Chapter Eleven: Eight Days
Gawain looked down at the girl who was hastily pulling on her undershirt. Her jaw was still clenched against the agony, and as she tried to get her left arm through the sleeve, she let out a hiss of pain. Gawain hurriedly dropped to her side and helped her dress. She shuffled away from him, wary.
As quickly as he had dropped to the floor, he stood and took a step back, hands held out as a peace signal. He tore another hunk of bread from the loaf by his feet and sat down against the wall, chewing thoughtfully.
'Can I have some?' A small, cracked voice came from his left. Gawain immediately pushed the half-decimated loaf towards the voice, and it disappeared into the murky corner. The cell was silent for a few seconds, save for the sound of a Sarmation knight and a female prisoner chewing bread. Gawain looked around for the water, only to find it being thrust his way by a slender arm. He took it gratefully and swigged a few gulps.
He couldn't get the picture of the girl's back from his mind. She looked as though she had been flogged, but as though the whip was aimed purposefully to mark her skin indefinitely.
'Who gave you the scars?' The words burst from his lips before he had a chance to stop himself.
Avilon took a deep breath. Her head was dizzy, vision blurring. The pain sizzled and cracked like a fire in her belly. She felt urged to say something. But she couldn't. Letting this man in would be... disastrous. But suddenly, she opened her mouth.
'I'm not Irish...' Avilon said in a clear, un-accented voice. It was a struggle to speak like that. She had been speaking Irish for ten years, and the habit had grown to be the way she talked.
'Where are you from?' Gawain asked, intrigued and more than a little surprised.
'Sarmatia.' Avilon said bluntly. Her voice was stronger now. 'A very small village. We were travellers, but that year we stopped moving. The men decided we could prosper while staying still. There was a stream, and a forest, and big green fields. We were cold all through winter and most of the summer too...' Avilon trailed off, realising she had betrayed herself. Gawain laughed bitterly.
'I don't remember my home,' he said emotionlessly. 'I was eleven when they came. Tristan was one of the eldest. He was thirteen. It's different for him. I have now been in this life longer than the other. So much for home – it's not so clear in my memory.' Avilon quenched the feeling of recognition at Tristan's name. Why did he haunt her so? In her memories, but just out of reach, like she didn't wantto remember...
'Gawain,' Avilon swallowed the last of her bread loudly. 'I'm sorry about... about Gareth. I didn't know he was your brother... I'm truly sorry. Can you forgive me?' Gawain sucked in breath through his teeth. He had been here for ten minutes, and already he had forgotten his brother! Pull yourself together, Gawain!He reprimanded himself fiercely. She killed Gareth, your brother. She deserves to die now too!But in his heart and mind, he knew that wasn't true. He knew he had already forgiven the girl.
'I...' Gawain stumbled over the words, and then gave up, sighing. 'There is nothing to forgive,' he whispered. He heard the girl beside him breathe in sharply. Then, suddenly, like pouring water onto flagstones, Avilon started talking again.
'My brother was taken to be a knight when I was four. I don't remember him at all. Not even his name. He was nine when I was born, which would make him twenty-five now – but he died. Two years after he had gone, Roman soldiers came to the village and told us to come out of our huts. They burnt the whole village. They left their mark on me.' Avilon's hands trembled over her stomach, where Gawain knew to be burns. 'Mama put me on a horse and told me to never stop running. They killed everyone mercilessly. I watched from on the hill. A woman found me a few weeks later, half-starved, clinging to the horse, riding through the fields with no idea as to where I was going. She took me in and fed me. I was there for a week, maybe two. Then she sold me to Roman slave traders, who took us to Rome, and then to Ireland. They said we were to be a gift to one of Rome's most loyal subjects. I was seven when we reached the estate of the Roman. It took him half a year to realise I was even there, and from that minute on I barely left his side...' Avilon's voice broke off suddenly, cracking. She gulped back a sob, and stuffed more bread into her mouth.
Gawain couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. The tormented girl before him had just opened her soul and displayed to him every fragmented shard.
'Avilon... I...' Even in the dark, he could clearly see the girl's eyes blaze with fury.
'My name is notAvilon!' she spat.
Gawain was shocked at the amount of hatred and passion she could inject into her voice.
'Sorry,' he apologised, his hands again spread out before him in surrender.
'Don't be,' the girl said wearily. 'I don't know what my name is anyway, so there is nothing else you can call me.' Her head jerked up as the sound of quick footsteps echoed around the cell. Dagonet, followed closely by Arthur and Bors, burst through the entrance and crossed the cell to Avilon's side.
