Thanks go to all of these unbelievably cool people: KnightoftheRoundTable, Ivory Novelist, GaBo0, L J Groundwater, Stahlfan125, Demus, Goody, Steelsings (really, I thought that review itself was long and wonderful!) Camreyn and Shauna.
Warning: Disturbing content.
Chapter FiveArthur's horse pawed the ground impatiently and snorted so the breath leaving its nostrils condensed into white clouds. "We should ride hard and fast," he instructed. He nodded to Gawain, who turned his own mount and spurred it forwards. It was dangerous country and the decision had been made to separate and make for a campsite they often used, nearly half way to Hadrian's Wall. Safety was in speed and secrecy, not numbers. Bors and Galahad were already well on their way.
Arthur glanced across at Lancelot. His fellow knight was perched precariously on Tristan's grey mare, his long bony fingers clamped tightly around the horse's mane. And he was pale- so pale that the bruise across his right cheek, livid purple, appeared too dark to be real. Is must surely be a bad dream.
"Are you well, my friend?" Arthur cursed himself as soon as he said the words. He tried, a little awkwardly, to apologise. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive. I..."
"I am fine," said Lancelot. Tristan's mare had not moved a muscle since he mounted her, yet he still had to cling on desperately to remain in place. It hurt too. The ache in his lower back had vanished and returned as fire. It was so painful that his eyes kept watering and from time to time he had to swipe at them with the back of his hand. Which in turn meant that one hand had to let go of the horse's mane and he would lose him balance and...
Tristan appeared, suddenly and silently. "Not a trace of us remains," he said, swinging himself up behind Lancelot with one fluid motion. "Take the reins and lean back," he instructed Lancelot, who reluctantly obeyed and tried not to grimace at a twinge of pain down his side.
"What about the campfire?" Arthur asked Tristan.
Tristan didn't even bother answering. He took the reins from Lancelot, gathered them in his left hand and then firmly wrapped his right around the younger man's stomach. "You won't fall," he murmured quietly. He touched his heels to his horse's flanks and the beast sprang forward easily.
After a time, Lancelot fell asleep.
Lancelot awoke nearly two hours later. He didn't speak for a minute but instead enjoyed the feeling of Tristan's solid mass reassuringly pressed against his back. This man was his saviour, he remembered.
"Where's Arthur?" he eventually asked.
"Not far behind." Tristan's voice was little more than a low growl.
Glancing around, Lancelot saw the landscape had changed little but he could gauge the distance they had travelled by the sweat covering the sides of Tristan's horse.
"Does she have a name?" he asked.
"Who?"
"Your horse."
"Flight." The name was said with reverence: one beautiful syllable rolling off Tristan's tongue.
"Why?"
"Because she flies."
Lancelot didn't stay awake for long; the gentle rocking of the horse -Tristan's horse with its hooves that scarcely touched the ground- lulled Lancelot into a state of half-sleep. It was a little odd, perhaps, but he felt safe with Tristan. It felt good to let his guard down and relax: to be able to forget his pain. It was a small respite but valuable all the same after nearly forty-eight hours of terror.
The camp was situated in a tiny clearing near the edge of a small, dense forest. The vast majority of trees were evergreens; their colour was startling amidst the greyness of the surrounding landscape. The camp backed onto a tiny stream, nothing more than a trickle in places but swollen all the same by the recent rain.
The first thing they saw on arriving was Bors' and Gawain's horses tethered close together and looking thoroughly downtrodden.
A moment later Gawain hailed them, waking Lancelot. "Password!"
"Audentis Fortunas Iuvat!" shouted Arthur, who had caught them up.
A moment later, Gawain emerged from the edge of the wood and waved a hand in greeting. "The Saxon army won't ever catch us now!" he said cheerfully. "Don't know why the buggers don't get horses!"
"They eat horses," said Tristan. He dismounted. An odd silence followed Tristan's remark as if the other knights found Tristan's voice so unfamiliar that they were left speechless. Tristan had a way of ending conversations.
