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 20: Quiet Rescue
They had been riding for a week. The ground had frozen and the snow was starting. Slush and mud made them slip during the day; hard ground was their bed at night. Lancelot was not sure which was worse. Rain or frozen ground.
He turned his torso and popped his back in the saddle, still undecided after yet another poor nights sleep. Damn this weather, he wished he could do as Bors did, and sleep in the saddle, Raven plodding along behind Apollo, nose to tail. He could never sleep while riding, had never been able to turn off his senses that much.
During the day as they rode, Lancelot had found his thoughts constantly to Cerys and home. It would be good to just spend the winter holed up there, drinking, gambling, resting. He was tired. More tired than usual. He found himself yearning for her touch, and the warmth of her smile. He had long given up trying to push the thoughts away, but was not sure what to do about them when he returned home. He knew he was in love with her, that he was certain of now. He just didn't know if he could handle her rejection. Her backing away from him in the baths played through his mind again and again. He could see her eyes, scared and uncertain. She wouldn't want an animal like him; she had made that clear then.
He had wished to be home before snow. That wouldn't be possible now.
Most days the time was passed with idle conversation, scouting ahead with Tristan, and barely sleeping amidst Gawain's screams at night and the carousing of the footsoldiers. Despite the fact that their supplies ran low, the men always seemed to have ale to drink. Where had they gotten more? Lancelot thought the supplies drained at the Caer. He decided not to partake. If anything it would only give him a sour belly. He preferred wine, and there was none of that to be found anywhere.
Tristan had been even quieter since he had killed the slave girl, more removed from the other men. Arthur mentioned after they had been out for about two days that Tristan had gone back and burnt her body in the traditional manner of her people, and theirs, for that matter. It had surprised Lancelot that he would have done that. He was the coldest of any of them when it came to death and killing. He killed with a mechanical demeanour that made Lancelot shudder. The silence of his swings in the air, the smoothness of his sword strokes looked deliberate, like a dance set out well before the battle ever took place. Tristan never revelled in his battles; he just killed and moved on. With coldness and efficiency.
Lancelot supposed he thought her death as needless, but necessary as the rest of them did. Perhaps he too was tiring of the war, and his iron facade was breaking. He wanted to ask the man about it, but Tristan had never given him the chance.
Galahad had been up riding, and they had, thankfully, found no pockets of Saxons to flush out. It gave them all time to rest, and for various scrapes and bruises to heal.
On the seventh day out, they saw an approaching rider, galloping fast towards them. Bows were strung, arrows nocked. Arthur galloped to the front of the train and unsheathed his sword.
"Friendly! Friend!" The rider yelled as he approached. His hands and head were wrapped in rags to stave off cold, his Roman-like armour dented and scratched, his beard completely dishevelled. He looked like a skeleton riding.
"Arthur?" The man exclaimed as he rode up to the knights, slowing his horse. Gawain made a sound as they could se the horse was so thin they could count ribs. The horse's breathing shook his whole body. The man too, had seen no food for days, or at least looked in the same sorry state as his horse.
"Yes. I am Arthur. Identify yourself."
"I am Hector, Octuses eldest!" He said excitedly. "You have brought supply wagons to us, finally!"
Arthur clasped the man on the shoulder. "Hector, you have grown in the years. It is good to see you."
They exchanged more pleasantries, and then Arthur delivered the news to the young man. He sobered, nodded and smiled sadly to Arthur. A few moments later, Arthur motioned the group forward to ride, and they went to meet Octus and break the news to him. They were only a day's ride from Dewyr, and if Tristans memories of the land this way were still good, they were almost on top of Octuses stronghold.
"We rode all the way here to meet the man in his own home." Bors snorted.
Lancelot laughed at that. "Yes. But at least we could get a bath and a decent meal. I am getting bored with venison wrapped in sawgrass."
"Tired of my cooking?" Jols yelled from further back in line. "Maybe you'd like the job next!"
"That's what you call cooking?" Perceval snorted, a wide grin to Jols as he turned in the saddle.
Laughter peppered through the group of men on horseback. Lancelot was eager to be inside and off his horse, as they all were. The sooner they broke the news to Octus, the sooner they could turn for home. Arthur had to concede, even now, that there was no use in staying, he reassured himself.