'We're taking you upstairs. You need to get out of here. I'm going to pick you up now,' Dagonet explained calmly. Gawain jumped to his feet, ready to help Dagonet lift her, but the larger knight was already halfway out of the cell, Avilon's body in his arm. Something silver dropped from Avilon's limp hand and fell to the floor, making a small tinkling sound. Neither Arthur nor Bors noticed it, having already left the cell. Gawain bent down, his hair falling over his face, and picked up the object. It was a silver chain, with a hawk pendant hanging from the fine strand. Something about it clicked in the back of Gawain's mind. The necklace's familiarity startled him. He had never seen anything like it in his life. Strange,he thought, tucking the necklace into his waistcoat pocket. Gawain looked around, somewhat surprised to see the cell empty. He shook his head and hurried from the cell, leaving behind him some breadcrumbs, a pitcher of water and a once-blue tunic, simple objects so easily forgotten.
Dagonet kicked open the closest door in the hall and swept through it, laying Avilon carefully on the bed. Her fever had hitched, and in her daze, she barely recognised the man staring worriedly down at her. The knights talked between themselves, discussing something Avilon couldn't hear. The room was absurdly bright after the murkiness of her cell, light flooding in from a window opposite the door. A dark haired knight – Avilon couldn't remember his name – left the room, almost running. Dagonet stood beside her bed and stroked her forehead with cool hands.
'Please...' Avilon mumbled, feeling the world close up and darken around her. 'Help...?' She succumbed to the fever, collapsing lifelessly into the straw mattress, hand falling from Dagonet's.
The rest of the knights – Bors, Gawain and Arthur – left quietly, understanding that the giant healer needed space and quiet if he was going to save the feverish girl. Pushing her dark hair from her paled skin, Dagonet found new scars under her chin: crescent moons, jagged around the edges. Bite marks.
He placed cold, wet cloths on the girl's body, trying to cool her flaming skin. Looking down at her scarred, bruised body, his heart twisted in his chest.
'How can a human do this?' he asked the empty room.
There was no reply. He didn't expect one.
The eight days that Avilon was asleep for passed slowly for Tristan. He spent the days in the stables, with Maura, half-asleep and quiet. He still hadn't caught up those hours of sleep he had lost before the girl had tried to kill Arthur. Blinking as a sudden ray of sunlight tumbled noiselessly over his face, Tristan thought of the girl asleep in Dagonet's room. He had been there the day before, watching over her, something that Dagonet had warned Arthur about. Yea, Tristan knew that the healer didn't trust him around the girl. Because of the bruises and fractured ribs Tristan had given her that day. But even now, Tristan regretted it. So much. He wished he could turn back the time; stop himself from hurting the girl. But being beside her, it triggered something deep within him. Something forgotten, or something that Tristan wanted to forget...
Another bright shaft of sunlight, released by the clouds, made Tristan shut his eyes. Orange spots danced on the inside of his eyelids, the warmth and intensity of the light causing his lips to twitch in a half-smile.
Maura, lying on the straw beside him, snorted, bringing Tristan jumping to his feet as the sound shattered the quiet. Laughing at himself, Tristan sheathed his sword – instinctively drawn from its scabbard – and leant his back against the sun-warmed wood of the stall.
It had been a week and a day since the assassination attempt, and the girl still hadn't awoken. Tristan knew her name: Avilon. But it didn't suit her, didn't feel right with him. She shouldn't be called that. Her name should be short, guttural, but with a prettiness... Tristan found himself stupidly thinking of suitable names for the girl: Aine, Morag, Yella.
Suddenly realising what he was doing, he opened his eyes quickly and looked round to see if anyone had been watching his momentary lapse in judgment. The stables were empty but for Tristan's brothers' horses.
Arthur's horse Denali was quietly eating, alongside Cordelia, Lancelot's fiery mare, whose shiny black flanks desperately needed brushing. Gawain's brown stallion, Arican, and Bors' massive, dark-brown male Raoul were nudging each other aside to get to the feed-bags nailed to the stall posts. Raoul was, quite inevitably, winning, his mouth full of feed, yet still pushing Arican away. Galahad's small black male, Felton, was very quiet, asleep standing in his stall. Felton had always been detached from the other horses, never joining in whenever they were released into the pastures, always letting the other horses eat first, standing back. Tristan admitted to hating Felton – the horse really infuriated him with his timid nature. Tristan turned to the last stall: Dagonet's beautiful, dark-grey female was very alert, blinking her long lashes against the sunlight and Tristan's permanently dark glare. She was very aptly named Nikalay, meaning 'hidden danger.' Nikalay was very docile, but if you aggravated her, she could get very angry. Tristan thought her and Dagonet were very alike – they both had a dangerous side, which they could hide very well.
