ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY
By Allegra
Author's Note: I was tempted to hold this chapter back for a week or so in case my muse abandons me in the near future, but I felt too guilty! More very soon, I hope!
PART 10 : PARTING WORDS
By the time Galahad and Tristan made it back to where Bors and Dagonet had made camp for the night, their spirits were low. Instead of simplifying the situation with the release of even one of their comrades, there were now two injured and in potential danger. Galahad had remained silent for the duration of the journey and Tristan was beginning to grow concerned for him.
"You took your time!" Bors growled as the pair took their places beside the small fire. The rain had been good enough to hold back a downpour so far but the clouds were looking ominously full and watery.
Tristan declined to respond to that particular statement. There was so much to tell the others already without boring them with details of their long wait. "We managed to speak to Gawain. Lancelot is being held as collateral, well but in danger, Arthur has been shot in the shoulder and is missing. Gawain is being blackmailed to work for the Saxons. With his inside knowledge, we stand a better chance of thwarting these thieves."
Dagonet stabbed a piece of coney with his knife and brought it to his mouth. "Arthur must be our priority. With an injury he cannot have gone far. As soon as you have eaten, we should move out."
Tristan tore off a piece of meat for himself, noting that Galahad refrained from doing the same. The young man must have been terribly hungry; neither had eaten for many hours. It is true that they had experienced worse pangs in the past, but when the offer of food was in front of them, no one refused it. There would be time to offer Galahad words of encouragement. Now, they were in need of action. "Galahad and I will do that. You and Bors need to ride to the Wall for reinforcements."
"All the way up there and back! You've got to be joking!" roared Bors. "You go and we'll look for Arthur."
"You do not know the details of the story, my friend," Tristan continued, easily. "Besides, you have absolutely no skill at finding anyone or anything in those woods."
Dag laughed. "He would drive us round in circles until we dizzied the Saxons into submission! Bors, the point is well met. You would not recognise the signs of human life in the forests. Tristan has an uncanny awareness of each broken twig, footprint in the mud. You had better leave Arthur's rescue to him."
Bors grumbled to himself. He despised long rides without any action. Tristan knew this and added, "I have no knowledge of this region but you may have more luck pressing more local forces into assistance."
"It is a matter of how well recognised Arthur's feats are in these parts," Dagonet noted. "Consider it done, Tristan." He knew Bors would mutter and rage for the entire duration of the journey and Tristan needed a clear answer now.
The scout chewed slowly on the rich meat before continuing. "By the time you return, Gawain will hopefully have gained much insight into the Saxon plans. We will rescue Lancelot and find Arthur in time to lead the soldiers when you return." The reassurance was much needed and its promise read clearly on Dagonet and Bors' faces. Galahad, however, remained impassive.
Bors ate a large hunk of rabbit meat, packing it into his mouth like there would be no tomorrow. "Well, if you're going to make us ride our horses into the ground, we might as well get started, eh, Dag?" He shoved in another bladeful of meat before pushing himself to his feet and wandering away to check his horse. The annoyance in Bors' voice was only too tangible to Dagonet but he was well used to it and knew that the burly knight would be of great use in rallying support for their cause. He had a way of embarrassing men into service by his sheer manliness. They were reminded of what a man should be and how inadequate they were without a sword in their hands.
Dagonet finished his own meal and rolled up his pack. "Good luck. May the gods go with you."
"And with you," Tristan managed.
"Farewell, Galahad," Dagonet attempted to get some kind of response from his young friend.
The curly-haired knight's eyes, which had been transfixed on the fire, flickered and moved to rest on Dagonet's face. "Good luck, Dag." Dagonet heard the melancholy tone in his voice and exchanged a knowing look with Tristan, who nodded curtly. He would handle this with as much grace and sensitivity as befitted him.
Berys had sat with the Roman for hours now, the warm light of dusk bleeding into the rising shades of impending night. As expected, the fever had taken hold, digging fiery talons into pale, shivering flesh and causing tremors to course through the man's body. It was as well that his constitution was strong for it was fighting the poison that had already worked it's way into him. There were many who would not survive the heat and toxin, Berys knew. Peter and Ben had been busy for much of the afternoon with preparations for broths, poultices and compresses.
