Chapter 5: Devil's Den
The patrol slowed to a crawl. Low clouds pressed against Arthur's brow and his head throbbed as his eyes remained squinted in the partial daylight. And four days more to come.
Lancelot uttered not one word to him, nor would he ride next to him. So Arthur had taken to riding in companionable silence next to Dagonet and Lancelot rode grudgingly alone, silent, occasionally interjecting a sarcastic comment towards Bors.
On the seventh day, they awoke to rains which only grew heavier to the North, Tristan claimed. Arthur reluctantly decided to steer the patrol south, trying to spare their tiring bodies the inclement spring (if it could be called spring) weather.
The ale burned long and strong, like a pole of fire through the middle of Lancelot's frame. Draught after draught his eyes fuzzed over but his hearing was painfully intensified. Bors' deep bellow was a tempest in his forehead.
He knew he shouldn't be drunk (not again, not so soon) especially while they were on assignment, passing peacefully on the borders of Woad territory. Gods, how furious Arthur would be. But the ale was too stilling of his mind that urged him to tackle Arthur, drag him off his steed and pummel every secret out of that heavy head.
Tristan materialized at last; he had been absent most of the morning. He appeared next to Lancelot, steely eyes that missed nothing piercing his. Lancelot giggled foolishly.
"You're like a…a….a cat, you know that? Poof, there you are! Tell me Tristan…are you… lean closer, I don't want anyone to hear." Tristan did not humor his fellow knight. Lancelot's harsh whisper was mostly lost through his tittering.
"Are you…a wizard?" And Lancelot nearly lost his balance from laughing so hard. Lancelot did not notice when Tristan slid the skin of ale out of its strap, stashing it away on his horse.
"Here now, what's so funny, our pretty knight?" Bors cajoled, turning to bicker with Lancelot.
"Why, nothing at all Bors, 'cept the lumpiness of your enormous head!"
Tristan slipped out from between his now arguing comrades and made his way silently next to Arthur.
"Arthur, the storms have worsened and they're chasing us. There is a Roman villa a few miles east of here…" Tristan suggested, assuming Arthur knew the inhabitants.
How could he have been so careless? Far enough south and surely they would waltz right on to the property of Governor Decius. In Arthur's overtaxed and under rested mind, all the years spent in combat did not equal the danger of coming near that Roman's dwelling.
Arthur did not panic (outwardly) but muttered that he was not familiar with the owners and did not wish to impose a band of smelly soldiers if it could be avoided. And of course, the elements contested him.
"Arthur, don't you think you could just…introduce yourself? Roman hospitality and all?" Gawain tried, having to yell over the gales and harsh damps. In the early darkness, Arthur's blush of embarrassment and shame was concealed, but he could feel the heat on his face burning deeper into his declining form. His mind would not answer his avid requests for a credible excuse. I'm protecting them. Rain is better. I'm protecting them. I'm protecting them.
"Come now, Gawain, what is the harm of a little rain? It's refreshing! Besides, it can't last more than a few more hours," Arthur avoided. Gawain gave him such a look—You call this a little rain?— had his path not recently altered so, had his mind not numbed to his new reality, he would have found humor in it.
"Luckily for us all, there's no need to wait," came Lancelot's strong voice, instantly reminding Arthur his knight had taken to Tristan's vanishing acts in the past hour. Arthur stepped out from behind his mount and stood before Lancelot, blinking in the rain.
"I took it upon myself to find some accommodations. The legendary knights of Artorius Castus are most graciously welcome this evening in the home of a Governor Decius recently arrived from Rome."
Lancelot beamed at the commotion he caused, as Galahad whooped and Dagonet quickly started packing away his articles. Only Arthur could not move or breathe or think or function beyond staring emptily at his knight.
With a self-pleased chuckle, Lancelot broke his gaze from his comrades to Arthur who he noticed after a moment was not blinking. A dead voice came forward:
"I do not recall issuing you an order or a request to seek…accommodations."
"You've been rather fond of orders lately, haven't you Arthur? Silly of me to forget—"
"SILLY OF YOU?" Arthur bellowed, startling a still hazy Lancelot. Arthur never raised his voice…not off the battlefield anyway. But this moment was fast becoming one. Arthur turned around as his brain engaged again, flooding his body with cold. He shivered; six pairs of eyes wavered on him.
"It…Lancelot, I……damn." Mechanically, Arthur mounted his horse and sped towards the villa all the while detaching himself from every thread of reality but one, his very wet and tired knights in toe.
Roman greeted Roman with a civil grace; introductions were brief but the corridor to the Great Room was longer than Hadrian's Wall itself, Arthur was certain, and crowded with menace. He stood at the door, counting as each knight passed him (1,2,3,4,5,6) Lancelot had to be defiantly last of course, eyes gleaming in the torch light, trying to excavate in Arthur's presently dull orbs.
"Goodnight, Governor. Many thanks for your hospitality," Arthur smoothed, turning into the high-ceilinged room and roaring fire.
"A moment, Artorius. I was hoping you might join me for a drink. I can give you news of Rome and you can tell me more of these dreary parts and your command."
