Chapter 11: Freedom
Hadrian's Wall. Tristan had not felt such relief before in seeing the massive architecture, stretching and winding like a grey snake over miles of green land. Now, with an orange sky as a backdrop, it seemed to glow before the setting sun, as if on fire, warming his cold and stiff limbs.
The villagers cried with joy upon seeing the Wall, singing praises to their gods, and immediately picked up pace. Tristan could see soldiers at the fort busy with the gates, and before long metallic screeches sounded their arrival.
Strings of curious villagers crowded around the caravan, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Tristan recognized Bors' children and spotted Vanora, looking more concerned than angry for once. Bors looked straight ahead, ignoring the enthusiastic yells of his little bastards, and even the gentle, lingering hand of his wife on his thigh as he rode by. Tristan understood- the pain was still too near.
The street narrowed, and Tristan found himself riding beside Lancelot. The normally cocky knight hung his head, one hand idly resting on his horse's neck while the other held the reins loosely. His eyes were bloodshot, his proud shoulders slumped. The scout raised his chin and stared ahead at Arthur's back- straight and stiff as a board, his façade masking his dejection and guilt he felt inside.
The stables came into sight, and only the knights, the horse carrying Dagonet's body and the carriages entered the courtyard separated from the village by tall, iron-wrought gates. Peasants gathered outside the courtyard, watching intently as the men halted their horses next to each other in a disciplined line, and the carriages rumbled to a halt by the entrance.
Jols along with a few stablehands appeared, respectfully holding the horses while the knights dismounted. As Tristan's tired feet hit the cold ground, the Bishop came bustling out of the crowd and into the courtyard along with his Roman attendants, his brightly-coloured silken priestly robes an ironic contrast to the dark atmosphere.
"Ah! Christ be praised!" he cried, throwing his hands towards the heavens to emphasize his point. "Against all odds, you have triumphed! Come Alecto, let me see you!"
From the luxurious carriage, the young boy stepped down warily, coldly dodging the Bishop's zealous greetings with frosty eyes and tight lips. An awkward and harsh silence descended on the stone courtyard, and at the moment, the boy Lucan hopped off the Roman carriage where he had stayed for the remaining of the journey, past the guards and ran straight to Dagonet, Guinevere in pursuit.
"Boy!" shouted one of the guards, unsheathing his sword and started to chase after him.
There was a metallic brush of metal against leather, and Gawain's dagger was at the guard's neck.
"Touch him and die," Tristan heard the furious knight hiss menacingly.
The Bishop laughed nervously, trying to hide the disgust in his eyes while he regarded Gawain, who coolly whipped away his weapon and returned it to its sheath. Lucan was weeping at Dagonet's side, reaching up to touch the giant hand that was uncovered by cloth gently, Guinevere's hands wrapped protectively around his shaking shoulders. Tristan felt an ache in his heart as he watched the scene unfold, the young boy hanging onto the limp hand, brushing his wet cheeks against it. Then, he noticed the big, black ring, and carefully slid it from Dagonet's finger. Cradling it, he looked up at Guinevere, and she forced a weak smile, brushing his tears from his face, while her own tumbled down her face.
"Great knights!" the Bishop interrupted the silence rather timidly, flapping his hands. "You are free now! Bring me the papers!"
Tristan watched a two soldiers approach, one holding the red, square leather box he had seen before, that night at the Round Table. A soldier unlatched the box, revealing seven white scrolls of paper- their freedom.
"Your papers of safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire!" continued the Bishop with feigned keenness, gesturing towards Arthur. "Take it, Arthur! Take it!"
All eyes settled on Arthur, his face a stony grey, his jaw strained. He did not move for a moment, then he stepped forward, each step echoing in the silent courtyard. He stopped in front of the Bishop, his green eyes boring into the elder man's.
"Bishop Germanius," he said quietly and slowly, as if tasting the gall of every word, his tone dead. "Friend of my father."
