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Chapter Ten: Stories and Speechlessness

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Safe.

Mordred felt nothing else but that comforting sensation as they stepped into the cover of the trees. No longer were they out in the open; no longer were they surrounded by the rolling hills and rocky slopes that were perfect hiding places for watching eyes. The feeling of unease had been growing in their group since sunrise, and so the safety and shelter offered by the thick greenery all around them was a welcome respite.

Long ago, Arthur had invited Mordred to sit with him in a small church as he held a vigil for Agravaine. Their fellow Knight had been killed in battle the previous day, and sensing that his attendance would bring his commander comfort, Mordred had agreed to come along. Arthur had told him that God's presence was all around them, but that it was in churches that their prayers could best be heard. Mordred was not a Christian, but he had been touched by the peacefulness of the stone building, and the steadying smell of smoke and candlewax had stayed with him for hours afterwards. A similar kind of stillness reigned in this small forest, nestled between the folds of two great hills. It was a different kind of calm to that of the church, but there was still something almost holy about it. Mordred paused, deep in thought and memory, running his fingers over the bark of an ancient chestnut tree.

"My grandfather showed me a chestnut tree once, deep in an old forest like this." Banna came and stood beside him, her voice pitched low and quiet. She rested her tattooed fingers respectfully on the knobbled bark beside Mordred's own scarred and callused hand. "He said that it had stood there for more than one thousand winters, and if it was kept safe, it would stand for a thousand more." Her words sent a shiver through Mordred as he looked at the other trees around them.

"How old do you think these ones are?" he asked, lowering his voice. He was not sure why he did so, only that it seemed the right thing to do.

Banna removed her hand from the tree and moved forward, the light dappling across her woad-painted skin. "These… I am not sure. They're old, you can feel it." The others had moved further into the woods, and Mordred and the tracker were left standing alone in the mossy quietness of the oaks and chestnuts, and all the other nameless trees that basked in the verdant gloom. To his surprise, Mordred did not feel tense or nervous around the tracker, despite the fact that she was supposed to be his enemy. Rome's enemy, he reminded himself. We are of the same people, but circumstance has set us against one another. He scratched his horse's neck gently, causing the stallion to let out a long sigh and lean into his hand. Big old sook.

"We should follow them," he said at length, leaning over and stretching as much as his wound would allow. Banna looked up from her silent contemplation and nodded, gesturing for him to follow her as she led her pony after their group. She waited a moment for him to catch up, falling into step with him as they moved further into the trees.

"It's safe here," said the tracker suddenly, echoing his earlier thoughts. Mordred glanced over at her.

"Just what I was thinking before. It's odd, because I usually like riding on the open stretches of land; but it felt… oh, I don't know. It just felt wrong, somehow. Do you…" He trailed off, feeling embarrassed. Here he was, a grown man and a Knight – not only a Knight, but a second-in-command – and he felt as nervous as a boy.

"Oh, yes," replied Banna, unashamedly shuddering, and looking over her shoulder. Thank goodness, thought Mordred. I'm not going mad, at least. "Something does not feel right. It's better now that we're out of sight, but I think we should still set patrols."

"What is 'patrols'?" asked Mordred, the unfamiliar Pictish word confusing him.

"What are patrols," Banna corrected him kindly. "They are… uh… watches. Things to make sure the enemies are not near."

"Oh, of course," sighed Mordred, rolling his eyes. "My uncle would be turning in his grave."

"Did he teach you our language?" asked Banna, smiling.

"Yes. He was a Knight, also. He introduced my father to my mother."

Banna looked at him expectantly. "Are you going to tell me how they met?" she prompted, still smiling. Women, thought Mordred despairingly. What would they do without gossip and romance stories? Of course, if he said that back home to his mother and sisters, he'd probably get a smack in the mouth.

"It was a slightly… what's the word? Unconventional. Yes, it was a slightly unconventional meeting," he said with a grin as he ducked a low-hanging branch. "You see, my uncle was on a patrol and his party was attacked by Woads."

"Dreadful creatures," sighed Banna beside him, shaking her head in mock-irritation. Mordred, taken aback – he'd never thought Woads could joke – let out a bark of laughter.

