't know me." her voice more shaky than she had intended. "And you think what all of them think." She motioned towards the fort behind the walls, doing her best to suppress the watering of her eyes. They never called her anything to her face but Ivy knew very well what was spoken behind her back.
The reaction took Lyria by surprise. And it hurt her. How was it that she was now the one assuming things when it wasn't long ago that it had been her the town folk was gossiping about?
"I ... no. It is just ..." Lyria sat down, suddenly deprived of her strength.
"I don't blame you." Ivy added, afraid she had caused Dag's wife too much trouble to handle in her condition. "I get used to it."
"No." Lyria said decisive. "You shouldn't. 'twas not right of me to judge you."
Now it was Ivy who was taken aback.
Lyria continued. "You can not know but two years back 'twas me in your stead. 'twas me who Dagonet dragged in and me who was followed by nagging mouths everywhere. And then Dagonet started caring for me an I couldn't quite believe my luck when he asked for my hand in marriage and an' now it 's you." The sentence ended on an insecure and sad note.
"No! I mean, not like for you ..." Ivy tried to reassure Lyria. "I am grateful for his offer and I am happy for you but that's it." and to make it clear once and for all "The last thing on my mind are men."
Lyria smirked at that and nodded. "Sounds familiar. 'twas the same for me but sometimes it could not be helped. You'll see eventually."
"Oh no, for sure not. Not here." When had the conversation taken this awkward direction?
"Now tell me of you. How has fate brought you here?"
And with that Ivy started to tell her story, a slightly edited safe-for-medieval-people version of course. She told Lyria how she and her father had been in an accident and he had died. How her fiance had turned away from her when she was injured (omitting that she had been in coma for weeks and in rehab for months) and had instead taken an interest in her best friend. Thus losing the three most important people in her life in such a short time. How no family was left for her to turn to and how she had somehow ended up in Britain's forest (omitting the fact that she had fallen into deep depression and wandered the forest in a thunderstorm night to find the hut where xxx had made his proposal 2 years earlier). She told her how Sollin, the miller, had found her and taken her in. How he had provided food and clothing and taught her to speak Latin. She assured Lyria that there had never been a physical thing between them, when she had seen the smirk on the other woman's face. Sollin had been a sad man who had lost his wife some winter's earlier in child birth and who spoke highly and vividly of her as if she was just gone to the market and he couldn't wait for her to return to introduce her to Ivy. And Ivy had sensed how utterly devoted he still was to his deceased wife and how he lit up whenever she inquired about her. It brightened his days when he told her about the blue ribbons in his wife's braids on their wedding, about her fear of the smallest of mice, how she made the best pickles this side of the wall and how lovely her voice sounded when she sang to herself while sewing. He hadn't cared what the village people spoke of it but he was grateful for the company and the open ear Ivy provided. And then it had all ended so suddenly just as Ivy was beginning to accept being stranded in Britain (read 'being stranded in the 5th century AD'). One morning screams had roused them from their beds and before they knew it the scent of smoke filled the air. Sollin had grabbed his carpenter's axe and went down the small trail to the village and after that is was utter chaos. Being hunted through the maze of little huts by barbarians one moment and the next being almost trampled by huge horses which in turn now hunted down the barbarians. In the end Arthur's soldiers, Ivy couldn't tell if and which knights had been among them, had caught all enemies. Not all villager's had survived the attack though, Sollin being among the fallen. It was probably for the best, now he had no longer to suffer from loneliness. Many huts had been burned to ashes and when the soldiers returned to the fort, some of the villagers went with them. After loosing the only person she had known, Ivy had come to the fort as well. It only took her a few days to land in the dungeon and being thrown out to never set foot into the fort again. Lyria had of course heard from the incident at the river and had smirked when Ivy told her about the ride back into the fort on Tristan's horse. Ivy chose not to comment it.
"You've come a long way." Lyria concluded.
Ivy nodded mutely.
"Thank you for sharing your story. I see now my doubts are unfounded and I shall talk to my husband. I fear I have given him some unwarranted trouble over this."
Ivy smirked as well. "It seems his devious plan to send me here has worked out."
Lyria nodded knowingly. "And all without being on the front line himself."
The moment of unity ended when Ivy got up. "I shall return to the smithy or he might think the worst."
