It was Gawain's turn to babysit the young redhead, and he might have enjoyed it had they not been neck deep in one of the Woad-infested forest. Her presence behind him wasn't too bothersome, she held herself rather well on horseback, and tried to match the pace of his hips. Their horses carved a path into bushes that were way too lively for the season, but this blasted island never really cared for seasons after all. Of perhaps Merlin's magic willed those horrible plants to grow just to annoy the hell out of riders. Who knew?
Tristan was riding at the front with Arthur, but even the great scout – partial shaman, he talked to beasts after all – couldn't keep his horse from fidgeting. Thunder rumbled across the hills, the light had diminished so much that it felt like dusk, and the knights were nervous. The wind was picking up now, slightly warmer than usual, the promise of a thunderstorm hot on his trails. Yet, no enemy showed up on their path. As if on cue, Tristan's characteristic accent echoed among their ranks.
— "Woads, they are tracking us."
— "Where?" Arthur asked.
— "Everywhere"
Gawain felt the young lady tense behind him; her hand hovering above the bow stowed on the left side of his horse. His was already unfastened, awaiting for a good occasion to be used. What a pity that this lovely lady should die with them all on this blasted soil. For she was quite lovely, and cheeky as hell. Closer to Sarmatian ladies, so unlike those submissive Romans' wives. If he survived it all, he would be glad to find such a woman upon his return. For the moment, though, he doubted it. But still they progressed, Tristan's head lifted to the skies; he probably spotted the Woads even with the dim light. On Gawain's left, Galahad stayed close. It appeased him; should they die, they would have least do it together. Bond in life, linked in death, like blood brothers.
The wind made his hair fly, and several times, he felt Frances fidget behind him to slap it out of her face. The blond knight resisted the urge to chuckle to release the tension. Perhaps it would be best for her to ride with Dagonet when the wind was too strong; his hair wouldn't get in the way. The gentle giant, close on his heels, suddenly whispered.
— "Inish, devil ghosts"
Gawain nodded. They might as well be ghosts for all he cared, perhaps it was the reason why they didn't feel the cold so acutely, always parading half-naked in this forsaken land. But he knew as well how to make them bleed. No, not ghosts. They were definitely human. Humans that had taken the lives of fifteen men, cousins, brothers from his tribe and his people until there were only six of them left. And maybe none, before dusk fell upon the land.
But it was not to be. Little by little, hour after hour, they progressed into the woods led by Tristan's infallible sense of direction. Never had the scout faltered when it came to pick up a route, and they depended on him more than they should. Sometimes, his dark eyes left the treetops to concentrate on the woman riding behind him. Frances then turned to meet his gaze head on. Suspicion perhaps? Or interest? Gawain didn't know; he had never been good at reading the scout's mask. But contrary to Galahad, he didn't resent him for it. Tristan was a lonely, private man. The best swordsman of their group, as well as the best archer. Not the best rider, though, this title fell upon himself; a feat he was rather proud of. And, needless to say, that Tristan's skill with daggers sometimes rubbed him the wrong way. But he didn't judge him for it. Tristan had perfected the art of killing like a musician the art of playing and the Romans the art of conquering. It kept them alive; it was enough for Gawain to be thankful.
Here and there the horses fidgeted. Rain poured upon them, gathering in the tree tops before fat drops splashed their hair. For a while, there was only dampness and miserable puddles on the ground. Until the downpour thankfully stopped. The wind picked up, flapping at their heads as it changed direction. As it turned to the north, its icy gusts elicited a shiver from the young woman behind him. She had not said a word during this whole ordeal, but God knows her thighs must be cramped. Unless she was used to spending days in the saddle. Yet, she followed the mood like a seal followed the waves. If they remained silent, so did she. If hands flew to their weapons, she drew her sword. And when his horse relaxed slightly under their combined weight, her hips danced alongside his easily.
Frances was no burden, and he was the first surprised by it. But again, she had shown as much on her way to the wall five days prior. Once more, he wondered who she was. Young, but not so young. Betrothed to a man they knew nothing about, and roaming the land on her own to find him. Loyal, for sure, for she undertook this suicide mission for his sake, or so he thought. How she had convinced Arthur to let her tag along … he would have paid a few silver coins to be a mouse and witness this discussion. He had no doubt the lady could be stubborn, but his commander … well. Arthur was unmovable in his rightfulness. A true Roman – ordering people around – or was it his Briton side? A rock, as thick as the heavy boulders of this blasted country.
Still, the famous Artorius Castus had relented, allowing the peculiar woman to continue looking for her betrothed north of the wall, bestowing protection. Gawain found himself curious to know what kind of man he could be, the one that had stolen Frances' heart so mercilessly. He couldn't possibly imagine it was no man, nor that her reasons for coming were entirely different.
Gawain sighed, fed up with the dampness that plastered his long hair to his face. But when the inexistent sun descended behind the mountains, he couldn't care less. The promise of a break lifted his spirits enough for him to forget about the strange presence of the fiery woman. And none of them were dead … yet. Perhaps Bors was right, perhaps she would bring them luck.