No money is being made from this; I only wanted to play in my own sandbox and invite the characters to join me. I own absolutely nothing that may seem familiar to you in this story, I only own Reagan and Ivy though difficult they may be.
Lots of thanks to the beta team! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys do a great job of editing! As I always like to say; I can't spell my way out of a paper bag, so the three of you rock!
I have no excuses why it's take me so long to finally post this. My life has been a mess, lets just leave it at that. Hopefully you can forgive me for the long wait… alright, I'll shut up now.
Everything that deceives may be said to enchant. Plato
Chapter 11
It had been a little over a week since the humiliating scene with Lancelot in their tent, and Reagan had been kept so busy she'd not really had time to think about it, much less dwell on her embarrassment.
They had continued on with the mission, the three knights and the small army of soldiers inspecting the villages that had reported attacks. Sometimes Reagan was required to stay behind; at others, she was ordered to accompany them.
She always shared a horse with Finn--Galahad's squire--and stayed out of Lancelot's way. What she saw on those long and toiling trips made her heart ache, and she felt true fear for the people who had inhabited the places they visited.
She had always heard of the devastation left after Saxon attacks, but now she had witnessed the aftermath with her own eyes and it was scary. Despite all of her gallant attempts to appear manly, Reagan had almost given herself away on her first excursion.
The acrid smell of burning flesh and wood had filled her nostrils as they approached a ravaged village. Finn noticed her obvious distress and looked slightly worried about her green expression.
It took all she had not to leap off the horse and start running in the opposite direction once they actually arrived at the village. Reagan could not believe the carnage and for a moment went completely numb.
Everyone dismounted and she stood there, aghast, turning in shocked circles. It could have been Waldenham--it wasn't, but it could have been. The devastation, this utter carelessness for human life rocked her to her core.
It wasn't until she spotted the burning remains of a church that she had begun to cry. Reagan only realized she was doing it when she felt the wetness on her cheeks and choked on the sob sticking in her throat.
"Stop crying, boy; your tears won't help the dead, and you're only making yourself look worse in front of the men." Lancelot's deep and dispassionate voice cut through her. She turned around, fiercely wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hands as his dark eyes, intense and burning, regarded her, anger clear in his expression.
"Don't make me regret taking you on this mission." Standing there with the sun glinting off of his battle armor, the smoldering village behind him, he was at that moment the image of the cold, ruthless, battle-hardened Knight of legend.
If she had expected compassion, she would have been disappointed. After his harsh and well-deserved reprimand, Lancelot turned away and said nothing more to her. Reagan suspected the knight was suppressing the urge to throttle her for her weakness.
Steeling herself against her emotions, Reagan watched as Lancelot dispatched the men with an efficiency borne of experience. She'd been put to work alongside Tristan, and he had been patient with her as she learned what to do in order to get the village and the dead bodies taken care of.
The scout watched her work and led her along when he felt she was about to a misstep. He seemed quiet and introspective while they worked, and for that Reagan was eternally thankful. She did not think she could stomach conversation at the moment
As she helped to bury one of the bodies, she began to fully comprehend what had happened. Feeling the bile rise in her throat and knowing she could not hold it back any longer, she had mere moments to jot behind the smoldering skeletal remains of a hut before losing her entire stomach contents in one go.
Praying that Lancelot would not notice her missing, she braced her hands on her knees and tried to steady herself. Tears once again blurred her vision and she wondered how she had arrived at such a place. Trying not to think about what had just taken place, she straightened up and turned around abruptly only to come face to chest with Tristan.
Silently he reached inside his tunic and handed her a worn, yet soft piece of cloth, motioning for her to take it. Reagan reached up and accepted his offering with gratitude, wiping at her eyes.
"You should not be here. This is no place for a woman, and why he refuses to see that is a question I cannot answer." His tone was jaded and perplexed and it was exactly as she felt at that moment.
Reagan nodded in agreement, surprised at the empathy Tristan was showing her when he had never given her that particular impression of character. He waved for her to follow and she did, clutching the cloth he'd given her as though it were a lifeline.
The village was beyond repair, and the small group of soldiers and knights all wore the same desolate expression, some hid it better than others, but as Galahad's clear grey gaze swept the place, Reagan thought he looked as visibly haunted as she felt. She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he passed and she realized that he had been watching her as well.
Mounting their horses, there was very little conversation on the way back to the camp. Finn seemed to share her appetite for silence. In the following days, the mood in the camp was more than bleak. Though not all of the villages they inspected were in such a terrible state, the memory of the first destroyed village lingered.