She wrung the cloth from cold water as she had done only moments ago, the fabric already hot from the Roman's feverish skin. She lifted one of his hands, heavy and limp in her own. It was rough and callused but the fingers were long with almond shaped nails, not the square, stumpy digits of her family and friends. Even the knuckle bones spoke something of nobility, of grace and decorum. One nail was blackened with bruising and the silver thread of a scar passed across his palm. Berys moved the cloth up and down the length of the man's arm, unconsciously noting the gentle slopes and grooves of toned muscle from shoulder to wrist.
Her eyes flitted to his face, angular but attractive still, even beneath the gathering sweat and bramble scrapes. His wavy, dark hair had seen better grooming but his cheeks were high and his nose straight. Although his lips were not large, they were full enough and parted to reveal good teeth beneath. Peter had been right to bring him in. It wrenched at the girl's heart to think of one such as this left out in the gloom for the finishing.
Somehow, it soothed Berys' mind to sit here and tend to this stranger. The silence gave her peace, the good deed quietened her restless conscience. It brought to mind the day she wandered too far from home and had found herself completely lost. She had not felt fear or concern for her frightened parents. The tug of the wilderness had lured her away from the noisy, smelly bustle of real life. It was like entering a dream. Nothing could hurt her or direct her. She was independent, free. That is how this moment appeared to her now, as a beautiful dream.
So rapt was she, that Berys failed to notice the Roman's eyes slide open, still bright and glazed with the throes of fever. She had been busying herself with preparing another cool cloth and when she looked back, those eyes stared back at her. They shone moss green and held no question or fear, no malice, just innocent curiosity. His pupils were large in the darkness of the room and they penetrated her. "Everything is well. You are safe. Go back to sleep."
Instinctively, Berys placed a placating hand on his forehead, smoothing back damp curls of hair. His eyes followed her movements, unwilling to surrender to sleep, before fluttering closed once more. "Rest," she heard herself whisper, more for her own benefit than his.
The candle flickered in a draught and went out but Berys did not have the energy to relight it. Gently resting her head on the side of the hard bed frame, she allowed her eyes to close and deep sleep to claim her.
The firelight was on the wane and Tristan prodded it gently into action with the tip of his sword, sending sparks flying up into the night sky. He had given Galahad his due time for brooding but that time must now end. As the youngest of the knights, he was often treated with more fatherly indulgence, even when he did not care for it. In response, Galahad was prone to behaving like the youngest, allowing others to carry the burden of full responsibility while he fell in line behind without question. If they were to find Arthur, the two men needed to work together, each pulling his own weight.
Never one for courting aggression, Tristan went in softly. "What are you thinking of?"
"Nothing," came the short reply.
"Well, you have eaten nothing since Dagonet and Bors left. In my experience, the only thing to turn a hungry man away from his food is a gloomy thought." Tristan surveyed the drawn face. "You might find a problem shared is a problem halved." Galahad looked up, his mouth contorted into an ugly sham of a smile, as if he could barely believe Tristan had actually said the words. But his words belied him and the scout continued. "Fine. I will tell you my thoughts. I am planning the best place to begin searching for Arthur, the herbs I will have to collect en route if he is badly injured. I am choosing where to tie the horses so they will not be stolen or discovered by Saxons. Then, my mind turns to Lancelot's release." Tristan paused, allowing his words to sink in. "Now, let me hazard a guess at yours." He turned his face to the air, as if letting Galahad's words waft over to him. "Hmmm, you are wallowing in the knowledge that you have left Gawain in the clutches of the Saxons and a belief that Arthur is most likely dead with Lancelot not far from the same fate. These are helpful thoughts indeed."
Galahad threw the twig he had been toying with into the fire, the irritation Tristan had hoped for rising visibly. "Is it so wrong to be concerned for my friend's safety?"
"Don't you think we are all concerned? Why else would we be planning so carefully? You must put aside your emotions, Galahad, just as you do on the battlefield. There will be time enough for mourning should that day come. Do not resign our comrades to a fate which has not yet befallen them."
As ever, Tristan's words rang true and Galahad felt it but it was still hard to swallow his pride and return to normal. As if in direct response to this, Tristan stood up. "I am going to see to the horses, then we should get some sleep. There is much to be done in the morrow."