Tristan decided it was time he got out of the stables – he badly needed to wash, and it would be his turn to watch over the girl in a few hours. He decided to go out of the fort and into the forest; there was a large lake about twenty minutes ride into the forest. Tristan stood and saddled Maura. Her ears pricked up and she nibbled the sleeve of his leather tunic as he fastened her reins, anticipating and impatient. He stroked her neck with his dirty fingers, and sighed at the smooth feel of her coat on his hands.
'Let's go,' Tristan whispered. He pulled on her reins and she followed dutifully, hooves tapping on the stone floor. As they left the shadow of the stables behind, blinking in the sun, Tristan mounted Maura and urged her onwards. She set off at a walking place, allowing herself to be directed through the streets of the fort and past Vanora's tavern.
Three of Bors' children were screaming joyfully as two of Arthur's greyhounds – just puppies – snapped playfully at each other. As Tristan grew closer and then further away as he passed the open square, he recognised the children as Six, Two and Three. Two, the eldest one there, was nine, with dark red hair and blue eyes. His twin brother, Three, was his identical copy in every way, and it was very rare that they were separated. Six, at only four, was already a beauty, with long silver-blonde hair, pale skin and ice-blue eyes. Normally very quiet and detached from the others, Six was uncharacteristically involved in her brother's game of provoking the thin, yelping greyhounds. She had a smile that stretched from ear to ear, and it warmed Tristan to see her accepted and happy.
'Yea!' Tristan encouraged Maura on, digging in his heels, and she broke into a gallop. They stormed through the gate to the fort and away, following Hadrian's Wall until they broke off and entered the forest. It was beautiful, with the sun breaking through the canopy of trees, colours standing out and every leaf picked out in detail. Tristan slowed Maura to a walk and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply from the warm, tangy air. As they broke through into a clearing, Tristan opened his eyes and looked round. The clearing was circular, with the sun beating down and reflecting from the glass-like surface of a lake that near filled the otherwise empty stretch of tree-less forest. Tristan dismounted and tied Maura's reins to a nearby branch. Languorously undressing – there was no one else anywhere near – he dropped his leather tunic and dark grey undershirt in a pile next to the waters edge.
His sculpted, muscled chest exposed, Tristan looked around again, just to be sure there was no chance anyone was watching. He knew he was being rather stupid. There were no human tracks around the water or anywhere near, nothing to suggest humans even knew there was a lake here. There were barely any animal tracks either – no one used this water source fro washing or drinking. Well, except for Tristan.
Pulling off his boots and leather trousers, Tristan took one step into the cold water, watching the ripples around his ankles. Shivering, he took two more steps, then submerged his head, swimming further into the centre of the lake. Blissfully, he allowed his body to float, revelling in the cool sharpness of the water and the warm soft of the sunlight mingling on his skin.
After twenty minutes in the water, as his toes started to turn blue, Tristan decided it was time to dry off and head back to the fort. He dried himself on a large blanket from Maura's saddlebags, and dressed quickly. Untying Maura from the tree, he jumped into the saddle and they both galloped away from the lake. Tristan saw the wall even before they escaped the forest. It was huge, watching over everything... Tristan had been scared of it when he first came, now he was bored and full of hatred for the dark grey stones.
As they reached the wall, Tristan slowed Maura to a canter. She wanted to get back, but Tristan wanted to stay away. Who knew what would happen when he got back. God's truth, the girl might even be awake, he thought to himself, smiling slightly as he realised how stupidly naive and impossible that was. She had been asleep for a week. Why would she wake up now?
Tristan pushed Maura into a gallop as the fort came into view, and she near flew through the gate, causing the women collecting water from the large well to jump in fright. As he reached the stables, Tristan yanked on Maura's reins and she halted. Galahad was talking hurriedly to Jols just outside the stable doors, and as Tristan led Maura forward, he turned and gave a sigh of exasperation and relief.
'Where in the...? Where have you been?'
Tristan's eyebrows shot up at Galahad's obvious hurry.
'Just in the forest,' Tristan said calmly. Galahad grabbed his arm and pulled him away from Jols, who had taken Maura's reins and was leading her into the stables.
'Arthur needs you, urgently.' Galahad explained as they came nearer to the knight's quarters. 'The girl – she's awake.'