Hey! I've been away for a while hence the delay to approve reviews (which I have to do when it is posted by guests). My apologies to Koba who has been super nice and rewrote it. Thank you for sharing your mind, I like it when readers highlight things that I sometimes fail to notice while I write. It gives me another lecture on my work. Thank you as well to my other reviewers, and the people who favourite! You make my day!
The temperature dropped dramatically this very night, and Frances shivered wildly despite the elvish cloak and the heavy blanket. Huddled on herself, she felt every bit like a tiny child lost in the freezing mountains. Contrary to most men, she didn't have much body mass to counter the icy wind. If only Legolas had been here, he'd have surrounded her with his endless warmth, and cuddled her in the safety of his arms! By morning, Frances was quite exhausted but ready to spring into action. If only courage could give a little blood flowing into her legs, she'd be grateful. Few words were exchanged; she gathered that night had been difficult to all. Nodding to the knights that caught her gaze, she watched the flurry of silent activity that awakened the camp. Tristan was nowhere in sight, probably scouting already. That man never slept. He never let his guard down as well, the toll of being the one in charge of their safety.
Breakfast consisted of dried meat, cheese and fruits, but a steaming pot of tea was heated on the embers. Frances had never been more grateful for a bowl of boiling herbs, and when Dagonet handed it to her, she graced him with such a genuine smile that he seemed taken aback. Not even the bitter taste could dampen her spirits as she let her frozen hands absorb the heat of the wooden recipient, the skin of her cheeks relishing in the steam.
Once her hands were restored to their former functionality, Frances unleashed her hair, brushed it, and braided it anew, putting pins on the side to restrict it. Many eyes roamed over the waterfall of fire as she tugged it securely, their length not unusual for a noble woman, but their colour sticking out harshly in the pale forest. There was some sort of reverence around the fire as she prepared, she dismissed it on curiosity; after all, the knights had been huddled together for fifteen years, and probably seldom made camp with a single woman. One that didn't prepare in her tent, that is. Washing could wait another day, Frances settled for passing a damp cloth over her face. Catching Gawain's eye, she retrieved his mended tunic and held it out for him.
— "There, I've done what I could to salvage your garment, and tried to reinforce the cloth here and there."
The knight bowed his head, his blue eyes checking the stitches with satisfaction. Then he surprised her as he shed his outer tunic and, bundling his shift at the base, removed it altogether. Frances blinked; Gawain grinned at her, shirtless in the freezing air. To say that his chest was any woman's dream was the understatement of the year. A few blond locks marred his muscular frame, subdued enough to be unnoticeable, and his shoulders were broad enough to have the tavern wenches sigh. But Frances remained stoic; none other than Legolas would make her blush, for even if Gawain was the epitome of a good-looking man, he didn't make her heart beat faster. Seeing no rouge to the lady's cheeks, the knight took his time, his fingers deftly pulling at the seams she'd added the night before as he feigned to test them.
— "You are a skilled seamstress", he said, face straight.
The young woman snorted. Sure, she could sew properly, but her rigour left to be desired. Never could she compete with a professional. The smile Gawain sent her, though, was mischievous. A suspicion rose into her mind as she sent him a hypocrite smile.
— "If you aim at embarassing me, you might as well parade around in your birthday suit. If you aim at impressing me, I beg you to confer to my previous comment."
Gawain blinked, then pulled the shirt over his head as hearty laughter rose from the circle of knights. Galahad openly scoffed at his brother in arms, while Lancelot smirked at the young woman.
— "So you don't blush like a maiden in front of a shirtless man ? How many men have you bedded, lady Frances ?"
— "Lancelot !"
Arthur's admonishment didn't wipe the smirk out of Lancelot's face, but it gave enough time to Frances to recover from the chock of his crude statement. Especially since the answer was… one.
— "That, sir knight, it none of your business. But my knowledge of the male anatomy has nothing to do with it. I have brothers, remember ? Plenty of them"
Bors, who was scarfing down a piece of cheese hard as rock, didn't bother to swallow before he asked:
— "I got seven boys!"
— "Well, congratulations. And it was the exact same amount. Two brothers of mine, that look so alike even if they were born ten years apart. And five boys at the neigbours. I grew up with them, so I had to hold my ground"
Lancelot chuckled once more.
— "This explains a lot", he said, his dark eyes gleaming with something unknown.
Frances frowned and scolded him.
