Five.
As dawn broke over the horizon, the change in the rhythm of his mount woke Lancelot from his exhausted stupor.
A great silly grin burst over his face as the Wall came into view. The morning of the eighth day; he had expected to see Arthur fully mounted with the entire army behind him. Lancelot was nothing if not punctual.
He reached down, patting the tired horse with his right hand. She whinnied loudly, and the few townspeople up and about raised their heads, looking to see what the commotion was about.
One young man, Connor if Lancelot remember correctly, came sprinting toward him.
"Sir, sir, are you all right? The King's been worried sick! It's been eight days…here, let me help you," the youth said in a garbled rush. Lancelot waved him off tiredly, blinking his eyes rapidly in order to wake up.
"I require no assistance, thank you. My horse, however, is a different manner entirely…if you would see to her once we get inside, I would be in your debt."
"Of course, sir, of course," Connor answered, happy to be of any kind of assistance to one of the king's best knights and the head of his guard.
"Open the gates!" Lancelot bellowed as they approached, hailing the guard at the tower. The man saluted as he recognized his commanding officer, and the gates swung open as fast as the large hinges would allow.
"Lancelot! Lancelot approaches!" the guards on the tower yelled to the ones inside the keep, and a few of them rushed off in different directions to find the king.
Making his way inside the commons, Lancelot slid off the trembling horse, and tumbled to the ground, his knees buckling, not able to hold his slight weight a moment longer.
Connor jumped to his aid, but the Sarmatian man glowered at him, gritting out, "my horse," and pointed to the mare.
Connor backed away from the fallen knight, and nodded once. "Aye sir, she shall be well cared for."
As soon as the boy and horse left the area, Lancelot allowed himself to fall backward, his arms spread wide, eyes closing.
He was barely aware as hands roamed over him, and concerned voices reached his ears through a fog.
Lancelot? Can you hear me? Speak, man! Lancelot?
Don't move him too roughly! Bring him to my chamber…my ladies will take care of him.
Guinevere? He thought muzzily, then all was dark.
A strange, high keening sound woke him, and he started, gasping for air, leaping upwards from the bed.
Bed linens were twisted around him, and his left hand throbbed miserably. He looked down, dimly aware that he was unclothed save for simple muslin pants. The noise that had woken him stopped suddenly, and a small figure was abruptly next to him, shaking him so hard he swore he heard his teeth rattle.
"Damn it! Damn you! We thought you were dead! How could you do this to me?" the words came rapid fire at him, and he refocused slowly on the body in his arms.
"My lady, I did not do it on purpose, I assure you," he told Guinevere tiredly, and attempted to lay back. She grasped him roughly with her strong arms, and pulled him to her, the wetness from her eyes soaking his bare shoulder.
"I did not think to see you again," she whispered. "You are always back when you say you will be. I…we feared the worst."
He wrapped his own arms about her, and risked a kiss to her temple. Sighing, he rested his head on top of hers. "I am sorry, truly," he sighed again, uncharacteristically showing the gamut of emotions that were riding his body like a pack animal. "It was a disaster."
"I see that the others did not arrive with you…what has happened?" she asked, leaning back from him, a steely glint in her eyes. Gone was the weeping maiden; the warrior queen had made her presence known.
"We were ambushed," he bit off, the words like ice. "They died," he added through clenched teeth. A muscle in his jaw flexed once, twice.
"I must speak with Arthur," he said, breaking her intense gaze. She nodded.
"I shall bring him to you…he's been pacing the halls since you got back."
Lancelot laughed slightly. "Have I kept him waiting long? I didn't expect to sleep so heavily…." he trailed off at the look on her face. "Guinevere, what?"
"Lancelot…you have been unconscious with fever for five days," the queen told him softly. "Your wounds must have been more aggravated than you thought. Your left hand was badly infected." She picked it up, an apologetic look crossing her face when he hissed with pain at the contact. She gently unwrapped the bandage, a dark expression appearing when she saw what lay underneath. "Lancelot, you wrong those who care for you…who care when you are hurt, no matter the severity of the wound." Her strong, soldiers hands shook slightly as they lightly touched his injury.
He rolled his eyes at her concern, bluffing a laugh, in order not to show her just how much her words meant to him.
"I have seen worse, my lady, believe me. I have suffered worse," he added, raising his right hand to feel for the lump at the back of his left ear. Thankfully the swelling had mostly gone down.
"Just the same…I shall call for the healer, and find Arthur," she told him, rising from her seat on the end of his bed.
Lancelot watched her prepare to go, and suddenly the idea that he was still alive, he alone, and the woman he loved was about to leave, taking with her the momentary respite he had found from the horrors of his failure, was an abhorrence to him. He forced himself out of the bed, stood tottering next to her, and grabbed her arms roughly.
He yanked her to his chest, crushing her against his fever heated body. His lips descended on hers roughly, and she was too shocked to respond at first. Only a moment passed before she realized the gravity of what they were doing, with Arthur somewhere nearby.
And yet she couldn't seem to care.
