Weeks past, in much the same way as they always had for the knights. Woads incursions occurred all the way up and down the wall, and Arthur often led his knights way for days on end, leaving Bryanne watching them from a corner of the courtyard. She ate only in her room, and rarely left it apart from to visit the kitchens and to see Desra. Both she and Genna benefited from the abundance of food. Lancelot saw it whenever he visited her – the only visitor she welcomed, though often Arthur would come too, but not for long and it was never more than polite conversation.
It was on one of the days when she was waiting for the knights to return when she met Lorella. Lorella, she revealed was Bors' mistress. She had nine children, and another soon to come by the bulge in her stomach. Bryanne remembered Bors – a beast of a man, large and foreboding and terribly strong. Lorella was wonderful with Genna, and soon became a regular visitor to the woad girl's room.
Bryanne was sewing a garment for Genna, using the light from the window to illuminate her work. Lorella rested the gurgling, chirping baby on her round tummy, watching as Genna played with a wooden horse Bors had once made for their children. With a great shout and clattering, the women were disturbed. Lorella smiled, her eyes lighting up.
"They've returned!" She cried, lifting Genna and rushing from the room. Bryanne followed more sedately, carefully placing her sewing on the table before making her way to the courtyard. The plumes of dust the horses had kicked up were settling, and through it, from the shadowed corner by Desra's stable, Bryanne saw the knights dismounting. Lorella handed Genna to her before crossing to Bors, who embraced her so tightly, Bryanne was sure he'd cracked some of his mistress' ribs. One of the horses seemed rider-less, burdened by a wrapped object. A body. As silence settled on the knights, Arthur looked at them each in turn.
"We won't forget him. But also, we will not mourn for him." He bowed his head in prayer, and the other knights slowly dispersed, their thoughts each their own. Lancelot noticed Bryanne and came over, his face bloodied and grim. The blood of her own people, she thought, before she asked:
"What was his name?"
"Kay." He replied quietly. Bryanne respectfully lowered her eyes. "I…" She glanced to meet his gaze. "I have to go. I'll come and see you later." With a raised hand, he disappeared. She sighed, and took one last look at the body. Another empty place at the round table in the hall.
Bryanne didn't know what made her decide to join the knights that evening in the tavern. But when Lancelot offered, as he did every night he visited, she accepted. A servant lady was instructed to look after Genna (which made Bryanne feel uncomfortable and agree to more drinks than she should have). The tavern was simply a bar and an open veranda bedecked with wooden tables and benches. Lancelot pressed his hand against her elbow to steer her and offer her silent support. He knights looked up to greet their friend, but their welcomes died on their lips at the sight of the woman, her lips set tightly as if daring them to reject her.
"Boys, this is Bryanne." He waved his hand at them. "That's Dagonet, who you already know, Bors –"
"We've met, in part." Bryanne added, and Bors smirked.
"Galahad, and Tristan."
"We've also almost met." Galahad interjected.
"And the man with the woman on his lap is Gawain." Gawain waved, but was far too distracted to say anything. Bryanne hid her smile as Lancelot showed her to her seat. "Drinks, I think. Lorella!" Bryanne's friend smiled and winked at her as she set down a jug of spiced wine and two more cups. Bryanne, still feeling anxious, finished her first mug off quickly and rapidly poured herself another. Galahad couldn't hide his surprise.
"The woman can drink!" He exclaimed.
"I can handle more than you, I'm sure." She replied, with no hint of sourness in the retort, simply good humour. The Sarmatian laughed and raised his mug before taking a huge swig.
"If you had coins, I'd bet on it." Tristan said, receiving a none-too-gentle elbow from his companion and a chatter of laughs from the others. Lancelot grinned at Bryanne, and he felt a spark of pleasure when she returned it shyly from over the tip of her cup.
