Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his Knights.


Chapter 2: Silence

Lancelot watched as Cerys'head and shoulders drooped. His eyes followed her as she walked over to the side of the courtyard and slowly lowered herself to a bench. He knew she was relieved to have the men home, all back safely, as evident from her smile before. He knew she was thinking of all that she now needed to take care of in the coming days. Such chaos their lives were for her, but he knew that she truly enjoyed it. He knew her so well, the years together knitting the close bond he treasured with her. He knew... he knew he was glad to be home.

He wanted to carry her away, smooth the furrow in her brow, comfort her as much as he needed comforting from her in the same way. She arranged her skirt over her legs and examined her tally sticks to add to the lists of whittle notches. He counted in his head. Red tally for weapons, green for armour. White for injury. Blue for troop wagon supplies. He knew there was one dyed black, that she kept hidden deep in her pockets, or in her rooms. Notches on that tally were for deaths. Women in the compound would threaten their children into obediance by telling them that Cerys would put a notch on her black tally for them if they did not behave. It was always met with a silent, obedient child. The threat of having a notch was enough.

Lancelot also knew she was lonely. With no husband or children of her own, she had adopted her duties as if married and she never fully relaxed. Even when with the men, or with him, he could see her planning, organizing and measuring in her head. He sighed and ran his hand through dusty hair, shaking loose more road grit and sand. He was glad to be home, thankful to be able to see her again. He remarked to himself that his chin needed a trim, as did his short-cropped curls. Such hair on a man, there was no controlling it! A sight he must be, dishevelled, dusty, stinking to high heaven of sweat and horse, dried blood. Always the metal tang of dried blood. It never left his memories, even when armour was cleaned. A visit to the baths was in order before dinner.

"Leave your tally sticks for a moment and sit with me." He said as he reached the bench and set her towel basket at her feet. He softly pulled a stick out of one hand, her whittle knife out of the other. Cerys blinked up at him, and moved slightly to allow his riding armour room on the bench. She had not realized him still in the courtyard, but was glad of his company now, evident by the smile now spreading on her face. Private moments with her so soon after arrival were rare indeed, and he felt she needed a companion now.

With a huge sigh, he sat, heaved off his greaves and pried off each boot. Hobnails hit dirt, and leather tops folded over, their laces spilling out onto the dusty yard ground. He stretched out his feet, wiggling the toes with evident pleasure. The long days on the road took a beating on the body, the feet no exception!

"My lord! Your feet have such an odour as to fell birds form the highest trees!" She joked as he grinned and wiggled them closer to her. She struck at his arm and tried to push him away. He raised an eyebrow in jest and placed his feet back on the ground.

He laughed softly, settling back against the wall with a satisfied sigh, head back and turned to­wards her, not bothering to reply to her barb. His swords made an impromptu backrest, of which he was fondly used to, head resting between hilts. She gazed back for a moment at him, patted his thigh, then rested her gaze on the now empty courtyard.

And such was their relationship. Such as it was with all the men in the cohort for Cerys, but with Arthur, Lancelot and the inner circle of knights, her connection was deeper. Their ties were long ago bound as children, and hardened by the more recent years of hardship together.

Her closest friendship of all the men was to Lancelot. Cerys had stuck by Lancelot through in­jury, heartache, drunkeness to the point where she would see him to a soft sleeping spot, or hold him up as he retched away a night of bad ale and wine. She stood by him when he was accused of coveting Guinevere from Arthur, against her own cousin. True, he was madly in love with the Queen when she was first brought home to the fort, but Guinevere was possessed by Arthur. She was truly made for him, as he was possessed by her in turn. In the end, Lancelot had given the notion of stealing her from Arthur a pass. It would have been like hitting an ox with a goose feather, expecting it to fall dead after one stroke.