Their lips met like those of lovers parted for years on end, and she ran her hands up his back, shaken at the hotness of his skin, but unable to pull herself away.
He dropped his mouth to her neck, nuzzling at the slender column like a man starved. She groaned at his touch, the rough prickling of his beard grazing her skin as welcome as the finest silk wrap. She pressed herself closer to him. If she crawled inside him she wouldn't be close enough.
Footsteps rang down the stone passageway, and Guinevere leapt away from Lancelot as if he were a poisonous but exquisite flower, the draw of its beauty almost enough to make her ignore the sheer folly of touching it.
"Arthur," she whispered, and pushed the knight back into his sickbed, wrapping him with the linens that she hastily straightened around him.
"I will tell him you are not ready for visitors just yet…I want the healer to see you first," she said firmly when he tried to protest. "You are not well enough for battle talk."
"Guinevere…the Saxons are on their way. They will be here within days, if not a day, since I have been asleep for so long," he told her, worry making his brows draw together. "Arthur needs to prepare, now."
"He has been ready to fight since the seventh day you were gone, and did not come riding over the hill," she answered, and he fell backwards, all fight gone out of him.
"Very well…but I must see him soon, within the hour if possible."
"It will be so," she told him, and hastened out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.
Lancelot could hear her speaking in hushed tones with Arthur, who's low baritone carried better than her higher voice.
They argued a bit, then he heard Arthur's booted feet retreating with angry, hollow steps. He closed his eyes, and touched his lips lightly with his fingers. Her mouth still burned on his.
"Gods forgive me," he muttered to himself, then bit off a laugh. "…or whomever cares to listen."
Arthur grabbed the shoulder of the druid healer, a man of some years from Guinevere's own tribe, as he passed the king in the empty hallway outside the queen's apartments.
"Well? How does he fare?" he asked the man, concern and fury held barely in check. A muscle spasmed in Arthur face, and he shook his head slightly. The druid shrugged his shoulders, making a face.
"He is not the most ideal patient," he told the king, and at that Arthur allowed a small laugh to escape his throat.
"Sounds to me like he's recovering his charming personality, at any rate."
"Indeed," the druid said sourly. "He needs rest, and to drink the mixture I left for him. He also needs to apply the salve left on the nightstand…the queen has been informed, and I know she will see to it."
"I will make sure he does as well, trust me," Arthur said, a little taken aback that the man had already informed Guinevere of Lancelot's condition before telling him. He did know, however, how much she cared for the younger man; he was, after all, Arthur's most trusted friend and ally. He was also a brother, if not by blood, by soul, and she knew how important it was to Arthur that Lancelot not be injured. It would destroy him if the man were to come to any harm.
"I shall visit him, and make sure he is doing as you say," the king told the druid, and the man nodded. "If you should have need of me, the queen knows where to find me."
"I thank you for your service," Arthur told him gravely, and tilted his head down in a gesture of respect. When he raised his eyes, the old druid was gone.
Arthur pushed the door to Guinevere's apartments open slowly, not wanting to wake his friend if he were sleeping.
The dark haired knight was turned on his side, and Arthur could see that he was staring out the high window that allowed the afternoon sun to shine in.
"And how is the prisoner this afternoon?" Arthur said cheerfully. The last thing he wanted to do was to drag Lancelot's spirits down immediately; they would need to speak of serious enough things only too soon.
"Sick of bed and ready for the tavern," Lancelot replied, not looking back at Arthur. The king worried; by the slump of the knights shoulders and the tenseness in his neck, Arthur could tell just how heartsick his most trusted friend was.
The king walked around the edge of the bed, and seated himself next to Lancelot, who levered himself into a sitting position. The mostly undrunk potion the druid had left sat in an iron flagon on a table next to the bed, and Arthur eyed it pointedly. Lancelot sighed, picked up the mug, and glugged down the rest of the liquid, making a horrid face as he finished. Arthur tried to supress a laugh, but wasn't very successful.
"You are not a good friend, do you know that? A good friend would dump the contents of that foul smelling cup into the closest privy and tell the healer that the patient had swallowed it," Lancelot told Arthur sourly, wiping an arm across his mouth, the gagging expression on his face still evident.
"A good friend would not let his best knight die of infection, either. How are you feeling?" Arthur queired.
Lancelot shrugged. "My hand is on fire, and I feel weak and shaky like a newborn colt. It does not become me, I can assure you."
Arthur touched his friend's neck, then forehead. "You are cooler than you have been. That in itself is a marvel. I have never seen anyone with such fever. You scared me," he said truthfully, his green gaze boring into Lancelot's brown one, and the knight cleared his throat, looking away from the intensity of emotion that shone out of Arthur's face.
"I apologize, my king. I did not mean to trouble you so," he said gruffly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I do not warrant such greivous worry from you."
"Lancelot, you wrong me. You are my brother. I will always care what happens to you," Arthur said, sadness creeping into his voice, and Lancelot wanted to weep at the similarity between the words Arthur spoke and those of Guinevere only hours before. "I know this mission did not end the way you wanted, but I do not blame you. I know you did everything you could to make sure things were done the way I wanted."
