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: On with the show. I would love to hear what you think. Enjoy!
Chapter 16: Smoke
The hawk was not in the habit of diving low into the keep, and her presence startled more than one of the tavern's diners. She generally kept to the watch-wall, occassionally visiting the roof of the stables or the barracks. Not even Tristan could recall seeing her fly so low. She scattered plates and inspired cries, throwing in a few of her own.
"Damn it, Tristan!" Gawain shouted, throwing up his arm to cover his face.
The hawk flapped its wings, agitated. Tristan frowned and offered the frightened bird his arm. She snapped viciously in his direction and launched herself up into the air with a scream.
Galahad reached across the table, rescuing his disturbed breakfast. "That was weird."
In silent agreement, Tristan watched the hawk climb up over the tavern roof towards the south watch-wall.
"Maybe she's jealous," Lancelot sniggered.
Tristan rose from the table, barely registering the other knights' words. He followed the bird out of the tavern and up the narrow stairs to the series of embrasures crowning the main gate. By the time he reached the dew damp stones, the hawk was circling frenetically over the hay fields just beyond the fort.
Narrowing his eyes, first at the horizon to the east, then at the solid Roman guard to his left, Tristan asked, "How long has the fog been coming in?"
"Since dawn, give or take," the soldier answered, stubbornly refusing to look at the Sarmatian.
Tristan raised his face to the wind. "And how long has it smelled like smoke?"
The guard looked over, clearly unimpressed with the knight's insinuation.
Suppressing a growl, Tristan took a final, photographic look of the horizon. Fog such as this rarely came in from the east at this time of the year, and the scent did not bode well for the villages in that direction. Without another word to the Roman, Tristan jogged lightly down the stairs to the first floor of the keep.
Arthur was in the great hall, a map spread out on the table before him. He stood over the scroll, holding the edges down with his hands, scanning the neatly penned names of Roman settlements. His breakfast sat untouched on the lacquered table beside him.
"Arthur," Tristan announced himself. He crossed the broad room purposefully, his bold entrance immediately lighting concern in his commander's eye.
"Tristan," Arthur said by way of greeting. "What news?"
The scout glanced quickly over his shoulder before speaking, a habit. "There is smoke coming over the trees from the east." He added, "It is no village bonfire."
The weathered paper of the map snapped back into a roll when Arthur removed his hands. He was walking hastily beside Tristan before either man consciously thought to turn. "Has the Roman guard returned from that direction this morning?"
"I have not seen them," Tristan said. "I do not know." He followed silently as Arthur leapt up the steps to the watch-wall to take in the sight – and smell – for himself. It was faint, to him, but with Tristan's word, there was more than enough cause for concern.
"I will speak with Nevius," Arthur said after a few moments. "Tell our friends to prepare. I am sure he will insist on waiting for his own guard, and we may not have that time." He left Tristan almost before he finished spilling the words into the air. The thought of a village burning filled his head with burning and his lungs with the hot, acrid taste of smoke.
-
The young black horse was clearly not impressed with the weight of the war saddle on his back. He trotted awkwardly at first, twisting his hindquarters around as if trying to escape the line. Cariad flipped her wrist twice, urging him to travel straight. The horse settled down after a few turns, and Cariad let everything fade away but for the long line between her hand and the animal's hackamore. "Good boy," she murmured, just loudly enough for the colt to hear. He snorted rudely.
Less than ten minutes later, Cariad turned her head at the distinctive sound of men's boots in the courtyard. As the knights appeared in the doorway, the horse took advantage of her divided attention, nearly tugging her off her feet as he began to buck and pull against the long line. The colt seemed to delight in his own mischief, his bright eye flashing under his flying forelock.
Sitting back on her heels, Cariad pulled the horse around, taking in the line inches at a time until the animal could no longer keep up his high spirits. He planted his front feet and spun around in his hindquarters, tossing his head. Clearly, he had won the game he had been playing. For her part, Cariad was mildly annoyed, slightly winded, and a little amused.
"Put him away, girl," Jols said firmly, patting the horse firmly on the rump as he passed. "We need the room." He disappeared for a moment around the corner and returned with four heavily accented bridles in his hands.
Cariad bit back her question and obeyed, quietly untacking the horse in his stall at the end of the row. The animal was determined not to make the process easy, as much as he may have wanted the saddle off his back. He bobbed his head obnoxiously every time Jols passed with some piece of tack or another and snapped his teeth in the air when Kay pulled his chestnut out of the next stall.
Cariad balanced the saddle over the stall door, draping it with the martingale and plain harness. She left the hackamore on for the moment, trusting the horse absolutely but with very little faith in his current ability to behave. Practicing her own very best behavior – her willpower – she set to rubbing the horse down, trying to satisfy herself just listening to the familiar song of the knights preparing for a mission.
Horses groaned into the gratifying pressure of the brushes, stamped their hooves, and grunted under the weight of their saddles. Leather straps slid and snapped. Buckles and bits sang, quivers rattled, strings twanged. Axe heads and blades clanged against buckles on harnesses. Bed rolls rustled quietly, tied to the back of the saddles, balanced on the horses' dancing hindquarters.