The evening rapidly deteriorated into who could drink the most (Dagonet), the fastest (Bors, who made himself thoroughly sick in the process), sing the best (Lorella, though she wished to be no part of it), throw knives the best (a ridiculous notion, Tristan won without difficulty), and a war of words between who rode the best (Lancelot was quietly nominated). Arthur joined them soon after, and Bryanne subtly, yet purposefully avoided him as best she could. Her mind was fogged with too much wine, and the heat of the fires had made her feel snug and safe. She couldn't let her guard down, and so retreated into the night, not far away, just out of the light of the tavern, to lean on a fence post and watch the happenings with detached amusement. She wasn't surprised when Lancelot joined her, though was rather taken aback at the appearance of Dagonet. The two stood a good distance away, arms leant on the fence. She looked at them expectantly. It was Dagonet who spoke first, squinting his eyes as he watched Bors roar with laughter and slap someone on the back.
"Like a pack of wolves, aren't they?"
"Yes." She laughed at the simplicity of the similarity, having never thought of it before. He glanced across to her.
"You're a lot like us wolves, you know."
"No. I'm not."
"Then what are you?" Lancelot asked, trying to hide his curiosity.
"A fox." She moved as if to leave. Lancelot cackled.
"Indeed! How so?" She turned to him and announced, as if she were revealing a huge secret;
"I'm as quick and as sly and as small and as strong as they come. I know this land as if I were bred from it. My looks are deceiving… you could never trust me, but you could always rely on me." With that, she turned on her heel and re-entered the tavern. Dagonet laughed at Lancelot's surprised face.
"In all the time I've known her, I'd never thought of her like that. She is. She's a fox." Dagonet patted him on the shoulder as he passed him.
"You've only known her five weeks."
"No." Lancelot whispered in the darkness. "I've known her all my life."
He could no longer take his eyes off her. She moved smoothly, as lithely as a cat, light on her feet and swift in her movement. The firelight flickered across her skin, the animation bringing her movements to life as if they had been woven from magic. Her skin was as pale as the moon, as palpable as cream and honey. Her movements were quick and energetic and intelligent. Her hair was a silken wave of gold-spun brown, and her eyes were uncut jewels, waiting to be discovered by loving hands. His heart pounded against his ribs like a frantic bird desperate to be free of its cage. His skin felt flushed, though he knew it was not so, and his hands trembled as if they bore a life of their own. He cocked his head as a sparrow might, and wondered at himself. Five weeks he had known her… over one full moon cycle. He felt he had known her from her very first breath and would know her to her very last. In their hours together in her room she had told him of her life, and he of hers. He desperately hoped that the blood that throbbed through his veins shared the same feeling for her as she did for him, but reasoned that she would never trust a knight, let alone fall for him. He had fallen for her? How? And when? From the second he had seen her, trapped but furious, like a wounded animal. Bryanne had enraptured and enthralled him from the moment he had set eyes on her. In hopelessness, he turned to the jug of wine. Better to drown and forget, than to live and feel the torture of it being unrequited.
Bryanne decided she had better leave. Galahad was trying to cajole her into a drinking contest, and she felt woozy enough as it was.
"No, no, no!" She laughed, holding her hands up against the pleading. "I'm going to bed."
"Goodnight, Bryanne." Lorella called from serving another unruly table.
"Goodnight!" She answered, taking her leave of the knights. She began to walk away, but Arthur caught her arm.
"Perhaps, in the morning, we can talk?" He asked gently, quietly. She looked at him through calculating eyes.
"Tomorrow. In the hall." She walked away, fighting away the turbulent feelings that the commander had stirred. She shook her head to free herself of the muggy cobwebs that beleaguered her thoughts. The night was deeper than she had anticipated. Dark pockets of shadows lurked under roofs and next to walls, and the slow marching tramp of the feet of the watch up on the wall was oddly muffled by the cloaking night. The stars and moon were clear and bright, only an occasional cloud glowing blue under the nightlight. But the darkness hung heavy over Hadrian's Wall. She knew the way back to the quarters well enough, and even knew the guards who would be posted on the gates so as to let her in. But she didn't remember the alleyway that was formed between the stable walls and cottage. They weren't the knights' stables, and it wasn't a familiar cottage. Hesitating, Bryanne realised she'd taken a wrong turning. She turned to retrace her steps, but noticed a Roman centurion heading towards her down the alleyway. She bit her lip, she'd have to pass him, and she didn't fancy the idea much. Lowering her eyes, she walked towards him, his stumbling footing showing that he was drunk.