When they did come across a village or town that was whole, there were always still wounded that needed care . What the knights were unable to do, Ivy's talents came into play. Ivy always made sure that if she was not allowed to join the party on their inspections, then one of the squires carried healing herbs and poultices to be dispensed where they were needed.
Reagan and Finn were more than happy to be assigned such an honorable task. This had forced Lancelot to notice his squire's knack for identifying plants and helping with the sick, resulting in Reagan's assignment as Ivy's helper whenever possible. Reagan was to gather herbs and assist the healer in her tent when she felt overwhelmed. It was a good experience for the squire, as she learned how Ivy worked and it brought the two women closer together.
Thankfully, Reagan was never given tasks beyond her limited abilities in the healing tent, but she did know how to tie a bandage and her knowledge of medicinal herbs came in quite handy. Reagan was immensely glad when she could drop the charade and did not have to act like a boy in front of Ivy.
Those dire reflections led her to where she was currently, sitting on the bank of a murky stream, clutching Lancelot's torn tunic and wondering how it had all come to this while Ivy's idle, yet sweet humming filled her ears.
The one thing Reagan wasn't trying to do was lie to herself. She knew Lancelot was avoiding her like the plague, and for all of his charms and suave capability to handle a situation he wasn't being subtle about it.
She supposed mending was a last ditch effort to give her a benign task and yet keep her busy. Out of sight, out of mind, and, most importantly, out of his way. She'd completed every other task Lancelot had managed to give her without complaint, although Reagan was wholly aware that each one of the tasks included work that did not involve him in any way.
They no longer trained together: she was no longer required to write his missives, bring him his food, or help him with his battle armor. The only thing they did together was share a tent. And the only thing done in the tent was sleep.
As always, Reagan would go to sleep first, with Lancelot eventually following later in the evening. As she lay curled in her furs, pretending to sleep, she would sneakily watch him undress, the knight in complete ignorance of his nightly audience.
She did not feel guilty for admiring the way the silvery moonlight fell over his skin and turned his black hair to the color of smoke; she did not feel guilty for laying awake at night listening to his quiet snores and getting up to cover him over when he'd restlessly kick off the furs. He may not need her when he was awake, but he did need her when he was asleep.
She'd never known anyone to be plagued by such bad dreams as he was. Invulnerable awake, his nighttime defenselessness caused ever widening cracks to appear in his façade. He could pull the proverbial wool over everyone else's eyes, but not hers.
He may have spent the last week avoiding her, but at least it had given her time to come to grips with the fact that she had almost kissed her commander, and it seemed that if he had not been so shocked by her forwardness, he would have let her. No one else could have made her feel like such an ass, but if given another chance to relive the moment, Reagan knew would have done exactly the same thing.
Trying to push those pesky thoughts away, she tossed the black tunic aside and crawled to the edge of the stream. She leaned over, peering into the dark surface of the water as a wiggly reflection stared back at her.
I really do look like a boy, she thought, trying to smooth the difficult tendrils of hair that stuck out behind her ears. No wonder Lancelot looked so disgusted at her clumsy attempt to kiss him. Who in their right mind would want to kiss a skinny boy-girl who looked like she did?
"Whatever it is you're thinking, you're wrong." Ivy's voice interrupted her slow decent into self-pity, and Reagan pushed herself away from her disenchanting reflection.
"And how would you know what I'm thinking? All you ever think about is back at the camp training with his squire," she retorted before reaching for Lancelot's tunic and her thread once more. Ivy looked up from her mortar and pestle, the herbs she'd been crushing forgotten.
"As if you have any room to speak. You simper and sigh all day and mope about because he is trying to pretend you don't exist. A futile exercise in my opinion; trust me, he knows you exist," she replied loftily, and Reagan smiled at her matter-of-fact tone, watching as Ivy reached for more dried bog moss to crush. The faint light of the sun filtering through the canopy of trees above lit upon Ivy's brilliant red hair.
Once again Reagan had to force down feelings of resentment toward Ivy's looks. No one could be blamed for his or her looks, and Ivy was obviously not a vain person. Despite Regan's gentle prodding and burning curiosity, Ivy stubbornly refused to discuss her past, and as much as Reagan tried to get her to tell the story of her mysterious scar, Ivy refused to cooperate. Reagan respected her enough not to press the matter. In her own time, Reagan hoped that Ivy would trust her enough to open up to her.
