Just for fun. No copyright infringement intended.
Hello everyone, good to be back. Sorry for keeping you in the dark for so long, but there has been quite a lot on my plate lately, also after returning from Mongolia, a trip that completely turned my life upside down.
Chapter 14 – Run.
Dagonet relates :
"It's from Lancelot," I said.
Arthur looked, once, at the scribblings on the letter he held. Then he sighed and shook his head, though in reality this was meant as a gesture of agreement.
There was only one man in Britain that wrote latin with such contempt.
Lancelot were the only one of the guys, apart from me, who could read, but he did hate writing, and did so only when circumstances forced him.
As they had now.
"I wonder why Polonius didn't do it," I mused, referring to the Roman officer in charge of the infantry and of Camlann, when Arthur was gone. Normally, we would have expected him to do any necessary corresponding.
"Because Polonius is at the infirmery," my captain tersely answered.
"...Oh."
"Yeah."
Gaheris spat a too-dry piece of bread on the floor. "Has anyone else landed their arse in there?" he asked, inquiring, we knew, to the wellbeing of this two brothers.
"I don't know," Arthur replied, and I saw the usual wooden quality finding its way to his jaw, as it always did when he was worried. Gaheris, upon this answer, momentarily mirrored him.
"Well, we better get moving then," he grunted. "Damn. Just when it was getting funny here."
And he and I watched, as Arthur sat silently, wheels of his mind grinding.
Then, as usual, he exploded into action. "Dagonet," he said to me, "do you know if Marcus Cunomorus is still here?"
"We might be able to catch him, he was going to leave around dawn to get a good start home."
"Good, then you'll have to ask him him to travel home swiftly, and when he gets there, to send back what I borrowed him." He furrowed his brow, then stuck Lancelot's scribbled note in my hand. "And show him this. He'll have to take that seriously," he added, throwing a sideways glance at the lap of paper. "There's splotches of blood on it. I'll get a message to Ambrosius myself. Gaheris, let's get going. You'll have to finish your breakfast on the road."
I cannot relate what Gaheris replied, though I assume it was something suitably disrespectful – even as I picture him scrambling to do what Arthur ordered, while our captain was scribbling an even more disorderly note to the governor of Britain.
But I was halfway down the road at that point, and somewhat grateful that at least it was still dark outside, and none of all the shouting and bustling people had arrived to their field of battle yet.
Which was more than we would be able to hope for, I thought darkly, when we reached the Wall.
Marcus was up and about, as old soldiers tend to be. He listened politely to my rather stumbling explanations, and while he seemed to take it much too lightly for my peace of mind, I had gradually come to understand that there wasn't any way one could tell for sure, whether the Cunomorus were really unconcerned, or just playing the game. I didn't like it, but I had to admire it. I suppose it is the way one survives the wiles of Rome. One wonders how they managed to build this empire while walking over each others bones. But then I am sure a simple barbarian like me would never understand the ways of civilised people.
As they like to call it.
He got hold of my arm when I was about to leave back.
"What does Ambrosius have to say about this?" he asked me.
"I cannot say, Sir," I answered. "Arthur was contacting him even as I was sent to you."
Marcus looked at the crumpled note, which I'd passed on to him. I could see his eyes focusing briefly on the red splotches on it. He seemed to ponder them, taking his time until the point of wracking my nerves, though I am assuming that I made a good job of hiding it. I put on my blank face.
"So, soldier, what is your assessment? Does Artorius need any reserves again?" he asked me.
I nearly gawked, but I held my ground, biding my time for a while, as he had, before answering.
"I... I should think they would come in handy," I dared, casting another look at Lancelot's note, my mind racing with images of our Sarmatian second-in-command, scolding and spitting and cursing Arthurs name, all the while probably working himself to the bone.
I was glad, at that moment, that Mordred and his mother had gone back to Avalon.
Presently, Marcus nodded, and made a 'mmm' sound, as if agreeing.
"I trust your assessment," said he, "and if all is for the worse, tell your captain he might count on the aid of Cornwall province." And with a final brief nod let me take my leave.
I trudged back to Arthur in a significantly slower pace than I had originally planned, pondering all the while this change in Marcus Cunomorus' allegiances, and what on earth we had done right to bring it about.
I ended up deciding it must be his friendship to the late Castus. It still didn't quite make sense though, because it had not stopped him from being contrary earlier on. The snares of his wife had aided us, true, but from there and until this point there still was a huge difference in his attitude.
He seemed genuinely concerned with the fate of the Sarmatian cavalry now. Like we were suddenly a personal investment of his. I couldn't figure it out.
I was still pondering, when we rode out of Londinium, the low morning sun searing in our eyes. Wondering what kind of news Tristran would bring. If he would get back in time for us to hear them.
/\/\/
It is early when the two riders mount in the courtyard of Tintagel castle. There are only those two – the token official messenger, who can be spared to be sent back to Cornwall, once he has delivered Marcus' letter to Lucius Artorius Castus.
And the scout to take him there.
It is when they ride out the gate that the woman seems to wake up. Grey eyes turning sharp, yet glossed over as if she sees both the world, and what is behind it.
The riders are following the road, as it winds its way across the moor and has to go around a steep rockface, jagging forth as a tooth through the heather, at the edge of the sea.
But for those on foot, there is a short cut over the slope of the moor. It runs through the heather and amongst the low juniperbushes.
The woman starts running. The sea is thundering.
If I reach the bend before the horse, he will return alive!
She falls and scrapes her knees. Gets up again. Like some half-crazed creature she stumbles across the sandy surface.
Run.
If I reach the bend...!
Breath a pain in her throat, heart feels like bursting.
Gown stuck on a twig of a shrub, she tears at it, face contorted with despair at being held back.
If I reach the bend before the horse, he will return alive!
Knives plunging into her side. She climbs over the rock, the intricate Roman braiding that Branwain made this morning fallen from her head.
Run, Run!
If i reach the bend... before the horse...!
The wind grabs hold of her mane as she reaches the top of the steep slope. Like a flag, the flowing copper unfolds, glistening in the sun as the wind whips it.
If I reach the bend before the horse... he will return alive!
She runs, tumbling. She has lost a shoe. The inner voice of a thousand women echoe hers at that moment.
If I reach the bend before the horse...he will return...
Roman women. British women. Saxon women, Irish, Sarmatian.
If I reach the bend...
She manages not to fall to the ground as she reaches the bend. Her cheeks are red, her breath labored. Automaticly, her hands reach up and stroke her hair, trying to make sense of the tangle.
And she straightens her back and listens, listens, anxiously, for the sound of the hooves.
A quiet smile spreads across her face in joy as she hears the approaching horse. She looks in the direction of the sound.
Round the bend Damh comes, on his old working horse, on his way to the market for the wool she ordered. The wool for the winterclothing.
He reins in the animal, astonished.
"Mistress Ysolde! What on earth are you doing out here?"
The woman looks at him and says nothing.
End note : I recommend/order everyone who has not done so, to watch the movie 'A Very Long Engagement', a fantastic movie. The scene therein, from which I was inspired, will make your heart beat like a drum unless you are dead.