A few days later, the wait was over. They left Badon Fort in predawn darkness in the wake of another caravan going North. The man they were watching had left with a small party of homebound trappers - a noisy party of tribesmen, boys, hunting dogs and a couple of shaggy ponies drawing carts. Fortunately the dogs did not pay attention to other travelers unless they strayed too close.
Dani's women friends had reported that the man had been enquiring about Arthur's knights and men at arms, which sounded promising. They followed half a day behind, using the same camping spots so as to mask their own tracks, fairly confident that the man would not leave the protection of the caravan until he knew his friends were close. Tracks were easy to pick up even though visibility was reduced in the misty drizzle that heralded early Spring. And every other season as well, thought Tristan, combing moisture from his beard.
When they stopped for noon meal, Tristan reflected that the fight had done some good. The younger knights had been studiously avoiding Dani, and none ever thought to ask him any questions. Only Arthur and Lancelot knew about the scouting mission to the North. Tristan often kept his missions to himself. Sometimes his life depended on it and, much as he trusted his brothers, he knew them to have a loose tongue when in their cups. Also, he reflected humorously, he did not want his plans to become common knowledge to the 'wench network' via the barmaids frequented by younger knights. There was no telling when such information reached unfriendly ears.
They kept a silent, watchful eye on the forest, the moment of near intimacy a few nights ago forgotten. This was Woad country and the knights seldom ventured North more than a few hours ride. Tristan relied on his hawk to raise alarm if she spotted anyone who could harm her master. He glanced at his brooding companion.
It was more than danger that made the woman withdrawn and extra vigilant. The ugly incident at the tavern that had left all the knights in a rather pensive mood, but for Dani, it had been painful as well. She felt keenly the break with the boyish knight who teased her often. No doubt they would be friends again but it would not be the same, and she grieved. Tristan sighed. He was glad that she and her companions were at least weathering the British winter well. Despite her origins in warmer climates, years spent in the Balkans had made her fairly cold hardy. Idly he wondered how she had ended up with the knights; she had never explained.
The caravan was easy enough to follow – there were few travelers this season, the carts made traveling slow and the ponies obligingly left piles of dung - and from time to time they would catch a glimpse of the men in the distance. The Celt apparently did not like the dried greasy meat the Picts dined on, and ate lowland food – barley bread and honey - so he was fairly easy to keep track of. The terrain gradually became hilly and rocky and the party moved off the old Roman road they were following onto a track headed to the East, towards the coast. Tristan was relieved. He was getting worried the caravan might pass through settlements he knew to be farther North. Thankfully there was enough cover among the evergreen trees to conceal them. At night they took turns watching and kept the fire banked low lest anyone should see. They ate sparingly and spoke little, all senses alert. The hawk sensed need for quiet and spent most of the time flying or resting overhead.
At dawn of the fourth day, thick fog rolled in seemingly from nowhere. They had been in the middle of breaking camp but there was nothing to do but wait out the fog, and hope their quarry had been caught as well. It was unnerving to wait in the suffocating blanket of white, wondering if the caravan was moving ahead or not, hoping that a party of better-acclimated Woads did not happen upon them. The horses whinnied nervously but quieted at their masters' touch. They were used to unfamiliar conditions. Dani petted her mare and spent time with her. Taking care of the horse soothed both rider and beast.
When finally the fog lifted, it was close to midday. They hurried ahead following the still-fresh track.
When the caravan came into sight, it was midday. The man they were tracking could no longer be seen among the tribesmen. Tristan was not given to cursing but he narrowed his eyes at this stroke of bad luck and waited patiently for the travelers to finish their meal, break camp and move on. Thankfully this was soon; the party was getting close to home and wanted to hurry to dinner. As soon as the caravan – men, boys and beasts – rounded a bend and went out of sight, the scouts hurried forward. They hobbled the horses lightly and spread out looking for the man's tracks. There – he had taken a small deer path, seemingly to nowhere.
Author's note:
The old Roman road they were following was Dere Street. It ran across the Wall near Cilurnum and went through the abandoned British province of Valentia all the way to the Antonine Wall.