They filed into the stronghold's entrance slowly, noticing the lack of wooden palisades, only burnt stumps where they had once stood. The blackened earth around the stronghold was evidence enough. The Saxons had burned their crops. All of them. Trees, wheat, barley... it was all gone. No wonder they had sent word to anywhere to bring supplies.
Octus strode out to meet them as they dismounted. Arthur and he embraced, the older gentleman dwarfed by Arthur in his armour, the Roman's traditional day armour old and worn, criss-crossed with cuts from battles. A holdback to the days before Rome left, he had stayed, just as Praetus and many others. Only Vortigern to the south was like Arthur, half Roman and half Briton. Except, no one trusted Vortigern.
The rest of the men organized the wagons as they came in the troops right behind. With frozen ground, it had been much easier to have the train keep pace this time out.
Lancelot stared around him. Where were the troops? Where were the people? He turned to look behind him. No guards, no people surrounding them. What had happened here?
Octus noticed his curious glances.
"They attacked early and in minutes everyone inside was dead." Octus said softly. Lancelot looked up and caught the General's eyes. There was such sadness, such grief that Lancelot was not quite sure what to say. He swallowed and nodded slowly.
"I'm... I'm sorry for your loss." He finally managed.
Octus shrugged and raised his hands. "We have nothing left here, and nowhere to go. I fear without the supplies promised to us by Praetus, we are not going to make the winter."
All Lancelot could do was look to Arthur, who looked back, equally worried.
Arthur gave his horses reins to Jols as he passed with Sky and Demetia. The three greys disappeared into the stable door and Arthur watched them, then turned his attention back to Octus.
"How many men here?" He asked suddenly. He began to pace.
"Myself included, my two sons and my remaining troops, only seventy, give or take." Octus replied, a sigh escaping his lips with it.
Lancelot watched, as did Galahad, who had joined Lancelot with Terryn in tow.
"What's he thinking up now?" He said as they stood for a moment.
Lancelot didn't reply, but he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking. And he knew they would be leaving a few men stronger than when they arrived. He groaned and started towards the stables. Despite his honour, Arthur had a huge heart and was forever putting it into his head where it shouldn't be. This would slow them down to get home. He hoped, at that moment, that Cerys had been able to get a good harvest in.
But, in truth, there was nothing here for these men. They would be better off wintering back at the wall, even Lancelot could see that.
Arthur turned to him and took breath to speak. Lancelot stopped, and without looking back said,
"I will see how we can adjust the loads for the extra people." and then continued into the stable, his horse nudging his back, impatient for water and feed.
A surprised look from Octus and a bemused look from Arthur followed Lancelot as he entered the stable.
"Right. Let's figure out what you need to bring with you and we'l l get packed. We leave tomorrow."
Octus could only nod and embrace Arthur's arm. A tear escaped out of the corner of a wrinkled eye, a tremor of the lip. Arthur grabbed the older man's arm back and nodded, smiling.
"We'll get you home with us and come spring, you can return here to start fresh."
With that, Arthur turned and followed the last of his knights into the stable to break the news.
Dear Reader:
I have a confession. Jols is played by a man named Sean Gilder. Sean Gilder is also in Horatio Hornblower, one of Horatio's crew, named Stiles. In the last episode of Hornblower, Jols has to cook on the Hotspur. He's a horrible cook! Hence my inspiration for the small dialogue exchange about venison in sawgrass. I could see Stiles riding along with the men, their jabs at his cooking familiar. Don't ask me how my mind works, I have yet to figure it out myself. Inspiration comes from where it may and I take it!
My question to you, my readers: Lancelot sees Tristan as mechanical on the battlefield. I see him as removing himself from the situation, tucking his emotional man well away while doing what he is trained to do. Perhaps he was not removed so, when he killed the girl? What do you think? Could this be the first time that Tristan has "felt" a kill?
It seems only fitting that Arthur brings Octus and his men home. So, we have more comapny for the winter! It will make for a warmer hall at dinner if nothing else.
Thank you again for your time with me, and if you look inside yourself, you may also find your emotional being that you have tucked away a bit of. I know I hve! it's time to pull a hidden piece out and examine it, and let it guide my pen.
Cardeia