Gawain was awakened to the same routine he had experienced the day before – two mute Saxons with a fresh cloth for him to bathe. They led him down to the river's edge where he savoured the sensation of fresh, icy water against his skin. Nonetheless, the consideration of the Saxons made Gawain uneasy. He knew better than to be lulled into a false sense of security, only to weaken his resolve and dull his mind to the true events unfolding here.
He allowed himself to be escorted back to his tent where he was faintly surprised to discover Unferth's daughter, Aedre, standing uncertainly beside his straw bed. Her fingers knotted and unknotted nervously in front of him but her smile twitched away from her lips as if she were standing before a deadly enemy. Gawain had bedded his fair share of women and knew well how to woo them gently and offered her a warm smile in response. "Mistress," he acknowledged. "To what do I owe this unexpected honour?"
"My father bid me come to you…" Aedre faltered, the tremor in her voice clearly audible to Gawain's ears. She was more than afraid, she was terrified. What had Unferth told her to strike such horror in one so young? And what was he thinking, sending his daughter unescorted into a man's private chambers, least of all a prisoner's? It made no sense and Gawain imagined this must be where the line between civilised behaviour and savagery must begin to be drawn. For, uncouth as they could be, all his fellow knights would know better than to allow a maiden to suffer such an indignity outside of a tavern.
Then it hit Gawain like a boulder and, where lust should have been, he felt only dismay. Surely Unferth was not offering a prisoner his daughter? To be bedded like a common wench? It made no sense. She was the daughter of a chief, a pretty young thing who would make a good match with a neighbouring tribe leader or some such arrangement. To defile her and degrade her so was beyond Gawain's comprehension and he found himself lost for words before her. "Aedre…" he began, his own voice sounding distant and alien.
Before he could find the vocabulary to continue, Aedre quickly added, "He bids me help you don your armour. You will have need of it today." Her green eyes blinked at him, looking like a deer surrounded by a pack of wolves.
Gawain could not disguise his heavy breath of relief and he closed his eyes in momentary thanks that the awkwardness of the moment had passed. Then, a low chuckle issued from his throat. How stupid could he be, to think Unferth would give up his daughter to a Sarmatian knight! Rather than appearing bemused, Aedre seemed to have taken in the whole situation clearly and cleared her throat quietly. "Here." She took a step forward, holding out Gawain's polished armour.
He had never seen it shine with such brilliance in the all the years he had owned it. The Sarmatian race had been noted for having beautiful armour, beyond the artistry of many armies. Gawain had been taken from his family too young to be endowed with such a gift and was left with whatever offering the Romans chose to give him. As a youth, the uniform had hung off his lean frame but he had been refused a smaller chest armour, known as the lorica segmentata. Now, he was grateful for that, since his body had filled out with heavy muscle over the years. "Thank you," Gawain replied, allowing her to settle the contoured metal over his chest. Aedre worked quietly, working the leather tabs through the buckles with delicate fingers. These were not the fingers of a girl accustomed to heavy work and Gawain could not help wondering what she was doing here, amidst a war party, the only woman as far as he could tell.
"If my lady would permit it, can I ask what you are doing here? In Britain, a woman alone?" He felt her fingers paused on a buckle as if she had expected this dressing session to have continued in silence. Gawain could feel the lightness of her breath on his neck.
The silence lingered between them for a moment, as if Aedre were weighing up how much information to tell this stranger. "My mother died a year ago, little more than a month before my father's campaign. It had always been his wish to bring me here and it was only my mother's resistance which prevented him."
"I would not think this the place for a young woman," Gawain noted, mentally adding that a woman would only get in the way during a campaign. "Why did he want you here?"
"To establish his bloodline here," Aedre's voice rose in surprise, as if he were a fool for not realising that. "He thought if he could conquer a region of this land, I would be wed to a man of status and he would maintain a hold in those parts when battle took him from there."
Gawain nodded. He would have offered some words of reassurance but there was nothing in Aedre's voice to show she was unhappy with this arrangement. If anything, there was a note of pride in her voice and Gawain found himself respecting it rather than pitying it. "You sound agreeable to such a pact."
"All women are wed for convenience, sir, but to be the first Saxon lady of Britain? That would be a landmark indeed. I would be honoured to be so remembered." Aedre moved to find the greaves she had so meticulously polished and greased. Gawain had never liked the feeling of plates next to his legs but he thought it better to keep silent.
