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!
A/N#2: This got really dark really fast. I don't know if it works, but it's happening, so let me know what you think, if you are so inclined. As always, I sincerely hope that you enjoy!
Chapter 6: Wounded
Heavy trunks littered the foyer of the Roman estate like a herd of gilded cattle. Tristan hid his aggravation better than some of his fellows, but none embarrassed Arthur by expressing his anger. The Roman's younger daughter took one look at the lot of them and burst into tears. "Truly frightful," her mother said to her husband, not bothering to hide her contempt. "These are not Roman soldiers."
Ennius motioned to a plain girl with sad eyes. "My daughter is suddenly ill," he explained, smiling tightly at his wife. The servant hurried across the foyer to rescue the little girl from the savages, clearly as fearful of the knights as her charge.
"You will stay here tonight and escort my family to Badon Hill in the morning," Ennius said.
Arthur's green eyes were hard with unspoken rebuke. "My men will require a hot meal and a proper place to sleep. I expect our horses to be put up with your own," he said, expressing his displeasure in no uncertain terms.
Tristan and Gawain dined in the hall with the others, but left for the Roman's stables shortly after, pausing only for Arthur's subtle nod of dismissal. Tristan spread his bedroll out in the loft and lay down, exhausted and unable to close his eyes for fear of seeing her face. He missed her.
Gawain climbed up the ladder a few minutes later, a tin can swinging from his hand. He pulled off his boots and helped himself to the Roman's imported supply of leather oil, massaging it into his gear until it shone. He wiped his fingers on the hay and held the tin out to Tristan. "Want some?"
"No."
"Think your girl has enough sense to lay low while we're away?" Gawain teased. He unpacked his bedroll deliberately noisily.
"She's not my girl," Tristan murmured, annoyed. He closed his eyes.
Gawain chuckled. "No," he mused quietly. He let a good five minutes' silence lapse between them before he spoke again, more serious this time. "I do worry," he said slowly.
Tristan grunted.
"They didn't take too kindly to Vanora's taking up with Bors at first," Gawain said. He hummed mirthlessly. "I don't think they forgave her taste until after the second one was born."
"Cariad has taken up with no one and is half-Briton besides," Tristan finally barked. "Go to sleep."
Gawain sighed and closed his eyes. "It's not the Britons I'm worried about."
-
Jols woke suddenly, disoriented at first by his surroundings. The unhappy groan of a horse reminded him. He rose carefully from the makeshift cot he'd set up in the stall nearest the colicky pack horse. The mare was leaning against the side of her stall, head bobbing up and down as if she were dizzy. Jols threaded a rope through the mare's halter and led her from the stall. "Come on, then, lass. Let's go on another walk."
He led the horse from the stable, walking her slowly around the cobbled edge of the courtyard. The mare stumbled a little, and Jols put a firm hand on her shoulder. "You'll feel better soon," he promised. He rubbed his hand down her shaggy mane. "Just keep walking."
The mare dug in her heels two laps later, almost falling on the ice as she tried to bolt away from entrance to a nearby alleyway. Jols stepped backwards, leading the frightened animal in tight circles around him until she stopped, her body shaking slightly. "What do you think you've seen?" Jols asked, peering between the buildings. He frowned. "Hello?"
The mare snorted, her wide eyes focusing again on the phantom: a pile of laundry spilled in the alley. Jols gave the mare her head, and she stood stock still while he stepped into the narrow space to examine the debris. He lifted a shirt from the ground, a deep frown dragging at his lips. He blinked once.
"Come on, little lassie," he said to the mare, half-dragging her back to the stable. He bolted her in her stall, retrieved a lantern and the spilled laundry basket, and followed the spotty trail of blood to the entrance of the knights' quarters.
-
From her stinging hands to her throbbing head, Cariad was numb. She went about the motions as if caring for an injured animal. She pulled the half-empty wash bucket from the corner of her room to the side of the bed. She tore a strip of clean linen from one of Vanora's old nightdresses and dipped it into the freezing water. She rang the cloth out and pressed it to her temple, watching without seeing the droplets of blood and water running off her hand and making concentric rings in the bucket.
When the side of her face felt cold, she pulled the cloth away and dunked it back in the bucket. She wiped her face clean, unaware that she had cried at all until she felt the cold sting of the cloth against her eyelids. She made slow, clumsy work of her hands, her left rendered temporarily useless by the blade of her own weapon.
The dagger perched on a small table by the door, carefully placed between her comb and a pair of leather laces she'd taken to mend Tristan's vest. She wondered how it was that a blade could seem dead.
Tristan. She hissed when tears pricked at the back of her eyes.
She startled when Jols banged on the door, his urgent voice echoing in the hallway. After a few moments, she rose and pulled back the bolt. She held the door open a crack, studying Arthur's squire blankly.
Jols noted the blood dried beneath Cariad's nails and her swollen lip. "Who has done it?" he said harshly.