"Well he has a funny way of showing it" Reagan grumbled, licking one end of the thread before pushing it through the eye of the needle. This was the last of the tunics she needed to mend. Luckily, sewing was something she was good enough at to where she didn't actually have to concentrate on it.
Reagan tried to satisfy herself with finally finishing the mundane task: how one man managed to rip so many tunics was beyond her. He should invest in ribbons or toggles or something that didn't pop off as easily and helped to prevent tearing. Thinking of the fortune he must pay the seamstresses back home for his mending, Reagan's eyes strayed from her sewing and lit upon a bundle of thick green thread Ivy had in her basket.
As she held the thread aloft, an idea came to mind, something that was sure to get his attention and make sure she never had to mend for Lancelot again. It was a win-win situation all the way around.
"Can I borrow this, Ivy?" she asked, trying to make the request sound innocent enough. "I promise to purchase some more for you when we return to the fort." Ivy reached for one of her empty herb satchels and poured the contents of her mortar into it.
"I've had that green thread for an eternity. Consider it a gift; there is no need to repay me." At those words, Reagan lit up like a candle and Ivy's face took on a look of suspicion.
"Why do I get the feeling you are not planning to sew yourself a new green tunic with it?" she asked, her tone suddenly weary.
"I just may do that, Ivy. Thank you so much for the thread," Reagan found herself replying, returning once more to her mending. She pushed and pulled the black thread through the tear on the shoulder. Her stitches were tight and neat, and she imagined that a wonderful spread of ivy leaves surrounding the back and creeping across the shoulders would look handsome on the fine black fabric.
Wouldn't Lancelot be surprised that she had gone the extra step to help ensure he had the finest mended and embellished tunic in the camp? A devious smile spread across her face and Reagan was completely unaware that Ivy had noticed her expression.
"Whatever it is you're thinking, I know he will not like it," the healer cautioned.
"Good, lets hope that he doesn't." Reagan replied with finality.
Reagan pulled viciously on the remains of the green thread, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction as the material snapped. She shook out the black tunic and admired her handiwork. Her embroidery skills needed a bit of fine-tuning but the end result was, in her opinion, resplendent.
The ivy vines added just the right amount of flair to an otherwise drab and poorly kept tunic. They crept across the back shoulders and down the front, ending with a crisscross pattern in the middle where a tiny green peacock joined the vines together.
It was perfect, and she hoped her message was loud and clear. Reagan wondered just how long it would take him to notice what she had done, but she folded the tunic carefully and placed it in the pile along with the others in the tent. The next time he requested she mend for him she'd do so and she'd do it with relish, just so long as she didn't run out of ideas and thread.
Wiping her hands on her breeches, she washed for supper and went to fetch Ivy from her tent to join her. Unfortunately, Ivy was preoccupied with a patient who had cut himself rather deeply. She waved Reagan away and told her she'd have to catch a late meal.
Facing the prospect of eating a meal alone wasn't appealing, so she decided to find a nice quiet place to sit and make the best of it. Forgoing the food line, she found a clear soft patch of forest floor and planted herself under a handsome elm. Leaning back against the trunk, she took stock of her position and surveyed the camp.
At that moment Lancelot decided to return from his hunt with Tristan, and she tried not to notice how his black and green hunting attire heightened his already good looks. Rotten, stupid, handsome noble, she thought bitterly. Folding her arms across her chest, she tried to concentrate on something anything other than her commander.
The task proved to be difficult. Just as her dire and dark thoughts were getting the better of her, a goblet of hot wine and a bowl of steaming white beans and oats were shoved under her nose. Blinking back her shock at the sudden appearance of food, she looked up into a familiar pair of sharp amber eyes and a fall of tangled, braided dark hair.
The scout had snuck up on her with nary a sound and was presenting her with supper. Odd, to say the least.
Reagan somewhat reluctantly accepted Tristan's offerings and he settled himself beside her on the ground arranging his own food. She watched as he pulled a small loaf of bread from inside his tunic.
The action made Reagan wonder what else he kept in there and exactly how many pockets the man had. Tristan broke the bread in half and tossed her a piece. Still reeling a bit from his sudden appearance, her reflexes were not sharp and the bread smacked her square in the nose before landing with a wet plop in her bowl of beans.
A strange scratchy sound came from her supper companion that sounded suspiciously like laughter, and Reagan tried her best to level him a dark glare. This did not faze Tristan in the least, and he motioned for her to eat as he began shoveling food in his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in days. Reagan decided to join him for the moment as the smell of the food finally roused her appetite.