It was Arthur who, sensing the unease, finally spoke up. "Well, I for one am starving. Who's cooking?" he asked.
"That would be Galahad," said Gawain with a smile. "Only the little sod's disappeared!"
Arthur laughed. "He must have been waylaid somewhere."
Bors appeared. "I'd take bets that he's found himself some damsel in distress," he said. "Women always go for the pretty ones!"
"Now that isn't jealousy I'm sensing, is it?" Gawain teased. "Not when you have eleven bastards and Vanora in your bed!"
Everyone waited for the inevitable joke from Lancelot. Have you ever noticed, Bors, how alike some of your kids are to me? Odd, isn't it?
No joke came and Gawain, Bors and Arthur all turned to look at Lancelot who was still clinging on, white knuckled, to Tristan's horse.
"How are you, Lancey?" asked Bors awkwardly.
"I've felt better." It was the understatement of the century but it wasn't a lie: Lancelot had certainly felt better.
"Aye, but you've felt worse too, eh?"
Lancelot nodded, sure that he must have felt worse at some time in his life. He searched his memory. Perhaps three winters ago when a Woad had shot him in the thigh, just inches away from his groin, and Galahad had been in charge of the cauterising iron.
Galahad had notoriously shaky hands for a knight.
Yes, he decided. He had certainly felt worse as he had watched the trembling piece of red-hot metal approach his manhood.
"Lancelot?" Gawain's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I'll take the horse."
"Yes... Thanks..." said Lancelot. He reluctantly slithered down from the horse, almost crying out in pain at the sudden change of position. He hit the ground stumbling and desperately grasped at Gawain's arm to remain upright.
"You sure you're alright?" asked the blonde-haired knight curiously.
"Ummm," said Lancelot weakly. He watched Gawain tend to Flight and dimly heard footsteps behind him.
"Bloody freezing, eh lad? Come and sit next to the fire." Bors clapped a firm hand onto Lancelot's shoulder.
Lancelot could not help it: he shuddered violently and a memory came to him, so suddenly that it caught him unawares. Hands shoving him down, face down so he couldn't see. The floorboards were hard; the hands were harsh.
"You're shivering," Bors said, misinterpreting Lancelot's shudder. His hand had moved lower down Lancelot's back, steering him towards a fire.
Hands on him, all over him, searing into his flesh. Like being branded over and over again. The same hands yanking down his breeches...
"Here, sit there and warm up." Bors finally relinquished his grip and Lancelot realised he was shaking violently.
"Thank you," he said softly. His voice came out as little more than a rasp.
"No problem." Bors glanced up at the hesitant winter sun. "Where on this earth is Galahad? He's had more that enough time for a quick fuck! My stomach's going to eat itself if it doesn't get food soon."
"Do you good to lose a bit of weight," said Arthur genially. He held out a blanket to Lancelot. "Wrap it round you."
Lancelot nodded his head weakly. He tried to wrap the blanket round himself but his shaking hands fumbled the job and Arthur had do it himself.
It had felt like hell and hell-fire. Like being ripped apart- torn in two. And all the time those horrible, cruel, scratching, clawing hands had wandered.
"Are you quite okay?" Arthur asked gently. He was kneeling right in front of Lancelot, his green eyes staring beseechingly into Lancelot's own.
"Where's Tristan?" Lancelot found himself asking. He felt strangely uneasy without the other knight.
"He's just having a look around." Arthur spat onto his hand and dabbed at a graze above Lancelot's eye. "You're a little worse for wear, brother, that's all."
He'd bitten his tongue and there was coppery blood in his mouth. Blood everywhere...blood between his legs. "You're nothing but Arthur's whore." That was Cynric, his foul breath in Lancelot's ear.
"Lancelot? What's up?" Arthur's voice was distant.
And then the day after there had been lots of them. All at once. Too many to bear. He couldn't take it. He really couldn't.
Lancelot suddenly went absolutely rigid. He was still for one moment before his eyes rolled back into his head.
"You're nothing." The world on fire- too many of them. "Arthur's whore." He was burning...