"I think Tristran's having a bad influence on you," he said with a grin, and the tracker laughed. Woads laugh? Oh, well. On with the story, thought Mordred to himself, slightly bemused. "Anyway, they were attacked by Woads. A Pictish leader at the time had sons and daughters who were known to fight in that area, so my uncle's commander told the men not to kill anyone, but to take… erm, what is the word for people who are captured?"

"Hostages?" offered Banna.

"That sounds right. Five hostages were taken, and the rest escaped into the forest nearby. One of the captured Woads was my mother." He held a prickly branch back so that the tracker could pass through; and as he rejoined her, he continued. "So, they were kept at my uncle's outpost in one of the cells there until the Pictish leader made contact. They figured that if he didn't make contact by the end of the month, they would set the Woads free."

"You mean, kill them," said Banna drily. Mordred winced.

"It would be more diplomatic if I was to say…"

Banna waved his protest away. "It was what, twenty winters ago? More? Just tell the story."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Mordred huffily, and then pulled a face. "Gods, I'm turning into Tristran. So… the Woads were all kept in different holding cells, and my father was charged with watching over my mother. It was winter, so there wasn't much for the Sarmatian Knights to do, and they were low on guards. So my father guarded my mother for three weeks, day in and day out. Presumably they got talking, as my mother was taught Latin when she was a child. You'd have to ask my mother if you wanted all the pretty, romantic details." He made a face, though he did not really mean it. He wasn't going to admit to a stranger, let alone a Pict stranger, that he actually liked all the details. It was not considered very manly, and he did have a reputation to uphold, after all.

"Yes, well. I have heard that all the greatest romances start in prison," said Banna, raising an eyebrow dubiously. "I'm surprised she talked to him. The children of the Great Seer were taught to hate Rome from an early age, so they say."

"You haven't met my mother," said Mordred gloomily, as they approached the clearing where the others were setting up camp. "If someone tells her to do something, she'll go out of her way not to do it. The long and the short of it is, my mother and father fell in love. When the missive came from the Pictish chieftain – my grandfather – offering to pay ransom for the hostages, she refused to return. They were wed in secret, much to the displeasure of, well, everyone. My father was in the last few weeks of his service, anyway, so their relationship only had to endure the prejudice for a short time."

"Your grandfather did not launch a rescue mission to retrieve his daughter?" asked Banna, frowning. "That is most unusual."

"Again, I had to leave some parts out for the sake of diplomacy…"

"Picts died in a rescue attempt?"

"Several."

"Ah."

"Yes. But, like you said, it was twenty or so years ago."

"I can say that, Sarmatian," said Banna warningly. "You'd better not tell Grainne that particular story, though. I can imagine her… displeasure."

"Mm," grunted Mordred as he lifted the saddle from his horse's back. "I wasn't going to, anyway. She doesn't strike me as the romantic type." They looked over to where the leader was sharpening her gutting knife with chilling speed and efficiency; then raised their eyebrows at one another meaningfully, chuckling. As Banna walked away to tie up her diminutive grey pony, Mordred's heart sank. Oh, sweet gods, I'm chuckling with a Woad. What is happening to me?

"Mordred." Tristran came to stand next to the second-in-command, his face grave. Not exactly an out-of-character expression for the scout, but he seemed more serious than usual. Mordred's heart sank even further.

"Tristran!" he said with false cheer, sifting through his saddlebags in search of something to eat. It also provided him with a convenient excuse not to meet the scout's eyes. Tristran did not reply, however, merely fixing him with that severe stare. Finally, Mordred gave up and met the scout's cool brown gaze, throwing up his hands in the air. Bad idea, wheezed Mordred internally as a spike of pain went through his side. "Tristran, I know you're not happy."

"Latin, Mordred," growled the scout. Mordred cringed as he realised he'd been speaking Pictish.

"Sorry. Look, we just walked back to camp together. I was friendly: you know me! I can't help it. And they're Rome's enemies, not ours. I'm not being a traitor, Tristran. I'm just… would you say something, please? And stop staring at me like that?"