Cariad stood at last, daring to watch over the top of the door. The sight of the dance – perfect, memorized, mesmerized, purposeful – would never cease to sadden her. In her friends, she saw her father, trying to imagine what they felt, if anything, as they prepared to leave the fort, knowing that they might be moments from undeserved death or injury.
The horse brushed up against her from behind, hanging its heavy head over her shoulder. He lipped at her hands, searching for a treat of some sort. When he found none, he left a messy trail of slobber up the side of her face. She grimaced, wiping the grime away with the sleeve of her dress. She caught Tristan's eye mid-gesture and offered him the barest smile and a nod. He returned the latter, meeting her eye only a moment longer than necessary.
Cariad spared herself a reassuring smile, liking the feel that it left on her lips. She leaned against the wall as they left, back to the stable door. The horse chewed enthusiastically on the rein looping low from his hackamore. She snatched the worn leather out of the colt's mouth. "Don't do that," she snapped good-naturedly. She waited until she could no longer hear the knights' horses in the courtyard before she traded the horse his bitless bridle for a carrot. She scrubbed the tack she'd borrowed and, when she was absolutely sure the men would be beyond the rise of the hill, she finally left her place. Cariad found it was much easier to stomach their departure in silence, and she had not once been disappointed. Their stoicism was almost reassuring.
-
It had happened only twice in the past twelve and a half years that they lost each other for more than a few hours. The smoke led down the east road, a blatant trail of ash and senseless destruction. The villages torched were those far enough from the tree line to protect the forest, and they did not come to one burning live until mid-afternoon. Not one man, woman, or child was found alive in rubble. The hours of searching had blackened Arthur's hands and hopes. A woman, a Briton in Roman dress, ghosted every ruined doorway.
It was the sixth village along the road, the fourth safely distanced from the forest, that was still lit in yellow and orange catastrophe. Blue-skinned demons seemed to leap from the flames, weapons drawn and aimed with angry battle cries. There were more of the woads than the defenders, villagers and conquerors combined.
Excalibur sliced through the air before Arthur thought to draw it. The sounds of battle raged around him, punctuated most painfully by the screams of the villagers, bloodcurdling anguish burning up in the flames. For every blue savage he felled, he saw two more, their crude axes digging mercilessly into the backs of young boys barely large enough to defend themselves. It would take weeks of nightmares to sort out the details, to arrange the sounds and sights and smells – the burning flesh and wood – into a proper memory. Even then, it would not be clear how, when the flames had been smothered and survivors recovered, Arthur's company of Sarmatian knights had fallen to five.
For a few moments, they all sat silently on horseback, gazing across the devastated landscape, searching. Then, Galahad nudged his horse around to the right and circled the village slowly, scanning the ground with listless hope. He found no weapon or rondel, no horseshoe or faulds belonging to Roman horse or Sarmatian cavalry. When he came full circle, Galahad stared miserably at Arthur, waiting for direction.
Arthur considered the men before him. Bors was the worst among them, though the short gash in his arms did not look particularly devastating.
Bors gestured to his injury with his chin. "Just a scratch," he said gruffly.
Arthur nodded, then shook off the smoke still stinging his eyes. "Lancelot," he said at last. "There is a village, hillside, less than a league north of here. Escort the survivors there and see them settled." Arthur scanned those soot-stained villagers still standing: a middle-aged woman, two young men no more than sixteen, and a girl of ten or so, a red-faced toddler in her arms. He narrowed his attention to the two young men. "Are you able?" At their nod, he jerked his head towards Lancelot. "Follow that man and take care." To Lancelot he said, "Get them settled, then search north. Keep an eye to the wall and return there by sunset."
Lancelot dismounted and helped the girl onto his mount, shifting the toddler to the arms of the woman. As his second-in-command took the path north, Arthur turned to Bors and Kay. "Continue east. Do not engage. Return to the Wall by sunset." Kay nodded and spurred his horse, Bors following close behind.
Galahad glanced nervously at Gawain. "West," Arthur said, meeting each man's eye in turn.
"Sunset," Gawain said firmly. "Where do you ride?"
"South," Arthur answered, scanning the horizon in that direction. "They have simply gotten lost," he said, mostly to himself. "We will find them." He pointed his stallion north and left without another word on the subject, to himself or otherwise.
"Tristan doesn't get lost," Galahad muttered.
Gawain turned his horse sharply, deliberately knocking his mount's shoulder into Galahad's. He whistled sharply, scanning the still smoky sky against hope. "I never thought I would want the sight of that bird."
"Tristan doesn't get lost," Galahad repeated sullenly. "Dagonet doesn't get lost."
Frustration and rage flooded between Gawain's ears. "Shut your mouth and open your eyes, boy." He kicked his horse more forcefully than necessary or, indeed, kind, and spared no thought but to follow his own order. Tristan did not get lost. Dagonet did not get lost.