Chapter Seven: A Failed Attempt
Avilon sat at a table near the back of the tavern, staring desolately into her goblet of wine. She felt separated from her very self, like two people trapped in one body. One was her own six-year-old self, from before Evin Larsen, a child. And one was her now, with memories and scars that no seventeen-year-old girl should have. They were fighting inside her skin, both believing their judgement was correct.
The six-year-old child was telling her to run: to run and run and never look back. But the elder Avilon was screaming for her to stay, to kill Arthur and avenge her family.
Avilon was torn, warring herself, unable to make a decision. She was already too immersed in the knights' lives to hurt them by killing their most trusted friend and leader. God's truth, you knew not to get involved. You KNEW! But how could she run from this? It could be the only chance to take vengeance for her family, to fulfil her singular purpose in this life.
Evin had told her it was Arthur who had ordered her family's death. But after seeing him, could she really believe that someone so kind and protective of his men could order the deaths of an innocent family? And after all Evin had done to her, could she believe his word?
The answer was simple: she had to. Without this hatred, this burning emotion that fueled every breath, she would be nothing but a ghost, a memory of the child who had watched her family burn.
I will not run from this! She screamed inwardly. Arthur deserves to die after what he made me endure!
Someone sat down opposite her, and Avilon looked up to apologise and then leave. But it was Lancelot. Before she could speak, he said,
'What can cause your brow to furrow so? Are you really that worried for Gareth, or is something else eating your insides?' He actually sounded quite concerned.
'Go away, Lancelot,' Avilon murmured, lowering her eyes back to her wine. She lifted it to her lips and downed it in one gulp.
'Thirsty?' Lancelot joked. He sobered at the look on Avilon's face. 'I still don't know your name, my lady.'
'I see no use you may have for it. What's in a name?' she mumbled dejectedly. 'It is the person, not what you call them, that is the worthier part.'
'But how then will I address you? Shall I call you 'my lady' for the rest of time?' By tomorrow night you will be calling me whore, or bitch, she thought. She tried to mould her features into a confident smile.
'Sir Lancelot, I see a name as a sort of power. This way, I hold the power in our relationship, for I know your name, but you don't know mine.' She managed a smug smile, her insides on fire. She had to get out of there.
'Although you may think it, I am not only interested in bedding you. I find you – yourself, your behaviour – mysterious and fascinating. So you see, you can tell me your name, and what is troubling you. Because I am not concerned in who holds the power, and I am not troubled by your opinion of me.' He sat back in his seat, sincerity clear on his face.
Avilon was drawn in despite herself. His bodily behaviour warmed her, thawing her defences, allowing her true feelings to flow out. Tears tracked down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.
'Avilon...' she whispered. STOP! You're letting him in; you're going to get hurt. Get out of there! Just as suddenly as her defences had dropped, so they rebuilt themselves.
Avilon stood and dashed away her tears.
'Sir Lancelot,' she nodded curtly. Avilon strode away, across the open square and up the stairs. Pushing past a woman in a roman-style, blue dress, she shoved open her door and threw herself onto the bed.
'Damn, damn, damn!' she swore into the blankets, the noise muffled by the cloth. She was letting people in. She had to stop! Letting people in would lead to only one thing: pain. Avilon knew that from experience.
The tears had long since dried when she finally rose from the bed. There were shadows creeping from the corners towards her. Avilon eyed them with a small amount of fear, then pulled her knives from beneath her pillow and spread them out over the sheets. She picked up the largest, with a snake entwined around the handle, shoved it into her thigh-sheath and put one short knife in each boot.
'I'm going to do this,' she said, strengthening her resolve. Avilon removed everything she owned from the chest of drawers, stuffing it all into Fagan's saddlebags. Then, changing her mind, she pulled out a clean undershirt and put it on, replacing the dirty one she wore, and shoved her tunic into the saddlebag. She needed all the movement she could possibly have to kill the great Artorius. Hauling the saddlebags over her shoulder, Avilon went downstairs, hoping that Lancelot had left. She gave the tavern a once-over, and exited the tavern by the back way; she saddled Fagan in the stables, attaching the saddlebags and reins. At least she would have a quick escape after killing Arthur.
Avilon cast an uncomfortable glance into the shadows, feeling claustrophobic and compressed. She stole the lantern that hung in the stables, holding it before her as she walked through the town. Darkness descended quickly, and the moon was nowhere to be seen; only the light from the lantern kept the night at bay. Avilon shuddered, staring into the encroaching blackness, just metres away. Glimpses of memory came and went with quickening flashes.
A chink of light lessening and disappearing; reaching out and touching the wall just centimetres from my face. I can't see anything, not even the hand in front my eyes. It's as if I've vanished altogether...
Avilon threw the memories away, focusing on the next few minutes instead. She would enter the building by the back way, and find Arthur's room. She knew that she might have to enter the other night's rooms to find their generals, but that didn't faze her. I have killed before, she reminded herself. This will be no different. Avilon tried to make herself believe it, but couldn't.