— "Hush, you. Anyway, one of the neighbors built my first bow out of a hazelnut tree."
Galahad brightened at that, his clear greenish eyes sparkling.
— "Ow, this is great wood to work with. Supple, but strong. It is prefect to learn with"
— "And hazelnuts, mmmm", added Gawain, munching on a hard piece of dried meat. "Probably better than this dead piece of whatever"
This time, Frances laughed openly. Needless to say that she shared his opinion heartily. Dried meat for breakfast was rather disgusting but hey, beggars can't be choosers.
— "Yeah. And it is a great tree to have. When you're not at war with the squirrels… anyway. I might have nicked one of their hen's ass with it when I was young, it went away screaming bloody murder"
Galahad couldn't help but tease her; he had no idea whatsoever about her skills with a bow, and still had trouble getting past the fragile female image.
— "Then your aim was very wrong"
— "No, my arrow was plain. Just training"
Laughter rose once more around the remaining embers, and Frances could only be grateful for the easy banter. Even in a desperate situation, those men were able to see the brighter side of life. Gawain, nonplussed by her previous comment, rose to his feet. Before he walked away, he caught Frances's gaze and bowed his head.
— "I thank you heartily, for this. And for my life."
Her eyebrows crunched together in confusion.
— "I hardly think my stitching saved your life," she jested.
The blond knight sent her a puzzled look, and it was Galahad that voiced his question aloud.
— "Do you not know?"
Frances's expression turned cheeky. Either the knights were toying with her, either they would tell her what this was about. But she would not enter the game.
— "Apparently not"
Gawain took his time, folding his discarded tunic into his pack, and marching up to her. Frances had to lift her yes to meet his blue ones; even if he was not the tallest of the company, Gawain still dwarfed her with his frame. His shoulders, in particular, were twice as wide as hers.
— "One of the woads you killed in battle was going to take a swing at my back. As such, you saved my life. And for this, I thank you."
The young woman scrunched her nose, trying to recall the "battle of the Bishop", as she called it, to find out which moment she'd "saved" him. Try as she might, she couldn't remember anything in the maze of her brain; she'd been in full battle mode, and quite unable to keep an eye on the others. Eventually, she shrugged.
— "I'm sure Galahad or Tristan would have dispatched him in time."
— "I couldn't," came the youngest knights' voice. "I was too far away."
All eyes were fixed on her, and Frances felt uneasy. She was unsure about what they expected from her. Gushing? Humility? A hug? A part of her was happy that she'd been useful, another quite baffled by the feat. She'd saved a knight's life. Neat. But her reason refused to accept it; she was sure he'd come unharmed, one way or another. And thus, the whole discussion was pointless. Rolling her blanket and tying it securely to Galahad's horse, Frances answered steadily.
— "Well. All right. You've watched my back, I've watched yours. No use dwelling on the past."
A wide scoff escaped Bors and even Dagonet's lips quirked up. Right before they mounted, though, Frances found herself face to face with Arthur. It was like facing a stone wall in shining armour. Tall, handsome, a strong jaw – too strong for her taste – yet gentle eyes. That man had more charisma than most Hollywood actors, his presence overwhelming. Dumbfounded by her reaction, Frances realised she'd never been so close to him. His deep voice startled her with grateful words.
— "I too, have meant to thank you for your watchful protection of my knights."
— "You are very welcome, commander."
She'd love to add more, but kept the rest to herself. His green eyes searched hers for a scant moment that, in her mind, bordered on eternity. Understanding passing over them like clouds in the sky on a windy day. Even if he delved less deep than Tristan, she couldn't repress the shudder than rocked her slight frame. Where the scout could search for your darkest secrets and desires, Arthur's gaze bordered on evaluation. She felt … graded by the highest authority possible. A King's. No pressure. At last, he bowed his head to hers, and turned to address his knights.
— "We move out"
Straight and to the point; definitely a good authority figure. A few hours separated them from their destination, and Tristan would join them on the way. The wind slowly died before noon, and Frances sighed in relief behind Galahad. For all her bravado in cold weather, she really had trouble handling the icy gusts that played with her hair and froze her very bones. Half a day, and her braid was half-ruined already. Crazy strands framed her face by now, not enough to impair her vision, but enough to piss her off. How could Tristan fight with such a mane, she'd never know! Let alone Gawain ! Maybe it was high time she adopted Legolas's warrior braids on top of her ears, she'd probably have less trouble keeping it in check.