Lyria said her parting words and invited Ivy back whenever she felt the need for someone to speak to. It was as much help as she could offer, seeing she already had a family to care for and soon a new family member.
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After unloading the basket onto the kitchen table Ivy went back to the market to return it to the butcher. When she came to the smithy Dagonet was shoeing a horse. He looked at her apprehensively but had no time to interrupt his work. Ivy gave nothing away. Shall he wonder what the outcome of his plan was until he got home. Not much later he handed her the first week's pay and advised she shall enjoy the remainder of the sunny day before the weather turned British again.
With the coins tightly clutched in her hand Ivy sauntered back to the market. She had prioritized her list of purchases and soap was at the top. The weather was nice and the nightly curfew still hours away. Should she manage to buy soap she would definitely take a bath today and wash her hair.
The market itself wasn't big but bustling nonetheless. Most of the street merchants were farmers who sold their goods directly from a cart to the town folks. The higher standing traders, who sold cloth, pottery or shoes did that from their little workshops, that lined the market square and the near streets.
Soap. Where would one buy soap? There wasn't anything like a pharmacy or a beauty shop here. Most of the poorer people made their own soap at home. Sollin had told her that but he didn't know how to do it. Is had always been the task of his wife and lately he had bought his share from the wife of the sheep farmer. Ivy took her time with the first trip around all the stands, making sure to stay away enough to not cause any allegations of criminal intentions. She hadn't seen anything that resembled soap though. Walking a second round she stopped at a stooped woman and her two panniers full of herb bundles. And indeed the white haired woman dug a neatly in big leaves wrapped bar out of her panier. She was praising the quality of the waxy whitish block and how it would make Ivy's hair shiny and keep the lice away. Ivy wasn't very good at haggling. Yes, she had taught Seven the basics but to do it with a professional trader was something else entirely. She ended up spending one of her seven coins for a piece of soap that was slightly bigger than what the old woman wanted to cut for her at first. It was probably still overpriced but it was soap! Back in her time you would also pay a small fortune for handmade, fair-trade, organic, herb-scented soap. And after a week of hard work and continuously aching muscles Ivy indulged herself this luxury.
With her spirits lifted in view of the upcoming bath she decided to have a look at the local cloth store. She desperately needed a change set of underwear. Not that you think she hadn't washed her one set yet. She had rinsed it in the river properly one morning when Dagonet had sent her to fetch water. She had rolled it up into her cloth bundle to hang it for drying over night in the hayloft. But that had meant going commando in leather trousers for the rest of the day. Not a pleasant feeling when you did not know who else had worn these before. What had been even less pleasant was the afternoon in the smithy. Sitting on the wetstone she had glanced at the dark scout at the entrance suspiciously often to see if he noticed something. He might not have x-ray vision but he seemed to be awfully observant. It probably came with the job. She had also shifted a lot in her kneeling position, trying to detach her skin from the leather again and again. So, simple linen cloth. That would be nice. And a needle and tread. Ivy wasn't an experienced tailor but a few straight seams she would manage. She had, after all, mended a lot of Sollin's clothes over the last winter.
The shop of the cloth merchant was the most noble shop Ivy had seen since her arrival. It was tidy, flooded with light through several windows and the varieties of cloth very plenty. Far more than Ivy had expected. The merchant, a short chubby man in an expensive looking garb, was chatting with a woman Ivy had seen at the pottery every day. When she entered they measured her up with their eyes and took their chatter down a notch to whispering. In the middle of the room stood a huge table for cutting the cloth and underneath stood baskets with skeins of wool in all colours mother nature provides. The cloth bundles where neatly stacked on shelves. There was heavy woolen cloth for cloaks, light woolen cloth for tunics, bleached linen, colored linen, coarse linen, fine linen, linen with different-coloured stripes. Ivy looked at the plainest linen she could find more closely.
"Ah, ah, ah! No touching!" sounded a warning shout behind her. The merchant bore his eyes into her. Ivy retracted her hand and waited patiently for him to come over.
But he turned back to his other visitor first. "So, a pertica of this one. If I dare say so, Milady, it is far to plain for your beauty."
The woman in question giggled. "Lord, no. 't is not for my garb but for the maid. Again. She's a clumsy thing an' I cannot 'ave her walking 'bout in dirty rags in my shop."
"The pertica linen would be 10 Dinari."