Aedre knelt down in front of the strange man, keeping her head bowed to her work. She could feel her heart beating in double time and wondered how he could be having such an effect on her. Aedre had been in the company of attractive Saxon men on many occasions and had maintained her dignity and aloofness with ease. Yet, there was something in the intensity of this man, in his manly grace that caught her affection. He had a little of the Saxon about him, with long dark blonde hair hanging in tousled waves down his back and a few plaits peeking through. She had not looked at him long enough to see the true colour of his eyes but Aedre imagined they were light. All the long hours she had spent in cleaning his armour, her mind had been filled with thoughts of him alone. With every application of grease, she saw his face reflected there and heard his voice gentle in her ear.
Now, alone with him, kneeling at his feet in a mock gesture of supplication, Aedre felt a chaos of emotions. Excitement, that his attention was fixed on her alone. Fear, that she would be unable to hide that excitement from him. Pleasure, that he was in her grasp and that she was dressing him for battle as she had seen her mother do for her father on many an occasion. In a fantasy world she knew she would never know, this man could be her husband and she would be his loving wife, the Saxon princess and the chivalrous knight from childhood legend. What a picture they would paint!
Aedre raised her eyes to meet Gawain's and blushed as he stared down at her, his curiosity barely disguised. She smiled, this time almost unable to hold it in the realms of decorum. She fought a nervous giggle threatening to burst from her throat and gracefully lifted her skirt to stand. Gawain instinctively held out his hand to help her up. The skin felt coarse beneath her own but strong and dependable. She silently prayed this would not be the extent of their relationship.
Gawain was not oblivious to the tension between them and his discomfort was only growing. In his thirteen years of service to Rome, he had rarely been in the company of a true lady. Ironic that it should be in a Saxon warrior camp that he would be forced to cut his teeth on one as beautiful as this. Going against every instinct in his body, Gawain heard himself dismissing her. "Thank you. You have been of great service. I can finish this alone and would not wish to keep you any longer." He smiled, hoping it did not appear too wolfish.
Aedre's own smile faltered and her eyes locked with his for an endless moment. Then she bowed her head meekly, "As you wish. My father would speak with you when you are ready."
Gawain could see the hurt at his rejection in her eyes but was helpless to do anything about it. He could not tell her the truth, it would only make matters worse for them both. Besides, he would be a fool to believe the tension between them arose from anything more than the chasm of difference between their two worlds. What would she want from a Sarmatian knight such as he? He was nothing more than leverage for Unferth and Aedre was his daughter.
He noticed that Unferth had denied him the return of his sword and trademark axe. A sensible man. Straightening the empty scabbard on his belt, Gawain puffed out a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. In the darkness beneath his lids, he begged for the skill to keep himself and Lancelot alive to see another day. For whatever Unferth had planned, today it would come into effect.
Unferth sat alone in his tent, an early meal fit for a king set out before him. He knew some of his men would go without on account of his own lavish selection but so be it. If they could not survive without a morning meal, they were not man enough for his army. He stroked his beard with one finger, slate-like eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. He had much to think upon.
This knight was of great use to him and his cause. Unferth enjoyed the power he could wield over one such as Gawain, but there was something more. If he had understood the emotion, the Saxon might have identified a little fear in his heart. Gawain was no fool and his co-operation hung by a thread, by his care for the curly-haired knight, Lancelot. Unferth understood nothing of filial love. His life had held ambition, competition and glory since the day he was young enough to wield a wooden sword in combat. Despite having three brothers, Unferth had never known love for them. They were nothing more than wolves, waiting for their older sibling to set a foot wrong and tumble down to be trodden beneath their feet. Only in the form of a wife had he understood true love, the way it could wrench his heart from his chest, manipulate his every thought and make him a fool among men. Unferth hoped that a love such as this, even half as dilute, would drive Gawain to do his bidding.
The cold grey eyes narrowed as an image of two knights entering Gawain's tent came into mind. The blonde knight had taken him for a fool and Unferth did not suffer fools gladly. He would see that Gawain knew the price Lancelot paid for such audacity, and he would see to it before the sun set this day.
END OF PART 10