With another steely look, Arthur swept out of the courtyard, his cape billowing behind him as he stormed away. As if on cue, Lancelot took his commander's place and plucked the scrolls from the box, then turned to his brothers.
Tristan's heart pounded as Lancelot handed one to each man. Gawain, Galahad… he straightened his back, and met Lancelot's eyes as he thrust the scroll forward, a fierce fire in his eyes.
Reaching out, Tristan wrapped his fingers around the white paper. His freedom, finally. After so much blood shed, so many lives taken, so many sleepless nights- it was in his hands.
He lowered his eyes and stared at it. The snowy white parchment was smudged with dirt from his hands, as his supposed joy was tainted with the agony of Dagonet's death. It was not supposed to turn out this way.
The freedom he was now clutching did not seem as alluring as he expected it to be. It was, after all, a mere sheet of paper. A certificate pronouncing the end of slavery for him.
A piece of parchment. His fate was sealed by this piece of parchment.
"Bors."
The bald knight was glaring at the ground, his hands held stiffly at his sides.
"Bors," Lancelot said again.
As if compelled by an invisible force to turn his head, Bors slowly did so, his watering eyes staring hard into Lancelot's. The latter held up two scrolls, swallowing hard.
"For Dagonet," he said, trying hard to suppress the emotions in his strained voice.
Bors looked down at the parchments held against his chest, defiance etched his sleep-deprived face.
"This doesn't make him a free man," he spat, snatching the scrolls. He turned to the bewildered Bishop, his eyes ablaze with fury and hurt. "He is already a free man."
Throwing one of the scrolls at his feet, Bors yelled, "He's dead!"
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The stone floor was cold and hard, and Abigail shifted in hopes of finding a more comfortable spot to sit on, but it was just colder ground, and she cursed under her breath.
Her cell was clean and dry, but empty, as the prison was. There was not a sound in the stony dungeon, not even the scuffle of rats or other creatures. There was just the quiet, steady rhythm of her breathing, and the silence rang in her ear, making them ache unpleasantly.
The last rays of dusk were dimming, and Abigail glared at the small, barred window on the wall. Soon all would be dark, for there were no torches as far as she could see, and she knew no one would bother to light the dungeons for a single prisoner.
Her stomach kept reminding herself that she had not eaten for a whole day, and her throat felt dry and bitter. She was shivering without her cloak, which had been flung to the ground as she was dragged here by some Roman guards.
Gritting her teeth, she tilted her head, resting her skull against the wall.
Did she deserve this? She could not help thinking. Her thoughts kept wandering back to the day before, when she could have ran away with the Saxons, told them their bearings, and killed the whole caravan without fuss. But she stayed, did she not? She stayed and- good heavens- she saved their lives.
Silently, the remains of dusk slipped away, engulfing her in darkness. She let out a small growl, anger and silence tearing up her soul. How dared they cage her like an animal when she had spared their lives!
But then, they had spared her life. She had expected to be killed, especially under Tristan's sword. She had been short on him, and she had seen his fury break through his emotionless face several times.
You have no honour. You are not worthy of death.
Salty tears stung her weary eyes, and she inhaled sharply. Did they not understand? She thought fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. She did not have a choice, why could they not understand?
Footsteps disrupted her thoughts, and she stilled. She could clearly distinguish two pairs of feet, one steady and hard, the other light. She opened her eyes, and saw light going her way.
Arthur and Tristan appeared at the iron gate, both bearing a torch. She watched Arthur open the gate with a scowl, not budging from her corner. Bending so he could enter without hitting his head, Arthur approached her slowly, his face fatigued and grave. The other knight stayed outside the cell, his gaze somewhere in the darkness.
Abigail recalled the night before, and a flush coloured her cheeks. She wondered what came over her that moment, when she let him touch her. Was it the spell of the ocean? The peacefulness of night? Or was it him?
