SEMPER LIBER
Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.
Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!
Chapter 2: Postmortem
Cariad wrapped her hand around her father's battle-worn one, helping him press his seal into the soft blue wax. She peeled the stamp from her father's hand and set it on the table by his cot. She took the letter from his loose grasp and fingered its soft edges. "Abba," she said, pressing her hand to his cheek. "I will do as you ask, for it is you who knows me best." She smiled sadly. In the language he had taught her, she added, "I love you."
She rose, acutely attuned to the swish of her skirts against the floor and her father's quiet, labored breathing. She faced her future in the flickering light of a single candle. "Find Arthur Castus," he'd said, reverting to his native language as his mind faded. "Deliver this letter to him, and only him. Do not compromise, and do not look back. Arthur is a fair man. Do as he bids you." He'd paused, then said the words that broke her heart. "Love freely."
Cariad slid the letter into the folds of her dress, pressing her orders to her breast. She lifted her father's dagger from the table and twisted its point on her index finger, testing its weight and blade. She snuffed the candle with lightly callused fingertips. She lay down beside her father, her ear pressed to his chest. She listened to his shallow, fading breath and slept, her father's dagger clutched tightly in her hand.
-
The sun rose. Cariad laid her hand on her father's cheek, cold beneath the dark blanket of death. Tears stung her eyes and she turned away. Silently, she selected a near-frozen apple, a chunk of day-old bread, and a water skein. She tucked these items into a saddlebag with her spare dress and shift. She tied her wool cloak over her shoulders and pulled on a pair of work-hardened leather gloves.
The young black horse, her only companion now, stood tied to a post outside the cottage. He nickered at the sight of his mistress. She pressed her hand against his neck. He huffed softly at her hair and clothes, his eyes and nostrils widening slightly. "I know," she said to him. "It was his time."
She saddled and harnessed the horse with numb fingers. She slid his hackamore over his head and secured the leather slip knot beneath his chin. In the cottage, she gave her father a final kiss, then checked that the letter was safe at her breast. She hid the dagger at her waist and gathered her father's bow and dao. She tied the quiver and sheath to the horse's martingale, then buckled her saddlebags onto the back of the saddle. Finally, she slung the bow across her back. "Well," she said, scratching the horse's poll beneath the strap of the hackamore. "It's time to go, boy." The animal bumped her shoulder with his muzzle.
She swung into the saddle and turned the horse towards a cottage closer to the center of the village. She circled around to a window at the back of the cottage and waited. A moment later, the head and shoulders of boy not much younger than her appeared. Cariad dug a small purse of coins from her saddlebags and held it tightly in her hand. The boy eyed the money greedily.
"We have an agreement," she said evenly.
The boy nodded, glancing quickly behind his shoulder before leaning further out the window. "I'll bury him at the age of the wood," he said. He held out his hand.
"You will go now," she said. "You will have it done before anyone in the village notices, and you will not let any man, woman, or child desecrate his grave." The boy nodded eagerly, and Cariad dropped the purse into it. "If you do not do as I have asked, may the gods give you no peace."
The boy swallowed. "I will go now." He closed the window and disappeared into the recesses of the cottage.
Cariad turned her horse to the north, using the rising sun as her guide. She squeezed his sides gently and set off a steady walk across the valley towards the woods. Dead grass and weeds twisted together, frosted with the morning's dew. They had not gone across one quarter of the valley before she kicked at the horse's sides, urging him into a swift gallop. Leaning close to her horse's neck, Cariad allowed herself to believe that the sharp winter wind was the cause of her tears.
-
Tristan watched the storm forming from the battlements at Badon Hill. He cut a slice of apple with his pocket knife and pressed the fruit to his lips. The apples would not be good for much longer. Winter was coming. If the dark mass of clouds to the south was any indication, winter would be arriving sooner than Arthur had hoped. Perhaps the weather would press the woads back into the woods just north of Hadrian 's Wall. Tristan lifted another slice of apple to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Perhaps a thick fall of fresh snow would blanket Badon Hill in a period of relative peace. Tristan thought he might not mind a few days' respite.
"Tristan!" Percival climbed the narrow stairs leading to the battlements. "Good afternoon, cousin," he said, laying his hand on Tristan's shoulder. Percival breathed in deeply, his hand falling to his side. He raised his eyes to the darkening sky, to the red flags snapping in the icy wind. He smirked at his cousin. "Where's Rhian?"
Tristan stared blankly across the plain to the edge of the wood. "Don't call her that."
