Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story.
Author's Note: I apologize that these chapters are coming so fast. I promise that I'm going to do deal with the boys next chapter. This chapter, instead of focusing on the boys, instead became a snapshot of the homes the boys left behind at the fortress. Don't worry, we're picking up with the boys next chapter. Oh, and please let me know what you think. Reviews are what keeps me writing and also help me to see what you really want to see next.
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Who Wouldn't Want A Sarmatian?
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Homefront
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"Mama, One likes a boy," sing-songed Gilly, hands clasped behind his back as he smiled at his oldest sister.
"No, I don't," growled the newly named Kitra, lunging for her younger brother, only to brought to a halt by her mother raising her hand.
Vanora arched an eyebrow at her daughter. "Who is it?"
Kitra shook her head, her eyes mutinous and her jaw set.
Vanora sighed. Turning to her son, she narrowed her eyes at Gilly. "It's not nice to tell tales on your sister. Now go play, Gilly," she ordered. Her son gone from the kitchen, she turned back to her daughter. "And while you are fifteen and of marriageable age, it's for your father and I to decide if you can be courted," she chastised.
Kitra nodded, eyes fixed on the flagstone floor of the kitchen. "I know, Mama," she replied softly. "It's not like he even likes me," she added under her breath.
Vanora smiled, reaching out and touching her taller daughter's shoulder. "Soon it'll be spring. And if a young man that you like asks your papa for permission to court you, then I'll make him give his blessing. Agreed?"
Kitra nodded again.
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"You've changed, Nadège," observed Gueneviere, blocking a strike by the older woman.
Nadège grinned, then started to swing a quick series of hits at her queen. "Really? How so?" she asked conversationally, not hinting at the burn in her lungs and ache in her bones. With each block or connection, her smile widened. There was an advantage to private sparring lessons with Arthur's scout, she decided. Many advantages.
Gueneviere began her own attack, sword and dagger working in deadly concert. "Among other things," she replied, working hard to maintain a level tone with no hint of exhaustion, "you don't snap half as much as you used to. I think that our scout might have something to do with that?"
The two women broke apart, circling each other warily.
"And if I say yes?" came the cautious question from Nadège, blue eyes assessing her opponent's condition. After all, this was training, not an excuse for murdering her queen. Even if the queen had a nasty habit of being able to read Nadège as easily as the Sarmatian read half a dozen languages.
Gueneviere grinned, testing Nadège's defenses with her sword. "Then you are as human as the rest of us. It is a comforting thought."
Nadège chuckled. "It's comforting to know that I have a weakness?" An overhead chop by the queen was quickly blocked and diverted.
Gueneviere retreated a pace. "If your weakness is Tristan, it's not such a weakness, I think."
Nadège nodded. "Aye, I see your point."
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"Husband?" called Gueneviere, slowly pushing open the door to the chambers they shared.
Arthur looked up from the pile of scrolls he had been reading and signing, green eyes tinged red with exhaustion. "My queen," he murmured, motioning the scribe towards the door. The dark haired man waited until the scribe had shut the door behind him before rising and crossing to his wife. "How was your day?"
Gueneviere smiled, tugging her tunic over her head and dropping it on the floor, leaving her bare from the waist up. A garden of bruises in a variety of colors were beginning to color her shoulders, arms, and chest from the sparring she enjoyed. "Refreshing," she answered, slipping into her husband's arms.
Arthur wrinkled his nose, wrinkles crinkling the corners of his eyes. He bit his lip, holding his wife and trying not to laugh.
"I smell, don't I," she giggled.
Arthur loosed a guffaw as tears collected in his eyes. "I love you, my dear." Releasing his wife, he motioned to the bath before the fire with steam rising from the water. "I knew that you would want to refresh yourself before we meet with the bishop."
Gueneviere smiled up at her husband, batting her dark lashes. "You could join me?"
Arthur grinned, shaking is head. "Nay, my love. If I join you in that bath we would never leave these rooms."
Gueneviere turned towards the bath, her hips swaying in the tight breeches worn for sparring practice, her back bare and glowing alabaster in the filtered sunlight. "And that, husband, would be the idea."
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Brigid balanced the tray of food against her hip, rapping her knuckles against the heavy wood of the bishop's chamber. She wasn't sure why but every single serving girl in the fortress seemed terrified of the bishop. Personally she didn't care for the bishop and his machinations, but it was either deliver his food to his rooms or have him descend upon the tavern and scare off the Woads and Britons who filled Vanora's coffers. And none of the maids were willing to go to his rooms-though for what reason the healer could not fathom.
"Who is it?" came the cultured tones of the bishop.
Brigid frowned. "Your meal, sir!" she called, glaring down at the mutton, greens, and bread that she had set on the tray.
The door swung open and Brigid stepped through the doorway, a quick scan of the room telling her that Germanus was now returning to a table at the center of the room. "You can leave it, girl," he growled, turning his attention to the scrolls piled on the table.
Brigid nodded, setting out the plates and food without looking up at the bishop. If the Sarmatian girls knew that she had taken it upon herself to play servant, they would likely flay her alive. It was best if she got back to the tavern as quickly as she could. "Have a good evening," she advised, stepping back towards the door.
The bishop did not look up from his work.
Brigid slipped through the door and hurried towards the tavern, hopeful that no one would ask who had delivered the bishop's food.