"I was just going to tell you that I'm going hunting. I've run out of dried meat," said the scout, his face still expressionless.

"Oh. Well… do you want some company?"

Tristran finally showed some emotion, pursing his lips in displeasure as he leaned forward to speak quietly. "I think the blonde woman wants me to take the boy. Between… babbling… I think I heard 'good hunter' and 'quick'."

"Do you want me to ask her?" asked Mordred, and Tristran nodded. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he walked over to the blonde leader. She had finished sharpening her gutting knife and had moved on to a small, sharp one with a wickedly curved blade. Mordred looked admiringly at the five other blades she had lined up beside her, waiting to be sharpened.

"They're well-made," he commented as she glanced up at him. He resisted the urge to flinch back. She had evidently borrowed Banna's kohl, the thick black smudges making her green eyes appear quite unearthly.

"I know much about knives. What is it?" she asked without preamble, ignoring his compliment. So that's how it is, thought Mordred sarcastically. Huh. No more Nice Mordred for you.

"You want the boy to hunt?" he demanded brusquely, folding his arms across his chest.

"That's what I asked the scout," she replied.

"Is he adequate? He's very young." As he predicted, his words caused the woman to bristle.

"More than adequate. He is a good hunter, and would be of help to the scout. Is he frightened that the boy will attack him?" She smirked provocatively.

"From what I've seen, the boy's the only frightened one around here," said Mordred coolly, sending a silent apology to the blushing lad, who was seated within earshot. "Is he ready to go?"

"We're always ready," growled Grainne heatedly, narrowing her eyes at him in a menacing manner.

Mordred widened his eyes at her and shook his head. "Then tell him to go," he said, using his best 'are-you-really-that-idiotic' tone. As she narrowed her eyes even further, Mordred struggled not to do a small victory dance. And that, wench, is how we do things in Sarmatia, he grinned to himself as he turned away, nodding encouragingly to Tristran. The scout's jaw tightened in annoyance.

"He's coming, then?" he asked resignedly, slinging a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. Mordred nodded as the scout checked the bowstring. "See you soon, then. Hopefully there'll be some game, otherwise I'll have to hamstring the boy. Tell me, would he be tastier over a spit, or roasted in the coals?"

Mordred shook his head in alarm, Tristran's eccentric sense of humour not exactly appropriate at this point in time. "Don't let Grainne hear you say that. I've just raised her ire, so I'd be careful if I were you." Tristran gave his customary noncommittal shrug, and gestured sharply to the boy as he strode towards the trees. Poor lad, thought Mordred as the young man scrambled after the scout, grabbing his bow and arrows. Grainne watched them disappear into the trees, and as she looked away, her eyes met Mordred's. She glared fiercely at him, and returned to sharpening her knives with renewed vigour.

Being despised is not the most pleasant feeling, mused Mordred to himself as he seated himself on the mossy ground, taking out his own whetstone. But, as always, two can play at this game.

Resisting the urge to do a Bors-style cackle of glee, he began to sharpen his sword with long, threatening swipes.

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Tristran strode into the trees, making as little noise as possible. He heard the boy stumble after him, but after a moment the lad righted himself and moved with pleasing quietness. The tracker had taught him well.

Tristran hated forests. Though by now he was used to them and could navigate them well, he still felt claustrophobic and deeply uneasy at the presence of so many trees. The warrior in him baulked at the sheer number of hiding places for enemies, and his scouting instinct pointed out the hundreds of possible ambush scenarios available in such a setting. These two factors combined to make travelling through forests a living nightmare for Tristran, and he did all he could to avoid them. And don't even get me started on the trees, he thought, as he tried not to shudder at the looming closeness of the damned things. All those… leaves. He'd give anything to be back on the wide-open, honest plains of Sarmatia. Enemies did not lurk behind trees there. If they wanted to attack, they attacked. If they wanted to ambush you, they'd…

"Excuse me," said the boy suddenly, his soft voice scattering Tristran's thoughts. He spoke slowly, making sure the scout could hear every word he said. It was futile, however.