As she trod quietly up through the orchard, she could see a flickering light in one of the windows – a candle? I'll try there first, Avilon thought. She reached the wall of the white building and looked up. The window with the light was four in from the right and on the second floor. Avilon put out the flame in her lantern and opened the door in front of her. The stairs were opposite, so she took off her boots and padded lightly up them, making almost no sound. Avilon came to the landing and looked down the corridor. The walls were bare, and a pale white colour, interspersed with plain wood doors on both sides every few meters, with torches in brackets on the walls between. She pulled her boots on quietly, and took a tentative step. The soles made only soft noises. She would be safe. She unlaced a thin strap of leather from her wrist and pulled back her hair, twining the leather round the thick strands. Getting her hair in her eyes would only hinder her attempt to kill Arthur.
Looking down the corridor, Avilon was glad she had counted the windows, for she had no way of telling whose room was whose. The centre of the hall was like a mirror; one door on the right side was directly opposite one on the left. She started down the corridor, still barefoot, mentally numbering the doors as she passed. One, two, three, four. Counting on the fact that the rooms had only one window each, this room should be the one with the light. She drew her dagger and pushed open the door quietly and slowly. The room was small, with sparse furnishings. A bed, a window, a desk with one candle centrally placed. One glance told Avilon all she needed to know. It was Arthur's room – she had made a lucky guess – and the great general himself was snoring softly, lying on the bed, his sword in one corner.
Thankfully, the Roman was still dressed in breeches and an untucked, mussed shirt. Avilon stepped closer, and a floorboard under her foot creaked. Arthur rolled over in his sleep, but did not wake. Frozen with fright, Avilon didn't realise she had stopped breathing until her lungs protested furiously, and she gasped in breaths, slowing her fast-beating heart. She looked down at Arthur's body, his chest rising every few seconds, his fluttering eyelids. To kill him in his sleep would be a terrible thing to do. Avilon decided and stepped back, ready to kick the bedpost. But then Arthur – very non-asleep – jumped from the bed, pointing a long dagger straight at her. He had been faking!
God's truth,Avilon thought. He was good. She had trained herself to know when someone was sleeping, mainly so she could leave Larsen's bed and catch a few moments to herself. But how could Arthur have known she was coming?
As if he had read her mind, Arthur pointed with his free hand at the floor.
'The floorboard,' he said roughly.
Avilon lunged at him, blocking his knife by hitting away his arm, trying to stab her own knife into his chest. He moved so fast she barely even nicked the skin of his arm. And suddenly his knife was at her throat.
'Touché, my lord,' Avilon said, looking down to his abdomen. He followed Avilon's gaze to see her dagger pressing against his stomach. Arthur knew that neither of them could do anything. Any movement would cause Avilon to stab him, and him her if she moved. He relaxed his hand, allowing the dagger at her throat to become limp. Arthur held up his other hand, showing her that he was surrendering.
And then all of a sudden the door was opening and someone was coming into the room.
Gareth! Avilon yelled mentally. This is my only chance and I'm going to take it. Don't get in my way! Gareth took it all in – the knife at his general's ribs, Avilon's hand holding that self-same dagger, Arthur's hands up in surrender – and began to draw his sword. Gareth, I'm so sorry! But I have to take this chance! She pulled the knife from its resting place next to Arthur's ribs, threw it across the room and in the same fluid movement pulled her second knife from her boot. She couldn't watch, and only heard the savage thud as her knife found its mark. She turned back to Arthur as Gareth crumpled to the floor. Arthur looked stunned. As the tears fell down her cheeks Avilon threw herself towards him again, stabbing and slashing with her knife. She felt the knife break through skin and heard Arthur gasp with pain. Avilon looked up into his eyes and saw fear there. She pulled at her knife and went to stab him again, but Arthur grabbed her shoulder and spun her round, and placed his knife against the throbbing artery at her neck.
'Drop it,' he hissed into her ear. Avilon didn't move. Arthur put more pressure on the knife, creating a thin cut on her neck, drawing dark red blood.
'So kill me,' Avilon spat back. The Roman General hesitated, and Avilon took her chance. She elbowed him in the stomach and he fell backwards onto the bed, making a loud noise that echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
The commotion woke the rest of the knights, who rushed out of their rooms in various states of undress, weapons in hand. Lying across the threshold to Arthur's room lay Gareth, a dagger up to its hilt in his chest. His eyes were glassy and dim, staring blankly at the ceiling, all memories of the smiling young boy banished.
Gawain cried out, dropping to his knees beside the lifeless body, his trousers soaking up his brother's blood. 'Gareth? Brother, please, wake up!' He shook his brother's shoulders, tears dripping silently from his chin. The other knights watched in respectful silence, shock and distress easily distinguishable on every one of their faces. Gawain closed his brother's eyes and stood, all tears gone, vengeance clear in his frosted blue eyes. He climbed over his brother's body, followed closely by Lancelot and the other knights.
Gawain stepped through Arthur's doorway and looked up to see a shocking sight. Arthur was pointing a knife straight at a girls' chest. Crimson was spreading across the upper left arm of Arthur's shoulder, and his dagger had a smudge of red along the blade, seemingly from the girl in front of him. The girl had her own dagger aimed at the commander, blood trickling from her neck and staining the collar of her shirt.
But what was more shocking was that the girl – who had evidently killed Gawain's brother – was the very same one who could possibly have saved Gareth's life earlier that day.
Lancelot stepped forwards, his mouth a shocked 'O.'
'Avilon?' he gasped loudly.