She finished her bowl in no time and the bread, though soggy, was just as tasty. Tristan had long since finished his food and seemed to content himself with watching the camp, one of his legs bent at the kneeand a sharp looking dagger idly twirling about in his hand.
Reagan tried not to watch how the blade caught the firelight and she tried not to notice how deft he seemed to be when he handled it. Taking a reluctant sip of her wine she turned away.
"What does this man Rullus mean to you?" he asked quietly.
At the sound of Rullus' name, Reagan visibly flinched. Tristan's simple question was practically out of the blue, and it was a loaded one in a trend she was beginning to notice.
He was man of few words, but when he did speak it was with purpose, though his dinner conversation left little to be desired where Reagan was concerned. She took another drink, weighing her words carefully before she spoke them.
"He is the first son of the noble family that runs my village. They own the land and he stands to inherit when the earl dies," she answered, watching as he nodded, eyes distant as he picked at the remains of his bread.
She felt he was gearing up to ask her another loaded question: his expression gave nothing away, but her instinct was correct.
"Why the disguise?" She knew that one was coming though she didn't expect him to be quite so frank about it.
"Because he tried to make me his mistress. I was the one female in the village he could not have, and when he tried to take me by force I bashed his head in with a rock and ran." Tristan turned his head to look at her, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Good girl." Reagan couldn't help but feel a genuine smile form at the praise. It faded, though, as she felt she needed to tell him the entire reason.
"I tried to hide with the priests I worked for, but they could not harbor me. Rullus, bleeding and angry, publicly declared me a witch and soon Waldenham was rampant with greedy villagers seeking to hunt me down and tie me to a stake for coin."
Again he was silent, as though he was taking in her words from all angles. Reagan stuffed a wad of bread into her mouth, praying he wouldn't continue with this line of questioning. Given the events of the past week she did not think she could handle any more.
"You are no more a witch, than a boy," Tristan finally replied. Reagan felt glad to finally have someone completely on her side. She had been waiting to tell someone her story for weeks, and now that she had, she didn't feel the relief as she has suspected she would. Instead she just felt tired, complete bone-weary exhaustion. She was so sick of running, so sick of trying to keep her secrets secret.
They said no more to each other and she watched curiously as he wrapped the remains of his bread and a few choice pieces of meat from his stew in another cloth and tucked it away in his pocket. Reagan realized that Fionn, his hawk, would a have a treat later.
Reagan and Tristan sat in companionable silence, and she was relieved to feel safe in his presence for the first time in their acquaintance. Her eyes wandered about the camp, finally settling on Lancelot and Galahad talking adamantly and sharing their third flagon of wine that evening.
She could tell that they were discussing the days events and the villages to visit the next few days by the exaggerated hand gestures Galahad made and the scowl that continued crease Lancelot's brow.
Their voices carried across the glen, yet no one seemed to pay them much heed. Even in the heat of conversation, the firelight caressed the sharp angles and hollows of Lancelot's handsome features.
Feeling her breath catch in her throat, Reagan reached for her goblet of wine and forced her eyes in another direction. Just as she took a long pull of wine, Tristan decided to speak.
"You believe yourself to be in love with him, don't you?" She was so surprised by the blunt question she felt herself choke, the wine suddenly becoming thick and getting stuck in her throat. Gathering her wits, she tried her best to give the scout a withering look, which failed completely.
"You could do much better." He replied to her non-answer. She gave a little laugh and took another long drink of wine.
"Better than Lancelot?" she asked incredulously. The look he gave her was so full of heat and underlying meaning that Reagan felt herself blush a brilliant and embarrassing shade of red. Blinking at him, she tried to speak coherently.
"Do you mean…y-you?" Reagan didn't know if she should be flattered or frightened. Catching her look Tristan seemed to come back to himself and gathered his bowl and goblet.
Reagan didn't get a chance to reply to his implications, finding it difficult to form a proper argument on the spot. Sensing her unusual disquiet, he rubbed his nose, pushed a rogue braid out of his eyes and stood.
"I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me." His frankness helped to relieve Reagan from trying to form a rebuff. How exactly did one kindly refuse the advances of a lethal Sarmation scout?
Reagan looked at him before shaking her head at the abrupt and deft turn in conversation, and then she gave Tristan a shaky laugh and a wry smile.
"If it is any comfort to you, sir, I'm still afraid of you." At that, a full-fledged smile spread across his stark features. He nodded and began walking away, but there was still one burning question left unanswered and Reagan called him back.
