Hey to my faithful readers. There's a lot of singing happening, but you have to keep in mind that in those times, there was nor TV nor the internet. Hence the tales and singing that were used as distractions while travelling. The one featured here is from the fantastic Irish group "Róisín Dubh". It seemed fitting with the situation.

Please review if you enjoyed it. It feeds my muse! And let me know your thoughts as well

The wind had picked up anew, sending snowflakes swirling around on the icy ground. It was just a layer of white dust, not enough to create an immaculate blanket, but the moist rendered the path treacherous. Riding once more behind Galahad, Frances tried to spy on the conversation happening in the wagon beside her. The Pict woman and the boy were being treated by Dagonet and Fulcinia, the Domina, and she strongly hoped that both would survive after the hell they'd been through. Fever seemed to have claimed the little one, and the woman had two dislocated fingers. Frances was unsure how she'd fare, even if her knuckles were set back into place. There was no X-ray to make sure of the bones' placement, no antibiotics nor modern surgery. She hoped that Arthur knew what he was doing when he decided to replace them himself. It had surprised her somehow, that the commander would volunteer for such a task. She gathered that most men, included him, knew how to perform basic survival surgery.

— "Frances? FRANCES?"

Galahad's voice shook her out of her musings, slightly annoyed, and she squeezed the armoured shoulder of her gracious rider.

— "Uh? sorry, I was leagues away"

— "Yes. I gathered. Do you know how to shoot on horseback?"

An image of Legolas shooting wargs while riding popped up in her mind. She'd give anything to have him by his side right now, his battle skills would have very welcome. She, on the other hand, couldn't perform such exploits.

— "Er, I don't, no. I'm not proficient enough to shoot in a battle and not kill one of you. You'd probably be safer if you ran to hell and back."

— "Well, I could teach you."

Galahad's earnest offer warmed her heart for a moment; he was a skilled bowman.

— "That'd be appreciated. Although I fear we might not have much time for this."

— "Once we're free, we'll get plenty of time."

His innocence touched her deeply, and Frances swore she'd watch over him should difficulties arise before his freedom was granted. How long would this mission last this time? Would she be gone in days? Months? Years? What was her purpose, except for being transported from one place to another in a horrible weather? The cold has reddened her nose, and numbed her fingers already.

— "What kind of material is bow made of? I've never seen anything alike."

Frances lowered her eyes to the weapon, neatly stored on the beast's flank, leather throngs keeping it accessible in case of emergency. Galahad's, recurved bow rested on the other side of their mount. Frances was tired, and the words left her mouth before she thought about them.

— "Er … it's a standard issue, carbon fibre and such."

Her mind protested vehemently about her stupidity. Carbon fibre, really! Fortunately, her answer only elicited a raised brow from Galahad.

— "I do not know this material, how is it made?"

— "Honestly I don't know. I just use it, I didn't design it."

The knight shifted on the saddle, sending her a horrified look.

— "How can you not know how your bow was made? It is your master weapon! How will you repair it once the string is lose? Or if it breaks?"

Pink marred her cheeks as shame registered in her brain. No, her master weapon was, and would remain her beloved sword. The sword she didn't have anymore, damn her near-death experience at the black gate. But Galahad also had a point; she'd not given her bow so much attention until now. Modern bows did not need to be restrung, but you never know what could happen on the battlefield. Here, there'd be no shops to repair it. Even if it was but a replacement of the one she'd lost in the battle of Morannon, as was the sword, more care was needed. Nonetheless, she couldn't help but try and defend herself.

— "Well … there are many more when I come from, and it shouldn't break unless it meets a very bad person so … here's for hoping, right?"

Galahad shook his head, squeezing her leg in the process. There was nothing sexual in the casual touches he often gave her, their bond more similar to siblings so she let it slide.

— "No, Frances! That can't do. A good knight takes care of its weapons. You need to learn"

Damn, Galahad was so right, but his condescending tone irked her. Thus, her answer was a little stern, the sarcasm oozing out of her voice.

— "Aye, aye, sir"

Tristan's timely arrival, Lady Hawk on his shoulder, interrupted the berating Galahad was about to give her. Frances sighed in relief, albeit she wondered if the scout would second his brother's opinion. She certainly did not want to face his anger. Fortunately, Arthur appeared behind the flap of the wagon at once and mounted his horse to hear his report. Tristan's voice was low, but carried far enough so that his fellow brothers could share it.

— "The Saxons are gaining on us, but we still have some time before they catch up. The road ahead is as clear as can be."