But it was whispered by some, and with whispers come open ears to mind those looking to best Arthur. Not all of Guinevere's people wanted Arthur as King. Arthur was played the fool, and such almost lost both the friendship of his trusted knight and his cousin, against the fear of his greatest love betraying him. Since all was cleared, the two men were again on the battlefield together, and Cerys somewhere in the middle, as both mediator and confidante. She loved them both.

Many people saw the connection between Lancelot and Cerys. It was said in gossip that even­tually they would wake up one day and realize their love for one another. Each showed their desire, but seemed blind to the other. Unaware to her, Lancelot would watch her walk when in the same room, would seek her out in the feast hall, would always ride beside her at hunt. Una­ware to him, she would always make sure his cup was full, and his armour fixed first. Her eyes would find him each time he entered a room. His eyes would never leave her when together. Their laughter was constant when talking in groups, and many of the older women in the fort would smile and nod to each other. Wise eyes could see what young ones could not, or were not ready to.

In truth, Lancelot knew he loved her. He told himself over and over again that it was love as for a sister. He would not believe that Cerys would ever want a man like him. He killed for a living, he had seen things no man should see, and was haunted by them each night. He swore once that he would never burden anyone else with those thoughts or the loathing it brought on. So, he caged his heart, believing to protect her.

They sat in comfortable silence, both treasuring the absence of sound for different reasons. With the clamour of noise gone in the yard, the small birds came back to the trees ringing the edge. Cerys watched as a swallow flitted from branch to branch, warbling happily at his fortune to be in his trees again. A yellow-crested sparrow swooped down and picked up bits of stone and sand from the ground, and hopped about looking for better. A cat slunk by, cautiously aware of the prey returning to her hunting grounds. The grey stone walls radiated heat from the day, and it was warm, relaxing. As they sat, Cerys sighed and settled deeper into the bench. Lancelot rolled his leather trews to expose ropy shin muscles, bruised from long days in the saddle, stirrup leath­ers rubbing across them. The two looked completely satisfied to sit and soak in the silence and comforting warmth, too often taken for granted in each of their daily goings.

The sun crept further west, and Cerys knew soon it would be time to visit the kitchens and en­sure a solid meal. If not enough bread, it would not soak up the wine and ale that the men would drink, and brawling would send everyone over the edge. Tired men and alcohol were not a good combination. Today there should be laughter and singing, not harsh words and drunken punch­es.

"If not for the tally sticks I have wrestled from your grasp, I would swear you were still whittling away in your mind." Lancelot said. His eyes had never left her, despite his complete exhaustion and the warmth from sun hitting black leather, giving him the desire to close them, to catch a moments rest.

"I am afraid I have much to do with the men home. I have extra stores to bring up, the armoury to supply wood to, the squires will need repair thread and sinew for tents and baggage..." She sighed as she slapped her knees and rose. "I have done enough sitting, I must keep my mind to my duties. Will you tell of your exploits later tonight, after our meal? When we have tired of this silent peace?" She had read his need for quiet so perfectly. He was grateful to have her know him so well.

"Of course. How could I resist the chance to regale a lady with exploits so grand?" He said, quirking a smile, as he too rose and bent stiffly for his boots. A fortnight in the saddle made him feel like he was made of old, dried wood. Bruises from battle made him feel as though he had been beaten by a thousand Saxon clubs. Truly, he may have been, he mused silently.

Cerys turned to go, but then stopped. "Lancelot?" she ventured.

"Yes?"

"I am glad you are home."

Lancelot felt a wave of happiness hit him, for no other reason than she had said his name. A crooked grin met his face, he sighed and nodded. With that, she too smiled and turned to go through the doors to the kitchens, to prepare for the evening. Lancelot turned on his bare heel, discarded greaves and boots in hand. He half limped, half shuffled for his quarters. He truly needed to get out of these leathers before he turned from wood to stone.


Dear reader,

Thanks are in order for your continued time. I look forward to your discussion about my characters, and where you think they should go! As always, may your pens never stop moving on the page.

Cardeia