So... I know it has been a REALLY long time since I wrote any of this, but I'm happy to be working on it again. I missed Avi, and Tristan... Anyway, I recently rewrote the last chapter - mainly the end - but I would advise you to read it, because of changing names and so on and so forth. However, you could always just send me a message asking what the hell's going on, if you want. So... have fun reading, and please review!
Chapter Fifteen: Gracious And Forgiving
Cavan woke the next morning to find a shadowy room and her brother asleep. Tristan's breath was coming heavy and slow, his eyelids flickering gently. She sat up and reached over to pour herself a cup of wine from the clay jug on the table. Realising she was parched, Cavan gulped down the wine and refilled her cup. She pushed off the blankets and rose from the bed. It was chilly in the room – the sun was not yet up and the night seemed to have sucked the heat from the world. Added to the fact that Cavan was wearing only thin breeches and a worn linen shirt, it was understandable that she shivered.
Barefooted, she crossed the room and opened the door. Checking that Tristan was still asleep, Cavan slipped out of the room and silently closed the door behind her. She hadn't had the freedom to simply walk around for such a long time – as she travelled down the corridor she felt liberated, boundless. Like a bird.
The walls and ceiling were painted white, with iron brackets every so often with lit torches in them. They cast an orange glow on the pale walls. Cavan reached the end of the corridor and came to some stairs leading downwards. She descended them slowly, looking around her. There was a white statue beside the bottom step – some sort of Roman goddess in a chiton. As she ran her fingers over the woman's face, Cavan saw a boy – about her age – coming down the corridor. He wore a deep red, short-sleeved toga tied at the waist with a white strip of cloth. Balanced on his hand was a round tray laden with dirty bowls and plates.
'Excuse me,' Cavan said. The boy glanced up at her, looking uncertain as to whether he should bow, or run and alert the guards. He decided on the former, stiffly inclining his head.
'Is there something I can help you with, my lady?' he asked, with a voice like the sea – rushing and fast.
'A few things, actually. I would like to go to the kitchens, and – if there is one – a tailor or dressmaker. Could you tell me where to find them?'
'Well if you follow me I can show you to the kitchen. I work there. Then I can get someone to call Levin to your rooms if you want.' He didn't wait for a reply, just set off down the corridor. Cavan followed him around the corner and through a door on their left that led to a square-shaped yard; the white building she had come out of made up three sides and a large gate the fourth. There were a few chickens pecking in the dust and a black-and-white cat sat in the centre of the yard, seemingly waiting for something. As the boy and Cavan approached, the cat meowed loudly and wrapped itself around the boy's ankles, almost tripping him. However, he navigated around the animal and continued walking. The cat followed him.
'What is your name?' Cavan asked as they went through the gate and round towards the back of the white building, followed by the meowing cat.
'Cillén,' replied the boy, not slowing his pace or looking round. He led her round the corner and into a great expanse of green field. Before them was another building, square and painted a deep red, like Cillén's toga. It was clearly where they were headed. There were five other boys clustered around a wooden trench of water that stood beside the door to the building. They were all of similar ages, with short hair, and they wore the same togas as Cillén did. The boys were washing their hands and faces in the water, splashing each other and laughing.
'Eyoran,' Cillén shouted. One of the boys by the trench spun around and wiped the smile off his face. 'Stop pissing about and get inside.' The boy named Eyoran hurried inside, followed by the others. 'This is the kitchens,' Cillén said, motioning to the red building. 'You cannot come here unless I or another of the boys is with you. Or the cook will hit you and throw you out.' Cavan nodded, storing that piece of information away. Cillén showed her inside and put down his tray beside a large sink full of steaming water and dirty cutlery. A boy was up to his elbows in it, rubbing the knives and forks with a cloth until they were clean.
Cavan looked around. The kitchen was full of steam, but it was not yet that hot. The smell of freshly baked bread, roasting meat and warm ale swirled in the air. Along the back wall, there were three massive bread ovens and four fires with chimney ways above them. Each fire had something over it: on the first, a large black pot was bubbling, full of boiling water, oats and spices; the second had a pig suspended above the flames, roasting on a spit; the third had a large circular stone with bread resting on it – keeping the bread warm; and the fourth had three iron kettles hanging from a metal contraption above the flames. Along another wall there was a long, thick, flat piece of stone over fires, attached to the wall at about waist height. It was about seven or eight foot long. There were holes cut into the stone, through which the flames could be seen. Several holes were covered up by round-bottomed clay pots that fitted perfectly into the holes. They had lids on, and the muted sound of bubbling could be heard from inside. On the wall behind the stone hung a variety of metal tools – measuring pots, long-handled spoons, knives, saucers, tongs, circular pieces of metal with handles and dripping trays – and boxes nailed to the wall with such words as oregano, mint, lovage, fennel and bay inscribed on their fronts.