Lancelot barked a rough laugh. "Arthur, I don't think you would have been ambushed by classless warriors, or let your best scout be raped, then have her die in your arms. I also don't think you would have let three young, inexperienced knights be butchered by said bastards, their armor left to rust in a pile miles from their home. I failed you miserably, and I have nothing to show for it."
"Damn it, man, you did all you could! I know you wouldn't have done any less. And the fact that you are here, and can report on where exactly the enemy is moving, is a blessing in and of itself. I am heartily sorry for the loss of the young men," Arthur said, standing abruptly and pacing away from the bed, his boots making a stomping sound that belied his calm demeanor, " and I care not to think of Amaidis right now…that is a loss that will weigh on my soul for more time than I care to admit. But we can do nothing about it now, save prepare the army and protect the peoples of this land I have sworn to protect with my blood and my sword. I can thank God that you have survived to fight at my side again."
At Arthur's mention of the scout, Lancelot suddenly remembered the small token he had taken from her body. He shakily climbed out of the queen's bed, and went to his folded clothing, which was piled on a large chair by the wall.
Searching through the pockets of his leather overvest, he found the small trinket, and turned to face Arthur, who had stopped pacing and stood a few feet from the other man.
"I took this from her…I thought you might care to have it," he told the king, and held out the necklace.
Arthur took the cross from him, and held it in his palm, the shining metal like a child's toy in his large hand.
A strange expression crossed his face, and Lancelot thought for a moment the king would throw the small token to the floor.
"I thank you, Lancelot. I would indeed care to keep this," he said at last, a queer tone to his voice, one that the knight had never heard from his friends lips before. He pocketed the small thing. His eyes were bloodshot, and he clenched his hand to quell the tremoring in it.
"I hesitate to make you speak of this…but what exactly happened?"
The Sarmatian man frowned, and sat back on the bed. He toyed with the linens for a minute, then let out an extremely shaky breath.
"We had come upon the encampment. Ian, Edward, Roland, Amaidis and I were speaking of what to report. I turned to get my ink out of my saddlebags, and heard the scout scream. Something hit me behind the ear, a sword hilt I'm thinking now, judging by the size of this lump," he mused, fingering the thing, "and I passed out. When I awoke, I was tied in a tent with Amaidis, who had been beaten and attacked. The armor of the others was piled haphazardly in a corner, stained with crimson. The boys were dead, and the scout died in my arms a moment later," he added darkly.
"How did you…" Arthur started to ask, then closed his mouth as Lancelot held up his injured wrists.
"Blood is an excellent lubricant," the knight said sarcastically. He continued, saying, "Lucky for me, Amaidis' hair was held up by a sharp Asian stick, and I was able to use it to kill my guard before stealing a horse. I rode back, and here I am. Nothing more, nothing less. I can tell you where the Saxons were a few days ago…but I am certain they are most definitely closer than they were then."
Lancelot chose not to tell Arthur the fact that he had risked his life again to retrieve his swords. The king would most assuredly not approve.
"We have not seen any smoke, nor heard drums yet….but I am readying the forces as we speak. Some other scouts," Arthur said, and here he paused before clearing his throat, "some others are already on their way now. We should have a field report within twenty four hours. Hopefully, and I hesitate to say this, the bastards are making slow time. I want to be ready. We will be ready."
He stood, rubbing a hand across his tired, stubbled face. Lancelot stood as well, feeling a bit better.
"You should rest," the king told him, and Lancelot shook his his head. "Whatever was in that vile draught the druid gave me has made me a new man…for the present, at any rate. I will get dressed, and come with you to the Table. We must discuss our plan of action."
He reached for his shirt, and pulled it over his head, trying to mask his whimper of pain when his damaged wrist caught on the sleeve.
"Rest, my friend. I shall report back to you. I need you to be at full strength soon, for I will need your courage sooner than I would like. I will have Guinvere check on you, and with some sustanance."
Lancelot, ashamed of his pain, and of his desire to see the queen again, merely cocked one eyebrow. He sat back upon the bed, and closed his dark eyes slowly.
"My brother, do not worry. The information you have discovered is timely and appreciated. We would surely have been ambushed had you not seen that they were coming this way. The three knights and Amaidis' sacrifices will not have been in vain," Arthur said gently, taking the few steps that separated him from the other man.
"She was in love with you," Lancelot said suddenly, not opening his eyes.
"What?" Arthur answered, the uncertainty in his voice obvious.
"Amaidis. She loved you."
Arthur made a pffft noise with his lips. "All scouts respect their leaders…this is to be expected."
"Arthur, no. She was in love with you…she told me as she bled to death as I held her. She wanted me to tell you…that she would do it all again for you. That she was disappointed she hadn't been able to do more for you. She was infatuated…and a good and loyal person. And I let her die."
Arthur passed a hand over his eyes, but did not speak. Lancelot watched him for a moment, then lay back down and shuttered himself.
A heartbeat; then the king was gone, the door swinging shut softly behind him.
Tbc.