Three.
Lancelot, the scout Amaidis, and the three knights rode fast and hard in silence until the sun was high above their heads. At last Lancelot pulled his horse up, stopping under a copse of trees that provided some shelter from the burning midday orb. The morning had been crisp and cool, but when one was wearing heavy metal armor and leather clothing, it tended to be hot no matter the weather.
"We will eat here, but quickly, fellows. We have a long ways to go yet," he told the oldest of the knights, Roland, a young Briton, who saluted and grinned at his commanding officer.
"Aye, sir. I'll let the others know," he said, and turned back to his comrades, his long brown plait swinging around him.
Lancelot sighed, sliding off his own mount. Resisting the urge to sleep, he pulled a hunk of bread and cheese out of his pack, and hunkered down close to the ground.
A moment later he was joined by the woman, Amaidis. She sank down next to him silently, and accepted his offer of food thankfully.
They ate sparingly, not wanting to waste any supplies. Lancelot had told Arthur they would be back within seven days, and that meant a lot of rough, long days in the saddle. He didn't relish spending too much time sleeping out of doors.
He looked at her when he felt the heat of her curious gaze on his face.
"Can I do something for you, Lady scout?" he asked finally.
"I can do all I require for myself, though I thank you, sir Knight," she replied, her strange accent hard to place.
"Where are you from, Amaidis?" he asked her, and she shrugged.
"All over, really. Born in Londoninium, lived in Rome, Greece, and now here. Why?" she answered, turning large green eyes on him. He realized with a start she was quite beautiful. Her spare leather overtunic and brown dyed wool pants belied a strength that reminded him intensely of Guinevere. He shut his eyes briefly, and shook his head.
"No reason. I am curious how a woman such as yourself ended up in Arthur's camp," he added. She blushed slightly at the King's name.
"He is a gift from the gods to all of Britain," she said softly. "I wish nothing but to fight for him, and to honor my home country."
"You are smitten with him," Lancelot laughed gently. When she sputtered, protesting, he held up a hand of truce. "I have seen it many times over, lady. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. He is worthy of it, believe me."
"He loves the Queen," she said, looking to the north, and the next leg of their journey. Lancelot nodded.
"Aye. And she him."
They spoke no more, each lost in their own contemplative thoughts.
Another long two days of riding, and the three knights, Lancelot, and Amaidis arrived at the small village on the edge of the Oceanus Germanicus. It was sacked and burned, and it was very easy to follow the tracks of the large army west.
"What do you think?" Lancelot whispered to the scout. She shook her head, cocking it to one side, a finger to her lips.
He sulked, a bit put out that she had shushed him. Grinning at him, she listened intently for a few moments, then nodded to herself.
"West, due west. They are trying to take the island inland, village by village," she said at last.
Lancelot sputtered slightly. "How do you know…" and then he heard the sound, and shivered despite himself.
"What is that?" Edward, the youngest of the knights, asked, his face blanching.
"Saxon war drums," Lancelot replied, turning abruptly on his heel, and mounting his waiting horse.
"Mount up, gentlemen…and lady," he said. "We follow them. They are not a half days ride ahead of us…am I right, Amaidis?"
She quirked an eyebrow, then nodded. "You have experience with tracking," she said, getting on her own animal.
"No," he said, "but I do have experience with Saxons, and the sooner we find them and get back to report their position, the better for all of us."
As night fell on their fourth day out, the five came upon the Saxon camp. They had passed through four decimated towns, and Lancelot was sick to his stomach. His anger boiled inside him like a living thing, ready to rip through his gut and tear out the throat of the first Saxon he encountered.
He waved to Amaidis and the three knights, and they kneeled down next to him, peering over an outcropping of rock, spying on the large camp.
The Saxons were reveling, and it was a sight Lancelot nor Amaidis cared to see ever again.
The spoils of war filled the camp, animals, weapons, food, some precious stones, and of course, women.
Lancelot cursed, spitting onto the ground at the noise they made.
"Bastards," he muttered. "I see things have changed since the last invasion," he told Amaidis quietly. "They certainly aren't concerned with being attacked, or not making their presence known."
She nodded, clearing her throat. The sight of so much violence and madness was obviously affecting her more than she would like to let on.
"Don't worry, Amaidis," Lancelot told her, his gloved hand heavy on her shoulder. "It makes you no less of a person to feel disgust…I would worry if you didn't," he added, looking to his right, and the knights next to him. They were all equally grey, and he grimaced at their expressions.
"What shall we report, Sir?" Ian, the third knight, and the only one to have seen any kind of action previously, asked Lancelot.
"How many do you see, knight?" Lancelot queried him.
"An entire army," the young man whispered back.
"Indeed. And that is what we shall tell Arthur. And how much livestock they carry, where they have been, and the direction they are heading, which looks to have changed since we first saw them…in a more southwesterly direction, wouldn't you say, scout?"
Amaidis nodded, regret on her pretty face, her red eyebrows drawn together. "Aye, Sir. Right toward the Wall."
"Very well then, lets get a quick inventory of their supplies-" Lancelot started, pivoting on his booted feet, reaching for his saddlebag, which held a small roll of parchment and a cumbersome quill and ink set.
He briefly heard Amaidis scream before he felt the hilt of a large sword strike him behind his left ear.
The world tilted crazily, his face striking the muddy ground, and all was darkness.
Tbc.