"Hey, woad!" He slurred gruffly. She carried on walking, focussed on the gap between him and the wall that meant the exit of the alley. "Don't ignore me. Woad!" he lunged for her, and she tried to sidestep him, figuring that she had more wits about herself than he did at that moment. She was wrong. Hard fingers closed around her upper arm and dragged her towards his tepid, stale breath. She turned her head away in disgust, the smell of ale almost nauseating.
"Let go." She said forcefully, trying to pull her arm away. He chuckled and pulled her closer, leaving a wet kiss on her cheek.
"Not yet, woad, not yet."
"Decimus!" Called another drunken voice, and inwardly, Bryanne's heart sank. Another Roman.
"Severino! Come, look. See what I have." He shook her arm so violently, her whole body was wracked with the tremors. She felt like some prize rag-doll.
"Ha!" Severino crowed with delight. "The woad girl." He snatched at her, but Decimus pulled her away.
"Easy, Sev. We'll both have our fun, eh?" He leered at Bryanne, and she spat in his face. Letting go to wipe away the spit, her captor roared in anger. "Little whore!" He yelled, lunging for her and knocking her to the ground with a well-aimed backhanded swipe. She tasted blood in her mouth. He picked her up by her throat and pushed her forcefully against the wall of the stables. It was cool against her hot skin, but dug in with raw chips of stone as she struggled to free herself of the vicelike grip that gradually suffocating her. She couldn't even muster enough breath to shout. Her nails dug into his arms and her legs lashed out desperately. Never had she felt so panicked.
Lancelot knew a shortcut back to the quarters, and was slowly wandering down it, musing on his misfortunes on loving a woad girl, when he heard the sure signs of a scuffle. Thinking it was some poor servant in the way of a inebriated Roman, he ignored it. Until he heard a yelp and furious shout of:
"The little witch bit me!"
"Watch it, woads have horrible diseases, you know." He frowned, and peered into the dark alleyway to his right from whence the shouts had come. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the most almighty struggle between two Romans and Bryanne. She was battling feverishly to free herself of ham-fisted hands around her neck, teeth bared. One of the Romans had blood coming from a bite-wound on his hand. Fighting down his anger, Lancelot tried to remain calm as he approached the scene.
"Now, now boys. We don't want you hurt." The one with the bite glared at him, holding his injured hand preciously.
"Stay out of this, Lancelot."
"I can't do that. This girl is my charge, and I won't have her attacked by either of you two."
"Sort him out, Sev. I'll look after the wench." Muttered the one strangling Bryanne. Severino stepped towards Lancelot, and was sent hurtling backwards with a punch to the face. "What the..?" Decimus stared at his friend, then back to Lancelot, who shrugged and smiled. "You bastard!" He stormed, letting go of Bryanne, who fell to her knees, gasping for breath and wondering how she always seemed to manage to get herself in trouble. Spots were dancing in front of her eyes, but she could hear sounds on confrontation somewhere to the right above her head. Severino unsteadily got to his feet, but soon reappeared in the mud, unconscious. Bryanne guessed he'd stay that way until someone found him in the morning. Not long after, Decimus joined him.
A pair of boots stood in front of her, and a hand reached down, offering to help her up. The knuckles were already bruising. She accepted the hand gratefully and was gently pulled to her feet. Her eyes met with Lancelot's, full of gratitude. She opened her mouth to thank him, but his balance wavered and he stumbled forwards.
