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 14: Bogged Down

The knights reached Caer Gwidich a full ten days after they left home, riding up on the gates to the town as drowned rats, a bleak looking cohort of men, with wagons straggled half a day be­hind them. They had met no resistance, which relieved everyone greatly, but made the long hours of tense waiting in the saddle all the much harder. Lancelot had found himself wishing for a bit of action, as riding endlessly in rain with one eye behind and one ahead was not really giv­ing him respite from his own thoughts.

The men bickered, their sodden tempers giving way to petty disagreements and arguments. Only Tristan seemed unaffected, but spent most of his time riding ahead, alone.

The Caer was a grey place, set on a hill overlooking a dark, mucky bog that surrounded on al­most four sides, save a causeway of rough stone, flattened to a bumpy road. The road through the outlying town within the walls was steep up, and the battlements of the inner compound around the keep were quite far up. It was a good drop if one jumped off the walls and into the mucky soup below, but felt but a stones throw from the outer wall, where large iron and wood doors barred entrance. The steepness of the hill surrounding the Caer made for excellent range from within the inner compound to defend the outer walls. A dream for defense, a nightmare to attack.

There weren't many trees, nor were there many young women or children. Endless dirty faces of men at arms, scruffy wet dogs, thin townsfolk with gaunt eyes and hanging clothes greeted them in the doorways of homes, in the town square. Old women would lift their skirts to the knights when they passed, looking for any sort of handout to be able to eat, leering at them, sometimes pawing at their legs. The mud was everywhere, the wagons, once arrived, sticking in some of the side streets as they made their way up towards the inner compound of the fort. Everyone was wet, tired, muddy, and hungry. Lancelot felt numb. Why did these people suffer? It made him wish for the fort... home, a warm fire, all the more. He longed to be home and lieing on a cushion in the hall with... with... her. He missed Cerys, and the rain was making it no easier. He hoped that there was less rain where she was and pulling in the crops with ease.

"Gods this place is desolate." Galahad muttered soberly as they finally dismounted, safely in­side the inner compound doors, in front of the stables. He kicked at a sodden lump of horse ma­nure, frowning. "It's old. There haven't been horses here for some time."

Bors nodded and hooked Raven's reins over his shoulder. He squinted and peered into the door­way of the stable. "Looks like we are the only ones then!" He said as he ventured forward. His stiff gait in through the door with one hand on his back indicated that he was as saddle sore as any of them, and eager to rest.

The rest of the packhorses and wagons arrived slowly, and everyone set to the task of untacking and bedding the horses for the night. Arthur went off in search of Praetus, whom he was told was the commander in charge of the troops stationed there, his red cape slowly turning grey at the hem from the mud and wet splashed up behind him. It must weigh a ton! Lancelot thought, and was glad for his shorter cape that did not reach the ground and pull at his shoulder plates like dead weight.

Lancelot watched Jols lead Meritus inside the stable, the man limping, a dark stain on the insides of both his calf muscles. He had ridden one of the packhorses for the past day, his own horse crashing into the mud with a broken leg. The racks had dug into his already beaten muscles and he was now blessed with red open sores. Lancelot led Klyndd in behind him, feeling Jols' pain with every step.

They had ridden too much in wet, and it would be a long night drying out and treating raw blis­ters, skin rashes, peeling off layers of cloth over bloody broken skin. Lancelot hated riding in the rain. He hated rain period.

Once Klyndd was untacked and his own cloak thrown over the horse's quarters to warm him, he pulled his dagger off his hip to pick the dirt out of his greaves and unbuckle them. He looked at it and realized that it was rusting. Damn infernal wetness! He sneezed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Gah!" He spat, to no one in particular.

A grunt from Perceval, who was having trouble undoing a leather belt turned his head. The wa­ter had swollen in shut, and the knot he had placed in it was now permanent. Water squelched out of it as he tugged and pressed, his dark hair hanging in his eyes and dripping onto the floor.

"Damn, how the hell am I going to piss if I can't get my trews open?" He swore impatiently, tugging at the belt, to no avail.

Lancelot handed him his rusty dagger without a word and turned back to his own sodden ar­mour. A long night indeed.

The next few days were no better. They ate little, took watch on the battlements and tried to find a dry way to pass the time. There were no women and no ale barrels to amuse the men, and tem­pers were short.

They had learned, from Praetus that half the men dispatched from Octuses troops had deserted halfway to Caer Gwidich, and were Gods knew where now, living in the forests or brought down by roving bands of Saxons. Once the remainder had arrived, they discovered that the Caer had been beating off Saxons like flies, and their crops outside the walls were wasted. What little they had, was no doubt being consumed by the people in the town itself, with none to spare for a wagon train to Deywr and a legion of men, let alone a long winter.

Lancelot avoided meetings with Arthur and Praetus, preferring to spend his time in the stables. He found it boring that Arthur and the man would spend hours reminiscing about Roman ways, Roman beliefs. Both were Pelagius followers, and argued philosophy into the early hours of the morning. Arthur was his friend, but he was too much a scholar sometimes, and it drove Lancelot mad. Soon Arthur would figure out a plan for them to get supplies to Octus and they could go home, he didn't need to hang around for that. Arthur would find him when he was needed.

So Lancelot took over stable watch there in the straw, enjoying the warmth from the horses and the smells that were as close to normal as he could get in this horrible hole of a place. Somehow, after four days in the Caer, the men found mead, and spent quite a bit of time gambling and drinking with the rest of the cohort. The knights, save Bors and Gawain were the only ones that abstained, none of them finding the taste of fermented honey and herbs much to their liking. Any wine from their own wagons, or in the compound, was long gone. Lancelot was in no mood for gambling or drinking, his thoughts elsewhere, much to his frustration.

That was where he was yet again on the afternoon of the sixth day, sitting on a soft bed of straw, his back to his horse's stall, Klyndd's head down beside him, chewing softly on hay. The sound of horses eating was quiet, rhythmical comfort, and coupled with the patter of more rain outside, it was lulling him to sleep, his chin touching his chest, legs sprawled in front of him, relaxed completely.

He had unwrapped Cerys' gift, the roll open in his hand. She had packed gauze for his injured finger, two branches of dried mint, and a bone needle with some black thread, carefully placed into the linen so it would not fall out of the roll. He had spent every evening looking down at it, wondering at it. How had she known he loved the smell of mint? It reminded him of her, and he played out images of her in his head. He was sure that he was going to regret letting himself think of her like this, but the long hours made him give into his feelings. Damn but he wished that things could be different and... and what? Always the same thought pattern, always the same conclusion before sleep, that he was not worthy of her.

He had used the gauze sparingly on his finger, but did not touch the mint. It stayed close to his chest in his cuirass every day, and he could smell the faint aroma as he rode, it staying dry under his armour. It had been the only thing keeping him sane, so he believed.

He roused at splashing coming up the rise towards the stable, and Bors thundered in, spraying mud and muck everywhere as he went, his face red, a smile from ear to ear.

"Get up Lancelot, get up, for the love of the Gods... You lazy goat! There's an attack!"


Dear Reader:

Here is part one of two chapters with Lancelot. I had it as one chapter, but it was monstrous, and had two different atmospheres, so I split it. I hope you see the difference between the two, and I hope that they flow well into one another.

These chapters were written with the memory of Bernard Cornwell's fantastic battle scene descriptions in his trilogy of Arthur books, and I cherish them dearly. I can only hope to be able to master his detail somewhere in my writing someday.

Thank you for your continued support withthe journey we have all taken with Cerys and her knights, and I hope that your own journeys take you to wonderful places, both in your writing and in your own lives.

Cardeia