At last, the company escaped the woods and their overhanging gloom, and Arthur pushed them to a gallop. Less than an hour or so later, their pace lessened to a walk, for here, at the feet of steeper mountains, stood a Roman villa. Its pillars of white stone felt ridiculous in such a setting; the overhanging forests intend on swallowing its light. The building's structure was quite standard… for a roman house; a square design with open-air corridors and an atrium. Where they stupid enough to have a pool in the middle of their grand estate? Had those Romans ever heard of British climate, or adaptation? As they neared the huge wall of the property, peasants approached them, their faces haunted, their bodies lean and sickly. A distrustful gleam shone in their eyes, the women retreating to the back with their children, the men coming forth in an attempt to protect them, an attempt they knew would fail. Whatever happened on this estate was brutal enough to make those people despair.
The view of this proud Roman villa surrounded by misery was altogether surrealistic and preposterous, and Frances snorted. Dagonet did not react, but Bors sent her an inquisitive look. Checking that Arthur was up front, the young lady voiced her disdain.
— "Look at this. They probably had people dragging limestone all the way from Dover, built a house which design is especially adapted to scorching heat, and in a moment, they will appear clad in togas and freezing their arses in the cold while their people starve to death."
At the very same moment, the doors opened, and a short man dressed with a toga welcomed them with a forced smile. Bors repressed a chuckle at the irony of the situation while Frances eyed the man warily. She disliked him instantly, be it because of the false smile on his face, or the fact that he was an arrogant Roman. Perhaps her resentment towards Rome extended to everything that bore a toga, yet, the uneasy feeling did not seem to concern Alecto, the young man – boy! – peeking from the top of the rampart, or his wife clad in a bluish muslin. The sneer on Frances' face, though, must have been too obvious for Marius' dull eyes landed on her with contempt. Yet, he said nothing, choosing to address Arthur instead.
A flow of Latin passed his lips, the conversation none too cheery as Lancelot informed him of the Saxon army marching forth. The first knight's words brooked no argument, held nor diplomacy nor compassion, and Marius reacted at once, draping himself in his dignity, or lack thereof. His refusal to leave sparked Arthur's anger, and Frances couldn't help but marvel at his authority as he pointed his sword to his throat, stating that he'd drag him back all the way to the wall to see his knights free. Such loyalty to his men moved her deeply. Frances was too far behind the commander to see his eyes, but she imagined them shining with rightful wrath. Marius cowered back, and ordered his wife to get some provisions for the knights as he stood his ground. Stupid Roman!
— "Get back to work, all of you," he yelled to the assembly of peasants whose eyes didn't leave the company.
When the guards started punching in the crowd, Frances's heart lurched and she dismounted instantly.
— "Stop!" she yelled. "Stop this at once!"
Her blade was unsheated in the blink of an eye, her voice strong, startling the guards who had dismissed her for a sidekick. Now, standing tall in her rightful fury, her sword raised and red braid bouncing down her back, she called all to attention. Authority she had aplenty, even if she scarcely used it. It took a lot for Frances to unleash her wrath, but the violence she'd just witnessed was enough for her to lash out. The guards sneered, and drew their ridiculous gladiuses, forgetting the peasants they had mistreated and that peeked behind their backs to the confrontation.
— "Want to fight, little girl?"
— "Come, I'll teach you" she ground out.
Bors laughed out loud, jumping from his saddle to back her up. At once, bows and arrows were drawn, swords readied amongst the Sarmatian knights, their actions sending a wave of gratefulness through Frances' heart; they were protecting her.
— "She will not fight alone," came Lancelot's deadly voice as he made a show to dismount, and, in a swift move, unsheathed both of his blade with a playful twirl.
Frances' eyebrow climbed her forehead; she then smirked at the dark-haired man. For all his flirting, she was honoured that Lancelot would so blatantly offer his support.
— "What right do you have to mistreat people so?" she asked confidently to the guards.
The Romans eyed each other, at loss. But it was Marius who answered, his voice threatening, his glare fixed upon her face.
— "I have every right as a master of this domain. And who are you to question me, a wench in breeches?"
Her blade rose instantly, tapping aside Lancelot's in the process to dismiss his intervention, and pointing to the Roman. Eyes narrowing to slits, she advanced on the diminutive man as her fellow knights contained the guards with a glare. An ancient quote from Gandalf - bollocking wormtongue - came to her mind as she smiled.
