Chapter Four: Someone Is Following Me

Avilon smiled to herself as she tripped up the stairs out of the sunken market square. Leaving the noise behind her, she slipped down an alleyway and breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't given anything away – no name, no proof that she knew how to use weapons, no nothing. Except that the stuck up knight now knew she was a thief, but oh well. He'll survive, she thought, and so will I.

Looking around, she caught sight of a tavern with an open square, covered seating areas and a building with an open front. She crossed the roofless square – doubtless followed by many a young man's eye – to the bar, and leaned on the counter. Looking around, she noticed the exits and committed them to memory. A red-headed woman, much older than Avilon, appeared behind the bar, smiling at her kindly.

'I need lodging for a few nights, and some food wouldn't be unwelcome either.' Avilon hadn't eaten for a few days, and the apples in her bag wouldn't do much to stave off the pangs of hunger.

'We've got high rates – the rooms here are good quality. Can you –?' The barmaid's question died in her throat as Avilon dropped a ring on the counter. It was a thick band of gold, with a heavy ruby set in the shining metal. The woman eyed it suspiciously, picked it up and looked closer at it, checking for the signs of a fake. She seemed content with it, however, and led Avilon away from the bar and into the building without another word. They climbed some stairs - stone, with ridges at the edges - and went past a few statues before coming to a square landing with four doors.

'You can lodge here,' the barmaid said respectfully. She opened a door onto a large room with a straw bed and hangings in the windows. Avilon nodded, dumping her bag on a small table. Avilon followed the woman as she showed her the second room – a washroom with a wooden tub, a white-wood screen and an unusually wide window that flooded the room with sunlight. The rooms were very Roman - curved iron, and soft drapes.

'If you need a bath, just ask and I'll heat some water for you,' the woman said, smiling. She left quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Avilon crossed the room and picked up her bag, up-ending it onto the table. Two apples, four sticks of liquorice, three small daggers and a silver comb fell out, clattering loudly. Avilon winced as one of her better daggers dropped from the table and onto the floor, hitting it with a shrill, metallic sound. She bent to pick it up, her hair falling over her face. It was silver, and large, with a snake entwined on the hilt. It was by far her favourite, and she had used it many times before. She set it down on the table, dizzy from the memories overcoming her.

Slashing, cutting, blinded by the blood in her eyes, pouring from the gash on her forehead, she threw herself onto the man in front of her. Taking only a second to wipe the blood out of her eyes, in one fluid movement, she pulled the dagger back and stabbed it into his chest. The man writhed beneath her, limper and limper until his movements ceased. Avilon stood back from the body and pulled off her shirt, wringing it out in front of her. The blood dripped steadily from it, pooling on the floor. There was a banging on the door a metre to her left.

'Gods truth!' Avilon swore vehemently, and the banging sounded louder. She launched herself towards the window, scraping her arm on the frame as she jumped out, falling two storeys and hitting the ground with a crunch. 'Shit! Shit, SHIT that hurt,' she yelped, already picking herself up from the ground and limping away into the twilight.

'Wooah,' Avilon murmured, clutching at the table for support. That life is OVER now, she told herself. Shaking her head at her own weakness, she checked that her dagger was still in the sheath tied round her thigh and shoved the other knives under the straw-stuffed pillow of the bed. Pulling open the door and locking it behind her, Avilon took the stairs two at a time and exited the tavern the back way.

For a second, she was uncertain as to where exactly she was, but quickly found a familiar alleyway that would take her back to the market square. The square itself was emptying quickly, leaving the stall owners packing away, their business done for today.

Crossing the square, Avilon entered the myriad of alleyways that was the town, searching for the stables where Falada, her horse, was. She felt uneasy – something wasn't right. Avilon turned round quickly, and nearly jumped out of her skin when a black-and-white cat leaped down from a window-frame, where it had been sunbathing quite happily.

'Gods truth, kitty, you scared me half to death,' Avilon breathed a sigh of relief. She was haunted by shadows – day and night. Ever since she…

Don't think about it. Stop thinking about it. Right now. Avilon turned her back on the cat and set off again, rounding a corner to come out in a small square with – finally – a smallish stable housing three horses.

'Falada,' Avilon said soothingly, stroking her stallion's grey flanks. She loved her horse so much, that when they were separated for long periods of time, it hurt her to breath. Ignoring the other horses' signs of distress at her presence, Avilon unloosed Falada's reins from the post and led him out of the stables, crossing the square quickly. There, she climbed into the saddle and Falada, sensing her familiar shape, trotted casually from the square, allowing her to guide him back to the tavern.

Still, Avilon felt that something was wrong, out of place. She felt unbearable exposed and lonely. You've been alone since you were nine, you foolish girl! She told herself fiercely. Pull yourself together! But she kept flicking her head round; sure that someone was following her. Arriving at the tavern none-too-soon, she led Falada to the large, spacious stables there, removing his reins, saddle bags and saddle and tying him to the post with some rope. Falada shook his flanks playfully while she tried to brush his coat and wouldn't stand still when she checked his hooves for stones.