Lancelot's body violently convulsed, once, twice.
"What's going on?" demanded Bors.
Arthur grabbed hold of his friend and tried to stop the dreadful spasms. "Get Tristan," he demanded. "NOW!"
It had to end. Where was the numbness? Oh blessed numbness...
Someone was trickling broth into his mouth. It was good- of the knights only Galahad could cook so well.
Lancelot opened his eyes and found five armoured knights watching him. Tristan was crouched over him, with a spoon and a bowl of steaming broth. "What happened?"
Four of the knights looked uncomfortable. Tristan fed him another mouthful of broth with a blank expression on his face. Humans had never held much interest for Tristan.
"You blacked out," said Arthur softly, choosing not to mention the fit.
"Oh."
Lancelot felt embarrassed, ashamed. Knights didn't black out for no reason, collapse to the floor and wake up an interminable time later, being spoon-fed like a babe.
"I'm fine now," he said. "Really." He shoved Tristan and the spoon away and looked down at the ground. Suddenly, he felt so dirty. "There's a stream nearby?" he asked.
"Yes," said Arthur dubiously.
"I must bathe." Lancelot leapt to his feet and tried to ignore the stars that appeared before his eyes.
"It'll be freezing." Arthur was trying to be the voice of reason, as always.
And for once, Lancelot ignored him.
"You can't go alone," said Arthur gently. The implications behind his words were clear: you might black out again and then what would happen?
Lancelot looked at his fellow knights. Bors, Gawain, Galahad and even Arthur were looking at him as if he'd grown another head. Tristan alone seemed unconcerned: he was drinking Lancelot's broth.
"Tristan," said Lancelot shortly. He headed, a little shakily, in the direction of the stream. He didn't hear anyone following him but when he got there he found Tristan calmly waiting.
Lancelot hesitated and then removed his boots.
Tristan didn't say a word –at least he wasn't asking how Lancelot felt- but instead whistled to the sky. A moment later his hawk swooped down and perched on the older man's forearm. Its round orange eyes peered at Lancelot.
"Does your hawk have a name?" Lancelot asked, surprised to find that he was curious.
"No."
"Why not?"
Tristan shrugged. "Wild things don't have names."
It was a stupid thing to say: he knew it before he said it but he still voiced the thought. "You have a name," Lancelot said.
Tristan didn't laugh but he didn't say anything either. He took a mouse from the folds of his cloak–a dead mouse, of all things- and gave it to the hawk. He gently stroked the bird's feathers and ignored Lancelot completely. Seeing this, Lancelot quickly stripped off his clothes and leapt into the shallow brook. It was so cold that he almost squealed. He splashed about for a moment, and then scrambled back out of the water.
After a quick glance at Tristan (was the man really talking to his hawk?) Lancelot knelt on the bank, leaned down and splashed water over himself.
It was so cold it was painful and yet it felt wonderful to be clean again.
He became so absorbed in his task that he didn't see Tristan cast off his hawk; didn't at first notice his fellow knight's eyes slowly wander over the bruises down his back, down his legs- the inside of his thighs. Bruises shaped like fingers. And scratches too.
It wasn't until he saw the hawk circling overhead, that Lancelot turned around to face Tristan. Lacnelot watched eyes running up his arms and taking in the bruises, lingering for a while on the crimson bite mark at his throat. "All they did was beat me," he said. He tried to smile; tried to inject a little of the old Lancelot bravado into his voice. "They could have done much worse."
'Could they?' an inner voice whispered.
Tristan's face did not soften as he listened but rather a frown appeared. He actually shook his head. "You are..." he paused, determined to find the right words to express his suspicions.
No words came.
Lancelot looked up at him, his eyes soft and sad. "Torn," he said in an attempt to be at once cryptic and truthful.
And the sunlight was cold on the bruises that told a story: no words just harsh crude marks of black and purple and green that spoke for themselves.
And in an instant, Tristan understood what had happened. He averted his eyes.
"I am torn," Lancelot whispered.
Tbc...