"Woah, steady now." She soothed, catching him and holding his arms until he regained his stability. "Let's get you back." Supporting each other, they found their way to the quarters, and Bryanne helped Lancelot into his room. Groaning, he tried to get across to the cot without her help, but failed. "Here." She offered, holding him upright and steering him until he sat on the edge of the cot. She used the sparks from the fire to light the candles, and turned to look at him properly. Tutting, she put her hands on her hips. "You are a mess. I suppose I had better clean you up."
"No… you don't have to…" He trailed off as she waved a hand at him.
"Stay there." She instructed, leaving and returning with a pail of water which she set in the hearth and stirred the fire to heat it. She knelt in front of him and removed his boots, brushing some of the mud from them before setting them to one side. Carefully, she pushed some of the curls of hair away from his face and, using a finger tucked under his chin to move his head around, inspected his appearance closely. She then looked around and soon found a cloth.
Once the water was warm, she took the pail from the fire and pulled Lancelot up. Carefully, she untied his belt and rested it on his table. His overcoat was made of hundreds of small, square patches of black leather and was buttoned down the front, with an open throat. This she removed and lay across the chair that sat in a corner. Underneath the coat was a black tunic of a thick cloth she didn't recognise. This, she pulled over his head and draped it over the overcoat. He wore only his leather trousers, and looked strangely vulnerable as Bryanne looked at him. His bare chest was a slightly paler colour to his arms, which were thickly defined with muscles. She could see the strength as each muscle flexed and relaxed under the skin – in the firm, flat abdomen and across the broad, solid chest. Pale pink scars laced his flesh – wounds from thousands of battles. A trail of dark hair ran down from his belly to his trousers, but other than that, there was no hair on his body. She blushed, quickly turning away to hide her burning cheeks.
"Bryanne, thank you."
"For what?" She asked, dipping her cloth in the warm water, squeezing it out and straightening.
"For everything." She shushed him, pressing the cloth against his forehead so that rivulets of water ran across his skin. She brushed gently, wiping away the dirt, scared to press too hard on the bruises in case she hurt him. She moved it over his temples and down his cheeks and across his chin and nose. All the time, his intense eyes never left her face. "Bryanne… Anne… you're so beautiful, you know that?" A hand reached up and pushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her breath catching in her throat, Bryanne stepped backwards. Awkwardly, she bent over and dipped her cloth in the water again. "Anne…" The soft nickname touched a place in her heart that she had locked away for many years, and it was a wicked prick of pain that joined with the pleasure at the sound of it.
"For someone who can bathe in his own room, you are remarkably filthy." She said lightly, cleaning the dirt from his shoulders and collar bone. She could be less gentle here, the bruises under his skin were long healed. Only the new purple flowers on his cheek and temple and the swelling under his lip needed careful attention.
"Anne… you really are."
"You've had far too much to drink, and you're punch-drunk to boot. You're talking no sense."
"No, Anne… listen." His voice was pleading, but she avoided his gaze, and she finished washing him in silence. She cleaned away the dirt from his chest, eliciting a gasp as she ran her cloth over each nipple in turn, and cleaned it from his stomach, feeling the strong muscles through her rag as clearly as if she were touching them with bare fingers. Bryanne cleaned his shoulder blades, feeling them move when he turned his head to see her, and down his spine and back. Then, using a clean, dry rag, she dried him.
Bryanne helped him back to his bed, noticing his eyes already drooping with weariness. She covered him up to the shoulders, and when his eyes were closed, and she was sure he was asleep, she ran her fingers through his hair – feeling the soft waves brush along her fingertips.
"Anne," he whispered, and she drew her hand back suddenly, "my little vixen… no, stay." He pleaded as she rose to leave.
"Sh." She hushed gently. "Go to sleep." It seemed that he obeyed, because his eyes shut again, and he said no more. Bryanne paused and watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest and calm in his face. She wondered when she had been so foolish so as to fall in love with a Sarmatian knight.
