Chapter Three: Lancelot

Lancelot and Galahad walked down the orchard towards the marketplace, sweating in the mid-day sun. It had been two days since they returned from the battle with the Woads where Gareth had gotten injured, and tensions were high within the knights' circle of mutual friendship. Gawain was with his brother in the healers quarters, and Arthur demanded to be left alone in his rooms – which left Lancelot feeling snubbed, for Arthur and him were very good friends. Bors and Dagonet were in the training square, fighting each other for fun and, as Bors put it, 'getting impressive scars.' Lancelot wasn't worried for either of them; Bors and Dagonet were evenly matched in a fight – neither could get a touch on the other. Tristan was being his usual self, detached and lonesome, and so only Galahad and Lancelot were left to go into the town, for neither of them wanted to get hideous sunburn training in the squares.

As it was, Galahad and Lancelot decided to go into town and wile away their spare time in the tavern. Walking pace-for-pace with one another, they reached the end of the orchard and turned left, almost immediately engulfed in the solid wall of sounds and smells that separated the town from the rest of the world. The town was large and square, surrounded by a high wall, with the market square at its absolute centre, ever in the shadow of Hadrian's wall.

There were people everywhere. Children laughed and screamed, playing games down the sides of the roads; Old men sat on stools outside their front doors, mumbling and nodding their heads; Women, on their way to the shops, stopped to chat with their neighbours. The suns heat was visible – the ground was hazy, blurred – as was its effect on the townspeople. Red-faced, wearing as little as possible without being indecent, the people marched side-by-side, flustering and fanning themselves.

Galahad leading the way, the two knights fought through the crowds of people and emerged, sweating, in the market place, the centre of life for the townspeople. Pressing in on the square from all sides were a mixture of bakeries, butchers, taverns and a Roman bath house. Looking around, Lancelot shook his head in disgust. Roman soldiers were everywhere, their red cloaks easily visible, 'keeping the peace' in the town.

Lancelot and Galahad stood at the top of the steps that descended to market level, gazing over the tops of the stalls' canvas roofs. They looked around at the hubbub and noise of the market square, overwhelmed by the amount of people. There must be some kind of festival going on, Lancelot mused. So that's why there are so many more people than usual!

The sacred colour green was everywhere – it hung in banners from upstairs windows, flapping in the wind; children had sticks with green ribbons hanging from the ends; several of the people closest to Lancelot had green armbands on, carefully tied.

A girl pushed past Lancelot, moving quickly away from him, down the steps and into the crowds of citizens. Her waist-length, black hair - typical of a Sarmation - swung as she walked, dazzlingly dark, green beads woven in with fine gold threads. Before she disappeared, Lancelot caught a glimpse of an angular chin, straight nose and full lips. She was thin, he could see – slim, muscled thighs and small hips. As she vanished between two women, keenly perusing warm bread, she turned and met his gaze. Then she was gone.

'I'll be back in a minute,' Lancelot said to Galahad, already leaping down the steps two at a time, eager to find the girl again. He slipped past some musicians and into the market, leaving Galahad staring after him, confounded. Lancelot pushed his way into the grid of stalls and aisles, trying to catch sight of the girl again. There she was! One line of stalls over, examining some fruit. He watched her carefully, scrutinizing her every movement. She was Sarmation by the look of her; very black hair, angular features, bottomless eyes. Lancelot noticed a small bulge at her thigh. Concealed knife?He thought to himself. And she grows ever more intriguing.She would make a worthy conquest, to be sure.

Lancelot smiled as she 'accidentally' banged into a woman who fell into the fruit stall and dropped her basket. Apples rolled everywhere. Lancelot stared with increasing incredulity and amusement as the girl bent down, swiftly shoved three apples into her bag and picked the rest up, handing them to the woman, both hands in sight. Lancelot laughed as the girl bowed and walked away, three stolen apples in her canvas bag. He followed her like a wolf and his prey, getting closer behind her with every step. Some of Bors' children ran up to her and she bent down as if to talk to them, but Lancelot saw her deft hands sneak under the stall and pull out a box of liquorice. She handed a stick each to the children, who ran off, laughing and smiling, then shoved the rest of them in her bag. As she stood up, she turned again and Lancelot ducked quickly behind a stall selling jewellery. When he reappeared, the girl was gone.

Dammit! He swore to himself. Where is she? The knight spun round, searching for a swirl of dark hair, an elegant gait. There! Almost at the end of the row, a flash of green and gold, barely ten meters away. Lancelot breathed in, squeezing his body between two stalls and saw a bubble of space ahead, a few footsteps behind the girl. He smirked and sauntered up behind her, reaching into her bag with one hand. Feeling his hand, the girl whirled round, looking accusatorially at Lancelot, who was leaning against a pottery stall in front of her, nonchalantly eating one of her apples.

She thrust a hand into her pocket, looking slightly surprised when Lancelot held a dagger up before her, one that had been, until quite recently, hidden in a sheath strapped to her thigh.

'Looking for this?' He said, grinning. She snatched the dagger, shoving it back into her pocket.

'Sir Lancelot,' she acknowledged, glaring at him. Lancelot was surprised to hear a fairly strong Irish accent in her voice. He had been sure she was Sarmation. He stood up, and took another bite of her apple.

'You know, that's called theft,' he tutted.

'You can talk!' she laughed, knocking the apple out of his hand.

'Well, if you are going to wear such… tight trousers, you can be assured someone, like myself, will notice your concealed knife and steal it… much like I did. And, those apples were nice. Anyway,' he continued. 'How did you know my name?'

The girl smiled wolfishly up at him.

'Well, you walk around as if you are better than anyone else, as if you could have any woman to bed you in three seconds. Typical of a knight. And,' she continued as he made to interrupt, 'you have a smug air about you, like you believe you are doing the best for everyone else and that they would do well to remember it. You are alone, so presumably your friends are in a tavern somewhere getting heavily drunk, although there is a tightness to your jaw that suggests you are worried for someone – a friend, or a woman. But you wouldn't be following me if you already had a girl in your bed. Then there is the overconfident shield you have around you – you are maybe feeling snubbed because another friend prefers their own company over yours.' Lancelot went to speak, but she overrode him again. 'You have muscles, but you're not overly muscled, which tells me you have some sort of disdain for training – maybe your friends are fighting and you would rather follow mysterious women than sweat away your days. But your clothes gave it away – and the descriptions I have of you. But, to tell the truth, the kind lady over there,' she gestured non-commitally with one hand, 'told me who you were.'

The girl smiled expectantly at Lancelot, who looked rather stunned. He looked around uncertainly, and laughed to cover his amazement and disbelief.

'Now if you would, Sir Knight,' she said complacently, bowing to him. Lancelot blinked, and she was gone.