— "I have not passed through ice and death to bandy words with a heartless man, dominus. Master or not, those people are born free, you do not own them."
Her gaze then turned to Arthur, and she knew she had struck a chord. Her argument called to him, and he intervened from atop his horse.
— "The lady is our companion, and will be treated as such."
His voice rang true amongst the ranks, peasant and knights alike appreciating the power of Artorius Castus. Frances bowed her head to his in a show of gratitude, barely lowering her sword before her eye caught the man suspended in irons a few yards away.
— "Arthur," she said. "That man needs help"
The commander's blood boiled as he spotted the poor elder, bare-chested, several whipping wounds dripping on his back. What sort of hell had they transformed this village into? He'd not discovered half of it, and the rest sent his mind reeling. He'd stepped into a forsaken place. A place where the master abused his power and claimed that he was a messenger from the almighty, that disrespecting him was akin to disobeying to God?
Arthur looked into the expectant faces of the peasants, measuring the hardships they'd faced under Marius' rule. In the distance, Saxons drums echoed; in a few hours, they'd be overrun and put to death. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest. Was it his Christian mind yelling at him, or his empathy? If he decided to try and save this people, the freedom he yearned to earn for his knights might very well be forfeited. But if he left them behind, he'd live forever to regret it. Suddenly, he felt the need to rely on someone for support, someone who shared his views. In a few strides, he was towering over Frances, her features set in stone as she took in the destruction of those poor souls.
— "Frances," he said, leaning close to her hear.
The woman didn't move, only nodding in a very Tristan like manner.
— "Those people are going to die if we don't help," she whispered back.
No other words were necessary to make up his mind. Ordering Ganis, an intelligent and dynamic man, to organise wagons for the sickly and wounded, he asked Frances to supervise the escape of the others. Man and woman set up to work with incredible efficiency. The abashed stares of his knights bore holes into his back, a look he could not afford to face such was his shame. His decision might very well cost them their lives. They didn't deserve it. Nor his betrayal, nor their sacrifice. Yet he couldn't see a way out.
Tristan's return confirmed his worst fears. They were surrounded, their caravan left with one solution only, the path east to cross behind Saxon lines. A dire situation. The worst of them.
— "Arthur, who are those people?" he asked warily.
Tristan's question rubbed his guilt raw, the expressionless face of his scout turning to disbelief as he answered.
— "They're coming with us."
Behind them, Frances approached purposefully, her posture tense. The scout turned to her, as if sensing her presence before Arthur even acknowledged it. For an instant, they stared into each other's eyes, as if holding a silent conversation. And then, Tristan turned back to him, the sentence falling from his pursed lips, freezing Arthur's very heart and bones.
— "Then we'll never make it."
Frances took hold his wrist briefly, her eyes travelling from the scout to the commander.
— "Then so be it"
And her determination was a balm to his heart, and an encouragement to Tristan for he turned around without protest. Snow flakes graced landed haphazardly on his face as he lifted it to the sky in a silent prayer.
— "So be it," he repeated.
The cries of soldiers yelling at the peasants to get back to work called his attention, and his gaze caught a little stone structure that was being walled up. Exchanging a look with the intrigued scout, Arthur unsheathed his sword and dismounted. At once, the remaining knights closed in around him, still mounted. The certainly cut of an impressive figure, standing proud atop their horses, weapons at the ready. Enough to intimidate the two roman soldiers that had instigated the walling in the first place. Arthur had had enough, and was grateful for their unspoken support. A heated exchange started then, with the commander quite adamant to have his way, and a scraggy monk trying to prevent him from going further.
Frances stayed behind, watching the preparations as was her assignment for the moment. There was no time for lagging. But she couldn't help but steal a glance to the uneven stone structure. And when Arthur ordered Dagonet to unleash his wrath over it, she shuddered. Something evil loomed in there, she could feel it in her bones. Lancelot and Galahad voiced their concern, the urgency adamant in the youngest's voice.
— "Do you not hear the drums ?", he pleaded.
For sure, the steady beating was getting louder and louder, echoing in the valley like a herald of doom. Frances felt it too, the need to flee as if a predator was stalking her. The fear creeping up her spine, the restlessness in her limbs. But Arthur was a stubborn man, and he didn't even have to ask for Bors to block Marius's shrill cries. The bald man, if loud and unruly, was strangely attuned to Arthur's will. They all where, and Frances marveled at Dagonet's unbreakable faith when he dismounted to swing his axe at the partially blocked door.