The woman opened the pouch dangling on a string from her belt and fished out silver coins. Then she took the folded linen and left, but not before looking back at the chubby merchant with a not so subtle eye twinkle.
The man in question finally turned to Ivy and measured her up again, taking in the leather trousers and the baggy tunic. "And what would you want?" It didn't exactly sound friendly.
"A cut of this linen, Sir." she pointed to the plain off-white bale. It looked the same as the haughty woman from earlier had purchased.
"An how much would you need?" Being not familiar with the local length measures Ivy indicated with her hands what would be about half a meter. It would be enough to make a short chemise and a pair of shorts.
"A cubitus."
"How much is it?" Ivy inquired as the man hoisted the bale onto the table and took out a long and thin knife.
"4 Denari per cubitus." he said shortly.
Ivy swallowed. That would be more than half her pay and it didn't even include the needle and tread. "How many cubiti are one pertica?" she asked on a side note.
The merchant turned towards her, irritated by her lack of knowledge. "One pertica is two passi, one passus is two gradi, one gradus is two and a half pes. A cubitus is one and a half pes." Ivy did the math in her head and was just in time to stop the merchant's hand when he moved to cut the fabric.
"Wait. You charge me more than 26 Dinari per pertica?"
The merchant was taken aback by Ivy's unexpected skill in mental arithmetic.
"You charged her not half of this." Ivy indicated the door through which the other woman had left with the same cloth.
Having been caught in his trickery the merchant turned angry. "What are you talking, vagrant! Tellin' me how to do my business. Out with you!" He lifted the knife to indicate the door.
Well, no new linen cloth today. From this merchant probably never.
Ivy fled the shop and hurried over the market towards the tavern. What caught her eye on the way was a young man selling carved things. Spoons, bowls, rakes and combs among other things. Out of spite for not getting any cloth, Ivy spend money on a comb. It wasn't much but it hadn't ranked very high on her list. If she kept buying things, she would need a proper sachet soon. Or at least a pouch to keep the coins on her body and not in her bundle. She could make one by herself but she would need cloth for that. Cloth she would not get for a proper price.
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The bath Ivy took at the river was not very pleasant. The flowing water was cold despite the season and she started shivering quite fast after immersing herself completely. She soaped her hair twice and when she rinsed it it gave this satisfying squeaking noise which indicated all the grease was gone. After toweling herself up with the cloak she redressed and bundled up her belongings together the washed underwear. Yes, it was back to going commando in leather trousers. Better than going commando in a dress with air around her southern parts and a higher risk of exposure. She toweled her hair again and made her way back into town before the gates were closed for the night.
At the tavern her usual spot was taken and the occupants did not look very inviting. After a look around she spotted the girl from the rainy day encounter sitting with her mother and shoveling food into her mouth. It would be worth a try so Ivy sauntered over, carefully keeping out of reach of all patrons she passed by.
"May I sit here?" Ivy inquired and indicated to a place on the bench next to them. Opposite to them would have been more polite but Ivy was reluctant to turn her back to the tavern. She would rather sit with her back to the wall. When the woman looked up to her she looked shocked and did not answer. Ivy felt insecurity growing and started to excuse herself "If not then ..."
"No! No, please sit. We are almost done." the woman offered hurriedly.
Somewhat relieved Ivy took a seat.
"I will be up shortly." the woman added submissively and hurried her daughter to eat faster.
"Oh, I did not mean to chase you away. If I cause any inconvenience ..."
"No! 't is rather me who causes inconvenience."
"How so?" Ivy was a bit lost.
"Sittin with me might shine a bad light on you, Miss."
"Ivy." she introduced herself. "And what do you mean with 'bad light'?"
" 't is the trade I do. Folks might think you are ..." he stumbled a bit over her words and then narrowed her eyes at Ivy, who had come to the tavern alone and clad in men's clothes. "You are not offering ya service 'round here, are ya?"
"My service?" it took a few more moments until it began to dawn on Ivy. "Oh. Oh, no. I, uhm, this is not my business."
The woman next to her went pale and stumbled apology after apology for assuming such improper things and started to drag her daughter up.
"No, sit. I don't mind, really." It's not as if her reputation in the keep could get any worse. Ivy turned to watch the girl. "I am glad she didn't catch a cold."
The woman sat back down and stared silently at Ivy. "'twas you in the smithy."