— "No Woads?"

At this, Tristan sent a flat look to the young lady, his eyes holding the dreaded scolding as well as the interrogation about the woads' avoidance of her.

— "None"

Frances shuddered.

— "Thank you, Tristan. Let us go ahead until nightfall," said Arthur as he spun his horse around and went further up the column of refugees.

Frances expected Tristan to follow, but he turned instead to Galahad, his features schooled, but eyes alight with fire as he glared at both of them.

— "Keep your berating low, Galahad. I could hear you from the hills."

Frances stiffened in the saddle, hearing the reprimand in Tristan's voice, and the tension of Galahad's posture. Those two had trouble seeing eye to eye, and she quite hated that the current skirmish was her fault. Truthfully, she found Tristan's reaction dumbfounding; he wasn't one to protect one's feelings and would probably have bollocked her himself about her lack of tending to her bow. That was certainly what the glare was for anyway. Frances bit her lip; perhaps she was reading too much into this. Galahad, for one, was pissed.

— "Who cares if I'm heard from the hills, the Saxons know we're here anyway?"

Tristan sent him a levelled glare that the knight ignored completely. The very air was getting thicker, and the young woman might have dismounted to walk had Lancelot not appeared by their side, dark eyes twinkling in mischief.

— "If our enemies must hear a voice, I'd rather have the lady singing."

Frances groaned in a very unladylike manner. The harsh weather took a toll on her throat. She observed Gawain's hopeful face from afar; he'd slowed his mount to approach. To her, he was akin to a teddy bear, all roundness and cuteness. Except for his skills with an axe. Nonetheless, his good looks and cheerful ways were so refreshing, she wondered how he could keep his sanity of mind and still have enough authority to lead Galahad around.

— "Yeah!" she heard Bors' booming voice. "You sing almost as well as my Vanora. Cheer up this sorry lot, will you?"

— "Way better," came a mumble for aside.

Startled, Frances met Tristan's steady eyes as he observed her. His voice was unmistakable, smooth as silk, low enough to imitate a growl, beautiful and dangerous. She wondered if he'd been talking about her. The young woman stared back, silently asking for permission to sing in the open. The scout held her gaze long enough to send her fidgeting before he inclined his head, his eyes slightly squinting in what she now knew was amusement. Tristan seemed to enjoy putting her on edge.

— "Sing," he said.

A request, uttered like a command, but all that Frances head was his assent. She relented.

— "All right. But I'm tired and frozen, so don't expect anything too merry."

The first song that came to mind was one of "Róisín Duhb", singing about the freedom of their land. Catching her breath, Frances started the steady melody that was "Only our rivers run free". It was a sad song, with a very low tone – at the limits of her tessitura – but at the moment, it seemed so fitting that she lost herself in the tune.

"When apples still grow in November
where blossoms still bloom from each tree
where leaves are still green in December
it's then that our land will be free."

Then her voice rose a little higher, a little stronger.

"I wander her hills and her valleys
and still through my sorrows I see
a land that has never known freedom
and only her rivers run free."

The complaint went on, the plea of land asking for freedom bubbling in her heart, and Frances sang like there was no tomorrow. Her gentle voice rose and fell, catching the attention of the Pict lady in the wagon. She couldn't make out the words, but the message seemed directed to her. She, whose people fought for their land, and their freedom against Rome. As Frances realised the words she was singing, she blushed slightly. Hopefully, Arthur could not understand her meaning; he rode ahead of the column anyway.

"I drink to the death of her manhood
those men who rather have died
than to live in the cold chains of bondage
to bring back their rights were denied
oh where are you now when we need you
what burns were the flame used to be
are you gone like the snow of last winter
and will only our rivers run free"

Frances's voice quivered, a lump forming in her throat. It tore at her heart, the unfairness of it all. The enslavement of the knights, the struggle from the Picts, the iron grip of Rome on people who were born free, crushed by their system.

"How sweet is life, but we're crying
How mellow the wine, but we're dry.
How fragrant the rose, but it's dying
How gentle the wind, but it sighs."

And Frances also sighed, her voice lowering to a whisper, overwhelmed by the significance of what she was singing. She had not even reflected on her choice before the song came to her. Would the vibration of her voice be enough to convey its sense ? Modern Irishmen, Britons and Sarmatian shared the same purpose; freedom. And she owed it to them to finish that complaint.

"What good is in youth when it's aging?
What good is in eyes that can't see?
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free."