From the ceiling hung bunches of herbs, strings of garlic, dried fish and salted meat, dead birds and hares, and, in the centre of the room, a large iron candle holder, all of its wax occupants lit.
There were boys in red togas flitting about, carrying trays and baskets laden with vegetables and heaving buckets filled with water. Those working with the fires and ovens were red-faced and sweating. As Cavan stood in the doorway, in awe of the sights and smells around her, Cillén picked up a small gong that lay by the door and banged it loudly. Every boy put down their loads and came to where Cavan stood. She realised she was in the way. Stepping aside, she watched the boys as the left the kitchen, washed their hands and faces in the water trench, and came back inside. They all sat down at the long trestle table that sat against the fourth wall, with one boy handing out bowls and spoons to all the others, and fetching one of the pots from over the fire. He went down the line of boys in togas, filling their bowls with thick porridge from the pot. Cavan suddenly understood – it was breakfast.
'This way,' Cillén said, pointing towards the bread ovens. 'I will introduce you to Fabius. He is the cook.' Fabius was a very tall, slender man with a scar that rendered his right eye useless. He had been in the Roman army but had been honourably discharged after his injury. He smiled at Cavan and asked her to join breakfast with them. She immediately warmed to him – he, like her, was scarred, and the way he acted – like there was no purple scar over his face – gave her confidence. She was given bowl of porridge and a slice of salted bread. Cillén lifted the black-and-white cat onto the table and gave it a saucer of porridge. It lapped at the edge with pleasure, purring slightly.
'So you're the pretty little Irish thing that's been causing all the trouble with the Sarmatians, eh?' Fabius joked.
'Yes, I would suppose that was me,' Cavan replied, smiling at the cook. She paused. 'Does everybody know about me?'
'I wouldn't say everyone. But word travels fast round here – 'specially if you've got fine young lads like mine who are well trained to listen at doorways and be invisible!' Fabius laughed loudly, and the boys all grinned.
'Does Arthur know of your enterprise?' asked Cavan, interested. Cillén answered her with a shake of his head. Seeing the gesture, Fabius turned to the boy.
'I gather my Cillén has introduced himself to you, my lady?' The way he said 'my Cillén' made Cavan wonder if in fact they were father and son.
'Please, I am no lady. The name my ma gave me is Cavan, and it is the one I now use.'
'Cavan? Why, I had a bitch of that name, did I not, boy?' Fabius asked. Cillén nodded, still eating his porridge. The rest of the boys were finishing up, wiping their bowls with the last of their bread. Fabius saw this and gave them an order. 'Lads, you've got until the hour to wash up those bowls and rest before it is back to work with the breakfasts. And I'll need a boy to get to the orchards. I need apples, boys!' The boys climbed from their seats and dropped their bowls into the sink before leaving. Apparently, it turned to the last boy for the unfortunate job of clearing up after his friends.
'Father,' Cillén said to Fabius, confirming Cavan's suspicion of their being related. 'The lady needs to visit Levin. Shall I take her or shall I get Maro?'
'I need you here, lad. Go get your sister and she can take her. And get that cat out of my kitchen or I'll kill it!' Fabius picked up his all three of their bowls and dropped them in the sink and Cillén ran out of the door to go and fetch Maro, his sister. Cavan crossed her legs on the bench and settled in to wait for the boy's return. Fabius poured two cups of honeyed wine and pushed one towards her. She sipped it thankfully. It tasted lovely.
'Thank you for your hospitality, Fabius,' Cavan said quietly.
'Don't thank me, my girl. We usually have that scout here in the mornings eating our food. He eats a hell of a lot, does that man. Sets my boys on edge, too.' The tall cook spoke with a slightly negative note in his voice, as though he disapproved of Tristan's very existence.
'Tristan does that to many a person. You just have to leave him be and he'll sit quiet and cause no trouble.'
'I'll take your word for it, my girl. Ah, Maro, you're here.' Cavan looked up to the doorway to see Cillén and a girl who looked almost exactly the same as he. They even wore the same clothes. The only thing to tell them apart was the girl's hair – long and plaited – and their eyes. Maro's eyes blazed a fierce reddish brown, contrasting to her brother's, which were pale and green. 'Take this lovely lady to Levin, please, daughter. And you can pick up my linen while you're there. We'll need to set about wrapping the meat for the winter.'
Maro bowed to Cavan and gestured through the door. 'This way, please, my lady.' Cavan rolled her eyes at the use of the word 'lady,' but followed the girl all the same.
Levin's rooms were situated in another building behind the large white one where the knights – and Cavan – stayed. The building had two floors, with large square windows, their shutters flung wide to welcome the rising sun. It was made of a pale sand-coloured stone, and had a flat roof. In the light of the just-risen sun, the bricks seemed to shine from the inside with a reddish glow.