"Don't bother, boy," grunted Tristran, glancing over his shoulder at the tall lad, "I know you can speak Latin. Don't try pretending."

"How did you know?" asked the boy in heavily-accented, but remarkably fluent, Latin. What was his name again? thought Tristran. Ah, that's right. Fearghus. Fearghus the Frustratingly Familiar.

"You could understand what we were saying earlier. Does your leader know?"

"Grainne? No." At Tristran's snort, he caught up with the scout and grabbed his arm. "I…" He looked around guiltily. "Can you take us somewhere more private? I need to tell you something. I know you recognise me, and I know you, too." He lowered his voice at the last part, biting his lip. Tristran stared at him for a long time, trying to ascertain his motives. The boy did not seem to be the type to lead him into a trap; but then again, he had deceived his leader and she had not noticed. But the boy's worried expression and guileless manner decided him.

"Follow me," he said firmly, and headed deeper into the woods, heading to the area nestled deep in the folds of the twin hills. So the boy knew him. This troubled the scout deeply, for he had absolutely no idea who the boy actually was. He tried to draw his thoughts away from such uneasy territory, and instead focussed on the forest around them. Though they were moving swiftly, Tristran kept his eye out for any movement. He was quite hungry, and longed for some fresh meat, or just anything other than dried strips of the stuff. His stomach clenched with hunger, and he took back his last thought. He wouldn't mind some dried meat, actually.

The ground began to decline below them as they walked on, Tristran leading the boy into an area where he guessed there would be some sort of valley. Though he admittedly did not like forests, he had to hold back a small gasp of awe as they stepped into a grove of towering oak trees. Though leafless, the winter bareness made the clearly ancient oaks appear even more stunning in the pale golden light of midday. A small rim of frost still glittered on the underside of the branches, making it seem as if the trees were outlined with silver as the light caught them.

"Please, can we wait?" asked Fearghus quickly as Tristran prepared to go on. They had been walking for a good fifteen minutes, and so Tristran nodded, giving the surrounds a quick glance for any signs of listeners. Not that there'd be any here, but it always paid to look, especially in Britain. The Woads were like bloody dryads or something – they seemed to be one for every tree, crouching in its branches waiting to attack. But perhaps he was paranoid. The boy bowed his head and made a gesture with his hands, making it seem as though he was praying. The Woads seemed quite connected with trees, so he probably was. If Tristran recalled correctly, they held groves of oak trees such as this in particular reverence. At long last, the lad raised his head.

"What did you want to tell me?" asked Tristran curiously. "And why did we have to come here to do it?"

The boy swallowed thickly. "We should sit down. This may take a while." Tristran nodded towards the base of a towering oak, where the roots rose out of the ground in broad tangles. They walked over and sat down, the silence of the glade loud and somewhat awkward. Fearghus cleared his throat. "Right. You'd better get comfortable." Tristran nodded encouragingly, just wanting him to get on with it.

"You said there were a few things to say," he prompted, and the boy blushed.

"Yes, and I thought that you'd be the best person to say them to. I know you can be trusted, so…"

"Why don't you explain first how you know that you can trust me? Or, even easier, how you know me at all?" Tristran knew he sounded harsh, but this was all getting too deep for him. He just wanted to kill the Woads that killed Percival, then go back to the Wall and finish off the last five years of his service. Was it really that much to ask?

"How do I know you? That's easy enough, certainly," said Fearghus nervously, meeting the Knight's confused stare. "We've never met before, but believe me, I've heard enough about you over the years to feel that I have. I have read your name in letters a thousand times. I have seen pictures drawn of you in charcoal, in paints, in inks. Tristran of Sarmatia, Cathalan's sister called you, and she begged us never to harm you if we met." Fearghus stared long and hard at Tristran.

"Who…" Tristran trailed off, unable to speak; a brilliant, burning spark of hope kindling somewhere deep in his chest.

Fearghus gave him a small smile. "Cathalan's sister, Tristran, is Isolde of Hibernia."

The scout did not know whether to laugh, cry, sit there speechless, or run away.

Speechlessness seemed to be the most dignified option.

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