Percival grinned. "I must call her something," he insisted.
"Not that," Tristan said. He pressed his lips into a tight line.
"Then what would you have me call her?"
Tristan finished his apple and tucked his knife away. "You don't have to call her anything," he said wryly. "You have no reason to."
Percival turned, leaning against the wall that separated them from a three-story drop to the frozen ground. "And if I had to call her something?"
"Percival," Tristan said, gazing out across the fields. "You need to take up a new game."
Percival laughed. "What do you call her?"
Tristan whistled sharply, eyeing his cousin with mock distain. "I don't know her name and neither do you. I am not likely to know it tomorrow, either, so you might want to arrange for alternate entertainment tomorrow afternoon."
"And they say you can speak with the animals," Percival said dryly.
"To them. Not with them." Tristan narrowed his eyes. He nodded his head towards the edge of the wood. "Do you see that?" he asked.
Percival turned and searched the border of the valley. "A rider." He raised an eyebrow and smirked at Tristan. "This afternoon's entertainment, perhaps?" At his cousin's silence, Percival returned his attention to the rider. Out of the darkening sky, Tristan's hawk appeared, circling loosely above the approaching strangers. "Hm. Seems Rhian has brought you something."
Tristan whistled again. The hawk straightened its orbit and dove towards the battlements. She landed neatly on the wall beside Percival and looked at him curiously. Tristan turned to his fellow knight in annoyance. "Have you been feeding her again?"
Percival fingered a piece of dried meat tucked deep in his pocket. "Of course not." The bird screeched.
"You may as well give it to her," Tristan sighed.
Percival did so with an impish smile. "Come then," he said, turning swiftly on his heel. "Let's see what she's brought us."
Tristan bit his tongue and followed his cousin down the steps to the courtyard below, the hawk digging her talons into his forearm. "Hey, hey," he said to her. He pressed two fingers against the bird's breast, urging her to perch on his fingers instead of clawing at his skin. He touched her crown affectionately. "That's better, eh?"
-
Gawain bent his head over his axe, sharpening the blade with long, careful strokes. The arrival of a horse and rider sounded in the courtyard, followed shortly by the firm, proud tones of an argument. Gawain stood slowly and set aside his axe and whetstone. He laid a hand on the stable door, surveying the scene. A young woman in a wool cloak stood beside a dark horse, both strangers visibly weary. A pair of Roman guards barred their path to the stables, trapping them in the courtyard.
"I have been sent to deliver a letter to Arthur Castus," said the young woman said evenly.
One of the Roman soldiers laughed. "Arthur need not be bothered by your request. You will give the letter to me," he said, holding out his hand expectantly.
The young woman pressed her hand to her breast. "I will not," she said. "I was ordered to deliver it into his hand." She stared boldly into the eyes of the man before her. "You may tell me where he is and take me to him, or you may direct me to someone who will."
The second guard frowned, his mouth digging a deep crease into his face. "Who are you to make such demands?"
Gawain lifted his head as Percival and Tristan descended the stairs from the battlements, their boots sounding on the stones behind and slightly to the left of the young woman. Her head turned almost imperceptibly towards the sound and her hand flew to her waist. Gawain frowned and stepped forward, reaching his hand towards the guards in a gesture of peace. "Wait," he said, too late.
The first guard grabbed the girl's arm, drawing her hand away from her waist. A dagger no longer than Gawain's hand gleamed dully in her hand. She reacted immediately, twisting her arm in a futile attempt to loosen the guard's hold. The dark horse startled and backed away with an alarmed snort. "Wait!" Gawain repeated, wrapping his hand firmly around the Roman soldier's wrist. He glanced at the guard, then the young woman. "Drop it," he said, his voice resonating with dangerous authority.
The young woman flinched when Tristan's hawk screeched and launched herself into the air, out of the tension electrifying the narrow courtyard. Her hand shook, her fingers white around the dagger. Gawain sought her gaze and was rewarded. She looked at him, her eyes wide and shining with what Gawain suspected to be the onset of tears. She blinked, and the tears were gone.
"Drop it," he repeated.
The young woman pursed her lips and huffed a frustrated breath. She searched Gawain's face openly. At last, her lips parted and she spoke to him. "I mean no harm."
Gawain vaguely registered Percival's sharp intake of breath and Tristan's rapidly approaching footsteps. He loosened his fingers slightly. "Drop it," he said a third time, curiosity replacing the forcefulness in his voice.
She stared him in the eye, unabashed but visibly relieved, and she let loose her weapon.