"How did you know I was a girl?" she quietly asked. Even standing a few feet away from her, he had no trouble hearing her and did not hesitate to answer.
"Did you really think you were alone that night you decided to bathe in the forest?" Giving her an unholy grin that was completely out of character, he turned and walked away, leaving plenty of time for his explanation to sink in.
Refusing to admit to herself that Tristan had witnessed her naked in any form, Reagan shakily drained her goblet, suddenly exhausted. Returning her supper items to the cook, she picked her way through the camp toward the tent.
Once inside she washed as quickly and efficiently as she could without removing her clothes. The night was humid and Regan could not bear the thought of sleeping buried under furs with all of her clothes on. Sitting down roughly on her small bed, she pulled off her boots and her midnight blue tunic, hesitating only slightly before pulling off her breeches.
Sighing in relief, she stretched out slowly, reveling in the feel of being out of her boy's clothes and promptly falling asleep before she could even contemplate what kind of trouble she would be in if Lancelot were to witness her out of them.
Lancelot stumbled hazily into the tent later on that evening. He bumped into the small desk in the middle of the tent, banging his shin sharply. Frustrated with himself and the fact that he should not have partaken of that fourth flagon of wine with Galahad before turning in for the night, he sat down roughly on his bed.
All of the energy from the day draining out of him, he undressed without care, throwing his clothes about the tent with the knowledge that Reagan would take care of them in the morning like he always did. The boy kept the tent tidy and neat--almost too neat.
It was another strange thing his squire did. He could chalk that up to just another obvious flaw, and Lancelot was beginning to think that his squire was a lost cause. Stripped down to his breeches, he reached for the single candle still lit on the desk and went to extinguish the flame when something strange caught his attention.
The floor of the tent was in unusual disarray. Clothes were strewn about haphazardly and his clothes blended with Reagan's. That was odd; Reagan never slept unless he was fully dressed-yet another strange thing his squire did-but he was open minded enough to accept it.
His eyes followed the trail of clothing to his squire's bed and rested on something that should have seemed strange to him. Looking back on it, Lancelot would always remember that it was his first telltale sign that he'd been right all along about Reagan.
His squire slept like the dead, the black furs pulled up to his chin, making his pale skin look even more pale than usual. He stirred as the faint candlelight hit his face and instinctively turned away from it. Reagan pushed the coverings away from his body, the collar of his too-large shirt pushed down in the process and one pale round shoulder emerged as a result. Lancelot stared, becoming transfixed at the sight.
He blinked, rubbing a disgusted hand over his eyes. He'd not been that long without a woman that the mere sight of his squire's dainty shoulder was becoming appealing. Dainty shoulder? This was insane! He was sick, a sick, disturbed, obviously deprived man.
Blowing out the candle, he moved to lie down. There was nothing for it, Lancelot decided, he needed to make sure that when they returned to the kingdom he have a talk with Arthur and have Reagan dismissed as his squire. Even the mere thought of it gave him a certain amount of temporary relief.
Feeling as if he'd finally come to a conclusion to his problem, he rationalized that all of the apparent issues would be solved. He could go back to his regular routine sans squire, and Reagan could keep working in the stables with Jols. It was a win-win situation.
He closed his eyes and tried to content himself with the thought. It was difficult. The more he tried not to think about Reagan the more his squire occupied his thoughts. This was not the first night he had tried to drink away the memory of that disturbing afternoon of letter writing.
It was also not the first night where wine had no power to drown or suppress the desire he'd felt in those maddening seconds when Reagan's hand had reached up and touched his hair.
Groaning aloud, he toyed with the idea of going back outside and getting more wine. No, that would not help, and the more inebriated he became the less he trusted himself.
He would sleep and he would try to forget about the boy sleeping mere feet away from him and his exposed shoulder and what have you. When this bloody mission was over he was going to find the most beautiful tavern wenches the fort had to offer and remind himself that he did not fancy boys, that he'd never fancied boys and he wasn't going to very well start now.
Thinking of all of the delicious and wicked things he was going to do to said tavern wenches, he drifted off into a restless sleep. Never mind that all of the faces of the women in his mind resembled Reagan in one way or another. Never mind that, it wasn't important.
A/N: Chapter 12 is finished- Look for it this weekend as I still have to "fix" some things. Hopefully this chapter and the next was worth the loooong wait.
Thanks to everyone for reviewing the story so far and sending me kind words of encouragement while I was away, it means alot!