Maro knocked three times on the door, then entered. As her eyes accustomed to the light inside the room, Cavan saw that it was empty of human life. There were all sorts of cloths hanging down from the ceiling in all colours, and leather straps too. Maro pushed past a swathe of thick red wool cloth and revealed stairs that led up to the second floor.
'Levin!' she cried up the stairs. Cavan looked around again, taking in the piles of togas, tunics, cloaks and other forms of clothing, the leather sandals stacked against the wall, and at the centre of it all, a large wooden table upon which rested hundreds of squares of thin linen, countless pairs of scissors and small tubs of thick iron needles.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, then suddenly a woman appeared at the bottom of them. She wore a dark green dress, typical of the style the Britons wore – long and pulled in on the hips with a belt, with sleeves reaching to her elbows. She held a babe in her arms – not long since born – but her frame was slender.
'Good morning, Maro. I just cannot get this babe to sleep. He's been up half the night wailing and that dratted husband of mine is no-where to be seen. Oh, good morning!' Levin said, noticing Cavan. The child in her arms moaned quietly. She shushed it, rocking her arms too and fro. 'You're the girl those knights have been fussing over, aren't you? Is there something I can do for you?'
'I am wearing Dagonet's old shirts and I would very much like some clothes of my own. Perhaps you could give me some tunics, and shirts, and maybe a pair of breeches?'
'Of course I can, my love. Maro, if you could take Ines for me, and I'll get your measurements and find you some clothes to fit.' Levin pulled out a tape and stretched it against Cavan's arms, waist, chest and legs, noting the numbers down. 'Now, are you sure you don't want a few dresses, as well. I have some beautiful blue linen that would go perfectly with your skin, my love.'
'Maybe one dress, in the style of yours?'
As Levin fussed over her, pulling different tunics, shirts and breeches from various piles in the room and trying them for size against Cavan's frame and the measurements she had taken down, Cavan felt a surge of happiness. She had never felt so looked after in her life. It was lovely to feel that someone cared.
Cavan left Levin's with her arms piled high with clothes. She carried them back to Dagonet's room to find Tristan still asleep in the chair beside the bed. Quietly, she changed into a clean shirt, tunic and breeches, pulled on her boots, and left the room without disturbing her brother. The corridor was still empty – apparently, none of the knights had woken yet.
She set off, with the vague idea of creating a map of the town and buildings, but she got no further than the armoury, which was situated next to the stables. It was full of different swords, longbows, shields and other forms of weaponry. On a table opposite the door was an array of daggers and arrows, piled on top of each other. Cavan saw her blade – the thick dagger with a snake entwined around the hilt – and dug it out. She ran her fingers over the snake, and looked around for some sort of belt that she could store her knife in. Finding one, she tied it tightly around her waist and stuck the dagger in, pointing downwards.
'If you had asked, I probably would have given you those back,' a voice said behind her. She spun round to find Arthur, his eyebrows raised and a smile on his lips.
'I did not mean to come here, I was just trying to make sense of where everything was,' Cavan said hurriedly, blinking. 'And, I did not think you would, after… Gareth.' She looked down.
'I understand. Believe me, I do. You may think I am still angry, but I am not. None of my knights are. Gawain has most cause to be angry but he finds no fault in your living. Dagonet has clearly shown that he wants to do nothing but care for you, and Tristan… Well, Tristan has always been hard to understand, but I know that if the scout no longer has any problem with you, neither should I.'
'That is a very gracious and forgiving act. Are you sure it is what you want to do?' Cavan asked, intrigued.
'If you think I should not – if you were still the assassin who wished to end my life – would you be asking me this? Would you not have seen that I was unarmed, and already pushed that dagger through my neck?' he replied. Cavan realised that she hadn't even checked to see if he had a sword – but then, they were in the middle of the armoury, and the nearest blade was barely a yard away.
'I never was any assassin,' she said, leaning against the table. 'Just some fool convinced by a liar that your death would be the end of my problems.' Arthur put his hand on her shoulder.
'Come, you are no fool. You are just a child, scarred, frightened and far from home, just like the rest of us.'
'I wish I had not come here. I wish I had not done the things I have.' Tears welled up in her eyes. 'I will regret that night until the day that I die.' Arthur stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then spoke again.
'If you would like, I can show you some places on the body that, by simply pressing, you can cause enough pain to induce unconsciousness,' he suggested. Cavan looked up at him through her lashes, and smiled.
'Thank you,' she mumbled, leaning into him. He held her close for a moment, enjoying the sense of protection he felt over her. She was right; she was no longer that hate-filled assassin who had come to his room, but nor was she the frail, tearful child that Dagonet had saved from the brink of death. She seemed to have found herself.