'Falada, stop that!' she laughed at him. Yet, Avilon still couldn't shake the feeling she had that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Like something was about to happen…

Thoroughly spooked, she picked up Falada's saddlebags, hauling them over her shoulder. Halfway through the double-doors, she turned to look one last time. The tip of a black braid vanished round the corner. In that second, Avilon knew that she was being followed and had been since she left the tavern an hour ago. The feeling gave her shiverfeet - who was it that was following her? Evin was dead - it couldn't be him, so who...? The question hung in the air before her, unanswered and unwilling to provide one.

She went back through the tavern, climbed the stairs and unlocked her door faster than she knew she could. Once her door was shut safely behind her, Avilon dumped the saddle bags and collapsed onto the bed.

'Aaaaah,' she sighed. It felt so good to have a proper straw-stuffed mattress beneath her bones. For the last seven months she had been resting on hard ground, blankets and the occasional wood floor. The mattress seemed to suck her in, and she had to fight hard not to give in to the urge to sleep.

Reluctantly climbing from the bed, Avilon scooped up the saddle bags and flipped open the leather flaps, revealing the contents, which she proceeded to remove, carefully laying them out on the bed beside her.

Two clean linen tunics, a pair of woollen breeches, a pale blue night-shirt, two small iron boxes with patterns etched in the lids, a light-cotton undershirt, mint leaves and three thick blankets. Left in the bottom were a few flint pieces and some bronze coinage. Avilon picked up a coin and rubbed her thumb over the raised image on one side – a lion. Sighing, she lifted the lid of one of the boxes, revealing a wide range of sparkling jewels, and dropped the coins in. Avilon cast a disparaging look over the fortune in front of her and snapped the lid shut.

Fingering the charm around her neck, she stood and opened the chest of drawers experimentally. Its drawers were deep and empty. Avilon placed the tunic, breeches, stockings, shift and blankets in a drawer and left the night-shirt on the bed with the mint-leaves and the rest of her belongings. A stab of hunger punched into her stomach. Food, she thought. I need food.

She left the room, striding across the landing and down the stairs. As Avilon reached half-way a fairly familiar voice cut through the low chattering that came from the tap-room below her, stopping her in her tracks.

'Yes, Irish. I know – I was quite surprised too. But, Gods truth, she was as pretty as the night sky.'

Another voice, one that Avilon didn't know, spoke over the last one.

'Yea Lancelot. She was feisty too eh? Tell them about how she reacted to your charms – it'll be a welcome laugh.'

Avilon sneaked a look round the corner, then drew her head back sharply. Arthur was seated three feet from where she was, surrounded by six knights. God's truth! Why did they have to choose this tavern? Avilon asked herself, almost angry. I am hungry!

She stole another look at the knights. Avilon only knew Lancelot and Arthur by face and name, and she had no knowledge of whom the other five knights seated around the table in front of her might be. Lancelot was easily distinguishable – his short, curly black hair and mischievous eyes gave him away, and the permanent wolfish dimples either side of his mouth.

Avilon could tell which Arthur was simply by the other knights' behaviour around him. They gave him respect and space; they looked at him with veneration and admiration. Arthur's hair was dark brown, and rather messy. He had a strong jaw and a broken nose. From the look of it, his nose had been broken for a long time.

The next man round was large – huge almost, with massive muscles apparent even under his armour. He had only a scraping of hair, and his face had a permanently sarcastic look. Him and the man next to him – also quite large, with scars on his face and less hair – were laughing at Lancelot's unamused face. The sarcastic one had a baby in his arms, wrapped in brown cloth, and another child by his side, and Avilon had to look twice before she truly believed the sight she was beholding.

Avilon snapped her head back round as another knight looked up straight at the point where her head had been. She waited for a moment, and then took another glance round the corner. The knight with braids who had looked up at her now had his eyes focused on the ceiling. There was something feral in his hawk-like face, the black stubble painting his chin and jawbones, punctuated by two dull pink scars that ran from under his chin to just below his eye. His hair was matted, with braids mixed in, half-hidden in the black mass. Avilon stared at his face, the dark blue tattoos on his cheeks. She recognised them from somewhere.

Something about the way he moved was jagged and fluid at the same time, as if he was forever on his guard. Avilon ran her eyes over him again, and this time something clicked in the back of her mind. This was the man who had been following her – she was sure of it. There was no mistaking those braids, finished with thin pieces of leather. He turned his head again, and Avilon caught a flash of gold as the light glinted in his eyes.

The last knight was young, with bright brown eyes. He can't be much older than me, Avilon thought. His hair was much alike to Lancelot's – short, black and very curly. Avilon had no doubt that if the boy grinned impishly, he would be the spitting image of the older knight. He was smiling happily, teasing Lancelot just like the rest of them.

And suddenly, the realisation that Arthur's knights were sitting in front of her seemed miniscule and insignificant compared to the fact that the knights sitting there were discussing one major thing. Her.