The last note rang for a long time, then she lifted her gaze, catching a glimpse of moisture in Bors' eyes. Tristan was gone, he'd fallen back behind. But Lancelot… Lancelot looked at her like there was no tomorrow, his whole being vibrating.

— "What was this song about?"

Frances exhaled slowly to stabilise her treacherous voice.

— "Freedom. Freedom for the land, and its people"

Lancelot nodded before his mask took over once more, the playful glint returning to his dark eyes.

— "If one didn't know you, they could think you a sympathiser of the Woads."

She felt, more than she saw, a familiar gaze settled upon her back.

— "I sympathise with all beings being robbed from their freedom, it doesn't mean I condone their methods."

The message conveyed was caught up easily, as Galahad's hand came to rest on her knee. Gauwain, wild mane flying in the wind, spurred his horse closer.

— "It is a shame we cannot understand the words. Do you not know a song in Latin?"

Immediately, Frances's mind recalled the Ave Maria she'd learnt from the fantastic "Joyeux Noël" movie. It was a difficult one, but the greatest of all.

— "I do know of one, but it takes some skills and training. And you probably won't like it."

— "Why so?" asked Galahad. "Until now, I cannot recall disliking any of your songs."

— "It's an Ave Maria."

The knight groaned, earning a chuckle from Gauwain who turned to her, his blue eyes almost grey in the dull light.

— "I, for one, do not care about religion. But I won't shy away from an Ave Maria should your voice accompany it."

Bors laughed out loud.

— "Yeah. Who cares! sing already!"

Frances shook her head, tightening her cloak around her.

— "Maybe later in camp, if we're safe. It is far too difficult to sing while moving around in the snow, and even then I'm afraid it might be massacred by my lack of skills."

— "Nonsense," exclaimed Bors. "I'll hold you to it."

— "And Arthur will kiss you senseless," added a playful Lancelot.

Frances made a face.

— "I'd rather not"

True, Arthur was a handsome man. A little too bulky for her taste, though, she loved sharp features and slender jaws. AND to be able to circle her man's waist with her arms. Laugher punctuated her retort, as well as several juicy remarks that called blood to her cheeks. Seeing her discomfort, Lancelot only jabbed his finger in the wound.

— "You mean to say that he is not to your taste?"

— "He's closer to my tastes than you are, for one. Just not my type."

Gawain smirked, repressing his laughter at seeing Lancelot's disgruntled face.

— "Pray tell, what's not to love in Lancelot? Look at those locks! This handsome face, those shining dark eyes…"

Frances smiled. Gawain had handed her the first knight's ass on a platter, selling him like a horse at the local fair. A little revenge for his earlier attempt at selling Tristan the evening prior; she was starting to see a dynamic between the knights here. It was tempting, to say something witty and had the others laugh at Lancelot's expense, to call him a sorry bastard of a womaniser, to say that those who talked about sex the most were those who enjoyed it less. To mock his locks and call him a black sheep…

A thousand retorts ran through her mind – bless her school years. But somehow, she could see through the façade. Lancelot was just coping for the horrors he'd seen in wenches' arms, looking for a little love he thought he didn't deserve. They all were. And he was just starting to open up, to warm up to her. No, now was not the time to play the witty lady.

— "He's totally lovable. Just not by me. Something to do with the seducing, I guess…"

— "Ain't that a lovely pirouette," mumbled Bors, disappointed by her lame answer.

But Lancelot did not seem to share Bors' sentiment; he'd expected an attack, not mercy. His face, though, kept the mask in place as he pried.

— "And what would your type be?"

The memory of Legolas's brilliant face flooded her mind, and for once, Frances didn't shy away from his presence. They needed to know where her heart lay.

— "I am partial to a lighter body, lean and efficient. A being that knows how graceful dealing death can be. A gentle face, with sharp cheekbones, deep eyes, wisdom and brightness. And I already found him, so not interested to find another one."

Lancelot laughed slightly.

— "Well, the first part resembled mistakenly to our scout … as for the second…"

A piercing cry startled them all as a flurry of dark wings passed through the knights, landing on Frances' shoulder with a warning screech. She refrained from jumping, keeping her nerves in check to avoid chasing the bird away. As Bors laughed again and Gawain raised a blond eyebrow, Galahad couldn't help but tense in fear.

— "Relax, Galahad, she's a friend," said Frances soothingly as she stroked her breast feathers.

Lady Hawk gave a squeak, nibbling slightly on the lady's finger in an affectionate gesture before cocking her head aside.

