Disclaimer: I don't own King Arthur, and I'm making no profit from this story.
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Chapter Four: Leaves and Ladies
Tristran held up his hand suddenly, and pointed to the trees ahead. Three limp bodies were slumped on the leaf-litter, a dead horse sprawled beneath the boughs of an old chestnut. The body nearest to them was without a head. Mordred nodded grimly at Tristran, and they advanced into the open, weapons at the ready.
Tristran recognised Percival's body instantly, despite the fact he had been stripped of his armour. His cousin had had that armour made for him with the pay he had saved up over the years from serving Rome, and it was his pride and joy. It had cost a hideous amount, and Tristran had cautioned him against it, but Percival was determined. The armour did not save you in the end, my brother, thought Tristran, dropping to one knee in front of his beloved cousin's corpse to pray. He felt Mordred's presence beside him, the second-in-command swallowing tightly and shifting on his feet. Finally, Tristran stood up.
Mordred put a hand on his shoulder firmly. "I'm up for hunting them if you are. Arthur will know to go on without us."
Tristran nodded, grateful for the support. "Thankyou, Mordred."
The dark-haired man shrugged sadly. "No need. I'm sorry, Tris. We'll find them, and when we do, you can have first pick." He wasn't joking, Tristran realised with grim satisfaction. Very well. He would have the two tattooed ones, for he had no doubt this was their work. "So, who are the others?"
Tristran walked over to the headless corpse nearest him. It was a male, strongly built and tall, dressed in the dark greens and greys of a winter forest. Woad. The victim of a skirmish between tribes? He doubted it. There was more to this, he could feel it. The man in front of him was familiar, and Tristran could have sworn he was one of the Woads they clashed with several days ago. With a grimace, Tristan surveyed the mutilated body. Well, there was certainly no love lost between the members of that war-band. The warrior had been dragged, bleeding heavily, from a few metres away, and the attackers evidently beheaded him here. An ornately carved axe lay across the clearing that Tristran guessed to be the warrior's, but it was clean and unbloodied. Stranger and stranger. Judging by the hoof prints around the body, his head had received the same treatment as Percival's. He bent down to try and guess how far ahead the killers would be, but was interrupted by an urgent shout from Mordred.
"She's alive!"
Tristran sprang up and strode over to where Mordred crouched over the limp body of a woman. Tristran recognised her immediately as the spear-wielder from the skirmish, the lime still stiff and white in her hair. Her pale, narrow face was sprayed with blood on one side, a huge lump protruding from the other.
"I have fought this one before," said Mordred quietly as Tristran examined her. "She was one of the better fighters, though she did not kill any of our men. The kohl around her eyes – she's one of their trackers, isn't she?"
Tristran grunted as he turned her body over, checking for any back wounds. "Uh-huh. See, the tattoos on her fingers. They mean she's one of the better ones. I'm amazed she was taken by surprise."
"And the other?" asked Mordred, nodding to the man's body.
"Warrior. If they hadn't taken his head, I'd have a better idea, but I think I recognise him."
"I think I know him. Auburn hair, grey eyes. He fought with an axe." Tristran pointed to where said weapon lay. "Ah, right. That's him then. He was another one of the better fighters. There's something bad going on here, Tris. I don't like this at all." Mordred took out his flask of water and laid it on the ground beside him as he reached for the woman's body.
"What are you doing?" hissed Tristran, grabbing his arm. "Are you mad? We'd best leave now. They're getting further and further away, and I don't want the track going cold." Mordred shook his head stubbornly and pulled the woman half-into his lap, picking up his flask with one hand and releasing the stopper.
"We will not leave her here. Wolves will eat her alive, and I don't want that kind of blood on my hands. Besides, she can tell us where they went, who they were." He tipped a few droplets of water into the woman's open mouth as Tristran stared at him, speechless with annoyance. "And before you ask, there is no language barrier. My mother's a Pict, so I know the language." The second-in-command kept his eyes on the woman's face, stoically avoiding Tristran's own.
"Why did you not mention this before?" Tristran whispered angrily. "Who knows this?"
"Only Arthur. What the others don't know won't hurt them; and anyway, look at your own reaction. Don't question my decisions, understood? My allegiance lies with Arthur and you, my brothers, and that's all that matters." He glared at Tristran, daring the scout to continue. Tristran held up his hands peaceably, and Mordred returned to dripping water into the Woad's mouth. The scout watched dispassionately.
"If it were us, she would slit our throats and be done with it," he said blandly, dropping to a crouch beside the second-in-command and opening his own water flask. Mordred shrugged.
"Probably. But we are better men than that. And now, she will owe us. You never know when a debt might be useful." So that's the real reason, thought Tristran with surprise, as he took a sip of water. Mordred had always been wily, but Tristran had always thought the man's hot-headedness overrode any, well… common sense that he possessed. This kind of foresight was rare and unexpected, and it made the scout feel more at ease. He decided not to comment, however. From past experience, he knew that it was best to keep one's opinions to oneself.
"So, we wait for her to come around, then?" he asked unenthusiastically, standing up once more and tucking the flask away.
Mordred sighed. "It's our only choice. We need to know what we're dealing with. Can you scout the perimeter? Not too far, just enough to get an idea of where they went."
Tristran hesitated. "It would not be wise to split up. See, there have been at least four here… five, actually; a fifth came from the side to throw the object that hit the woman. We are only two, and you are wounded."
"You're right. Well, we'd better get comfortable." Mordred glanced at Tristran awkwardly. "Tris… you know we can't do anything with the bodies. We can't burn Perce, it'd draw too much attention. And we have nothing with which to dig a grave."
"I'll cover them with leaf-litter," said Tristran quietly. He glanced once more at the still-unconscious woman, and walked off to gather the leaves. Trying to avoid looking at Percival's corpse, he wondered what the Woad would do when she woke up.
Well, here's hoping she won't attempt to kill us, he thought to himself. I'd hate to slit the throat of our only source of information.
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Mordred watched Tristran glance coldly at the Woad woman lying beside him, no doubt thinking of ways in which to kill her. He did not blame him, but even so… Tristran's constant bloodthirst was a little too keen for Mordred to feel completely at ease around him. And even if Tristran didn't realise he knew, he was aware that the surly scout thought he was a complete idiot. Hardly the basis for an enduring friendship.
"His loss," he muttered under his breath, twisting a soggy piece of winter grass around his finger. He patted the Woad woman's leg absently and let loose an impressively sarcastic sigh. "He has been deprived of the joy of my estimable company, and for that, oh limed lady, he has only himself to blame. Ah, fortune! You are a cruel… Oh."
The woman was awake.
And pointing a dagger at his throat.
"Good afternoon," wheezed Mordred politely, tilting his chin back as she dug the point of the blade in deeper. No response. Her face was utterly expressionless. Of all the times for Tristran to be out gathering leaves…Reaching back into the depths of his somewhat rusty memory, he tried to recall some Pictish. Aha! "I am the son of Morwen; and the grandson of Morgaine, Seer of the North. Kill me, and incur her wrath."
Dramatic, but effective, Mordred applauded himself as the knife point wavered.
But I do wish Tristran would hurry up.
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A/N: Sorry, just a short chapter this time! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought. Thanks again to the people who reviewed the last chapter – you're all lovely! :D
Oh, and also – I've messed around a bit with the historical details regarding lime. Celts used to wash lime (a mineral, not the citrus!) through their hair before battle, which would make their hair more blonde (which they preferred), but which also stiffened as it dried, making it look, well… impressive, I suppose. I'm not sure if the Picts used it, but in this story, they do!