Arthur was now crouching in front of her, his eyes holding her open glare evenly. She stared at his weathered face- it was so tired, so sad, leaden with guilt.
"I believe I owe you my thanks," he said in a low voice, but it sounded like a shout in the soundless dungeon.
Abigail stared hard at him in disbelief. She had killed her brother, but now he came to thank her himself. Yes, it was what she thought she deserved- but in truth, did she deserve it? Was one good deed enough to undo her sins?
"You are free to go once your wound is healed," continued Arthur, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "You are free to find a path that leads you away from your past, to start anew."
Arthur stopped, and looked away. Then he looked back at her, studying her face.
"You are young, you have so much to live for," he said quietly.
Abigail could not suppress the sigh that slipped from her lips. She was young, she was just past eighteen winters, but Arthur was wrong. She had nothing to live for. No paths could lead her away from her haunting past, every single one led her to the same destination- a future of emptiness, of certain death- most likely in the hands of a Saxon.
No. He did not understand.
"Tristan," Arthur interrupted the silence after a few moments. "Find her a room."
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He knew there was only one room which stood empty. Arthur knew it as well, and he seemed determined enough to let her stay. If that was his commander's order, so be it.
They walked in silence, both of their trained footfalls light as they mounted the winding stone stairs that led to their quarters. He heard her struggle a bit with the steps- she was exhausted, though she tried hard not to look like it. Her chin was held high, her back straight, shoulders back.
He halted at the top of the stairs and watched her. Her hair was slung back, tied up with a string. She kept her left hand on the wall, and she walked laboriously, a scowl on her brow.
Suddenly, she stopped, and tilted her chin to glare at him. In the light of the torch, her face was paler than before, and her sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce his.
Wordlessly, he reached out, offering her his hand. He saw her astonishment, but she quickly hid it and stubbornly ignored his outstretched arm, and quickly did away with the remaining steps.
Aloofly, Tristan retrieved his arm and led her down the corridor without even a glance in her way. The quarters were empty, the doors open and the rooms dark. The men were most probably down at the tavern. There was no place to go.
He stopped at the last door on the right, and walked inside, holding his torch high.
It was a tidy room with the privilege of a private bathroom. The window was shut, and Tristan decided it was best to remain that way. At the table beside it, he lit two of the candles lined neatly against the wall, and swept his eyes across the room.
Dagonet did not own much. Tristan immediately spotted the chest he kept under his bed, and a few daggers on the window ledge. He collected his friend's few possessions with great care, knowing that Dagonet treated his precious belongings in the same manner.
He had always been gentle and patient. Tristan remembered the countless times he lost his temper when he was young, angry with the injustice and brutality of his life, and Dagonet had been there to comfort him, to put a hand across shoulders and give him a knowing smile. Dagonet had always looked out for him, he always had.
The scratch of shoes against wood brought Tristan out of his reverie, and he found the girl staring at him.
"Do you need anything?" he asked stiffly.
She glanced at the window, then back at him, and shook her head once.
Tristan nodded curtly and moved towards the door, but she stopped him, and he turned around.
"Inform me of Dagonet's burial," she said quietly, her eyes downcast.
Surprised, Tristan tried to find her eyes, but she resolutely turned away.
With one last glance at her back, he strode across the room, and closed the door behind him.
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Hey guys, sorry for the short update, I'm busy with a history test. Yeah, tests again. I hate them! Ugh! Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter! You guys rock! My apologies that I won't be replying individually, I'm very tired and I still have tons of things to do. Yeah, life is hectic. Oh, in case you're wondering, I won 4th in the jumping competition last week :D I don't know about my dressage competition yet, I left before the results were announced. But I'll know tomorrow.
Just a note, I won't be following the movie for the following few chapters. Remember that the Saxons have been thrown off course thanks to Abi and Tristan (and Bors), so it will be a few days before the Saxons arrive. Yeah, and that's it! Remember to review! My reviewers drive me on :)