Cariad shook her head. "It's late, Jols," she said, her tongue thick in her mouth. "I promise you, I've had worse." She tried to smile, but the expression tilted off into a watery frown.
"Arthur…" Jols began.
Cariad opened the door further. "Would you help me with my hand?"
Jols looked down at her palm. The laceration was ugly, but little more than a flesh wound. He took her lightly by the wrist and turned her back into her room. He tried not to react when he beheld the dagger, its dark hilt sticky with blood.
"Arthur will want to know the man's name," Jols said. He tore another strip of cloth from the ruined nightdress and knelt on the floor at Cariad's feet. He pressed her upturned hand flat with strong, gentle fingers.
Cariad cleared her throat. "I was not hurt," she said slowly. She waited while Jols tied the makeshift bandage across her stinging palm. Jols considered the scrapes on the heels of her hands. He looked up, asking her not to lie to him. "I was not hurt," she repeated, and he believed her.
Jols rose to his feet. "Bolt your door," he ordered. "I'll send up a hot bath in the morning. The men will be back in the afternoon. I'm seeing to a sick horse in the stables, but I'll stay the night in the next room."
Cariad couldn't force the grateful smile she so wanted to give her caretaker. "Don't neglect the horse for me. Her life is in danger tonight, not mine."
"You will call if you need me," Jols insisted. He watched her face, pale and dull with shock, for any sign that she was listening. He found none.
"I will," Cariad said, her mind already bent on sleep. "Good night, Jols." She retreated into her room and slid the bolt closed. She stripped off her dress and pulled on her nightshift. She slipped beneath the wool blankets. She wondered briefly what Arthur would think before her thoughts turned to Tristan. The sudden foolish longing for his presence – for the kind of warm comfort he had not once offered to her – twisted somewhere in her stomach. She turned her face towards the outer wall, breathing in the cold air that seemed to penetrate the stones.
-
Galahad saw the flash of blue a slow moment before the first arrow struck. By his estimate, the fort was less than a league away. "Woads!" he warned, drawing his bow and firing a shot in a single, practiced motion. His arrow pierced the woad's throat, its fletch buried against the blue flesh.
There were less than ten of the blue devils hidden in the snow-dusted pines. A cacophony of singing bows, hoof beats, and blood-drenched cries echoed off the low grey sky. The natives never emerged from the tree line. Tristan felled two of their attackers to the tune of Gawain's furious cry.
Gawain's bow fell to the ground. He spun his horse towards the carriage, where the Roman woman and her daughters screamed loud enough to summon the entire countryside. He wrenched the woad arrow out of his own bicep, anger and adrenaline masking his pain. He drew his axe awkwardly in his left hand, prepared for close combat if the occasion arose.
"Can you ride?" Arthur shouted, circling the carriage with a keen eye on forest's edge. Gawain nodded shortly.
Galahad felled another two, and Tristan matched his contribution with hawk-eyed accuracy. Tristan's horse hopped backwards with a nervous snort. Kay fired a shot into the back of a retreating woad and held his body ready until the last of them disappeared into the dense, foreboding trees.
"Cowards!" Galahad shouted, his bow still trapped in his cold, aching hands.
"Shut it," Gawain hissed through clenched teeth. He stowed his axe and clutched at his bicep.
Tristan nearly fell as his horse stumbled backwards once more. He stared, blankly mesmerized by the ooze of fresh blood flowing from his cousin's chest. Percival's horse had hobbled itself some twenty feet away, its reins tangled around its forelegs. Tristan knelt on the cold ground before he had the thought to, his head a roaring tempest of devastation.
Galahad stumbled to the ground beside him. "Percival," he said, his voice strung tight. "Get up, you son of a whore!" he shouted, ripping the crudely fletched arrow from his dearest friend's chest.
Tristan pulled his blade and pointed it ruthlessly at Galahad's throat. His hand shook.
"Tristan," Arthur barked.
Lancelot leapt from his horse and grabbed Tristan roughly by the collar, hauling him backwards. Tristan's fingers unfurled from his cousin's wrist, any reluctance he might have felt washed away by the cold that had taken over his body.
"It's done," Lancelot said stiffly, nearly throwing Tristan to his feet.
Arthur flung open the carriage. "Is anyone hurt?" The Roman woman and her daughters clung to each other, shaking and clearly unharmed. He slammed the carriage door closed.
Kay untangled the dead man's horse and led him back to his master. Bors shoved Galahad away and lifted Percival onto the frightened animal's back. The horse shook, clearly upset at the lifeless burden on his back.
Tristan mounted stiffly. He angled his horse close to Percival's and took the grey's reins. He numbly determined to feel nothing but the occasional rub of the other horse's barrel against his leg. Galahad took up on the other side of Percival's horse.
Arthur rode forward, unable to look his men in the eyes. There was nothing to be said that his knights would hear, and nothing that would ease his own sense of failure. Lancelot fell back behind the carriage. Beside him, Gawain wiped his bloodied hand on his leg and let himself bleed.