From the corner of her eyes, Frances spotted Galahad and Tristan's horses, both fidgeting under the tension of their masters. Then Ganis came to her, asking about food arrangement and carts, and she was kept busy organising supplies, and whipping people's asses to make them ready. The urgency of the situation was conveyed with force as she lifted elders and settled them in the few carts available. Then, a whiff of horrible stench reached her and the young woman froze. Her eyes met Tristan's, who guarded the now open door atop his horse, sword drawn. He barely blinked at her before his attention returned to the roman soldiers. A relentless guardian of the underworld. No one would go past him and yet… the pitch-black void behind him left a sour taste in her mouth. Like a door to hell, that sucked all life and light. A black hole into the wall of Marius' estate. Frances tried to block the nauseating smell, adamant to dismiss the sickening sensation that slowly crept up her bones. The wind picked up, chasing away the slight scent of rot, decay and death that had assaulted her nose just a moment before, to replace it with icy flakes. Great, snow ! Anything but that stench.
Lancelot suddenly walked from the pit, a dark knight emerging from darkness itself. His features were shocked, his eyes numb. As if he had witnessed something so horrible that even his warrior's mind could not reconcile. Arthur burst forth a moment later with a bundle that resembled a woman, her fingers bent at horrible angles. His jaw was so tense that she feared it might crack. Next came Dagonet, a child cradled in his arms. A child ! With a mop of unruly blond locks, and a startled look on his chubby face. The remaining knights enclosed them once again in a protective circle as water was brought. Frances could not repress the urge to come closer, and she caught Tristan' eye once more as he sheathed his sword, seemingly unfazed.
— "She's a woad", he told Bors, his voice even.
Said woad was now choking on the little water Arthur was trying to give her. The Bishop's secretary – Hornthorn – watched the boy's arm gently, asking about his family. A gesture of kindness coming from the haughty man who seemed genuinely distressed. Dagonet only shook his head. Dead, or missing ? Frances' throat closed in as he eyes took in the sorry state of those two human beings. A woman, and a child. What kind of sick mind could probably justify this? Marius. Marius, who voiced his displeasure that two wretched souls had been rescued from this hell hole.
— "They're all pagans here!", he protested.
As if it justified torture and death. Frances felt her knees weaken and her stomach roll.
— "So are we", came Galahad's disgusted retort.
The young woman reached for the young knight, putting a hand upon his thigh – to soothe him as much as herself – before turning her startled gaze to Marius. The man had absolutely no sense of shame, for he tried to appeal to Arthur's Christianity. He seemed genuinely surprised that he reacted so badly, as if this madness was the more normal thing in the world. He was totally, absolutely, crazy. Completely nuts.
— "You are a roman. You understand. And you are a Christian"
And he suddenly turned to his wife as rage overtook him, landing such a slap that she stumbled backwards.
— "You ! You kept her alive !"
Frances jumped forward, her blood boiling. But Arthur beat her to it as he punched the man with all his might. The force of his blow sent the dominus sprawling on the ground, half-stunned. It was but a faint repayment of what she might have done. Torturing children ! Then the commander drew his sword, pointing it at Marius' throat and the rest of the world froze. Pure fury gleamed in his green orbs, something she had never seen before. The benevolent King, brought to desperation.
— "When we get to the wall you will be punished for this heresy", hissed Marius.
— "Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate"
But Arthur was not one to kill in cold blood. His wrath, though, was redirected to the priest who happened to barge in in this very moment.
— "I was willing to die with them", came his feeble voice. "Yes, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed. Only then can their souls be saved"
She saw Arthur's jaw tick, the exact moment when his anger overwhelmed his usually controlled persona. His voice chilled her to the bone, eyes gleaming with hatred.
— "Then I shall grant his wish. Wall them back up"
Tristan's protest – the voice of reason – fell on deaf ears and he turned his horse around. He was the scout, their own time keeper, and his comment should have warned Arthur that time was scarce. But the commander was too far gone to hear it. And for once, Frances couldn't possibly say that she agreed as the villagers dragged the monks back into their makeshift tomb. A little revenge for such gruesome deaths. It was an act of desperation and rage. They all knew it, but none of the knights dared facing Arthur's rightful anger. Hopefully, the delay wouldn't be of consequence, right ?
Frances mulled about it for days, knowing he would not be proud of in the future. But his sanity only hung by a thread at the moment. So did theirs.