Ivy nodded. They started a little small talk during which Ivy had to assure Aisling she really did not mind her trade and that she was more comfortable in her presence than that of the impolite cloth merchant.
When suddenly Aisling's eyes shot up and towards the tavern entrance, she made to get up. She apologized again towards Ivy and said she had business to attend to. Ivy assured her she would spend her daughter company as she had planned on staying a little longer anyway. The summer nights were too well lit to go the the stable this early. Aisling sauntered over to the man who had recently entered the tavern, putting an exaggerated sway in her hips and ducking down a little to smile up to her would-be-patron. When she saw Aisling taking place in her customer's lap, Ivy stole glance at the girl next to her. She had finished her meal and was looking onwards to her mother. No doubt she knew where the money came from that paid for her food.
"Shall I tell you another story?"
Her shy eyes drifted towards Ivy and she nodded mutely. And so Ivy began to tell the story of Cinderella, soon to find herself surrounded by more children. And also one of the serving maids passed by the table suspiciously often and slowed down to hear more of the tale.
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When Tristan entered the tavern his first glance was towards the bench in the back. A group of woodworkers occupied it. A swift look around let him spot Ivy on another table to the right. She sat with one of the whores and her brood, chatting and eating soup. That woman didn't know what was good for her. She would find herself in the gutter rather sooner than later if she didn't care for her social intercourse. And sitting with who she was sitting with made her target not only for gossiping women. But that was not of his concern. He sauntered over to the knights' table and took his usual spot at the head. His attention was diverted by his brothers and only when his goblet stood empty on the table longer than usual and his brothers shouts for ale got louder he looked around the tavern to discern where their serving girl was held up. He spotted her at Ivy's table which was surprisingly crowded by children. The maid stood close by, pitcher in hand, and listened to what Ivy seemed to tell. The children's eyes were fixed on her and they all were unusually quiet.
"Vanora! What's goin' on over there?!" Galahad inquired when the red head neared their table. He had spotted the ale supply problem and the cause as well.
Vanora looked over to the table and smirked. "The girl 's tellin a tale and keepin the brood off my back for once." An accusing glare was sent in Bors direction. "I'll send Cida on her way." She turned back towards the bar and exchanged words with the held up bar maid underway. When said maid finally arrived at their table she hurried to refill all mugs. Lancelot grabbed onto her before she could turn away. "Let up!" she squealed. She wasn't frightened, just impatient with the dark knight's well known antics.
"No need to hurry, Cida." he charmed, but before he could say anything more she had wiggled out of his grasp.
"Let me on my way or I'll miss the end!" And with that she hurried back to Ivy's table, leaving behind a baffled Lancelot.
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When the night grew late and the rows of knights thinned out Tristan saw her get up. It was about time, he needed to get into his bed for he had the morning patrol. She glanced around carefully and slipped towards the entrance as inconspicuous as she could. On her last look around she caught his eye and held his stare for a few moments. She obviously didn't mind him knowing that she left. Both of them knew where she was headed anyway.
He entered the stable not long after that. There was a short urge to check if she was up in that hayloft or not but he ignored it and left through the back door into the knights barracks.
Author's note
Dear readers, thank you for the reviews, the favouriting, the alarm settings and the klicks in general. It is really motivating. I am currently on a writing spree. I have to drive 3 hours by car each day the same route and the ideas just keep coming during that time. However, I still have to write them down afterwards and that is where the time problem lies.
One of the guest reviewers (thank you for your elaborate review) pointed out that he/she stumbled upon some mistakes in the story. I do not know it it was grammar, spelling, improper wording, plot inconsistencies or historical incorrectness. I proofread my chapters after not looking at them for several days and catch some errors that way, but I have no beta reader yet. I also do not invest overly much time in researching historic facts. I looked up Roman money, living costs and length measurements for this chapter but this is as far as it goes. Everything else is from documentaries I saw somewhen in the past. The same goes for other facts (To Guest: No, I never did a course on metal work but I saw dozens of documentaries about how they make Japanese swords, ornate fences, super sharp kitchen knives, scythes, ...). Please, all of you, point me to errors if you see them. I can only improve if I know of my mistakes. You might not have noticed but I already changed minor things in the first chapters. It does not affect the content but it still improves the story for new readers and those of you who feel the need to read it from the beginning again.