— "Hey, Lady Hawk, don't eat me, right?" she whispered.

Gawain looked confused by the easy banter between bird and lady.

— "Is it normal to talk to birds where you come from?"

Frances shook her head. No, she wouldn't have approached such a dangerous animal a thousand leagues away.

— "Well, she certainly has warmed up to you," said Lancelot in an inquisitive manner.

The bird squeaked once, bringing a smile to the young lady's features.

— "We have a few things in common," she answered gently.

Lady Hawk squeaked again, and turned around to greet her master. Tristan's hand barely had the time to extend before the magnificent animal joined him. His gaze pierced the knights none too gently.

— "The lady is betrothed."

His simple words struck a chord in his brothers, and Frances marvelled at this quiet authority. When Tristan spoke, his voice barely raised, the others listened. Even boisterous Bors shut his mouth, swallowing his retort as Gawain sent her a shameful look. Was it the raw power of the bird perched on his hand, or his magnetism that put them on edge? Somehow, she couldn't decide, for she knew his presence affected her as well.

But not this way. She felt safe with him around, protected from harm, yet exposed to his harsh judgement. The worst was that she didn't mind that her heart and thoughts lay open for him to read; she trusted him to not slight her. Perhaps that the other knights didn't feel at ease with laying their souls bare; she'd understand it, their life had scarred them all.

Anyway, Tristan's words called some sort of contrition, for Gawain bowed his head to her.

— "Forgive us, Lady Frances. We knights have been gathered for too long and tend to banter at the expense of others."

Galahad snorted.

— "At my expense, more oft than not!"

Frances laughed at that, but her eyes were set on Tristan's, trying to convey her gratitude.

— "There is not harm done, Gawain. I rather enjoy the banter, and will not shy away from crude talk because of my gender. Believe me when I say I've heard much worse … but the subject of my betrothed is a difficult one as it pains me. My heart is set for eternity, I fear."

Her eyes got lost in the scenery of light and shadows created by the falling snow. The north of England held plenty of forests still, the hills carved and shaped into the hard granite, dark masses of trees capping the top.

— "Eternity is a very long time," came Tristan's voice, the remark only heard by Galahad.

Frances forced her eyes to stick to the hills, recalling the plight of the elves that faded from grief; Arwen's future, for sure. An eternity of healing in the halls of Mandos.

— "Yeah. To his people, there can be nothing else, even in death."

Nothing more could be said, for the concept of immortality would sell her right away. The weight of the scout's gaze, golden-brown light hiding under the unruly mane of his hair, sent a shudder to Frances' spine. Something akin to longing seemed to shine in their mesmerising depths until it disappeared entirely in his usual impassiveness. For once, Frances wondered about Isolde, the woman Tristan was supposed to love in the legends. Would she dare asking him about it ? Was a lost love the reason he was so closed off ? Or had it not come to pass yet ?

An uneasy silence settled between them, and the young woman turned to Bors and Gawain instead.

— "Feel free to mock my skills, my manners or my looks. I guarantee you'll find someone to talk to."

— "You are too lovely to have your looks mocked," answered Bors. "But not as much as my Vanora."

A snort sounded beside her, but she couldn't discern whose lips this exclamation had left as she nodded to Bors. Vanora truly was a magnificent woman that intimidated her.

— "And too lively as well," concluded Galahad in front of her. "I'd fear for my life should I mock your skills"

Frances chuckled.

— "My manners is it then…"

This time, it was Lancelot who answered with a flourish, teasing and serious altogether.

— "Nay my lady, you bear no title, yet act nobler than any of those Romans. This is why I will still call you my lady Frances."

— "Damn! I knew there'd be a catch! No pressure, uh?" she exclaimed playfully.

And just like this, the tension started to dissipate as Galahad complained about being the target of most jokes. Very soon, the sun finished its descent before sinking behind the hills, the heavy clouds refusing to release the red hues of the setting orb. Feeling that rest was near, Galahad's horse joined the head of the convoy as Arthur told Lancelot they'd settle in the trees. Then, the commander turned to his scout.

— "Tristan."

His name, nothing more; they understood each other's better than brothers. Lifting Lady Hawk at eye level, he spoke softly to her.

— "You wanna go out again? Yeah."

Tristan nudged the bird playfully, almost tenderly before he sent her flying. A familiar and intimate gesture between two companions. A mere moment later, he was galloping ahead, guided by Lady Hawk.