Arthur could feel Lancelot's eyes rolling at the Roman custom, but he had to graciously accept, if not for show then to appease the threatening stare Arthur was beginning to fear. Armor clinking in time with his racing heart, he hurried to catch up with Decius who had gained ground as Arthur (1,2,3,4,5,6) counted them once again.
The knights made themselves comfortable, spreading out wet clothing to dry, warming wintry faces at the fire. Tristan stood back from them, examining the high beams hanging from the ceiling, another small door in the shadowy corner, a peculiar musty odor. His own instincts compiled with his commander's unease refused to allow Tristan rest. This villa had secrets.
Trays of food and goblets of wine were provided by a team of silent servants. The scout sniffed the provisions, sipped the wine and promptly watered the heavy stone floor with it.
"The wine is sour," he declared, albeit quietly. One servant bowed and moved to take the goblets away. Tristan moved an arm in front of them, shaking his head 'don't touch.' The servant bowed again and scurried off.
After wiping out each now-empty chalice, he alerted his comrades to the refreshments just as a new servant returned with a pitcher of wine. Tristan's eyes did not miss the defeat in this one's eyes, but he snatched the pitcher and poured for himself.
"Much better," he muttered darkly; the servant shivered once and escaped.
Galahad cut in front of Lancelot to reach the meats and bread, earning him an elbow to the ribs. Bors growled crankily, roughly taking the wine away from Tristan. "What's all this then, hogging the wine, give it 'ere…"
Protect them dear Lord, though they sit in the devil's chamber. Keep my fate sealed; keep my words and the governor's. Let them leave here unscathed…
"Arthur Castus…" wry cackling broke his thoughts, "Arthur Castus and his knights under my roof! What have I done to deserve such fortune? Tell me, Arthur, do you—"
"This is a mistake."
"More like a nightmare…wouldn't you say?
"Our deal still stands," stated (begged) Arthur.
"You must not have been keeping a very close eye on your men, hmmm? Or else I'm certain that particularly dashing Samatian dog wouldn't have trotted to my door?"
Arthur's lips twitched. "My men were not under any strict orders at the time. They have my trust."
The governor studied Arthur's face through narrow eyes; slowly, his greenish fang-like teeth bared. He held out a goblet of wine to Arthur, who cautiously accepted but did not drink.
"They have no idea, do they?" The governor moved to lounge on his lectus, a rolling laugh spilling out of his greasy bulk. "You trust them, but not with your little…secret…" Decius whispered.
"We will leave before dawn." They will forget you.
"On the contrary, Arthur, why don't you stay? The weather is inclement and we could use this opportunity to see some excitement, you and I. Samatian animals against the might of Rome, once and for all, ehh? Rome herself is hardly sporting entertainment like that these days."
Risking the penalties, Arthur set his goblet on the Governor's table and turned to leave, a strange urge to vomit and to sit in the familiar dynamic of his men spurring him.
"We will leave before dawn," Arthur repeated as he crossed the threshold and rounded the corner.
"Only if you're up to it Arthur…sweet dreams…" said Decius to Arthur's goblet before pouring the remaining liquid into the lapping flames.
1,2,3,4,5,6. Arthur leaned against the cold door, floating in thick relief. Dagonet, who was sharpening a knife by the fire, directed him to the food they had set aside for him. Countless times this day had Arthur been windless; now his tired mind reeled and writhed in his carelessness. The wine. The wine that I didn't—would not— drink, God…
He pressed knuckles to his teeth, sharply turning to not count his knights, but observe: Lancelot was cheating young Galahad at dice, Dagonet was busily making sparks, Gawain was stoking the fire, Bors was already snoring and Tristan—
"No need to worry, I spilled the wine. All of it. Before they drank." Arthur had to turn again, for Tristan was suddenly behind him on the opposite side of the table. His voice did not travel beyond the distance to Arthur's ears. The commander's eyes crashed close in blissful thanks at which Tristan inclined his head, no further questions.
"Is there a problem?" Lancelot would not put in the effort to spy and eavesdrop if he could avoid it by simply entering a conversation. He stood to Arthur's left, addressing them both, looking only at Tristan, warily. But Arthur responded:
"Discussing the weather. We're leaving early, in spite of what it may be." The chill in Arthur's voice reminded Lancelot he was not yet forgiven for his boldness and yet that did not trouble him. Tristan's blank expression and silent tongue both irritated and indicated that he was privy to something, anything, of Arthur's that Lancelot was not.
"What news of Rome, Arthur?" asked Galahad, still toying with the dice.
"Governor Decius has little news beyond that of the political realm. Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid."
The knights took after Bors shortly, listening to the heavy rainfall. Arthur made to sleep closest to the door (farthest from the hearth) and was the last to shut his eyes.
And the first to open them, minutes later. 1,2,3,4,5,6.
The night lasted long in this manner. In the youngest hours of the new day, Arthur was transfixed on the fizzing embers. Lancelot was transfixed on him. As Arthur rolled from his stomach to his side, two flashes caught his eye. Lancelot was sitting up against the wall just paces away. His eyes shimmered, inquiring, demanding, observant. He wanted Arthur to know he had caught him…again. He wanted Arthur to know he was watching intently, missing little.
Every time in his life before this moment, that gaze had made Arthur feel safe, even loved. Now it was threatening—threatening to the very one who gave it.